‘Making an inside job of it,’ said the chief constable reluctantly. ‘Well–well, we’ll see.’

The murdered man was dressed in golf clothes, and a bag of golf clubs had been flung untidily across a big leather couch.

‘Just come in from the links,’ explained the inspector, following the chief constable’s glance. ‘At five-fifteen, that was. Had tea brought here by the butler. Later he rang for his valet to bring him down a pair of soft slippers. As far as we can tell, the valet was the last person to see him alive.’

Melrose nodded, and turned his attention once more to the writing table.

A good many of the ornaments had been overturned and broken. Prominent among these was a big dark enamel clock, which lay on its side in the very centre of the table.

The inspector cleared his throat.

‘That’s what you might call a piece of luck, sir,’ he said. ‘As you see, it’s stopped. At half past six. That gives us the time of the crime. Very convenient.’

The colonel was staring at the clock.

‘As you say,’ he remarked. ‘Very convenient.’ He paused a minute, and then added, ‘Too damned convenient! I don’t like it, Inspector.’

He looked around at the other two. His eye sought Mr Quin’s with a look of appeal in it.

‘Damn it all,’ he said. ‘It’s too neat. You know what I mean. Things don’t happen like that.’

‘You mean,’ murmured Mr Quin, ‘that clocks don’t fall like that?’

Melrose stared at him for a moment, then back at the clock, which had that pathetic and innocent look familiar to objects which have been suddenly bereft of their dignity. Very carefully Colonel Melrose replaced it on its legs again. He struck the table a violent blow. The clock rocked, but it did not fall. Melrose repeated the action, and very slowly, with a kind of unwillingness, the clock fell over on its back.

‘What time was the crime discovered?’ demanded Melrose sharply.

‘Just about seven o’clock, sir.’

‘Who discovered it?’

‘The butler.’

‘Fetch him in,’ said the chief constable. ‘I’ll see him now. Where is Lady Dwighton, by the way?’

‘Lying down, sir. Her maid says that she’s prostrated and can’t see anyone.’

Melrose nodded, and Inspector Curtis went in search of the butler. Mr Quin was looking thoughtfully into the fireplace. Mr Satterthwaite followed his example. He blinked at the smouldering logs for a minute or two, and then something bright lying in the grate caught his eye. He stooped and picked up a little sliver of curved glass.

‘You wanted me, sir?’

It was the butler’s voice, still quavering and uncertain. Mr Satterthwaite slipped the fragment of glass into his waistcoat pocket and turned round.

The old man was standing in the doorway.