Alleyn went on steadily: ‘Mrs Templeton was alone in her room. Very well. Having used the lethal scent spray, did she replace it on the dressing-table and put the Slaypest on the floor?’

Florence said: ‘What did I tell you? Clara Plumtree! After I went. Say she did hear the thing being used. She done it! She went in and fixed it all. What did I tell you!’

‘On your own evidence,’ Alleyn said, ‘and on that of Mr Templeton, you were on the landing when he called up to you. You returned at once to the bedroom. Do you think that in those few seconds, Mrs Plumtree, who moves very slowly, could have darted into the room, rearranged the scent spray, and Slaypest, darted out again and got out of sight?’

‘She could’ve hid in the dressing-room. Like she done afterwards when she wouldn’t let me in.’

Alleyn said: ‘I’m afraid that won’t quite do. Which brings me to the fourth point. I won’t go into all the pathological details, but there is clear evidence that the spray was used in the normal way – at about arm’s length and without undue pressure – and then at very close quarters and with maximum pressure. Her murderer, finding she was not dead, made sure that she would die. Mrs Plumtree would certainly not have had an opportunity to do it. There is only one person who could have committed that act and the three other necessary acts as well. Only one.’

‘Florence!’ Gantry cried out.

‘No. Not Florence. Charles Templeton.’

IV

The drawing-room now seemed strangely deserted. Pinky Cavendish, Montague Marchant, Dr Harkness, Bertie Saracen and Timon Gantry had all gone home. Charles Templeton’s body had been carried away. Old Ninn was in her bed. Florence had retired to adjust her resentments and nurse her heartache as best she could. Mr Fox was busy with routine arrangements. Only Alleyn, Richard, Anelida and Warrender remained in the drawing-room.

Richard said: ‘Ever since you told me and all through that last scene with them, I’ve been trying to see why. Why should he, having put up with so much for so long, do such a monstrous thing? It’s – it’s … I’ve always thought him – he was so …’ Richard drove his fingers through his hair. ‘Maurice! You knew him. Better than any of us.’

Warrender, looking at his clasped hands, muttered unhappily: ‘What’s that word they use nowadays? Perfectionist?’

‘But what do you … Yes. All right. He was a perfectionist, I suppose.’

‘Couldn’t stand anything that wasn’t up to his own standard. Look at those T’ang figures. Little lady with a flute and little lady with a lute. Lovely little creatures. Prized them more than anything else in the house. But when the parlourmaid or somebody knocked the end off one of the little lute pegs, he wouldn’t have it. Gave it to me, by God!’ said Warrender.