‘Not with a swing,’ Nicola said.

‘Because of the muddled relationships, would you say?’

‘No. They seem to take those in their stride.’

‘Because of what, then?’

‘Well – Moppett and Leonard principally. Leonard really is a monster.’

‘What sort? Beatnik? Smart Alec? Bounder? Straight-out cad? Or just plain nasty?’

‘All except the beatnik. He’s as clean as a whistle and smells dreadfully of lilies.’

‘Not Period’s cup of tea. Or, I should have thought, Cartell’s.’

‘Indeed, not. He and Moppett were self-invited. Or rather, I think Moppett had bludgeoned poor Miss Cartell into getting them there.’

‘Why “poor”?’

‘Did I say “poor”?’ Nicola said, surprised at herself. ‘I suppose, because I sort of felt she was vulnerable.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well – she’s one of those clumsy women who sound arrogant but probably hoot and roar their way through life to cover up their shyness. I expect she’s tried to compensate for her loneliness by pouring all her affection into Moppett … What a hope, poor darling!’

‘Oh, wise young judge,’ Alleyn murmured and Nicola wondered how much he was laughing at her.

‘Can you remember,’ he asked, ‘any of the conversation?’

‘At lunch it was about Pixie and Miss Cartell saying she was a mongrel and Mr Cartell turning huffy and about a car Leonard had seen in the local garage – I don’t remember –’

‘We know about the car. What else?’

‘Well: about poor Mr Period’s favourite thing: family grandeur and blue blood and noblesse oblige. I’m sure he didn’t mean to have digs at Leonard and Moppett but it came over like that. And then Mr Cartell told a story about someone who cooked a baptismal record to pretend he was blue-blooded when he wasn’t and that didn’t exactly ring out like a peal of joybells although Leonard seemed quite interested. And then there was the Pixie episode and then the cigarette-case thing.’ She elaborated on these themes.

‘Plenty of incident throughout. What about the pre-luncheon party? Young Bantling, for instance? How did he fit in? Did he seem to get on quite well with his senior step-father?’

Nicola was aware of silence: the silence of Mr Period’s drawing-room which had been given over to Alleyn. There was the alleged Cotman water-colour in its brown-paper wrappings. There were the unexceptionable chairs and curtains. Outside the windows was the drive, down which Andrew had walked so angrily, swinging his hat. And upstairs, somewhere, was dead Mr Cartell’s room, where Andrew’s voice had shouted yesterday morning.

‘What’s the matter?’ Alleyn said.

‘Nothing. He didn’t stay to lunch. He lunched at Baynesholme.’

‘But he came here, with you, from the station, didn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

‘And stayed here until his mother and her husband called for him?’

‘Yes. At least –’

‘Yes?’

‘He went out for a bit. I saw him go down the drive.’

‘What did he do while he was here?’

‘I think he saw Mr Cartell. Mr Cartell’s his guardian and a trustee for his inheritance as well as his step-father. And Mr Period’s the other trustee.’