‘I must speak to Dakers and then to those people in there. I think I must ask you to join us.’

‘Very well,’ Warrender said.

‘Would you like a drink?’

‘Thank you. If I may.’

Alleyn looked at Fox who went out and returned with a tumbler and the decanter that Alleyn had seen on the table between Warrender and Charles at his first encounter with them.

‘Whisky,’ Fox said. ‘If that’s agreeable. Shall I pour it out, sir?’

Warrender took it neat and in one gulp. ‘I’m very much obliged to you,’ he said, and straightened his back. The ghost of a smile distorted his mouth. ‘One more,’ he said, ‘and I shall be ready for anything, isn’t it?’

Alleyn said: ‘I am going to have a word with Dakers before I see the others.’

‘Are you going to – to tell him?’

‘I think it best to do so, yes.’

‘Yes. I see. Yes.’

‘When you are ready, Fox,’ Alleyn said, and went out.

‘He’ll make it as easy as possible, sir,’ Fox said comfortably. ‘You may be sure of that.’

‘Easy!’ said Warrender and made a sound that might have been a laugh. ‘Easy!’

III

The persons sitting in the drawing-room were assembled there for the last time. In a few weeks Mary Bellamy’s house would be transformed into the West End offices of a new venture in television, and a sedan chair, for heaven knows what reason, would adorn the hall. Bertie Saracen’s decor, taken over in toto, would be the background for the frenzied bandying about of new gimmicks and Charles Templeton’s study a waiting-room for disengaged actors.

At the moment it had an air of stability. Most of its occupants, having exhausted each in his or her own kind their capacity for anxiety, anger or compassion, had settled down into apathy. They exchanged desultory remarks, smoked continuously and occasionally helped themselves, rather self-consciously to the drinks that Gracefield had provided. PC Philpott remained alert in his corner.

It was Dr Harkness who, without elaboration, announced Charles Templeton’s death and that indeed shook them into a state of flabbergasted astonishment. When Richard came in, deathly pale, with Anelida, they all had to pull themselves together before they found anything at all to say to him. They did, indeed, attempt appropriate remarks, but it was clear to Anelida that their store of consolatory offerings was spent. However heartfelt their sympathy, they were obliged to fall back on their technique in order to express it. Pinky Cavendish broke into this unreal state of affairs by suddenly giving Richard a kiss and saying warmly: ‘It’s no good, darling. There really is just literally nothing we can say or do, but we wish with all our hearts that there was and Anelida must be your comfort. There!’