“Let her stay where she is.” Alleyn moved to the door, turned, and looked at the bed.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose if he’d been asked he’d have preferred this.”

“To what?” asked Nigel.

“To the quick drop, Mr. Bathgate,” said Fox.

“Good God, was he the murderer?”

“Yes, yes,” said Alleyn impatiently. “Come on.”

Alleyn sent Curtis to look at Lady Wutherwood, and Campbell to the servants’ room where one of the maids could be heard enjoying fits of hysterics. Henry, Roberta, and the nurse were still on the landing. The nurse again expressed her devotion to duty and was told she could report to the doctor. Henry and Roberta were sent upstairs.

“If you can find a room with a heater,” said Alleyn, “I should use it. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

“I want to know—” Henry began.

“Of course you do. Give me a little longer, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Alleyn and Fox went down to the green drawing-room, followed by a completely silent Nigel. Alleyn sent the policeman on guard there up to Campbell. He unlocked the door with the key that had been found in Lady Wutherwood’s dressing-gown pocket. The room was heavy with flowers. The sound of wind and rain was loudest here. Gilded chairs and china cupboards stood at intervals round the walls, which were hung with green silk. Behind those sad folds the wainscoting uttered furtive little noises. A monstrous chandelier chimed dolefully as some one walked along the passage overhead. On three trestles in the middle of the room lay Lord Wutherwood’s body in an open coffin. The face was covered and a sheaf of lilies quite hid the breast. Alleyn moved them away. For a moment they were all silent. Then Nigel took out his handkerchief.

“God,” said Nigel shakily, “this is—it’s a bit too much.”

“Hacked off at the wrist,” said Fox. “Sawn off, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Alleyn. “If you’re going to be sick, Bathgate, I implore you to go outside.”

“I’m all right.”

Alleyn slid his hand out of sight round the sharp outline of the body. After a moment he drew something out of the coffin. Nigel had turned away. He heard Fox’s exclamation and then Alleyn’s level voice: “So the tool, you see, was to be buried with the crime.”

“It’s from the kitchen,” said Fox. “They saw up stock bones with them.”

“Put it away, Fox. Bailey will have to see it. Thompson had better take a shot of the dismembered arm. In the meantime—”

Alleyn replaced the sheaf of lilies and stood for a moment looking at the shrouded figure.

“What sort of epitaph,” he said, “can be written for the late Lord Wutherwood, killed by cupidity and mutilated in the interests of black magic? We’d better finish our job, Fox. We haven’t got a warrant. She’ll have to be taken away and charged later. You attend to that, will you? I’d better see that young man.”