“There is Mr. Richard’s old study, sir, on the first floor. It is unoccupied.”

“Splendid. Where exactly?”

“The third on the right along the passage, sir.”

“Good.” Alleyn glanced at the pallid and impassive face. “For your information,” he said, “it’s a matter of clearing up the confusion that unfortunately always follows accidents of this sort. The further we can get, now, the less publicity at the inquest. You understand?”

“Quite so, sir,” said Gracefield with a slight easing of manner.

“Very well. And I’m sorry you’ll be put to so much trouble.”

Gracefield’s hand curved in classic acceptance. There was a faint crackle.

“Thank you, Gracefield.”

“Thank you very much, sir,” said Gracefield. “I will inform Mrs. Plumtree and then ascertain if your room is in order.” He inclined his head and mounted the stairs.

Alleyn raised a finger and the constable by the front door came to him.

“What happened,” he asked, “about Mr. Dakers? As quick and complete as you can.”

“He arrived, sir, about three minutes after you left your instructions, according to which I asked for his name and let on it was because of an accident. He took it up it was something about a car. He didn’t seem to pay much attention. He was very excited and upset. He went upstairs and was there about eight to ten minutes. You and Mr. Fox were with the two gentlemen and the lady in that little room, sir. When he came down he had a case in his hand. He went to the door to go out and I advised him it couldn’t be done. He still seemed very upset, sir, and that made him more so. He said, ‘Good God, what is all this?’ and went straight to the room where you were, sir.”

“Good. Thank you. Keep going.”

“Sir,” said the constable.

“And Philpott.”

“Sir?”

“We’ve sent for another man. In the meantime I don’t want any of the visitors in the house moving about from room to room. Get them all together in the drawing-room and keep them there, including Colonel Warrender and Mr. Templeton, if he’s feeling fit enough. Mr. Dakers can stay where he is. Put the new man on the door and you keep observation in the dining-room. We can’t do anything about the lavatory, I suppose, but everywhere else had better be out of bounds. If Colonel Warrender wants to go to the lavatory, you go with him.”

“Sir.”

“And ask Mr. Fox to join me upstairs.”

The constable moved off.

A heavy thumping announced the descent of Old Ninn. She came down one step at a time. When she got to the bottom of the stairs and saw Alleyn she gave him a look and continued on her way. Her face was flaming and her mouth drawn down. For a small person she emanated an astonishingly heavy aura of the grape.

“Mrs. Plumtree?” Alleyn asked.

“Yes,” said Old Ninn. She halted and looked into his face. Her eyes, surprisingly, were tragic.

“You’re going to look after Mr. Richard, aren’t you?”

“What’s he been doing to himself?” she asked, as if Richard had been playing roughly and had barked his knee.

“He fainted. The doctor thinks it was shock.”

“Always takes things to heart,” Old Ninn said.

“Did you bring him up?”

“From three months.” She continued to look fixedly at Alleyn. “He was a good child,” she said, as if he was abusing Richard, “and he’s grown into a good man. No harm in him and never was.”

“An orphan?” Alleyn ventured.

“Father and mother killed in a motor accident.”

“How very sad.”

“You don’t,” Old Ninn said, “feel the want of what you’ve never had.”

“And of course Miss Bellamy — Mrs. Templeton — took him over.”

“She,” Old Ninn said, “was a different type of child altogether. If you’ll excuse me I’ll see what ails him.” But she didn’t move at once. She said very loudly, “Whatever it is it’ll be no discredit to him,” and then stumped heavily and purposefully on to her charge.

Alleyn waited for a moment, savouring her observations. There has been one rather suggestive remark, he thought.

Dr. Harkness came out of the drawing-room, looking very wan.

“He’s all right,” he said, “and I wish I could say as much for myself. The secondary effects of alcoholic indulgence are the least supportable. By the way, can I go out to the car for my bag? It’s just opposite the house. Charles Templeton’s my patient, you know, and I’d like to run him over. Just in case. He’s had a bad knock over this.”

“Yes, of course,” Alleyn said and nodded to the constable at the door. “Before you go, though — was Mrs. Templeton your patient too?”

“She was,” Harkness agreed and looked wary.

“Would you have expected anything like this? Supposing it to be a case of suicide?”

“No. I wouldn’t.”

“Not subject to fits of depression? No morbid tendencies? Nothing like that?”

Harkness looked at his hands. “It wasn’t an equable disposition,” he said carefully. “Far from it. She had ‘nervous’ spells. The famous theatrical temperament, you know.”

“No more than that?” Alleyn persisted.

“Well — I don’t like discussing my patients and never do, of course, but…”

“I think you may say the circumstances warrant it.”

“I suppose so. As a matter of fact I have been a bit concerned. The temperaments had become pretty frequent and increasingly violent. Hysteria, really. Partly the time of life, but she was getting over that. There was some occasion for anxiety. One or two little danger signals. One was keeping an eye on her. But nothing suicidal. On the contrary. What’s more, you can take my word for it she was the last woman on earth to disfigure herself. The last.”

“Yes,” Alleyn said. “That’s a point, isn’t it? I’ll see you later.”

“I suppose you will,” Harkness said disconsolately, and Alleyn went upstairs. He found that Miss Bellamy’s room now had the familiar look of any area given over to police investigation: something between an improvised laboratory and a photographer’s studio with its focal point that unmistakable sheeted form on the floor.

Dr. Curtis, the police surgeon, had finished his examination of the body. Sergeant Bailey squatted on the bathroom floor employing the tools of his trade upon the tinsel picture, and as Alleyn came in, Sergeant Thompson, whistling between his teeth, uncovered Mary Bellamy’s terrible face and advanced his camera to within a few inches of it. The bulb flashed.

Fox was seated at the dressing-table completing his notes.

“Well, Dr. Curtis?” Alleyn asked.

“Well, now,” Curtis said. “It’s quite a little problem, you know. I can’t see a verdict of accident, Alleyn, unless the coroner accepts the idea of her presenting this spray-gun thing at her own face and pumping away like mad at it to see how it works. The face is pretty well covered with the stuff. It’s in the nostrils and mouth and all over the chest and dress.”

“Suicide?”

“I don’t see it. Have to be an uncommon determined effort. Any motive?”

“Not so far, unless you count a suspected bout of tantrums, but I don’t yet know about that. I don’t see it, either. Which leaves us with homicide. See here, Curtis. Suppose I picked up that tin of Slaypest, pointed it at you and fell to work on the spray-gun — what’d you do?”

“Dodge.”

“And if I chased you up?”

“Either collar you low or knock it out of your hands or bolt, yelling blue murder.”

“Exactly. But wouldn’t the immediate reaction, particularly in a woman, be to throw up her arms and hide her face?”

“I think it might, certainly. Yes.”

“Yes,” said Fox, glancing up from his notes.

“It wasn’t hers. There’s next to nothing on the hands and arms. And look,” Alleyn went on, “at the actual character of the spray. Some of it’s fine, as if delivered from a distance. Some, on the contrary, is so coarse that it’s run down in streaks. Where’s the answer to that one?”

“I don’t know,” said Dr. Curtis.

“How long would it take to kill her?”