‘I think he will be able to walk up,’ Alleyn said. ‘Take him gently. I’ll get Grace to help put him to bed. Is he awake, do you know?’

‘Not Douglas,’ said Terence Lynne. ‘He sleeps like a log.’

Ursula said, ‘Has Fabian had another black-out, Mr Alleyn?’

‘I think so. Wait for me before you bring him.’

‘Damn!’ said Ursula, ‘now, of course, he’ll think he can’t marry me. Come on, Terry.’

Terence went; not, Alleyn thought, over willingly.

He knocked on Douglas Grace’s door and receiving no answer walked in and flashed his torch on a tousled head.

‘Grace!’

‘Wha-aa?’ The clothes were flung back with a convulsive jerk and Douglas stared at him. ‘What d’you want to make me jump like that for?’ he asked angrily, and then blinked. ‘Sorry, sir. I was back at an advanced gun-post. What’s up now?’

‘Losse has had another black-out.’

Douglas gazed at Alleyn with his familiar air of affronted incredulity. ‘He will now,’ Alleyn thought crossly, ‘repeat the last word I have uttered whenever I pause to draw breath.’

‘Black-out,’ said Douglas faithfully. ‘Oh, hell! How? When? Where?’

‘Oh, near the annexe. Half an hour ago. He went up there to collect my cigarette case.’

‘I remember that,’ cried Douglas triumphantly. ‘Is he still all out? Poor old Fab.’

‘He’s conscious again but he’s had a nasty crack on the head. Come and help me get him upstairs, will you?’

‘Get him upstairs?’ Douglas repeated, looking very startled. He reached for his dressing-gown. ‘I say,’ he said. ‘This is pretty tough luck, isn’t it? I mean, what he said about Ursy and him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Half an hour ago,’ said Douglas, thrusting his feet into his slippers. ‘That must have been just after we came up. I went out to the side lawn to have a look at the weather. He must have been up there then, good Lord.’

‘Did you hear anything?’

Douglas gaped at him with his mouth open. ‘I heard the river,’ he said. ‘That means there’s a southerly hanging round. Sure sign. You wouldn’t know.’

‘No. Did you hear anything else?’

‘Hear anything? What sort of thing?’

‘Voices or footsteps.’

‘Voices? Was he talking? Footsteps?’

‘Let it pass,’ said Alleyn. ‘Come on.’

They went down to the drawing-room.

Fabian was lying on the sofa with Ursula on a low stool beside him. Tommy Johns and Cliff stood awkwardly by the french windows looking at their boots. Markins, with precisely the correct shade of deferential concern, was setting out a tea-tray with drinks. Terence Lynne stood composedly before the fire, which had been mended and flickered its light richly in the folds of her crimson gown.

‘Here, I say,’ said Douglas. ‘This is no good, Fab. Damn bad luck.’