“Yes. All right. What a hell of a party this is, by and large. All right. But they’ll have to bung the mixed-up playwright and his custom-built poppa out of it. Where? Into mama-deceased’s boudoir, I suppose. Or they can rejoin that goon-show round the dining-room table. I don’t know. Nobody tells me a thing. What else?”

“None of them will own up to knowing anything about the Parma violets. They all say she had no time for violets.”

“Blast and stink! Then who the devil put them on her dressing-table? The caterer in a fit of frustrated passion? Why the devil should we be stuck with a bunch of Parma violets wilting on our plates.”

Like Scheherazade, Fox discreetly fell silent.

“Pardon me, sir, but did I hear you mention violets?”

It was Gracefield, wan in the countenance, who had emerged from the far end of the hall.

“You did indeed,” Alleyn said warmly.

“If it is of any assistance, sir, a bunch of violets was brought in immediately prior to the reception. I admitted the gentleman myself, sir, and he subsequently presented them to madam on the first floor landing.”

“You took his name, I hope, Gracefield?”

“Quite so, sir. It was the elderly gentleman from the bookshop. The name is Octavius Browne.”

“And what the merry hell,” Alleyn ejaculated when Gracefield had withdrawn, “did Octavius think he was up to, prancing about with violets at that hour of the day? Damnation, I’ll have to find out, and Marchant’s due any minute. Come on.”

They went out at the front door. Light still glowed behind the curtains at the Pegasus.

“You hold the fort here, Fox, for five minutes. Let them get Templeton settled down in the study, and if Marchant turns up, keep him till I’m back. Don’t put him in with that horde of extroverts in the dining-room. Save him up. What a go!”

He rang the bell and Octavius opened the door.

“You again!” he said. “How late! I thought you were Anelida.”

“Well, I’m not and I’m sorry it’s late, but you’ll have to let me in.”

“Very well,” Octavius said, standing aside. “What’s up, now?”

“Why,” Alleyn asked, as soon as the door was shut, “did you take violets to Mrs. Templeton?”

Octavius blushed. “A man with a handcart,” he said, “went past the window. They came from the Channel Islands.”

“I don’t give a damn where they came from. It’s where they went to that matters. When did the cart go past?”

Octavius, disconcerted and rather huffy, was bustled into telling his story. Anelida had sent him downstairs while she got ready for the party. He was fretful because they’d been asked for half-past six and it was now twenty-five to seven and he didn’t believe her story of the need to arrive late. He saw the handcart with the Parma violets and remembered that in his youth these flowers had been considered appropriate adjuncts to ladies of the theatre. So he went out and bought some. He then, Alleyn gathered, felt shy about presenting them in front of Anelida. The door of Miss Bellamy’s house was open. The butler was discernible in the hall. Octavius mounted the steps. “After all,” he said, “one preferred to give her the opportunity of attaching them in advance if she chose to do so.”

He was in the act of handing them over to Gracefield when he heard a commotion on the first landing and a moment later Miss Bellamy shouted out at the top of her voice. “Which only shows how wrong you were. You can get out whenever you like, my friend, and the sooner the better.”

For a moment Octavius was extremely flustered, imagining that he himself was thus addressed, but the next second she appeared above him on the stairs. She stopped short and gazed down at him in astonishment. “A vision,” Octavius said. “Rose-coloured or more accurately, geranium, but with the air, I must confess, of a Fury.”

This impression, however, was almost at once dissipated. Miss Bellamy seemed to hesitate, Gracefield murmured an explanation which Octavius himself elaborated. “And then, you know,” he said, “suddenly she was all graciousness. Overwhelmingly so. She”—he blushed again—“asked me to come up and I went. I presented my little votive offering. And then, in point of fact, she invited me into her room: a pleasing and Gallic informality. I was not unmoved by it. She laid the flowers on her dressing-table and told me she had just given an old bore the sack. Those were her words. I gathered that it was somebody who had been in her service for a long period. What did you say?”

“Nothing, Go on. You interest me strangely.”

“Do I? Well. At that juncture there were sounds of voices downstairs — the door, naturally, remained open — and she said, ‘Wait a moment, will you?’ And left me.”

“Well?” Alleyn said after a pause.

“Well, I did wait. Nothing happened. I bethought me of Nelly, who would surely be ready by now. Rightly or wrongly,” Octavius said, with a sidelong look at Alleyn, “I felt that Nelly would be not entirely in sympathy with my impulsive little sortie and I was therefore concerned to return before I could be missed. So I went downstairs and there she was, speaking to Colonel Warrender in the drawing-room. They paid no attention to me. I don’t think they saw me. Warrender, I thought, looked very much put out. There seemed nothing to do but go away. So I went. A curious and not unintriguing experience.”

“Thank you, Octavius,” Alleyn said, staring thoughtfully at him. “Thank you very much. And now I, too, must leave you. Good-night.”

As he went out he heard Octavius saying rather fretfully that he supposed he might as well go to bed.

A very grand car had drawn up outside Miss Bellamy’s house and Mr. Montague Marchant was climbing out of it. His blond head gleamed, his overcoat was impeccable and his face exceedingly pale.

“Wait,” he said to his chauffeur.

Alleyn introduced himself. The anticipated remark was punctually delivered.

“This is a terrible business,” said Mr. Marchant.

“Very bad,” Alleyn said. “Shall we go in?”

Fox was in the hall.

“I just don’t quite understand,” Marchant said, “why I’ve been sent for. Naturally, we — her management — want to give every assistance but at the same time…” He waved his pearly gloves.

Alleyn said, “It’s simple. There are one or two purely business matters to be settled and it looks as if you are our sole authority.”

“I should have thought…”

“Of course you would,” Alleyn rejoined. “But there is some need for immediate action. Miss Bellamy has been murdered.”

Marchant unsteadily passed his hand over the back of his head. “I don’t believe you,” he said.

“You may as well, because it happens to be true. Would you like to take your coat off? No? Then, shall we go in?”

Fox said, “We’ve moved into the drawing-room, sir, it being more comfortable. The doctor is with Mr. Templeton but will be coming in later.”

“Where’s Florence?”

“She helped Mrs. Plumtree with the bed-making and they’re both waiting in the boudoir in case required.”

“Right. In here, if you will, Mr. Marchant. I’ll just have a look at the patient and then I’ll join you.”

He opened the door. After a moment’s hesitation, Marchant went through and Fox followed him.

Alleyn went to the study, tapped on the door and went in.

Charles was in bed, looking very drawn and anxious. Dr. Harkness sat in a chair at a little distance, watching him. When he saw Alleyn he said, “We can’t have any further upsets.”

“I know,” Alleyn rejoined and walked over to the bed. “I’ve only come in to inquire,” he said.

Charles whispered, “I’m sorry about this. I’m all right. I could have carried on.”

“There’s no need. We can manage.”

“There you are, Charles,” Harkness said. “Stop fussing.”

“But I want to know, Harkness! How can I stop fussing! My God, what a thing to say! I want to know what they’re thinking and saying. I’ve a right to know. Alleyn, for God’s sake tell me. You don’t suspect — anyone close to her, do you? I can stand anything but that. Not — not the boy?”