“Where’s the taxi?”

“In the yard, sir. I told him to drive through.”

They went out to the yard.

“Dampish,” said the sergeant and coughed.

It was very misty down there near the river. Wreaths of mist that were almost rain drifted round them and changed on their faces into cold spangles of moisture. A corpse-like pallor had crept into the darkness and the vague shapes of roofs and chimneys waited for the dawn. Far down the river a steamer hooted. The air smelt dank and unwholesome.

A vague huge melancholy possessed Alleyn. He felt at once nerveless and over-sensitized. His spirit seemed to rise thinly and separate itself from his body. He saw himself as a stranger. It was a familiar experience and he had grown to regard it as a precursor of evil. “I must get back,” cried his mind and with the thought the return was accomplished. He was in the yard. The stones rang under his feet. A taxi loomed up vaguely with the overcoated figure of its driver standing motionless by the door as if on guard.

“Cold,” said the sergeant.

“It’s the dead hour of the night,” said Alleyn.

The taxi-driver did not move until they came right up to him.

“Hullo,” said Alleyn, “what’s it all about?”

“Morning, governor.” It was the traditional hoarse voice. He sounded like a cabby in a play. “Are you one of the inspectors?”

“I am.”

“I won’t make no report to any copper. I got to look after meself, see? What’s more, the little gent was a friend of mine, see?”

“This is Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, daddy,” said the sergeant.

“All right. That’s the stuff. I got to protect meself, ain’t I? Wiv a blinking stiff for a fare.”

He suddenly reached out a gloved hand and with a quick turn flung open the door.

“I ain’t disturbed ’im,” he said. “Will you switch on the glim?”

Alleyn’s hand reached out into the darkness of the cab. He smelt leather, cigars and petrol. His fingers touched a button and a dim light came to life in the roof of the taxi.

He was motionless and silent for so long that at last the sergeant said loudly:

“Mr Alleyn?”

But Alleyn did not answer. He was alone with his friend. The small fat hands were limp. The feet were turned in pathetically, like the feet of a child. The head leant sideways, languidly, as a sick child will lean its head. He could see the bare patch on the crown and the thin ruffled hair.

“If you look froo the other winder,” said the driver, “you’ll see ’is face. ’E’s dead all right. Murdered!”

Alleyn said: “I can see his face.”

He had leant forward and for a minute or two he was busy. Then he drew back. He stretched out his hand as if to close the lids over the congested eyes. His fingers trembled.

He said: “I mustn’t touch him any more.” He drew his hand away and backed out of the taxi. The sergeant was staring in astonishment at his face.

“Dead,” said the taxi-driver. “Ain’t he?”

“ — you!” said Alleyn with a violent oath. “Can’t I see he’s dead without—”

He broke off and took three or four uncertain steps away from them. He passed his hand over his face and then stared at his fingers with an air of bewilderment.

“Wait a moment, will you?” he said.

“I’m sorry,” said Alleyn at last. “Give me a moment.”

“Shall I get someone else, sir?” asked the sergeant. “It’s a friend of yours, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Alleyn. “It’s a friend of mine.”

He turned on the taxi-driver and took him fiercely by the arm.

“Come here,” he said and marched him to the front of the car.

“Switch on the headlights,” he said.

The sergeant reached inside the taxi and in a moment the driver stood blinking in a white flood of light.

“Now,” said Alleyn. “Why are you so certain it was murder?”

“Gorblimy, governor,” said the driver, “ain’t I seen wiv me own eyes ’ow the ower bloke gets in wiv ’im, and ain’t I seen wiv me own eyes ’ow the ower bloke gets out at ’is lordship’s ’ouse dressed up in ’is lordship’s cloak and ’at and squeaks at me in a rum little voice same as ’is lordship: ‘Sixty-three Jobbers Row, Queens Gate’? Ain’t I driven ’is corpse all the way there, not knowing? ’Ere! You say ’is lordship was a friend of yours. So ’e was o’ mine. This is bloody murder, this is, and I want to see this Mr Clever, what’s diddled me and done in as nice a little gent as ever I see, swing for it. That’s me.”

“I see,” said Alleyn. “All right. I’ll get a statement from you. We must get to work. Call up the usual lot. Get them all here. Get Dr Curtis. Photograph the body from every angle. Note the position of the head. Look for signs of violence. Routine. Case of homicide. Take the name, will you? Lord Robert Gospell, two hundred Cheyne Walk—”

Evelyn Carrados let the paper fall on the counterpane and stared at her husband.

“The papers are full of it,” she said woodenly.

“Good God, my dear Evelyn, of course they are! And this is only the ten o’clock racing edition brought in by a damn pup of a footman with my breakfast. Wait till we see the evening papers! Isn’t it enough, my God, that I should be rung up by some jack-in-office from Scotland Yard at five o’clock in the morning and cross-examined about my own guests without having the whole thing thrust under my nose in some insulting bloody broadsheet!”

He limped angrily about the room.

“It’s perfectly obvious that the man has been murdered. Do you realize that at any moment we’ll have some damned fellow from Scotland Yard cross-questioning us and that all the scavengers in Fleet Street will be hanging about our door for days together? Do you realize—”

“I think he was perhaps my greatest friend,” said Evelyn Carrados.

“If you look at their damned impertinent drivel on page five you will see the friendship well advertised. My God, it’s intolerable. Do you realize that the police rang up Marsdon House at quarter-past four — five minutes after we’d gone, thank God! — and asked when Robert Gospell left? Some fellow of Dimitri’s answered them and now a blasted snivelling journalist has got hold of it. Do you realize—”

“I only realize,” said Evelyn Carrados, “that Bunchy Gospell is dead.”

Bridget burst into the room, a paper in her hands.

“Donna! Oh, Donna — it’s our funny little Bunchy. Our funny little Bunchy’s dead! Donna!”

“Darling — I know.”

“But, Donna — Bunchy!”

“Bridget,” said her stepfather, “please don’t be hysterical. The point we have to consider is—”

Bridget’s arm went round her mother’s shoulders.

“But we mind,” she said. “Can’t you see — Donna minds awfully.”

Her mother said: “Of course we mind, darling, but Bart’s thinking about something else. You see, Bart thinks there will be dreadful trouble—”

“About what?”

Bridget’s eyes blazed in her white face as she turned on Carrados.

“Do you mean Donald? Do you? Do you dare to suggest that Donald would — would—”

“Bridgie!” cried her mother, “what are you saying!”

“Wait a moment, Evelyn,” said Carrados. “What is all this about young Potter?”

Bridget pressed the back of her hand against her mouth, looked distractedly from her mother to her stepfather, burst into tears and ran out of the room.

Mrs Halcut-Hackett’s beautifully manicured hands closed like claws on the newspaper. Her lips were stretched in a smile that emphasised the carefully suppressed lines from her nostrils to the corners of her mouth. She stared at nothing.