‘She,’ Old Ninn said, ‘was a different type of child altogether. If you’ll excuse me I’ll see what ails him.’ But she didn’t move at once. She said very loudly: ‘Whatever it is it’ll be no discredit to him,’ and then stumped heavily and purposefully on to her charge.

Alleyn waited for a moment, savouring her observations. There had been one rather suggestive remark, he thought.

Dr Harkness came out of the drawing-room, looking very wan.

‘He’s all right,’ he said, ‘and I wish I could say as much for myself. The secondary effects of alcoholic indulgence are the least supportable. By the way, can I go out to the car for my bag? It’s just opposite the house. Charles Templeton’s my patient, you know, and I’d like to run him over. Just in case. He’s had a bad knock over this.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Alleyn said, and nodded to the constable at the door. ‘Before you go, though – was Mrs Templeton your patient too?’

‘She was,’ Harkness agreed and looked wary.

‘Would you have expected anything like this? Supposing it be a case of suicide?’

‘No. I wouldn’t.’

‘Not subject to fits of depression? No morbid tendencies? Nothing like that?’

Harkness looked at his hands. ‘It wasn’t an equable disposition,’ he said carefully. ‘Far from it. She had “nervous” spells. The famous theatrical temperament, you know.’

‘No more than that?’ Alleyn persisted.

‘Well – I don’t like discussing my patients and never do, of course, but –’

‘I think you may say the circumstances warrant it.’

‘I suppose so. As a matter of fact, I have been a bit concerned. The temperaments had become pretty frequent and increasingly violent. Hysteria, really. Partly the time of life, but she was getting over that. There was some occasion for anxiety. One or two little danger signals. One was keeping an eye on her. But nothing suicidal. On the contrary. What’s more, you can take my word for it she was the last woman on earth to disfigure herself. The last.’

‘Yes,’ Alleyn said. ‘That’s a point, isn’t it? I’ll see you later.’

‘I suppose you will,’ Harkness said disconsolately and Alleyn went upstairs. He found that Miss Bellamy’s room now had the familiar look of any area given over to police investigation: something between an improvised laboratory and a photographer’s studio with its focal point that unmistakable sheeted form on the floor.

Dr Curtis, the police surgeon, had finished his examination of the body. Sergeant Bailey squatted on the bathroom floor employing the tools of his trade upon the tinsel picture and as Alleyn came in Sergeant Thompson, whistling between his teeth, uncovered Mary Bellamy’s terrible face and advanced his camera, to within a few inches of it. The bulb flashed.

Fox was seated at the dressing-table completing his notes.

‘Well, Curtis?’ Alleyn asked.