‘Yerse,’ said Mr Fox. ‘And whoever he was, he didn’t do it.’

‘I know he didn’t do it. I’m simply trying to find a way out, Fox. I’m trying to eliminate and I have eliminated.’

‘Yes, Mr Alleyn. You have. When do we book the gentleman?’

‘I doubt if we’ve got a tight enough case, you know.’

‘Do you?’

‘Blast the whole boiling of them,’ said Alleyn. He got up and walked about the room. ‘Do you know what they’re doing now? At this precise moment? Holding auditions for the replacement. A good play by Jay built round the death of Shakespeare’s young son and the arrival of the Dark Lady. So far they haven’t cast the murderer but there’s no guarantee they won’t. What’s more, it’s the play they were doing with great success when this theatre re-opened. There was a mess then and one of the company was guilty.’

‘God bless my soul!’ said Fox. ‘That’s right. I remember. Proper turn-up for the books, that one was.’

‘And a right proper young monster the boy was. This is altogether a different story. D’you know who this kid is?’

‘No. Ought I to? Not anything in our line of business, I suppose?’

‘No – well, that’s not quite true. He’s a nice well-brought-up little chap and he’s the son of the Hampstead Chopper. He doesn’t know that and I’m extremely anxious that he shan’t find out, Fox.’

‘Harcourt-Smith, wasn’t it?’

‘It was. His mother dropped the Harcourt. He knows his father’s in a loony-bin but not why.’

‘Broadmoor?’

‘Yes. A lifer.’

‘Fancy that, now,’ Fox said, shaking his head.

‘One of his father’s earlier victims was a Mrs Barrabell.’

‘You’re not telling me – ‘

‘Yes, I am. Wife. Barrabell put those practical jokes together. All to do with heads. He hoped the Management would think the boy was responsible and give him the sack.’

‘Has he told you? Barrabell?’

‘Not in so many words.’

‘He’s a member of some potty little way-out group, isn’t he?’

‘The Red Fellowship. Yes.’

‘What do we know about them?’

‘The usual. Meeting once a week on Sunday mornings. Genuine enough. No real understanding of the extraordinary and extremely complicated in-fighting that goes on at sub-diplomatic levels. A bit dotty. He and his mates iron everything out to a few axioms and turn a blind eye to all that doesn’t fit. The terrible reality of Bruce Barrabell rests in the fact that his wife was beheaded by a maniac. I think he believes, or has brooded himself into believing, that the child has inherited the father’s madness and that sooner or later it’ll emerge and then it’ll be too late.’

‘I still don’t know where Sir Dougal fits in. If he does.’