‘Fog in June,’ muttered Alleyn. ‘This England!’

Out there in the cold, Big Ben tolled one. At that moment three miles away at Lady Carrados’s ball, Lord Robert Gospell was slowly climbing the stairs to the top landing and the little drawing-room.

Alleyn filled his pipe slowly and lit it. An early start tomorrow, a long journey, and a piece of dull routine at the end of it. He held his fingers to the heater and fell into a long meditation. Sarah had told him Troy was going to the ball. She was there now, no doubt.

‘Oh, well!’ he thought and turned off his heater.

The desk telephone rang. He answered it.

‘Hullo?’

‘Mr Alleyn? I thought you were still there, sir. Lord Robert Gospell.’

‘Right.’

A pause and then a squeaky voice:

‘Rory?’

‘Bunchy?’

‘You said you’d be at it till late. I’m in a room by myself at the Carrados’s show. Thing is, I think I’ve got him. Are you working for much longer?’

‘I can.’

‘May I come round to the Yard?’

‘Do!’

‘I’ll go home first, get out of this boiled shirt and pick up my notes.’

‘Right. I’ll wait.’

‘It’s the cakes-and-ale feller.’

‘Good Lord! No names, Bunchy.’

‘’Course not. I’ll come round to the Yard. Upon my soul it’s worse than murder. Might as well mix his damn’ brews with poison. And he’s working with—Hullo! Didn’t hear you come in.’

‘Is someone there?’ asked Alleyn sharply.

‘Yes.’

‘Good-bye,’ said Alleyn, ‘I’ll wait for you.’

‘Thank you so much,’ squeaked the voice. ‘Much obliged. Wouldn’t have lost it for anything. Very smart work, officer. See you get the reward.’

Alleyn smiled and hung up his receiver.

Up in the ballroom Hughie Bronx’s Band packed up. Their faces were the colour of raw cod and shone with a fishy glitter, but the hair on their heads remained as smooth as patent leather. The four experts who only ten minutes ago had jigged together with linked arms in a hot rhythm argued wearily about the way to go home. Hughie Bronx himself wiped his celebrated face with a beautiful handkerchief and lit a cigarette.

‘OK, boys,’ he sighed. ‘Eighty-thirty tomorrow and if any—calls for “My Girl’s Cutie” more than six times running we’ll quit and learn anthems.’

Dimitri crossed the ballroom.

‘Her ladyship particularly asked me to tell you,’ he said, ‘that there is something for you gentlemen at the buffet.’

‘Thanks a lot, Dim,’ said Mr Bronx. ‘We’ll be there.’

Dimitri glanced round the ballroom, walked out and descended the stairs.

Down in the entrance hall the last of the guests were collected. They looked wan and a little raffish but they shouted cheerfully, telling each other what a good party it had been. Among them, blinking sleepily through his glasses, was Lord Robert. His celebrated cape hung from his shoulders and in his hands he clasped his broad-brimmed black hat. Through the open doors came wreaths of mist. The sound of people coughing as they went into the raw air was mingled with the noise of taxi engines in low gear and the voices of departing guests.