He waited, and across the stillness of the room there floated small, inconsequent sounds: the whisper of Fox’s pencil and his rather heavy breathing, the faint rasp of Moppett’s fingernails on the arms of her chair and from somewhere within the house a scarcely perceptible mechanical throb.

‘There remains,’ Alleyn said, ‘just one person to whom opportunity, behaviour and motive all point, inescapably. This person presents certain characteristics: a knowledge of Mr Cartell’s movements, the assurance that at one o’clock the Baynesholme guests would have long ago left the scene, and access to Mr Leiss’s gloves. So much for opportunity. Behaviour. There are certain reactions. Everybody knows about Mr Period’s propensity for writing letters of condolence; he’s famous for them. Now, suppose one of you gets a Period letter, couched in rather ambiguous terms but commiserating with you on the loss of somebody whom you saw fighting-fit the previous evening. What would you think? Either that he was dotty or that he had sent you the wrong letter. You might get an initial shock, but a few moments thought would reassure you. You would not, having gone to find out what it was all about and encountered a bewildered Mr Period, turn deadly white and almost faint. But if you had murdered the supposed subject of the letter, how would you react? Suppose you had awakened in the morning with the remembrance of your deed festering in your mind and then been presented with this letter. Suppose, finally, that when you were being interviewed by the police, a second letter arrived, couched in exactly the same phrases. Wouldn’t that seem like a nightmare? Wouldn’t it seem as if Mr Period knew what you’d done and was torturing you with his knowledge? What would you do then?’

Connie Cartell had risen to her feet. She made an extraordinary gesture with her weather-chapped bandaged hand.

‘You can’t prove it,’ she said. ‘You haven’t got the gloves.’

At that moment a loud and confused rumpus broke out in the garden. There was a cry of frustration and a yelp of pain. The Pekinese leapt from Connie’s embrace.

A body crashed against the French windows. They burst open to admit Pixie, immensely overwrought and carrying some object in her mouth. She was closely followed by Alfred Belt.

Alleyn shouted: ‘Shut those windows.’ Alfred did so and stood in front of them, panting noisily.

With an expertise borne of their early training, Alleyn and Fox seized, respectively, Pixie and Li. Alleyn thrust his thumbs into the corners of Pixie’s slavering mouth.

Her plaything dropped to the floor. Alfred, gasping for breath, stammered: ‘In the garden, sir. Here. Ran her to earth. Digging.’

Moppett cried out: ‘Lennie! Lennie! Look! They’re your gloves!’

Alleyn said to Bimbo: ‘Catch hold of this dog.’

‘I’ll be damned if I do.’

‘I do her,’ said Trudi.

She dragged Pixie from the room.