Donald Potter read the headlines over and over again. From the centre of the page his uncle’s face twinkled at him. Donald’s cigarette-butt burnt his lips. He spat it into his empty cup, and lit another. He was shivering as if he had a rigor. He read the three lines again. In the next room somebody yawned horribly.

Donald’s head jerked back.

‘Wits!’ he said. ‘Wits! Come here!’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Come here!’

Captain Withers, clad in an orange silk dressing-gown, appeared in the doorway.

‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’ he enquired.

‘Look here.’

Captain Withers, whistling between his teeth, strolled up and looked over Donald’s shoulder. His whistling stopped. He reached out his hand, took the newspaper, and began to read. Donald watched him.

‘Dead!’ said Donald. ‘Uncle Bunch! Dead!’

Withers glanced at him and returned to the paper. Presently he began again to whistle through his teeth.

DEATH OF LORD ROBERT GOSPELL
Tragic end to a distinguished career
Suspicious Circumstances

Lady Mildred Potter beat her plump hands on the proofs of the Evening Chronicle obituary notice and turned upon Alleyn a face streaming with tears.

‘But who could have wanted to hurt Bunchy, Roderick? Everyone adored him. He hadn’t an enemy in the world. Look what the Chronicle says—and I must say I think it charming of them to let me see the things they propose to say about him—but look what it says. “Beloved by all his friends!” And so he was. So he was. By all his friends.’

‘He must have had one enemy, Mildred,’ said Alleyn.

‘I can’t believe it. I’ll never believe it. It must be an escaped lunatic.’ She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes and sobbed violently. ‘I shall never be able to face all this dreadful publicity. The police! I don’t mean you, Roderick, naturally. But everything—the papers, everyone poking and prying. Bunchy would have detested it. I can’t face it. I can’t.’

‘Where’s Donald?’

‘He rang up. He’s coming.’

‘From where?’

‘From this friend’s flat, wherever it is.’

‘He’s away from home?’

‘Didn’t Bunchy tell you? Ever since that awful afternoon when he was so cross with Donald. Bunchy didn’t understand.’

‘Why was Bunchy cross with him?’

‘He had run into debt rather. And now, poor boy, he is no doubt feeling too dreadfully remorseful.’

Alleyn did not answer immediately. He walked over to the window and looked out.

‘It will be easier for you,’ he said at last, ‘when Donald gets here. I suppose the rest of the family will come too?’

‘Yes. All our old cousins and aunts. They have already rung up. Broomfield—Bunchy’s eldest nephew, you know—I mean my eldest brother’s son is away on the Continent. He’s the head of the family, of course. I suppose I shall have to make all the arrangements and—and I’m so dreadfully shaken.’