Marchant opened his cigarette case. ‘It seems,’ he observed, ‘incumbent on me to point out that, unlike the rest of you, I am ignorant of the circumstances. After Mary’s death, I left this house at the request of’ – he put a cigarette between his lips and turned his head slightly to look at Fox –’yes – at the request of this gentleman, who merely informed me that there had been a fatal accident. Throughout the entire time that Mary was absent until Florence made her announcement, I was in full view of about forty guests and those of you who had not left the drawing-room. I imagine I do not qualify for the star role.’ He lit his cigarette. ‘Or am I wrong?’ he asked Alleyn.

‘As it turns out, Monty,’ Gantry intervened, ‘you’re dead wrong. It appears that the whole thing was laid on before Mary went to her room.’

Marchant waited for a moment, and then said: ‘You astonish me.’

‘Fancy!’ Bertie exclaimed and added in an exasperated voice: ‘I do wish, oh, how I do wish, dearest Monty, that you would stop being a parody of your smooth little self and get down to tin-tacks (why tin-tacks, one wonders?) and admit that, like all the rest of us, you qualify for the homicide stakes.’

‘And what,’ Alleyn asked, ‘have you got to say to that, Mr Marchant?’

An uneven flush mounted over Marchant’s cheekbones. ‘Simply,’ he said, ‘that I think everybody has, most understandably, become overwrought by this tragedy and that, as a consequence, a great deal of nonsense is being bandied about on all hands. And, as an afterthought, that I agree with Timon Gantry. I prefer to take no further part in this discussion until I have consulted my solicitor.’

‘By all means,’ Alleyn said. ‘Will you ring him up? The telephone is over there in the corner.’

Marchant leant a little farther back in his chair. ‘I’m afraid that’s quite out of the question,’ he said. ‘He lives in Buckinghamshire. I can’t possibly call him up at this time of night.’

‘In that case you will give me your own address, if you please, and I shan’t detain you any longer.’

‘My address is in the telephone book and I can assure you that you are not detaining me now nor are you likely to do so in the future.’ He half-closed his eyes. ‘I resent,’ he said, ‘the tone of this interview, but I prefer to keep observation – if that is the accepted police jargon – upon its sequel. I’ll leave when it suits me to do so.’

‘You can’t,’ Colonel Warrender suddenly announced in a parade-ground voice, ‘take that tone with the police, sir.’

‘Can’t I?’ Marchant murmured. ‘I promise you, my dear Colonel, I can take whatever tone I bloody well choose with whoever I bloody well like.’