‘But not according to you?’ said Alleyn. He was putting away the eight anonymous letters. Fox had risen, and now stared down at their visitor as if Thomas was some large unopened parcel left by mistake in the room.

‘To me?’ Thomas repeated, opening his eyes very wide. ‘I don’t know. How should I? But you wouldn’t believe how uncomfortable it makes one feel.’

To enter Thomas’s room was to walk into a sort of cross between a wastepaper basket and a workshop. Its principal feature was a large round table entirely covered with stacks of paper, paints, photographs, models for stage sets, designs for costumes, and books. In the window was an apparently unused desk. On the walls were portraits of distinguished players, chief among them Sir Henry himself.

‘Sit down,’ invited Thomas, sweeping sheafs of papers from two chairs on to the floor. ‘I’ll just think where—’ He began to walk round his table, staring rather vacantly at it. ‘I came in with my suitcase, of course, and then, you know, the telephone rang. It was much later than that when I wanted to find the letters, and I had put them carefully away because of showing them to you. And I found them. So I must have unpacked. And I can remember thinking: “It’s poison, and I’d better be careful of my handkerchief in case—” ’

He walked suddenly to a wall cupboard and opened it. A great quantity of papers instantly fell out. Thomas stared indignantly at them. ‘I distinctly remember,’ he said, turning to Alleyn and Fox with his mouth slightly open. ‘I distinctly remember saying to myself—’ But this sentence was also fated to remain unfinished, for Thomas pounced unexpectedly upon some fragment from the cupboard. ‘I’ve been looking for that all over the place,’ he said. ‘It’s most important. A cheque, in fact.’

He sat on the floor and began scuffling absently among the papers. Alleyn, who for some minutes had been inspecting the chaos that reigned upon the table, lifted a pile of drawings and discovered a white bundle. He loosened the knot at the top and a stained tin was disclosed. It bore a bright red label with the legend: ‘Rat-X-it! Poison,’ and, in slightly smaller print, the antidote for arsenical poisoning.

‘Here it is, Mr Ancred,’ said Alleyn.

‘What?’ asked Thomas. He glanced up. ‘Oh, that,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d put it on the table.’

Fox came forward with a bag. Alleyn, muttering something about futile gestures, lifted the tin by the handkerchief. ‘You don’t mind,’ he said to Thomas, ‘if we take charge of this? We’ll give you a receipt for it.’

‘Oh, will you?’ asked Thomas mildly. ‘Thanks awfully.’ He watched them stow away the tin, and then, seeing that they were about to go, scrambled to his feet. ‘You must have a drink,’ he said. ‘There’s a bottle of Papa’s whisky—I think.’