“It’s true,” Tinkerton repeated shrilly. “I’ve said nothing that wasn’t true.”

“You’ve been with Lady Wutherwood fifteen years yet you don’t know the name of the nursing-home she went to or why she went. You don’t know whether she is interested in the supernatural or whether she isn’t. You say she never takes any medicine or drug. Do you still insist that all three statements are truthful?”

“I won’t talk about my lady. My lady hasn’t done anything wrong. She’s frightened and ill and shocked. It’s not my place to answer questions about her.”

Her hands worked drily together against the fabric of her skirt. Alleyn watched her for a moment and then turned aside.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll leave it at that. Before you go I want you to mark on this plan your exact position when Master Michael went into the other flat and when you saw Lord Wutherwood sitting in the lift.”

“I don’t know that I remember exactly.”

“Try.”

He put his sketch plan on the table with a pencil. Tinkerton took the pencil in her left hand and, after consideration, made two faint dots on the plan.

“Your statement will be written out in longhand,” said Alleyn, “and you will be asked to sign it. That’s all for the moment. Thank you. Good night.”

“You were remarkably crisp with the woman,” said Curtis. “I’ve never heard you less amiable. What was wrong?”

“She’s a liar,” said Alleyn.

“Because she wouldn’t talk about her mistress? Wasn’t that rather commendable?”

“Not because of that. She told a string of lies. Have a look at the statement later on and you’ll spot them.”

“You flatter me, I’m afraid. Why was she lying, do you suppose?”

“Not because she murdered Master,” grunted Alleyn. “It’s a right-handed job if ever there was one.”

“She may be ambidextrous.”

“I don’t think so. She opened and closed the door, marked the plan, and took out her handkerchief with the left hand. She used the left hand every time she ministered to Lady Wutherwood. She’s not our pigeon, unless she’s an accessory to the blasted fact. What do you think, Fox?”

“I should say she’s got a snug job with her ladyship,” said Fox, glancing up from his notes and over the top of his glasses.

“Well, I must be off,” said Curtis. “See about this P.M. Fox rang up the coroner. I’ll start first thing in the morning. Cairnstock has an operation to-morrow and said he’d come and have a look later on. Don’t expect we’ll find anything of interest to you. I’ll ring you up about mid-day. Good night.”

He went out. Fox closed his note-book and removed his spectacles. Somewhere in the flat a clock struck eleven.

“Well, Br’er Fox,” said Alleyn. “So it goes on. We’d better see another Lamprey. What’s your fancy? Suppose we follow Master Henry’s suggestion and talk to his mother.”

“Very good,” said Fox.