‘Yes. Thanks. Move that light a little this way, Thompson. Will you come here, Dr Withers?’

‘The—ah—the process is quite satisfactory, don’t you consider, Doctor? Only a short time, of course, but I can assure you there would be no deterioration.’

‘Indeed? Remarkable.’

‘One is gratified.’

‘I think we’ll have that bandage taken away, if you please. Fox, will you tell Mr Ancred we’re ready for him?’

Bream watched the thick-set Inspector Fox emerge and walk over towards Thomas. Before he had gone more than a few paces there was a sudden and violent ejaculation inside the enclosure. ‘Good God, look at that!’ Inspector Fox paused. The Chief Inspector’s voice said, very sharply, ‘Quiet, Dr Withers, please,’ and there followed a rapid whispering.

Inspector Fox moved away and joined Thomas Ancred. ‘If you’ll come this way, Mr Ancred.’ ‘Oh! yes, of course. Very good. Right ho!’ said Thomas in a high voice, and followed him back to the enclosure. ‘If I moved a bit,’ Bream thought, ‘when they opened the flaps I’d see in.’ But he did not move. The London constable held the doorway open, glancing impassively into the tent before he let the canvas fall. The voices began again.

‘Now, this is not going to be a very big ordeal, Mr Ancred.’

‘Oh, isn’t it? Oh, good.’

‘Will you—?’

Bream heard Thomas move. ‘There, you see. Quite peaceful.’

‘I—yes—I identify him.’

‘That’s all right, then. Thank you.’

‘No,’ said Thomas, and his voice rose hysterically, ‘it’s not all right. There’s something all wrong, in fact. Papa had a fine head of hair. Hadn’t he, Dr Withers? He was very proud of it, wasn’t he? And his moustache. This is bald. What have they done with his hair?’

‘Steady! Put your head down. You’ll be all right. Give me that brandy, Fox, will you? Damn, he’s fainted.’

‘Well, Curtis,’ Alleyn said as the car slid between rows of sleeping houses, ‘I hope you’ll be able to give us something definite.’

‘Hope so,’ said Dr Curtis, stifling a heavy yawn.

‘I’d like to ask you, Doctor,’ said Fox, ‘whether you’d expect one fatal dose of arsenic to have that effect.’

‘What effect? Oh, the hair. No. I wouldn’t. It’s more often a symptom of chronic poisoning.’

‘In for one of those messes, are we?’ Fox grumbled. ‘That will be nice. Fields of suspects opened up wide, with the possibility of Miss O. being framed.’

‘There are objections to chronic poisoning, Br’er Fox,’ Alleyn said. ‘He might die when he’d concocted a Will unfavourable to the poisoner. And moreover, you’d expect a progressive loss of hair, not a sudden post-mortem moult. Is that right, Curtis?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Well, then,’ Fox persisted heavily, ‘how about the embalming process? Would that account for it?’