‘Yes,’ Alleyn said. ‘The telephone conversation I have just had was with one of the Home Office men who are looking after the pathological side. It is from him that I got all this expert’s stuff about scales. He tells me that on none of the garments submitted are there scales of both types.’

The normal purplish colour flooded back into George Lacklander’s face. ‘I said from the beginning,’ he shouted, ‘it was some tramp. Though why the devil you had to – to’ (he seemed to hunt for a moderate word) ‘to put us through hoops like this …’ His voice faded. Alleyn had lifted his hand. ‘Well?’ Lacklander cried out. ‘What is it? What the hell is it? I beg your pardon, Mama.’

Lady Lacklander said automatically: ‘Don’t be an ass, George.’

‘I’ll tell you,’ Alleyn said, ‘exactly what the pathologist has found. He has found traces of scales where we expected to find them: on the Colonel’s hands and the edge of one cuff, on Mr Phinn’s coat and knickerbockers and, as she warned us, on Mrs Cartarette’s skirt. The first of these traces belongs to Group B and the other two to Group A. Yes?’ Alleyn said, looking at Mark who had begun to speak and

then stopped short.

‘Nothing,’ Mark said. ‘I – no, go on.’

‘I’ve almost finished. I’ve said that we think the initial blow was made by a golf club probably a driver. I may as well tell you at once that so far none of the clubs has revealed any trace of blood. On the other hand, they have all been extremely well cleaned.’

George said: ‘Naturally. My chap does mine.’

‘When it comes to shoes, however,’ Alleyn went on, ‘it’s a different story. They, too, have been well cleaned. But in respect of the right foot of a pair of golfing shoes there is something quite definite. The pathologist is satisfied that the scar left on the Colonel’s trout was undoubtedly made by the spiked heel of this shoe.’

‘It’s a bloody lie!’ George Lacklander bawled out. ‘Who are you accusing? Whose shoe?’

‘It’s a hand-made job. Size four. Made, I should think, as long as ten years ago. From a very old, entirely admirable and hideously expensive bootmaker in the Burlington Arcade. It’s your shoe, Lady Lacklander.’

Her face was too fat to be expressive. She seemed merely to stare at Alleyn in a meditative fashion, but she had gone very pale. At last she said without moving: ‘George, it’s time to tell the truth.’

‘That,’ Alleyn said, ‘is the conclusion I hoped you would come to.’

III

‘What are you suggesting?’ Nurse Kettle repeated and then, seeing the look in Kitty’s face, she shouted: ‘No! Don’t tell me!’