‘A little. Just to say we were glad we knew.’

‘If he had lived,’ said Ursula harshly, ‘would you have married him?’

‘How can I tell?’

‘Why shouldn’t you have married? Auntie Florence, who was such a bore to both of you, was out of the way. Wasn’t she?’

‘That’s an extraordinarily cruel thing to say, Ursula.’

‘I agree,’ said Douglas, and Fabian muttered, ‘Pipe down, Ursy.’

‘No,’ said Ursula. ‘We undertook to finish our thoughts in this discussion. You’re all cruel to her memory. Why should any of us get off? Why not say what you all must have thought: with her death they were free to marry.’

A footfall sounded outside in the hall, accompanied by a faint jingle of glasses. It was Markins with the drinks.

CHAPTER SIX

According to the Files

WITH MARKINS’ ARRIVAL the discussion ended. It was as if he had opened the door to a wave of self-consciousness. Douglas fussed over the drinks, urging Alleyn to have whisky. Alleyn, who considered himself to be on duty, refused it and wondered regretfully if it was from the same matchless company as the bottle that Cliff Johns had smashed on the dairy floor. Any suggestion that the discussion might be taken up again was dispelled by the entrance of Mrs Aceworthy who, with the two girls, drank tea, and who had many playful remarks to make about the lateness of the hour. It was high time, she said, that all her chickens were in their nests. And she asked Alleyn pointedly if he had brought a hot-water bottle. Upon this hint he bade them all goodnight. Fabian brought in candles and offered to see him to his room.

They went upstairs together, their shadows mounting gigantically beside them. On the landing Fabian said: ‘You will realize now, of course, that you’re in Flossie’s room. It’s the best one, really, but we all preferred to stay where we were.’

‘Ah, yes.’

‘It’s got no associations for you, of course.’

‘None.’

Fabian led the way through Florence’s door. He lit candles on the dressing-table and the room came into being, a large white room with gay curtains, a pretty desk, a fine bed and a number of flower prints on the walls. Alleyn’s pyjamas were laid out on the bed, by Markins, he supposed, and his locked dispatch and investigation cases were displayed prominently on the desk. He grinned to himself.

‘Got everything you want?’ Fabian asked.

‘Everything, thanks. Before we say goodnight, though, I wonder if I might take a look at your workroom?’

‘Why not? Come on.’

It was the second door on the left along the passage. Fabian detached the key from about his neck. ‘On a bootlace, you see,’ he said. ‘No deception practised. Here we go.’