A sunny Sunday and sightseeing craft plied up and down the Thames on their trips to the Tower. The Jays with Alleyn were drinking their after-lunch coffee on the terrace outside their house and across the river the Dolphin, having had its outside washed down, sparkled in the sunshine. William, whose Sunday visit had become a fixture, was being noisily entertained upstairs in the ex-nursery by Robin and Richard.

‘Gaston’s saved us a lot of trouble by confessing,’ said Alleyn. ‘Though I can’t think of a more mot injuste for his manner of doing it. He sticks to his story and I can’t make up my mind, to my own satisfaction, whether the plea’s altogether genuine. Luckily I don’t have to. The defence, if he allows it, will be guilty but insane. His past history will support it though he’ll fight it tooth and nail. But he was very cunning, you know. He cooked up an alibi for himself by committing the crime earlier. He was talking away to the covey of “corpses” when the murder was supposed to be done, and alleging he suffered from asthma which he kept quiet about for professional reasons to conceal the fact that he was out of breath from the fight. In reality he’s as strong as an ox with the wind of a bellows. There’s no question of it being an unrehearsed impulse. All the same – ‘

‘All the same?’ said Emily.

‘Whatever the verdict is, I’ve an idea it won’t upset him as much as it would anyone else. He’ll write a book, I dare say. And he’ll adore the trial.’

‘What about Barrabell?’

‘Horrid little man with his tricks and manners and anonymous messages. But we won’t let him go to Russia. He’s required to give evidence. I shouldn’t talk like this about him, he’s had an appalling experience, God knows, but it’s not fair to be such a good actor and such a crawler. In a way he’s a link in the whole business. He started the decapitation business and he got Gaston thinking about it and about the claidheamh-mor. Upon my word, I wouldn’t be surprised if he planted the idea in Gaston’s wild imagination. How’s your play going? You’ve started rehearsals, haven’t you?’

‘Yes. All right. Too early to predict. Young William’s an actor. Maggie’s shaping well. And – Good Lord, I’ve forgotten. It’s why I asked you to lunch in the first place. Wait a moment.’

Peregrine went indoors. There was a wild shriek from above and the three little boys came tumbling downstairs. They fell into a scrum and out of it and rushed round the house, William shouting, ‘“The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon.”’

Alleyn called out, ‘Robin! May I interrupt?’

‘Yes, sir?’ said Robin warily.

‘It’s about you knowing the fighter wasn’t Macbeth.’