‘Case of inverted snobbism, I dare say. It’s a nice front, nevertheless. Might have been the dower house to Nunspardon at one time. Rum go, couple of unattached males living side by side in houses that are much too big for them.’

‘I wonder how Mr Phinn and the Commander hit it off.’

‘I wouldn’t mind having a bet that they don’t. Look, here he comes.’

‘Cripes!’ Mr Fox ejaculated. ‘What a menagerie!’

Mr Phinn had in fact come out of his house accompanied by an escort of cats and Mrs Twitchett’s three fat kittens.

‘No more!’ he was saying in his curious alto voice. ‘All gone! Go and catch micey, you lazy lot of furs.’

He set down the empty dish he had been carrying. Some object fell from his breast pocket and he replaced it in a hurry. Some of his cats pretended alarm and flounced off, the others merely stared at him. The three kittens, seeing their mother, galloped unsteadily towards her with stiff tails and a great deal of conversation. Mr Phinn saw Alleyn and Fox. Staring at them, he clapped his hands like a mechanical toy that had not quite run down.

The tassel of his smoking-cap had swung over his nose but his sudden pallor undid its comic effect. The handle of the concealed object protruded from his breast pocket. He began to walk towards them and his feline escort, with the exception of the Twitchetts, scattered before him.

‘Good morning,’ Mr Phinn fluted thickly. He swept aside his tassel with a not-quite-steady hand and pulled up a dingy handkerchief, thus concealing the protruding handle. ‘To what beneficent constabular breeze do I owe this enchanting surprise? Detectives, emerging from a grove of trees!’ he exclaimed, and clasped his hands. ‘Like fauns in pursuit of some elusive hamadryad! Armed, I perceive,’ he added, with a malevolent glance at Commander Syce’s arrow, which Alleyn had retained by the simple expedient of absentmindedly walking away with it.

‘Good morning, Mr Phinn,’ Alleyn said. ‘I have been renewing my acquaintance with your charming cat.’

‘Isn’t she sweet?’ Mr Phinn moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. ‘Such a devoted mama, you can’t think!’

Alleyn sat on his heels beside Mrs Twitchett who gently kicked away one of her too-greedy kittens. ‘Her fur’s in wonderful condition for a nursing mother,’ he said, stroking it. ‘Do you give her anything special to eat?’

Mr Phinn began to talk with the sickening extravagance of the feline fanatic. ‘A balanced diet,’ he explained in a high-pitched voice, ‘of her own choosing. Fissy on Mondays and Fridays. Steaky on Tuesdays. Livvy on Wednesdays. Cooked bun on Thursdays and Sundays. Embellished,’ he added with a merciless smile, ‘by our own clever claws, with micey and birdie.’

‘Fish only twice a week,’ Alleyn mused and Fox, suddenly feeling that something was expected of him, said: ‘Fancy!’