He talked for some ten minutes. Sitting there in the darkness, rushing through the night, he had an intoxicating feeling of power. What did it matter if he were only a looker-on at life? He had words at his command, he was master of them, he could string them to a pattern–a strange Renaissance pattern composed of the beauty of Laura Dwighton, with her white arms and red hair–and the shadowy dark figure of Paul Delangua, whom women found handsome.

Set that against the background of Alderway–Alderway that had stood since the days of Henry VII and, some said, before that. Alderway that was English to the core, with its clipped yew and its old beak barn and the fishpond, where monks had kept their carp for Fridays.

In a few deft strokes he had etched in Sir James, a Dwighton who was a true descendant of the old De Wittons, who long ago had wrung money out of the land and locked it fast in coffers, so that whoever else had fallen on evil days, the masters of Alderway had never become impoverished.

At last Mr Satterthwaite ceased. He was sure, had been sure all along, of the sympathy of his audience. He waited now the word of praise which was his due. It came.

‘You are an artist, Mr Satterthwaite.’

‘I–I do my best.’ The little man was suddenly humble.

They had turned in at the lodge gates some minutes ago. Now the car drew up in front of the doorway, and a police constable came hurriedly down the steps to meet them.

‘Good evening, sir. Inspector Curtis is in the library.’

‘Right.’

Melrose ran up the steps followed by the other two. As the three of them passed across the wide hall, an elderly butler peered from a doorway apprehensively. Melrose nodded to him.

‘Evening, Miles. This is a sad business.’

‘It is indeed,’ the other quavered. ‘I can hardly believe it, sir; indeed I can’t. To think that anyone should strike down the master.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Melrose, cutting him short. ‘I’ll have a talk with you presently.’

He strode on to the library. There a big, soldierly-looking inspector greeted him with respect.

‘Nasty business, sir. I have not disturbed things. No fingerprints on the weapon. Whoever did it knew his business.’

Mr Satterthwaite looked at the bowed figure sitting at the big writing table, and looked hurriedly away again. The man had been struck down from behind, a smashing blow that had crashed in the skull. The sight was not a pretty one.

The weapon lay on the floor–a bronze figure about two feet high, the base of it stained and wet. Mr Satterthwaite bent over it curiously.

‘A Venus,’ he said softly. ‘So he was struck down by Venus.’

He found food for poetic meditation in the thought.

‘The windows,’ said the inspector, ‘were all closed and bolted on the inside.’

He paused significantly.