Alleyn did not respond to this appeal from blue blood to blue blood. He said: ‘Was the suitcase locked?’

‘We wouldn’t have broken anything open, Mr Alleyn.’

‘Wouldn’t you?’ he said vaguely. Desdemona glanced in the mirror. ‘Well—Pauline might,’ she admitted after a pause.

Alleyn waited for a moment, caught Fox’s eye and stood up. He said: ‘Now, Miss Ancred, I wonder if we may see your father’s room?’

‘Papa’s room?’

‘If we may.’

‘I couldn’t—you won’t mind if I—? I’ll ask Barker—’

‘If he’d just show us in the general direction we could find our own way.’

Desdemona stretched out her hands impulsively. ‘You do understand,’ she said. ‘You do understand how one feels. Thank you.’

Alleyn smiled vaguely, dodged the outstretched hands and made for the door. ‘Perhaps Barker,’ he suggested, ‘could show us the room.’

Desdemona swept to the bell-push and in a moment or two Barker came in. With enormous aplomb she explained what he was to do. She contrived to turn Barker into the very quintessence of family retainers. The atmosphere in the little sitting-room grew more and more feudal. ‘These gentlemen,’ she ended, ‘have come to help us, Barker. We, in our turn, must help them, mustn’t we? You will help them, won’t you?’

‘Certainly, miss,’ said Barker. ‘If you would come this way, sir?’

How well Troy had described the great stairs and the gallery and the yards and yards of dead canvas in heavy frames. And the smell. The Victorian smell of varnish, carpet, wax, and mysteriously, paste. A yellow smell, she had said. Here was the first long corridor, and there, branching from it, the passage to Troy’s tower. This was where she had lost herself that first night and these were the rooms with their ridiculous names. On his right, Bancroft and Bernhardt; on his left, Terry and Bracegirdle; then an open linen closet and bathrooms. Barker’s coattails jigged steadily ahead of them. His head was stooped, and one saw only a thin fringe of grey hair and a little dandruff on his back collar. Here was the cross-corridor, corresponding with the picture gallery, and facing them a closed door, with the legend, in gothic lettering, ‘Irving.’

‘This is the room, sir,’ said Barker’s faded and breathless voice. ‘We’ll go in, if you please.’

The door opened on darkness and the smell of disinfectant. A momentary fumbling, and then a bedside lamp threw a pool of light upon a table and a crimson counterpane. With a clatter of rings Barker pulled aside the window curtains and then let up the blinds.