“Did you open them?”

She shook her head again. “I didn’t think to — I got such a wicked shock — I didn’t think…”

“I opened them,” Charles said.

“First thing to be done,” Warrender muttered.

Gantry, who from the time of his entry had stood motionless near the door, joined the others. “But what was it?” he asked. “What happened?”

Warrender said unevenly, “Perfectly obvious. She used that bloody spray thing there. I said it was dangerous. Only this morning.”

“What thing?”

Warrender stooped. The tin of Slaypest lay on its side close to the clenched right hand. A trickle of dark fluid stained the carpet. “This,” he said.

“Better leave it,” Dr. Harkness said sharply.

“What?”

“Better leave it where it is.” He looked at Gantry. “It’s some damned insecticide. For plants. The tin’s smothered in warnings.”

“We told her,” Warrender said. “Look at it.”

“I said don’t touch it.”

Warrender straightened up. The blood had run into his face. “Sorry,” he said, and then, “Why not?”

“You’re a bit too ready with your hands. I’m wet as hell and half frozen.”

“You were tight. Best cure, my experience.”

They eyed each other resentfully. Dr. Harkness looked at Charles, who sat doubled up with his hands on his chest. He went to him. “Not too good?” he said. Timon Gantry put a hand on Charles’s shoulder.

“I’m going to take you to your room, old boy. Next door, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Dr. Harkness said. “But not just yet. In a minute. Good idea.” He turned to Florence. “Do you know where Mr. Templeton keeps his tablets? Get them, will you? And you might bring some aspirin at the same time. Run along, now.” Florence went into the dressing-room. He sat beside

Charles on the bed and took his wrist. “Steady does it,” he said and looked at Gantry. “Brandy.”

“I know where it is,” Warrender said, and went out.

Gantry said, “What about the mob downstairs?”

“They can wait.” He held the wrist a little longer and then laid Charles’s hand on his knee, keeping his own over it. “We’ll move you in a moment. You must let other people think for you. It’s been a bad thing.”

“I can’t…” Charles said. “I can’t…” and fetched his breath in irregular, tearing sighs.

“Don’t try to work things out. Not just yet. Ah, here’s Florence. Good. Now then, one of these.”

He gave Charles a tablet. Warrender came back with brandy. “This’ll help,” Dr. Harkness said. They waited in silence.

“I’m all right,” Charles said presently.

“Fine. Now, an arm each and take it steady. His room’s next door. Lie down, Charles, won’t you?”

Charles nodded and Warrender moved towards him. “No,” Charles said quite strongly, and turned to Gantry. “I’m all right,” he repeated, and Gantry very efficiently supported him through the door into his dressing-room.

Warrender stood for a moment, irresolute, and then lifted his chin and followed them.

“Get him a hot bottle,” Harkness said to Florence.

When she’d gone he swallowed three aspirins, took up the bedside telephone and dialled a number.

“This is Dr. Frank Harkness. I’m speaking from Number 2 Pardoner’s Place. Mr. Charles Templeton’s house. There’s been an accident. A fatality. Some sort of pest killer. Mrs. Templeton. Yes. About fifty people — a party. Right. I’ll wait.”

As he replaced the receiver Gantry came back. He stopped short when he saw Harkness. “What now?” he asked.

“I’ve telephoned the police.”

“The police!”

“In cases like this,” Harkness said, “one notifies the police.”

“Anybody would think—”

“Anybody will think anything,” Dr. Harkness grunted.

He turned back the elaborate counterpane and the blankets under it. “I don’t want to call the servants,” he said, “and that woman’s on the edge of hysteria. This sheet’ll do.” He pulled it off, bundled it up and threw it to Gantry. “Cover her up, old boy, will you?”

Gantry turned white round the mouth. “I don’t like this sort of thing,” he said. “I’ve produced it often enough, but I’ve never faced the reality.” And he added with sudden violence, “Cover her up yourself.”

“All right. All right,” sighed Dr. Harkness. He took the sheet, crossed the room and busied himself with masking the body. The breeze from the open windows moved the sheet, as if, fantastically, it was stirred by what it covered.

“May as well shut them, now,” Dr. Harkness said and did so. “Can you straighten the bed at least?” he asked. Gantry did his best with the bed.

“Right,” said Dr. Harkness, putting on his coat. “Does this door lock? Yes. Will you come?”

As they went out Gantry said, “Warrender’s crocked up. Charles didn’t seem to want him, so he flung a sort of poker-backed, stiff-lipped, Blimp-type temperament and made his exit. I don’t know where he’s gone, but in his way,” Gantry said, “he’s wonderful. Terrifyingly ham, but wonderful. He’s upset, though.”

“Serve him bloody well right. It won’t be his fault if I escape pneumonia. My head!” Dr. Harkness said, momentarily closing his eyes.

“You were high.”

“Not so high I couldn’t come down.”

Old Ninn was on the landing. Her face had bleached round its isolated patches of crimson. She confronted Dr. Harkness.

“What’s she done to herself?” asked Old Ninn.

Dr. Harkness once more summoned up his professional manner. He bent over her. “You’ve got to be very sensible and good, Nanny,” he said, and told her briefly what had happened.

She looked fixedly into his face throughout the recital and at the end said, “Where’s Mr. Templeton?”

Dr. Harkness indicated the dressing-room.

“Who’s looking after him?”

“Florence was getting him a hot bottle.”

“Her!” Ninn said with a brief snort, and without another word stumped to the door. She gave it a smart rap and let herself in.

“Wonderful character,” Gantry murmured.

“Remarkable.”

They turned towards the stairs. As they did so a figure moved out of the shadows at the end of the landing, but they did not notice her. It was Florence.

“And now, I suppose,” Dr. Harkness said as they went downstairs, “for the mob.”

“Get rid of them?” Gantry asked.

“Not yet. They’re meant to wait. Police orders.”

“But…”

“Matter of form.”

Gantry said, “At least we can boot the press off, can’t we?”

“Great grief, I’d forgotten that gang!”

“Leave them to me.”

The press was collected about the hall. A light flashed as Gantry and Harkness came down, and a young man who had evidently just arrived advanced hopefully. “Mr. Timon Gantry? I wonder if you could…”

Gantry, looking down from his great height, said, “I throw you one item. And one only. Miss Mary Bellamy was taken ill this evening and died some minutes ago.”

“Doctor er…? Could you…?”

“The cause,” Dr. Harkness said, “is at present undetermined. She collapsed and did not recover consciousness.”

“Is Mr. Templeton…?”

“No,” they said together. Gantry added, “And that is all, gentlemen. Good evening to you.”

Gracefield appeared from the back of the hall, opened the front door and said, “Thank you, gentlemen. If you will step outside.”

They hung fire. A car drew up in the Place. From it emerged a heavily built man, wearing a bowler hat and a tidy overcoat. He walked into the house.

“Inspector Fox,” he said.

It has been said of Mr. Fox that his arrival at any scene of disturbance has the effect of a large and almost silent vacuum cleaner.

Under his influence the gentlemen of the press were tidied out into Pardoner’s Place, where they lingered restively for a long time. The guests, some of whom were attempting to leave, found themselves neatly mustered in the drawing-room. The servants waited quietly in the hall. Mr. Fox and Dr. Harkness went upstairs! A constable appeared and stood inside the front door.