“Please forgive me, sir,” he said hurriedly, “but I felt I must have another word with you. It was rather difficult with Lady O’Callaghan present. About these ideas of hers. I’m certain there’s nothing in it. Sir Derek was a man of the world and—and, of course, he had his relaxations. She seems very cold and all that, but I believe she was frightfully jealous and she wants to punish this girl. I’m sure that’s all it is.”

“Oh. Why should she want to punish Sir John Phillips as well as Miss Harden?”

“Oh, Lord knows. You can’t tell with women, sir, can you?”

“I haven’t tried,” said Alleyn.

“I expect you think it frightful cheek, my butting in like this, but, you see, I—well, Sir Derek was rather a marvellous person to me, and I simply loathe the idea of everything being dragged out and made public. It’s a ghastly thought.”

Something of Ronald’s semi-diplomatic air of winning tactfulness still appeared in his rather dishevelled manner. He gazed with anxious deference into Alleyn’s sardonic face. The inspector cocked an eyebrow.

“And yet,” he said, “I imagine, if Sir Derek was actually killed, you would rather the murderer didn’t get off scot-free?”

“Yes, but, you know, I’m sure he wasn’t. Those two letters didn’t mean anything—I thought so at—” Ronald stopped short.

“Were you about to say ‘at the time’?” inquired Alleyn.

“I meant at the time Lady O’Callaghan found them.”

“Where were the letters kept, Mr. Jameson?”

“In his private drawer,” said Ronald with a very red face.

“And the keys?”

“Er—oh, usually in the desk.”

“I see. Well, we must pursue the subject no more until we discover whether Sir Derek was murdered.”

“I’m absolutely certain there’s nothing in it, sir.”

“I hope you are right. Good night.”

“Thank you so much, sir,” said Ronald, all eager and charming. “Good night.”

Alleyn swung his stick up, turned on his heel, and walked away. Ronald gazed after the long, elegant figure for some seconds. His fingers fidgeted with his tie. Then he looked up at the windows of the house, slightly shrugged his shoulders, and ran up the steps and through the door.

Alleyn heard the door slam. As he turned out of Catherine Street towards Buckingham Gate he began to whistle Ophelia’s song:

“He is dead and gone, lady,

He is dead and gone;

At his head a grass-green turf,

At his heels a stone.”

1 See A Man Lay Dead.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Post-Mortem

Monday, the fifteenth. Afternoon.

“EVERYBODY TALKS TO me about ‘P.M.s,’” complained Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn to Inspector Fox on Monday afternoon, “and I never know whether they mean post-mortem or Prime Minister. Really, it’s very difficult when you happen to be involved with both.”

“It must be,” said Fox dryly. “How’s the case going?”