He went through the whole thing again and then rang up the printers and asked if the Royal Programme was ready and when he could see a copy.

Winter Morris’s black curls were now iron-grey. He had been Business Manager at the Dolphin ever since it was restored and he remembered the play about Shakespeare by Peregrine Jay that twenty years ago was accompanied by a murder.

Seems a long time ago now, thought Winty. Things have gone rather smoothly since then. He touched wood with his plump white finger. Of course we’re in a nice financial position, permanently endowed by the late Mr Conducis. Almost too secure, you might think. I don’t, he added with a fat chuckle. He lit a cigar and returned to his work.

He had dealt with his in-tray. There was only an advertisement left from a wine merchant. He picked it up and dropped it in his WPB, exposing a folded paper at the bottom of his tray.

Winty was an extremely tidy man and liked to say he knew exactly where everything lay on or in his desk and what it was about. He did not recognize this folded sheet. It was, he noted, a follow-up sheet of his office letter-paper. He frowned and opened it.

The typed message read: ‘murderers sons in your co.’

Winter Morris sat perfectly still, his cigar in his left hand and in his right this outrageous statement.

Presently he turned and observed on a small table the typewriter sometimes used by his secretary for taking down dictated letters. He inserted a sheet of paper and typed the statement.

This, he decided, corresponds exactly. The monstrous truth declared itself. It had been executed in his office. Somebody had come in, sat down and infamously typed it. No apostrophes or full stop and no capital letter. Because the writer was in a hurry? Or ignorant? And the motive?

Winty put both typed messages into an envelope and wrote the date on it. He unlocked his private drawer, dropped the envelope in and re-locked it.

The son of a murderer?

Winty consulted his neatly arranged, fabulous memory. Since the casting-list was completed he mentally ticked off each player until he came to William Smith. He remembered his mother, her nervous manner, her hesitation, her obvious relief. And diving backwards, at last he remembered the Harcourt-Smith case and its outcome. Three years ago, was it? Six victims, and all of them girls! Mutilated, beheaded. Broadmoor for life.

If that’s the answer, Winty thought, I’ve forgotten the case. But, by God, I’ll find out who wrote this message and I won’t rest till I’ve faced him with it. Now then!

He thought very carefully for some time and then rang his secretary’s room.

‘Mr Morris?’ said her voice.

‘Still here, are you, Mrs Abrams? Will you come in, please?’

‘Certainly.’