“Yes. Will you give us a signed statement?”

“About the taxi incident? Certainly.”

“Can you tell me who was left behind at Marsdon House when you went away?”

“After the noisy party that went when I did, very few remained. Let me think. There was a very drunk young man. I think his name is Percival and he came out of the buffet just before I left and went into the cloakroom. There was somebody else. Who was it? Ah, yes, it was a curious little lady who seemed to be rather a fish out of water. I had noticed her before. She was quite unremarkable and one would never have seen her if she had not almost always been alone. She wore glasses. That is all I can tell you about her except — yes — I saw her dancing with Lord Robert. I remember now that she was looking at him as he came downstairs. Perhaps she felt some sort of gratitude towards him. She would have been pathetic if she had not looked so composed. I shouldn’t be surprised if she was a dependant of the house. Perhaps Bridget’s ex-governess, or Lady Carrados’s companion. I fancy I encountered her myself somewhere during the evening. Where was it? I forget!”

“The ball was a great success, I believe?”

“Yes. Lady Carrados was born under a star of hospitality. It is always a source of wonderment to me why one ball should be a great success and another offering the same band, caterer and guests an equally great failure. Lady Carrados, one would have said, was at a disadvantage last night.”

“You mean she was unwell?”

“So you’ve heard about that. We tried to keep it quiet. Yes, like all these mothers, she’s overdone herself.”

“Worrying about something, do you imagine?” asked Alleyn, and then in reply to Davidson’s raised brows, he said: “I wouldn’t ask if it was not relevant.”

“I can’t imagine, I must confess, how Lady Carrados’s indisposition can have any possible connection with Lord Robert Gospell’s death. She is nervously exhausted and felt the strain of her duties.” Davidson added as if to himself: “This business will do her no good, either.”

“You see,” said Alleyn, “in a case of this sort we have to look for any departure from the ordinary or the expected. I agree that this particular departure seems quite irrelevant. So, alas, will many of the other facts we bring to light. If they cannot be correlated they will be discarded. That is routine.”

“No doubt. Well, all I can tell you is that I noticed Lady Carrados was unwell, told her to go and lie down in the ladies’ cloakroom, which I understand was on the top landing, and to send her maid for me if she needed me. Getting no message, I tried to find her, but couldn’t. She reappeared later on and told me she felt a little better and not to worry about her.”

“Sir Daniel, did you happen to see the caterer, Dimitri, return her bag to Lady Carrados?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“I’ve heard that for a time last night she thought she had lost it and was very distressed.”

“She said nothing to me about it. It might account for her upset. I noticed that bag. It has a very lovely emerald and ruby clasp — an old Italian setting and much too choice a piece to bedizen a bit of tinsel nonsense. But nowadays people have no sense of congruity in ornament. None.”

“I have been looking at your horse. You, at least, have an appreciation of the beautiful. Forgive me for forgetting my job for a moment but — a ray of sunshine has caught that little horse. Rose red and ochre! I’ve a passion for ceramics.”

Davidson’s face was lit from within. He embarked eagerly on the story of how he acquired his little horse. His hands touched it as delicately as if it was a rose. He and Alleyn stepped back three thousand centuries into the golden age of pottery and Inspector Fox sat as silent as stout Cortez with his official notebook open on his knees and an expression of patient tolerance on his large solemn face.

“ — and speaking of Benvenuto,” said Davidson who had talked himself into the Italian Renaissance, “I saw in a room at Marsdon House last night, unless I am a complete nincompoop, an authentic Cellini medallion. And where, my dear Alleyn, do you suppose it was? To what base use do you imagine it had been put?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Alleyn, smiling.

“It had been sunk; sunk, mark you, in a machine-turned gold case with a devilish diamond clasp and it was surrounded with brilliants. Doubtless this sacrilegious abortion was intended as a receptacle for cigarettes.”

“Where was this horror?” asked Alleyn.

“In an otherwise charming green sitting-room.”

“On the top landing?”

“That’s the one. Look for this case yourself. It’s worth seeing in a horrible sort of way.”

“When did you visit this room?”

“When? Let me see. It must have been about half-past eleven. I had an urgent case yesterday and the assistant surgeon rang me up to report.”

“You didn’t go there again?”

“No. I don’t think so. No, I didn’t.”

“You didn’t,” persisted Alleyn, “happen to hear Lord Robert telephone from that room?”

“No. No, I didn’t return to it at all. But it was a charming room. A Greuze above the mantelpiece and three or four really nice little pieces on a pie-crust table and with them this hell-inspired crime. I could not imagine a person with enough taste to choose the other pieces, allowing such a horror as a Benvenuto medallion — and a very lovely one — sunk, no doubt cemented, by its perfect reverse, to this filthy cigarette-case.”

“Awful,” agreed Alleyn. “Speaking of cigarettes, what sort of case did you carry last night?”

“Hullo!” Davidson’s extraordinary eyes bored into his. “What sort of—” He stopped and then muttered to himself: “Knocked out, you said. Yes, I see. On the temple.”

“That’s it,” said Alleyn.

Davidson pulled a flat silver case from his pocket. It was beautifully made with a sliding action and bevelled edges. Its smooth surface shone like a mirror between the delicately tooled margins. He handed it to Alleyn.

“I don’t despise frank modernity, you see.”

Alleyn examined the case, rubbing his fingers over the tooling. Davidson said abruptly:

“One could strike a sharp blow with it.”

“One could,” said Alleyn, “but it’s got traces of plate-powder in the tooling and it’s not the right kind, I fancy.”

“I wouldn’t have believed it possible that I could have been so profoundly relieved,” said Davidson. He waited for a moment and then with a nervous glance at Fox, he added: “I suppose I’ve no alibi?”

“Well, no,” said Alleyn, “I suppose you haven’t, but I shouldn’t let it worry you. The taximan may remember passing you.”

“It was filthily misty,” said Davidson peevishly. “He may not have noticed.”

“Come,” said Alleyn, “you mustn’t get investigation nerves. There’s always Lucy Lorrimer.”

“There is indeed always Lucy Lorrimer. She has rung up three times this morning.”

“There you are. I’ll have to see her myself. Don’t worry; you’ve given us some very useful information, hasn’t he, Fox?”

“Yes, sir. It’s kind of solidified what we had already.”

“Anything you’d like to ask Sir Daniel, Fox?”

“No, Mr Alleyn, thank you. I think you’ve covered the ground very thoroughly. Unless—”

“Yes?” asked Davidson. “Come on, Mr Fox.”

“Well, Sir Daniel, I was wondering if you could give us an opinion on how long it would take a man in Lord Robert Gospell’s condition to die under these circumstances.”

“Yes,” said Davidson, and again that professional note sounded in his voice. “Yes. It’s not easy to give you the sort of answer you want. A healthy man would go in about four minutes if the murderer completely stopped all access of air to the lungs. A man with a condition of the heart which I believe to have obtained in this instance would be most unlikely to live for four minutes. Life might become extinct within less than two. He might die almost immediately.”