The traffic streamed past in a world of lights, hurrying figures, incalculable urgencies proclaiming the warmth and excitability of London at night. In the suburbs the traffic thinned out. In Dulwich they slowed down and pulled up. The cul-de-sac off Alleyn Road was a dark entry with no lights in the front of the house. A man was waiting for them and came up to the car.

‘Hullo,’ said Alleyn. ‘Nobody stirring?’

‘He hasn’t left the place, sir. There’s another of our chaps by the back entrance.’

‘Right. Ready?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The other three men spread out behind him.

Alleyn pressed a bellpush. Footsteps. A dim light behind glass panels and a fine voice, actor-trained, called out: ‘I’ll go.’ Footsteps sounded and the clank of a chain and turn of a key.

The door opened. The tall figure was silhouetted against the dimly lit hall.

‘I was expecting you,’ the man said. ‘Come in.’

Alleyn went in, followed by Fox. The two constables followed. One of them locked the door and pocketed the key.

‘Gaston Sears,’ said Alleyn, ‘I am about to charge you with the murder of Dougal Macdougal. Do you wish to say anything? You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say will be taken down and may be given in evidence.’

‘Thank you. I wish to say a great deal.’

Fox took out his notebook and pen. Alleyn said: ‘I will search you, if you please, before you begin.’

Gaston turned and placed his hands against the wall.

He wore his black cloak; there were letters and papers of all kinds in every pocket. Alleyn handed them to Fox who noted their contents and tied them together. They seemed for the most part to be concerned with ancient weaponry and in particular with the claidheamh-mor.

‘Please do not lose them,’ Gaston said. ‘They are extremely valuable.’

‘They will be perfectly safe.’

‘I am relieved to receive your assurance, sir. Where is my claidheamh-mor?’

‘Locked up at the Yard.’

‘Locked up? Locked up? Do you know what you are saying? Do you realize that I, who know more about the latent power of the claidheamh-mor than anyone living, have so disastrously aroused it that I am brought to this pass by its ferocity alone? Do you know – ‘

On and on went the great voice. Ancient documents, the rune on the hilts, the history of bloodshed, formal executions, decapitation in battle, what happened to the thief of the sixteenth century (decapitation), its effect on people who handled it (lunacy). ‘I, in my pride, in my arrogance, supposed myself exempt. Then came the fool Macdougal and his idiot remarks. I felt it swell in my hands.