‘No, no,’ she cried out. ‘No, you don’t understand the Ancreds. They plunge into fantasies of their own making, without thinking of the consequences. This wretched tin must have been put in the suitcase by a maid or have got there by some other freakish accident. It may have been in the attic for years. None of their alarms ever means anything. Mr Alleyn, may I implore you to dismiss the whole thing as nonsense? Dangerous and idiotic nonsense, but, believe me, utter nonsense.’

She had leant forward, and her hands were pressed together. There was a vehemence and an intensity in her manner that had not appeared before.

‘If it’s nonsense,’ he said, ‘it’s malevolent nonsense.’

‘Stupid,’ she insisted, ‘spiteful, too, perhaps, but only childishly so.’

‘I shall be very glad if it turns out to be no more.’

‘Yes, but you don’t think it will.’

‘I’m wide open to conviction,’ he said lightly.

‘If I could convince you!’

‘You can at least help by filling in some of the gaps. For instance, can you tell me anything about the party in the drawing-room when you all returned from the little theatre? What happened?’

Instead of answering him directly she said, with a return to her earlier manner, ‘Please forgive me for being so insistent. It’s silly to try and ram one’s convictions down other people’s throats. They merely feel that one protests too much. But, you see, I know my Ancreds.’

‘And I’m learning mine. About the aftermath of the Birthday Party?’

‘Well, two of our visitors, the rector and a local squire, said goodnight in the hall. Very thankfully, poor darlings, I’m sure. Miss Orrincourt had already gone up. Mrs Alleyn had stayed behind in the theatre with Paul and Fenella. The rest of us went into the drawing-room and there the usual family arguments started, this time on the subject of that abominable disfigurement of the portrait. Paul and Fenella came in and told us that no damage had been done. Naturally, they were very angry. I may tell you that my daughter, who has not quite grown out of the hero-worship state-of-affairs, admires your wife enormously. These two children planned what they fondly imagined to be a piece of detective work. Did Mrs Alleyn tell you?’

Troy had told Alleyn, but he listened again to the tale of the paintbrush and finger-prints. She dwelt at some length on this, inviting his laughter, making, he thought, a little too much of a slight incident. When he asked her for further details of the discussion in the drawing-room she became vague. They had talked about Sir Henry’s fury, about his indiscretions at dinner.

Mr Rattisbon had been sent for by Sir Henry. ‘It was just one more of the interminable emotional parties,’ she said. ‘Everyone, except Cedric and Milly, terrifically hurt and grand because of the Will he told us about at dinner.’