‘Ah,’ she said, ‘so you’re not going to respond.’

‘Tell me, did Mr Phinn have a son called Ludovic? Ludovic Danberry-Phinn?’

In the not very bright light he watched her face harden as if, behind its mask of fat, she had set her jaw. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Why?’

‘It could hardly not be, could it, with those names?’

‘I wouldn’t mention the boy if I were you. He was in the Foreign Service and blotted his copybook as I dare say you know. It was quite a tragedy. It’s never mentioned.’

‘Is it not? What sort of a man was Colonel Cartarette?’

‘Pig-headed, quixotic fellow. Obstinate as a mule. One of those pathetically conscientious people who aim so high they get a permanent crick in their conscience.’

‘Are you thinking of any particular incident?’

‘No,’ Lady Lacklander said firmly, ‘I am not.’

‘Do you mind telling me what you and Colonel Cartarette talked about?’

‘We talked,’ Lady Lacklander said coolly, ‘about Occy poaching and about a domestic matter that is for the moment private and can have no bearing whatever on Maurice’s death. Goodnight to you, Roderick. I suppose I call you Roderick, don’t I?’

‘When we’re alone together.’

‘Impudent fellow!’ she said, and aimed a sort of dab at him. ‘Go back and bully those poor things in there. And tell George to hurry.’

‘Can you remember exactly what Mr Phinn and Colonel Cartarette said to each other when they had their row?’

She looked hard at him, folded her jewelled hands together, and said: ‘Not word for word. They had a row over the fish. Occy rows with everybody.’

‘Did they talk about anything else?’

Lady Lacklander continued to look at him, and said: ‘No,’ very coolly indeed.

Alleyn made her a little bow. ‘Goodnight,’ he said. ‘If you remember specifically anything that they said to each other, would you be terribly kind and write it down?’

‘Roderick,’ Lady Lacklander said, ‘Occy Phinn is no murderer.’

‘Is he not?’ Alleyn said. ‘Well, that’s something to know, isn’t it? Goodnight.’

He shut the door. The light in the car went out.

IV

As he turned back to the house Alleyn met George Lacklander. It struck him that George was remarkably ill at ease in his company and would greatly have preferred to deal exclusively with Fox.

‘Oh … ah, hallo,’ George said. ‘I … ah … I wonder may I have a word with you? I don’t suppose you remember, by the way, but we have met a thousand years ago, ha, ha, when I think you were one of my father’s bright young men, weren’t you?’