‘Was Desirée Bantling, in fact, tight?’

‘It’s hard to say. She was perfectly in order afterwards and acted with the greatest expediency, I must say, in the Pixie affair. She’s obviously,’ Nicola said, ‘a law unto herself.’

‘I believe you. You’ve drifted into rather exotic and dubious waters, haven’t you?’

‘It was all right,’ Nicola said quickly. ‘And Andrew’s not a bit exotic or dubious. He’s a quiet character. Honestly. You’ll see.’

‘Yes,’ Alleyn said. ‘I’ll see. Thank you, Nicola.’ Upon which the door of Mr Period’s drawing-room burst open and Andrew, scarlet in the face, stormed in.

‘Look here!’ he shouted, ‘what the hell goes on? Are you grilling my girl?’

IV

Alleyn, with one eyebrow cocked at Nicola, was crisp with Andrew. Nicola herself, struggling between exasperation and a maddening tendency to giggle invited Andrew not to be an ass and he calmed down and presently apologized.

‘I’m inclined to be quick-tempered,’ he said with an air of self-discovery and an anxious glance at Nicola.

She cast her eyes up and, on Alleyn’s suggestion, left Andrew with him and went to the study. There she found Mr Period in a dreadful state of perturbation, writing a letter.

‘About poor old Hal,’ he explained distractedly. ‘To his partner. One scarcely knows what to say.’

He implored Nicola to stay and as she still had a mass of unassembled notes to attend to, she set to work on them in a strange condition of emotional uncertainty.

Alleyn had little difficulty with Andrew Bantling. He readily outlined his own problems, telling Alleyn about the Grantham Gallery and how Mr Cartell had refused to let him anticipate his inheritance. He also confirmed Nicola’s account of their vigil in the car. ‘You don’t,’ he said, ‘want to take any notice of my mamma. She was probably a thought high. It would amuse her to bait Harold. She always does that sort of thing.’

‘She was annoyed with him, I take it?’

‘Well, of course she was. Livid. We both were.’

‘Mr Bantling,’ Alleyn said, ‘your step-father has been murdered.’

‘So I feared,’ Andrew rejoined. ‘Beastly, isn’t it? I can’t get used to the idea at all.’

‘A trap was laid for him and when, literally, he fell into it, his murderer levered an eight-hundred-pound drain-pipe on him. It crushed his skull and drove him, face down, into the mud.’

The colour drained out of Andrew’s cheeks. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You needn’t go on. It’s loathsome. It’s too grotesque to think about.’

‘I’m afraid we have to think about it. That’s all for the moment. Thank you.’

‘Well, yes. All right, I see. Thank you.’ Andrew fidgeted with his tie and then said: ‘Look; I dare say you think I’m being pretty callous about all this but the fact is I just can’t assimilate it. It’s so unreal and beastly.’

‘Murder is beastly. Unfortunately it’s not unreal.’