Marchant examined his hands, lifted his gaze to Alleyn’s face and said: ‘What are they?’

There was a restless movement among the others.

‘First. What exactly was Mrs Templeton’s, or perhaps in this connection I should say Miss Bellamy’s, position in the firm of Marchant & Company?’

Marchant raised his eyebrows. ‘A leading and distinguished artist who played exclusively for our management.’

‘Any business connection other than that?’

‘Certainly,’ he said at once. ‘She had a controlling interest.’

‘Monty!’ Bertie cried out.

‘Dear boy, an examination of our shareholders list would give it.’

‘Has she held this position for some time?’

‘Since 1956. Before that it was vested in her husband, but he transferred his holdings to her in that year.’

‘I had no idea he had financial interests in the theatre world.’

‘These were his only ones, I believe. After the war we were in considerable difficulties. Like many other managements we were threatened with a complete collapse. You may say that he saved us.’

‘In taking this action was he influenced by his wife’s connection with The Management?’

‘She brought the thing to his notice, but fundamentally I should say he believed in the prospect of our recovery and expansion. In the event he proved to be fully justified.’

Why did he transfer his share to her, do you know?’

‘I don’t know, but I can conjecture. His health is precarious. He’s – he was – a devoted husband. He may have been thinking of death duties.’

‘Yes, I see.’

Marchant said: ‘It’s so warm in here,’ and unbuttoned his overcoat. Fox helped him out of it. He sat down, very elegantly and crossed his legs. The others watched him anxiously.

The door opened and Dr Harkness came in. He nodded at Alleyn and said: ‘Better, but he’s had as much as he can take.’

‘Anyone with him?’

‘The old nurse. He’ll settle down now. No more visits, mind.’

‘Right.’

Dr Harkness sat heavily on the sofa and Alleyn turned again to Marchant.

‘Holding, as you say, a controlling interest,’ he said, ‘she must have been a power to reckon with, as far as other employees of The Management were concerned.’

The lids drooped a little over Marchant’s very pale eyes. ‘I really don’t think I follow you,’ he said.

‘She was, everyone agrees, a temperamental woman. For instance, this afternoon, we are told, she cut up very rough indeed. In the conservatory.’

The heightened tension of his audience could scarcely have been more apparent, if they’d all begun to twang like bowstrings, but none of them spoke.

‘She would throw a temperament,’ Marchant said coolly, ‘if she felt the occasion for it.’

‘And she felt the occasion in this instance?’

‘Quite so.’

‘Suppose, for the sake of argument, she had pressed for the severance of some long-standing connection with your management? Would she have carried her point?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t follow that either.’