‘You, of course, have your information from the Lady Gargantua, the Mammoth Châtelaine, the Great, repeat Great, Lady of Nunspardon,’ said Mr Phinn, and then surprisingly turned pink. His gaze, oddly fixed, was directed past Alleyn’s elbow to some object behind him. It did not waver. ‘Not,’ Mr Phinn added, ‘that, in certain respects, her worth does not correspond by a rough computation with her avoirdupois. Did she divulge the nature of my farther conversation with the Colonel?’

‘No.’

‘Then neither,’ said Mr Phinn, ‘shall I. At least, not yet. Not unless I am obliged to do so.’

The direction of his gaze had not shifted.

‘Very well,’ Alleyn said, and turned away with an air of finality.

He had been standing with his back to a desk. Presiding over an incredibly heaped-up litter were two photographs in tarnished silver frames. One was of the lady of the portrait. The other was of a young man bearing a strong resemblance to her and inscribed in a flowing hand: ‘Ludovic’

It was at this photograph that Mr Phinn had been staring.

8. Jacob’s Cottage

CHAPTER 8

Jacob’s Cottage

Alleyn decided to press home what might or might not be an advantage and so did so with distaste. He had been in the police service for over twenty years. Under slow pressure his outward habit had toughened, but, like an ice cube that under warmth will yield its surface but retain its inward form, so his personality had kept its pattern intact. When an investigation led him, as this did, to take action that was distasteful to him, he imposed a discipline upon himself and went forward. It was a kind of abstinence, however, that prompted him to do so.

He said, looking at the photograph, ‘This is your son, sir, isn’t it?’

Mr Phinn, in a voice that was quite unlike his usual emphatic alto, said: ‘My son, Ludovic.’

‘I didn’t meet him, but I was in the Special Branch in 1937. I heard about his tragedy, of course.’

‘He was a good boy,’ Mr Phinn said. ‘I think I may have spoiled him. I fear I may have done so.’

‘One can’t tell about these things.’

‘No. One can’t tell.’

‘I don’t ask you to forgive me for speaking of him. In a case of homicide I’m afraid no holds are barred. We have discovered that Sir Harold Lacklander died with the name ‘Vic’ on his lips and full of concern about the publication of his own memoirs which he had entrusted to Colonel Cartarette. We know that your son was Sir Harold’s secretary during a crucial period of his administration in Zlomce and that Sir Harold could hardly avoid mention of the tragedy of your son’s death if he was to write anything like a definitive record of his own career.’