‘And you said you had told me?’

‘Well, I had to when he asked me point-blank. I made as little of it as I could.’

‘Yes. I see. One other thing and it’s important, Nicola. Do you, by any chance, know anything that would connect Mr Period with a popular song?’

‘A song! Not – not –’

‘Something about “Okay by me”.’

CHAPTER 7

Pixie

It had been five past eleven when Alleyn was summoned to the telephone. He and Fox having struck a blank in respect of the gloves, had been mulling over their notes in the Codling pub, when the landlord, avid with curiosity, summoned him.

‘It’s a call for you, sir,’ he said. ‘Local. I didn’t catch the name. There’s no one in the bar parlour, if that suits you.’

Alleyn took the call in the bar parlour.

He said: ‘Alleyn here. Hallo?’

Mr Pyke Period, unmistakable and agitated, answered. ‘Alleyn? Thank God! I’m so sorry to disturb you at this unconscionable hour. Do forgive me. The thing is there’s something I feel I ought to tell –’

The voice stopped. Alleyn heard a bump, followed by a soft, heavier noise and then by silence. He waited for a moment or two. There was a faint definite click and, again silence. He rang and got the engaged signal. He hung up and turned to find Fox at his side.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you on the way.’

When they were clear of the pub he broke into a run with Fox, heavy and capable, on his heels.

‘Period,’ Alleyn said, ‘and it looks damn’ fishy. Stopped dead in full cry. Characteristic noises.’

The pub was in a side street that led into the green at Mr Period’s end of it. There was nobody about and their footsteps sounded loud on the paving-stones. Connie Cartell’s Pekinese was yapping somewhere on the far side of the green. Distantly, from the parish schoolroom, came the sound of communal singing.

Only one room in Mr Period’s house was lit and that was the library. Stepping as quietly as the gravelled drive would permit, they moved towards the French windows. Bay trees stood on either side of the glass doors which were almost but not quite shut.

Alleyn looked across the table Nicola had used, past her shrouded typewriter and stacked papers. Beyond, to his right, and against the window in the side wall, was Mr Period’s desk. His shaded lamp, as if it had been switched on by a stage-manager, cast down a pool of light on that restricted area, giving it an immense theatricality. The telephone receiver dangled from the desk and Mr Period’s right arm hung beside it. His body was tipped forward in his chair and his face lay among his papers. The hair was ruffled like a baby’s and from his temple a ribbon of blood had run down the cheekbone to the nostril.

‘Doctor,’ Alleyn said. ‘What’s-his-name. Elekton.’