Rose turned as if to appeal to Alleyn and then seemed to give up. Mark took her by the elbow and led her away.

Alleyn watched them get into the sports car and shoot off down a long drive. He shook his head slightly and let himself into the front seat beside Fox.

‘Follow them, Brer Fox,’ he said. ‘But sedately. There’s no hurry. We’re going to Hammer Farm.’

On the way he outlined the general shape of his visit to Nunspardon.

‘It’s clear enough, wouldn’t you agree,’ he ended, ‘what has happened about the memoirs. Take the facts as we know them. The leakage of information at Zlomce was of such importance that Sir Harold Lacklander couldn’t, in what is evidently an exhaustive autobiography, ignore it. At the time of the catastrophe we learnt in the Special Branch from Lacklander himself that after confessing his treachery, young Phinn, as a result of his wigging, committed suicide. We know Lacklander died with young Phinn’s name on his lips at the same time showing the greatest anxiety about the memoirs. We know that Cartarette was entrusted with the publication. We know Cartarette took an envelope from the drawer that was subsequently broken open and went to see old Phinn on what Miss Cartarette describes as an errand of mercy. When he didn’t find him at home, he followed him into the valley. Finally we know that after they fell out over the poaching they had a further discussion about which, although she admits she heard it, Lady Lacklander will tell us nothing. Now, my dear Brer Fox, why should the Lacklanders or Mr Phinn or the Cartarettes be so uncommonly touchy about all this? I don’t know what you think, but I can find only one answer.’

Fox turned the car sedately into the Hammer Farm drive and nodded his head.

‘Seems pretty obvious when you put it like that, Mr Alleyn, I must say. But is there sufficient motive for murder in it?’

‘Who the hell’s going to say what’s a sufficient motive for murder? And, anyway, it may be one of a bunch of motives. Probably is. Stick to ubi, quibus, auxiliis, quo-modo and quando, Foxkin; let cur look after itself and blow me down if quis won’t walk in when you’re least expecting it.’

‘So you always tell us, sir,’ said Fox.

‘All right, all right; I grow to a dotage and repeat myself. There’s the lovelorn GP’s car. We wait here while they hunt up the garments of the two ladies. Mrs Cartarette’s will be brand new extra loud tweeds smelling of Schiaparelli and, presumably, of fish.’

‘Must be a bit lonely,’ Fox mused.

‘Who?’