“I reckon it must have dropped off his overall when he was stretching that stuff above the point of the knife, sir. That’s what I reckon.”

“Yes. It’s possible.”

“He must have used gloves for the job. There are one or two smudges about the show that look like glove-marks, and I think one of them’s got a trace of the clay. We’ve photographed the whole outfit.”

“You’ve done rather well, Bailey.”

“Anything more, sir?”

“Yes, I’m afraid there is. I want you to find the deceased’s room and go over it. I don’t think we should let that wait any longer. One of the maids will show you where it is. Come and get me if anything startling crops up.”

“Very good, Mr. Alleyn.”

“And when that’s done, you can push off if you want to. You’ve left a man on guard, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir. One of these local chaps. Getting a great kick out of it.”

“Guileless fellow. Away you go, Bailey. I’ll see you later on.”

“O.K., sir.”

“Nitric acid?” ruminated Fox, when Bailey had gone.

“I think it’s the acid they used for etching. I must ask Miss Troy about it.”

“Looks as if all we’ve got to do is to find Garcia, don’t it, sir?”

“It do, Fox. But for the love of Mike don’t let’s be too sure of ourselves.”

“That bit of clay, you know, sir — how could it have got there by rights? He’d no business up on the model’s throne now, had he?”

“No.”

“And according to Malmsley’s story, the drape must have been fixed when the rest of them had gone up to London.”

“Yes. We’ll have to trace ’em in London just the same. Have to get on to these others now. Go and take a dip in the dining-room, Fox, and see what the fairies will send us in the way of a witness.”

Fox went off sedately and returned with Katti Bostock. She came in looking very four-square and sensible. Her short and stocky person was clad in corduroy trousers, a red shirt and a brown jacket. Her straight black hair hung round her ears in a Cromwellian cut with a determined bang across her wide forehead. She was made up in a rather slapdash sort of manner. Her face was principally remarkable for its exceedingly heavy eyebrows.

Alleyn pushed forward a chair and she slumped herself down on it. Fox went quietly to the desk and prepeared to make a shorthand report. Alleyn sat opposite Katti.

“I’m sorry to bother you again, Miss Bostock,” he said. “We’ve got a good deal of tidying up to do, as you may imagine. First of all, is nitric acid used in the studio for anything?”

“Etching,” said Katti. “Why?”

“We’ve found stains in the junk-room that looked like it. Where is it kept?”

“In a bottle on the top shelf. It’s marked with a red cross.”

“We couldn’t find it.”

“It was filled up on Friday, and put on the top shelf. Must be there.”

“I see. Right. Now I just want to check everybody’s movements from lunch-time on Friday. In your case it would be a simple matter. I believe you spent most of your time in London with Miss Troy?” He opened his note-book and put it on the arms of his chair.

“Yes,” he said. “I see you both went to your club, changed and dined with Sir Arthur and Lady Jaynes at Eaton Square. From there you went to the private view of the Phoenix Group Show, and supped at the Hungaria. That right?”

“Yes. Quite correct.”

“You stayed at the club. What time did you get back from the Hungaria on Friday night?”

“Saturday morning,” corrected Katti. “I left with the Jayneses about twelve-thirty. They drove me to the club. Troy stayed on with John Bellasca and was swept out with the dust whenever they closed.”

“You met again at breakfast?”

“Yes. We separated during the morning and met again at the show. I lunched with some people I ran into there— Graham Barnes and his wife — he’s the water-colour bloke. Then Troy and I met at the club and came home. She lunched with John Bellasca.”

“Yes. That’s all very straightforward. I’ll have to ask Sir Arthur Jaynes or someone to confirm it. The usual game, you know.”

“That’s all right,” said Katti. “You want to find out whether either of us had time to sneak back here and set a death-trap for that little fool Sonia, don’t you?”

“That’s the sort of idea,” agreed Alleyn with a smile. “I know Sir Arthur slightly. Would you like me to say you’ve lost a pearl necklace and want to trace it, or— ”

“Good Lord, no. Tell him the facts of the business. Do I look like pearls? And John will fix up Troy’s alibi for her. He’ll probably come down at ninety miles an hour to say he did it himself if you’re not careful.” Katti chuckled and lit a cigarette.

“I see.” said Alleyn. And into his thoughts came the picture of Troy as she had sat before the fire with her cropped head between her long hands. There had been no ring on those hands.

“When you got back to the club after you left the Hungaria, did anyone see you?”

“The night porter let me in. I don’t remember anyone else.”

“Was your room near Miss Troy’s?”

“Next door.”

“Did you hear her return?”

“No. She says she tapped on the door, but I must have been asleep. The maid came in at seven with my tea, but I’d have had time to go out, get Troy’s car and drive down here and back, between twelve-thirty and seven, you know.”

“True,” said Alleyn. “Did you?”

“No.”

“Well — we’ll have to do our best with night porters, garage attendants, and petrol consumption.”

“Wish you luck,” said Katti.

“Thank you, Miss Bostock. You got back here for lunch, I understand. How did you spend the afternoon?”

“Dishing up bilge for The Palette. I was in here.”

“Did you at any time go to the studio?”

“No.”

“Was Miss Troy with you on Saturday afternoon?”

“She was in and out. Let’s see. She spent a good time turning out that desk over there and burning old papers. Then she tidied her sketching-kit. We had tea in here. After tea we went out to look at a place across the fields where Troy thought of doing a sketch. We dined out with some people at Bossicote — the Haworths — and got home about eleven.”

“Thank you. Sunday?”

“I was at my article for The Pallette all day. Troy painted in the morning and came in here in the afternoon. The others were all back for dinner.”

“Did you hear the model say anything about her own movements during the week-end?”

“No. Don’t think so. I fancy she said she was going to London.”

“You engaged her for this term before Miss Troy returned, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“How did you get hold of her?”

“Through Graham Barnes. He gave me her address.”

“Have you got it?”

“Oh Lord, where was it? Somewhere in Battersea, I think. Battersea Bridge Gardens. That’s it. I’ve got it written down somewhere. I’ll try and find it for you.”

“I wish you would. It would save us one item in a loathsome itinerary of dull jobs. Now, about this business with the model and your picture. The trapeze-artiste subject, I mean. Did she pose for you again after the day when there was the trouble described by Miss Phillida Lee?”

Again that dull crimson stained the broad face. Katti’s thick eyebrows came together and her lips protruded in a sort of angry pout.

“That miserable little worm Lee! I told Troy she was a fool to take her, fees or no fees. The girl’s bogus. She went to the Slade and was no doubt made to feel entirely extraneous. She tries to talk ‘Slade’ when she remembers, but the original nice-girl gush oozes out all over the place. She sweats suburbia from every pore. She deliberately sneaked in and listened to what I had to say.”

“To the model?”

“Yes. Little drip!”

“It was true, then, that you did have a difference with Sonia?”

“If I did, that doesn’t mean I killed her.”

“Of course it doesn’t. But I should be glad of an answer, Miss Bostock.”

“She was playing up, and I ticked her off. She knew I wanted to finish the thing for the Group Show, and she deliberately set out to make work impossible. I scraped the head down four times, and now the canvas is unworkable— the tooth has gone completely. Troy is always too easy with the models. She spoils them. I gave the little brute hell because she needed it.”