‘Certainly,’ he said, ‘if there’s any necessity. But why?’ He still held Alleyn’s card in his hand and he glanced at it again. ‘You don’t mean to say—’ he began, and stopped short. ‘Well, what are these few points?’

‘I think I’d better tell you exactly what’s happened,’ Alleyn said. He took a copy of the anonymous letter from his pocket and handed it to Dr Withers. ‘Mr Thomas Ancred brought eight of these to us this morning,’ he said.

‘Damn disgusting piffle,’ said Dr Withers and handed it back.

‘I hope so. But when we’re shown these wretched things we have to do something about them.’

‘Well?’

‘You signed the death certificate, Dr Withers, and—’

‘And I shouldn’t have done so if I hadn’t been perfectly satisfied as to the cause.’

‘Exactly. Now will you, like a good chap, help us to dispose of these letters by giving us, in non-scientific words, the cause of Sir Henry’s death?’

Dr Withers fretted a little, but at last went to his files and pulled out a card.

‘There you are,’ he said. ‘That’s the last of his cards. I made routine calls at Ancreton. It covers about six weeks.’

Alleyn looked at it. It bore the usual list of dates with appropriate notes. Much of it was illegible and almost all obscure to the lay mind. The final note, however, was flatly lucid. It read: ‘Deceased. Between twelve-thirty and two a.m., Nov. 25th.’

‘Yes,’ said Alleyn. ‘Thank you. Now will you translate some of this?’

‘He suffered,’ said Dr Withers angrily, ‘from gastric ulcers and degeneration of the heart. He was exceedingly indiscriminate in his diet. He’d eaten a disastrous meal, had drunk champagne, and had flown into one of his rages. From the look of the room, I diagnosed a severe gastric attack followed by heart failure. I may add that if I had heard about the manner in which he’d spent the evening I should have expected some such development.’

‘You’d have expected him to die?’

‘That would be an extremely unprofessional prognostication. I would have anticipated grave trouble,’ said Dr Withers stuffily.

‘Was he in the habit of playing up with his diet?’

‘He was. Not continuously, but in bouts.’

‘Yet survived?’

‘The not unusual tale of “once too often”.’

‘Yes,’ said Alleyn, looking down at the card. ‘Would you mind describing the room and the body?’

‘Would you, in your turn, Chief Inspector, mind telling me if you have any reason for this interview beyond these utterly preposterous anonymous letters?’

‘Some of the family suspect arsenical poisoning.’

‘Oh, my God and the little starfish!’ Dr Withers shouted and shook his fists above his head. ‘That bloody family!’