“Was I?”

“Yes. And you jumped at the bang and dropped something?”

“Did I?”

“And Fée picked it up.”

“Did she?”

“Hendy, was it an embroidery stiletto?”

“I remember nothing about it. Nothing at all.”

“I didn’t notice where she put it. I wondered if you had noticed.”

“If it was something from the work-box, I expect she put it back. Won’t you be late, Carlisle?”

“Yes,” Carlisle said without turning. “Yes, I’ll go.”

She heard Miss Henderson walk away into the drawing-room. The door closed gently and Carlisle went downstairs. There was a man in a dark suit in the hall. He got up when he saw her and said: “Excuse me, miss, but are you Miss Wayne?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Thank you, Miss Wayne.”

He opened the glass doors for her and then the front door. Carlisle went quickly past him and out into the sunshine. She was quite unaware of the man who stepped out from the corner a little way down Duke’s Gate and who, glancing impatiently at his watch, waited at the bus stop and journeyed with her to Scotland Yard. “Keep observation on the whole damn boiling,” Alleyn had said irritably at six o’clock that morning. “We don’t know what we want.”

She followed a constable, who looked oddly domesticated without his helmet, down a linoleumed corridor to the Chief Inspector’s room. She thought: “They invite people to come and make statements. It means something. Suppose they suspect me. Suppose they’ve found out some little thing that makes them think I’ve done it.” Her imagination galloped wildly. Suppose, when she went into the room, Alleyn said: “I’m afraid this is serious. Carlisle Loveday Wayne, I arrest you for the murder of Carlos Rivera and I warn you…” They would telephone for any clothes she wanted. Hendy, perhaps, would pack a suitcase. Perhaps, secretly, they would all be a little lightened, almost pleasurably worried, because they would no longer be in fear for themselves. Perhaps Ned would come to see her.

“In here, if you please, miss,” the constable was saying with his hand on the door-knob.

Alleyn rose quickly from his desk and came towards her. “Punctilious,” she thought. “He’s got nice manners. Are his manners like this when he’s going to arrest people?”

“I’m so sorry,” he was saying. “This must be a nuisance for you.”

The solid grizzled detective was behind him. Fox. That was Inspector Fox. He had pulled up a chair for her and she sat in it, facing Alleyn. “With the light on my face,” she thought, “that’s what they do.”

Fox moved away and sat behind a second desk. She could see his head and shoulders but his hands were hidden from her.

“You’ll think my object in asking you to come very aimless, I expect,” Alleyn said, “and my first question will no doubt strike you as being completely potty. However, here it is. You told us last night that you were with Lord Pastern when he made the dummies and loaded the revolver.”

“Yes.”

“Well, now, did anything happen, particularly in respect of the revolver, that struck you both as being at all comic?”

Carlisle gaped at him. “Comic!”

“I told you it was a potty question,” he said.

“If you mean did we take one look at the revolver and then shake with uncontrollable laughter, we didn’t.”

“No,” he said. “I was afraid not.”

“The mood was sentimental if anything. The revolver was one of a pair given to Uncle George by my father and he told me so.”

“You were familiar with it then?”

“Not in the least. My father died ten years ago and when he lived was not in the habit of showing me his armoury. He and Uncle George were both crack shots, I believe. Uncle George told me my father had the revolvers made for target shooting.”

“You looked at the gun last night? Closely?”

“Yes — because — ” Beset by nervous and unreasoned caution, she hesitated.

“Because?”

“My father’s initials are scratched on it. Uncle George told me to look for them.”

There was a long pause. “Yes, I see,” Alleyn said.

She found she had twisted her gloves tightly together and doubled them over. She felt a kind of impatience with herself and abruptly smoothed them out.

“It was one of a pair,” Alleyn said, “Did you look at both of them?”

“No. The other was in a case in the drawer on his desk. I just saw it there. I noticed the drawer was under my nose, almost, and Uncle George kept putting the extra dummies, if that’s what you call them, into it.”

“Ah, yes. I saw them there.”

“He made a lot more than he wanted in case,” her voice faltered, “in case he was asked to do his turn again sometime.”

“I see.”

“Is that all?” she said.

“As you’ve been kind enough to come,” Alleyn said with a smile, “perhaps we should think up something more.”

“You needn’t bother, thank you.”

He smiled more broadly. “Fée was doing her stuff for him on the stairs this morning,” Carlisle thought. “Was she actually showing the go-ahead signal or was she merely trying to stall him off?”

“It’s about the steel end in this eccentric weapon. The bolt or dart,” Alleyn said, and her attention snapped taut again. “We are almost certain that it’s the business end of an embroidery stiletto from the work-box in the drawing-room. We found the discarded handle. I wonder if by any chance you remember when you last noticed the stiletto. If, of course, you happen to have noticed it.”

“So this is it,” she thought. “The revolver was nothing, it was a red herring. He’s really got me here to talk about the stiletto.”

She said: “I don’t think the work-box was open when I was in the drawing-room before dinner. At any rate I didn’t notice it.”

“I remember you told me that Lady Pastern showed you and Manx her petit point. That was when you were all in the drawing-room before dinner, wasn’t it? We found the petit point, by the way, beside the work-box.”

“Therefore,” she thought, “Aunt Cile or Ned or I might have taken the stiletto.” She repeated: “I’m sure the box wasn’t open.”

She had tried not to think beyond that one time, that one safe time about which she could quickly speak the truth.

“And after dinner?” Alleyn said casually.

She saw again the small gleaming tool drop from Miss Henderson’s fingers when the report sounded in the ballroom. She saw Félicité automatically stoop and pick it up and a second later burst into tears and run furiously from the room. She heard her loud voice on the landing: “I’ve got to speak to you,” and Rivera’s: “But certainly, if you wish it.”

“After dinner?” she repeated flatly;

“You were in the drawing-room then. Before the men came in. Perhaps Lady Pastern took up her work. Did you, at any time, see the box open or notice the stiletto?”

How quick was thought? As quick as people said? Was her hesitation fatally long? Here she moved, on the brink of speech. She could hear the irrevocable denial, and yet she had not made it. And suppose he had already spoken to Félicité about the stiletto? “What am I looking like?” she thought in a panic. “I’m looking like a liar already.”

“Can you remember?” he asked. So she had waited too long.

“I — don’t think I can.” Now, she had said it. Somehow it wasn’t quite as shaming to lie about remembering as about the fact itself. If things went wrong she could say afterwards: “Yes, I remember, now, but I had forgotten. It had no significance for me at the time.”

“You don’t think you can.” She had nothing to say but he went on almost at once: “Miss Wayne, will you please try to look squarely at this business. Will you try to pretend that it’s an affair that you have read about and in which you have no personal concern. Not easy. But try. Suppose, then, a group of complete strangers was concerned in Rivera’s death and suppose one of them, not knowing much about it, unable to see the factual wood for the emotional trees, was asked a question to which she knew the answer. Perhaps the answer seems to implicate her. Perhaps it seems to implicate someone she is fond of. She doesn’t in the least know, it may be, what the implications are but she refuses to take the responsibility of telling the truth about one detail that may fit in with the whole truth. She won’t, in fact, speak the truth if by doing so she’s remotely responsible for bringing an extraordinarily callous murderer to book. So she lies. At once she finds that it doesn’t end there. She must get other people to tell corroborative lies. She finds herself, in effect, whizzing down a dangerous slope with her car out of control, steering round some obstacles, crashing into others, doing irreparable damage and landing herself and possibly other innocent people in disaster. You think I’m overstating her case perhaps. Believe me, I’ve seen it happen very often.”