Alleyn waited. Richard drove his hands through his hair. “All right!” he cried out. “All right! I’ll tell you. I suppose I’ve got to, haven’t I? She accused me of ingratitude and disloyalty. I said I considered I owed her no more than I had already paid. I wouldn’t have said that if she hadn’t insulted Anelida. Then she came quite close to me and — it was horrible — I could see a nerve jumping under her cheek. She kept repeating that I owed her everything — everything, and that I’d insulted her by going behind her back. Then I said she’d no right to assume a controlling interest in either my friendships or my work. She said she had every right. And then it all came out. Everything. It happened because of our anger. We were both very angry. When she’d told me, she laughed as if she’d scored with the line of climax in a big scene. If she hadn’t done that I might have felt some kind of compassion or remorse or something. I didn’t. I felt cheated and sick and empty. I went downstairs and out into the streets and walked about trying to find an appropriate emotion. There was nothing but a sort of faint disgust.” He moved away and then turned to Alleyn. “But I didn’t murder my”—he caught his breath—“my brand-new mother. I’m not, it appears, that kind of bastard.”

Warrender said, “For God’s sake, Dicky!”

“Just for the record,” Richard said, “were there two people called Dakers? A young married couple, killed in a car on the Riviera? Australians, I’ve always been given to understand.”

“It’s — it’s a family name. My mother was a Dakers.”

“I see,” Richard said. “I just wondered. It didn’t occur to you to marry her, evidently.” He stopped short and a look of horror crossed his face. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he cried out. “Forgive me, Maurice, it wasn’t I who said that.”

“My dear chap, of course I wanted to marry her. She wouldn’t have it! She was at the beginning of her career. What could I give her? A serving ensign on a very limited allowance. She — naturally — she wasn’t prepared to throw up her career and follow the drum.”

“And — Charles?”

“He was in a different position. Altogether.”

“Rich? Able to keep her in the style to which she would like to become accustomed?”

“There’s no need,” Warrender muttered, “to put it like that.”

“Poor Charles!” Richard said and then suddenly, “Did he know?”

Warrender turned a painful crimson. “No,” he said. “It was — it was all over by then.”

“Did he believe in the Dakers story?”

“I think,” Warrender said after a pause, “he believed everything Mary told him.”

“Poor Charles!” Richard repeated, and then turned on Alleyn. “He’s not going to be told? Not now! It’d kill him. There’s no need — is there?”

“None,” Alleyn said, “that I can see.”

“And you!” Richard demanded of Warrender.

“Oh for God’s sake, Dicky!”

“No. Naturally. Not you.”

There was a long silence.

“I remember,” Richard said at last, “that she once told me it was you who brought them together. What ambivalent roles you both contrived to play. Restoration comedy at its most elaborate.”

Evidently they had forgotten Alleyn. For the first time they looked fully at each other.

“Funny,” Richard said. “I have wondered if Charles was my father. Some pre-marital indiscretion, I thought it might have been. I fancied I saw a likeness — the family one, of course. You and Charles are rather alike, aren’t you? I must say I never quite believed in the Dakers. But why did it never occur to me that she was my mother? It really was very clever of her to put herself so magnificently out of bounds.”

“I don’t know,” Warrender exclaimed, “what to say to you. There’s nothing I can say.”

“Never mind.”

“It need make no difference. To your work. Or to your marrying.”

“I really don’t know how Anelida will feel about it. Unless…” He turned, as if suddenly aware of him, to Alleyn. “Unless, of course, Mr. Alleyn is going to arrest me for matricide, which will settle everything very neatly, won’t it?”

“I shouldn’t,” Alleyn said, “depend upon it. Suppose you set about clearing yourself if you can. Can you?”

“How the hell do I know? What am I supposed to have done?”

“It’s more a matter of finding out what you couldn’t have done. Where did you lunch? Here?”

“No. At the Garrick. It was a business luncheon.”

“And after that?”

“I went to my flat and did some work. I’d got a typist in.”

“Until when?”

“Just before six. I was waiting for a long-distance call from Edinburgh. I kept looking at the time because I was running late. I was meant to be here at six to organize the drinks. At last I fixed it up for the call to be transferred to this number. As it was I ran late and Mary — and she was coming downstairs. The call came through at a quarter to seven just as I arrived.”

“Where did you take it?”

“Here in the study. Charles was there. He looked ill and I was worried about him. He didn’t seem to want to talk. I kept getting cut off. It was important, and I had to wait. She — wasn’t very pleased about that. The first people were arriving when I’d finished.”

“So what did you do?”

“Went into the drawing-room with Charles and did my stuff.”

“Had you brought her some Parma violets?”

“I? No. She hated violets.”

“Did you see them in her room?”

“I didn’t go up to her room. I’ve told you — I was here in the study.”

“When had you last been in her room?”

“This morning.”

“Did you visit it between then and the final time when you returned from the Pegasus and this disturbing scene took place?”

“I’ve told you. How could I? I…” His voice changed. “I was with Anelida until she left and I followed her into the Pegasus.”

“Well,” Alleyn said after a pause, “if all this is provable, and I don’t see why it shouldn’t be, you’re in the clear.”

Warrender gave a sharp outcry and turned quickly, but Richard said flatly, “I don’t understand.”

“If our reading of the facts is the true one, this crime was to all intents and purposes committed between the time (somewhere about six o’clock) when Mrs. Templeton was sprayed with scent by Colonel Warrender and the time fixed by a press photographer at twenty-five minutes to eight, when she returned to her room with you. She never left her room and died in it a few minutes after you had gone.”

Richard flinched at the last phrase but seemed to have paid little attention to the earlier part. For the first time, he was looking at his father, who had turned his back to them.

“Colonel Warrender,” Alleyn said, “why did you go to the Pegasus?”

Without moving he said, “Does it matter? I wanted to get things straight. With the gel.”

“But you didn’t see her?”

“No.”

“Maurice,” Richard said abruptly.

Colonel Warrender faced him.

“I call you that still,” Richard went on. “I suppose it’s not becoming, but I can’t manage anything else. There are all sorts of adjustments to be arranged, aren’t there? I know I’m not making this easy for either of us. You see one doesn’t know how one’s meant to behave. But I hope in time to do better: you’ll have to give me time.”

“I’ll do that,” Warrender said unevenly.

He made a slight movement as if to hold out his hand, glanced at Alleyn and withdrew it.

“I think,” Alleyn said, “that I should get on with my job. I’ll let you knew when we need you.”

And he went out, leaving them helplessly together.

In the hall he encountered Fox.

“Peculiar party in there,” he said. “Boy meets father. Both heavily embarrassed. They manage these things better in France. What goes on at your end of the table?”

“I came out to tell you, sir. Mr. Templeton’s come over very poorly again, and Dr. Harkness thinks he’s had about as much as he can take. He’s lying down in the drawing-room, but as soon as he can manage it the doctor wants to get him into bed. The idea is to make one up in his study and save the stairs. I thought the best thing would be to let those two — Florence and Mrs. Plumtree — fix it up. The doctor’ll help him when the time comes.”