By the smell he supposed it to be made up of nine parts gin to one of french. He therefore tipped it quickly into a vase of flowers on the desk and poured out the lager. The chicken-aspic was quite excellent.

‘Andrew tells me,’ Desirée said, ‘that you seem to think Hal was murdered.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘It appears so unlikely, somehow. Unless somebody did it out of irritation. When we were married, I promise you I felt like it often enough. Still, being rid of him I no longer do – or did. If you follow me.’

‘Perfectly,’ said Alleyn.

‘Andrew says it’s all about a kind of booby-trap, he thinks. Is that right?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I expected,’ Desirée said after a pause, ‘that it would be you asking me the questions.’

‘If you fill my mouth with delectable food, how can I?’

‘Is it good? I didn’t have any. I never fancy my lunch much except for the drinks. Was Hal murdered? Honestly?’

‘I think so.’

There was a longish silence and then she began to talk about people they had both known and occasions when they had met. This went on for some time. In her offhand way she managed to convey an implicit familiarity. Presently she came up behind him. He could smell her scent which was sharp and unfamiliar. He knew she was trying to get him off-balance, to make him feel vulnerable, sitting there eating and drinking. He also knew, as certainly as if she had made the grossest of advances, that she was perfectly ready for an unconventional interlude. He wondered where her Bimbo had taken himself off to and if Andrew Bantling was in the house. He continued sedately to eat and drink.

‘My Bimbo,’ she said as if he had spoken aloud, ‘is having his bit of afternoon kip. We were latish last night. One of my parties. Quite a pure one, but I suppose you know about that.’

‘Yes, it sounded a huge success,’ Alleyn said politely. He laid down his knife and fork and got up. ‘That was delicious,’ he said. ‘Thank you very much, jolly kind of you to think of it.’

‘Not at all,’ she murmured, coming at him with cigarettes and a lighter and an ineffable look.

‘May we sit down?’ Alleyn suggested and noticed that she took a chair facing a glare of uncompromising light: she was evidently one of those rare, ugly, provocative women who can’t be bothered taking the usual precautions.

‘I’ve got to ask you one or two pretty important questions,’ Alleyn said. ‘And the first is this. Have you by any chance had a letter from Mr Pyke Period? This morning, perhaps?’

She stared at him. ‘Golly, yes! I’d forgotten all about it. He must be dotty, poor lamb. How did you know?’

Alleyn disregarded this question. ‘Why dotty?’ he asked.

‘Judge for yourself.’