‘December 28th, 1941,’ Alleyn read. ‘I cannot but think it a curious circumstance that I should devote these pages, the gift of my wife, to a purpose I have long had in mind, but have been too languid or too idle to pursue. Like an unstudious urchin I am beguiled by the smoothness of paper and the invitation of pale-blue lines, to accomplish a task to which a common ledger or exercise book could not beguile me. In short, I intend to keep a journal. In my judgement there is but one virtue in such a practice: the writer must consider himself free; nay, rather, bound to set down impartially those thoughts, hopes, and secret burdens of the heart which, at all other times, he may not disclose. This, then, I propose to do, and I believe those persons who study the ailments of the mind would applaud my intention as salutary and wise.’

Alleyn paused in his stuffy confinement and listened for a moment. He heard only the sound of his pulse and when he moved his head the scratch of hessian against his shoulders.

‘…that I had been mistaken in my choice was too soon apparent. We had not been married a year before I wondered at the impulse that had led me into such an unhappy union, and it seemed to me that some other than I had acted so precipitately. Let me be just. The qualities that had invoked the admiration I so rashly mistook for affection were real. All those qualities, indeed, which I am lacking are hers in abundance: energy, intelligence, determination and, above all, vitality…’

A rat scuttled in the rafters.

‘Markins?’

‘Sir?’

‘Remember, no move until you get your cue.’

‘Quite so, sir.’

Alleyn turned a page.

‘…is it not a strange circumstance that admiration should go hand in hand with faded love? Those qualities for which I most applaud her have most often diminished, indeed prevented altogether, my affection. Yet I believed my indifference to be caused, not so much by a fault in her or in myself, as by the natural and unhappy consequence of my declining health. Had I been more robust, I thought, I would, in turn, have responded more easily to her energy. In this belief I might have well continued for the remainder of our life together, had not Terence Lynne come upon me in my solitude.’

Alleyn rested his hand upon the open book and called to his mind the photograph of Arthur Rubrick. ‘Poor devil!’ he thought. ‘What bad luck!’ He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes past eleven. The candle in his bedroom would soon gutter and go out.