‘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.’

‘So it seems. Is it in order for me to go up to London? I’m meant to be on guard tomorrow. As a matter of fact I had thought of going up on business.’

‘Important business?’

‘Well – to me. I wanted to ask them to give me a few days’ grace over the gallery.’ He stared at Alleyn. ‘I suppose this will make a difference,’ he said. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘And now you have thought of it –?’

‘I don’t know,’ Andrew said slowly. ‘It seems a bit low to think of it at all. I’d like to talk it over with Nicola. As a matter of fact –’ He looked sideways at Alleyn. ‘I rather thought of coming back and then going up with her. After I’ve telephoned my mamma, I suppose. I can’t imagine what she’ll make of all this, I must say.’

‘Where are you going to be on guard?’

‘The Tower,’ Andrew said dismally.

‘All right. We’ll get in touch if we want you.’

Leaving Andrew where he was, Alleyn had a discussion with Fox and Williams in Mr Period’s garden and then checked the story of the cigarette-case with Alfred and then crossed the green to interview Miss Cartell.

She received him in her den. He found it a depressing room. Everything seemed to be the colour of mud. Faded snapshots of meets, of foxhounds and of other canines, covered the walls. On the desk, which was a shambles, were several framed photographs of a cagey-looking girl whom he supposed to be Moppett. The room smelt of dog, damp tweed and raw liver, this last being explained by a dish labelled ‘Fido’ in which a Pekinese was noisily snuffling. It broke off to bare its needle-like teeth at Alleyn and make the noise of a toy kettledrum.