She nodded.

"Look stupid if you like. Look as if you don't understand quite what they're asking you. That will do no harm. But stand firm on the points I've gone over with you. Gaythorne will look after you. He's a very able criminal lawyer - that's why I've got him. He'll be at the Inquest and he'll protect you from any heckling. But even to him stick to your story. For God's sake don't try to be clever or think you can help me by some line of your own."

"I'll do it, David. I'll do exactly what you tell me."

"Good girl. When it's all over we'll go away - to the South of France - to America. In the meantime, take care of your health. Don't lie awake at nights fretting and working yourself up. Take those sleeping things Dr Cloade prescribed for you - bromide or something. Take one every night, cheer up, and remember there's a good time coming!

"Now -" he looked at his watch. "It's time to go to the Inquest. It's called for eleven."

He looked round the long beautiful drawing-room. Beauty, comfort, wealth...

He'd enjoyed it all. A fine house. Furrowbank. Perhaps this was Good- bye...

He'd got himself into a jam - that was certain. But even now he didn't regret. And for the future - well, he'd go on taking chances. "And we must take the current when it serves or lose our ventures." He looked at Rosaleen. She was watching him with large appealing eyes and intuitively he knew what she wanted.

"I didn't kill him, Rosaleen," he said gently. "I swear it to you by every saint in your calendar!"

Chapter 4

The inquest was held in the Cornmarket.

The coroner, Mr Pebmarsh, was a small fussy man with glasses and a considerable sense of his own importance.

Beside him sat the large bulk of Superintendent Spence. In an unobtrusive seat was a small foreign-looking man with a large black moustache. The Cloade family: the Jeremy Cloades, the Lionel Cloades, Rowley Cloade, Mrs Marchmont and Lynn - they were all there. Major Porter sat by himself, fidgeting and ill at ease. David and Rosaleen arrived last. They sat by themselves.

The coroner cleared his throat and glancing round the jury of nine local worthies, started proceedings.

Constable Peacock...

Sergeant Vane...

Dr Lionel Cloade...

"You were attending a patient professionally at the Stag, when Gladys Aitkin came to you. What did she say?"

"She informed me that the occupant of No. 5 was lying on the floor dead."

"In consequence you went up to No. 5?"

"I did."

"Will you describe what you found there?"

Dr Cloade described. Body of a man... face downwards... head injuries... back of skull... fire-tongs.

"You were of opinion that the injuries were inflicted with the tongs in question?"

"Some of them unquestionably were."

"And that several blows had been struck?"