“A little, perhaps.”

“The truth is,” said Fox gravely, “homicidal cases are not what people would like them to be. How often do we get a murder with a row of suspects, each with motive and opportunity?”

“Not often, thank the lord, but it has happened.”

“Well, yes. But motives aren’t all of equal weight. You don’t have much trouble in getting at the prime motive.”

“No.”

“No. Mostly there’s one suspect and our problem is to nail the job on him.”

“What about this case?”

“Well, sir. I’ll give you there’s two motives. First, money. In which case either one of the family or one of the servants did the job. Second: insane hatred. In which case it’s her ladyship we’re after. That’s on the face of it; never mind what we’ve found out since we came in on the job. Something else may crop up but if so I’ll be surprised if it doesn’t fit in with one or the other motive. Do you know if he’s left anything to the servants, sir?”

“I’ll try and get it out of Mr. Rattisbon. I don’t suppose he’ll object to telling me. None of them gives a tuppenny damn about the servants. Except Lady Wutherwood. She’d find Tinkerton hard to replace.”

“Maybe,” said Fox, “she won’t be wanting a maid.”

Mr. Rattisbon came mumbling in with his chin poked forward and his leather case under his arm. He was a family solicitor who reeked of his trade. A story was told of him that on emerging from his chambers one summer evening he was accosted by a famous film producer who walked halfway along the Strand with him, imploring him to play the part of a family solicitor in his new picture. Mr. Rattisbon’s refusals were so gloriously in character that each titupping, pernickety refusal stung the producer into making a fresh financial assault until, so the story said, Mr. Rattisbon threatened him shrilly with the Municipal Corporation Act of 1822 and looked about him for a constable.

When he saw Alleyn he hurried across the room, shook hands, snatched his claw away, looked sharply from Alleyn to Fox, and finally took a chair. He then formed his mouth into a tight circle and vibrated the tip of his tongue rather as if he had taken a sip of scalding liquid.

“We are very grateful to you for coming, sir,” said Alleyn.

“Not at all, not at all,” gabbled Mr. Rattisbon. “Shocking affair. Dreadful.”

“Appalling.”

Mr. Rattisbon repeated the word with great emphasis: “A-PALL-ing” and waited for Alleyn to make the first move. Alleyn decided that his only hope lay in direct attack. He said: “I expect you know why we have asked to see you, sir.”

“Frankly,” said Rattisbon, “no.”

“For the usual reason, I’m afraid. We hope you will tell us something about the late Lord Wutherwood’s estate.” Mr. Rattisbon’s tongue vibrated rapidly in preparation for utterance and Alleyn hurried on. “We realize, of course, that you are in a—how shall I put it—a confidential position: a position that might become delicate if we began to press in certain definite directions. But in what we still trustfully call the interests of justice—”