“Dulcie Carstairs!” she exclaimed, spontaneously and with animation. “She never says anything unkind about anybody!”

“I’m sure she doesn’t. It was just that — Well, I thought she was rather desperately determined not to do so, in this case.”

She gave him a faint smile. It transfigured her face.

“Dear Dulcie,” she murmured.

“She and the Rector are horrified, of course. They struck me as being such a completely unworldly pair, those two.”

“Did they? You were right. They are.”

“I mean — not only about Miss Cost, but about the whole business of the spring’s being more or less discredited by the present owner. The events of the last two years must have made a great difference to them, I suppose.”

“Yes,” she said. “Enormous.”

“Were they very hard up before?”

“Oh yes. It was a dreadfully poor parish. The stipend was the least that’s given, I believe, and they’d no private means. We were all so sorry about it. Their clothes! She’s nice-looking but she needs careful dressing,” said Mrs. Barrimore, with all the unconscious arrogance of a woman who would look lovely in a sack. “Of course everyone did what they could. I don’t think she ever bought anything for herself.”

“She looked quite nice this morning, I thought.”

“Did she?” For the first time, Margaret Barrimore spoke as if there was some kind of rapprochement between them. “I thought men never noticed women’s clothes,” she said.

“Do you bet me I can’t tell you what you wore yesterday at the spring?”

“Well?”

“A white linen dress with a square neck and a leather belt. Brown Italian shoes with large buckles. Brown suede gloves. A wide string-coloured straw hat, with a brown velvet ribbon. A brown leather bag. No jewelry.”

“You win,” said Mrs. Barrimore. “You don’t look like the sort of man who notices but I suppose it’s part of your training and I shouldn’t feel flattered. Or should I?”

“I should like you to feel flattered. And now I’m going to ruin my success by telling you that Mrs. Carstairs, too, wore a linen dress, this morning.” He described it. She listened to this talk about clothes as if it were a serious matter.

“White?” she asked.

“No. Green.”

“Oh yes. That one.”

“Was it originally yours?”

“If it’s the one I think it is, yes.”

“When did you give it to her?”

“I don’t in the least remember.”

“Well — as long as two years ago?”

“Really, I’ve no idea.”

“Try.”

“But I don’t remember. One doesn’t remember. I’ve given her odd things from time to time. You make me feel as if I’m parading — as if I’m making a lot of it. As if it were charity. Or patronage. It was nothing. Women do those sorts of things.”

“I wouldn’t press it if I didn’t think it might be relevant.”

“How can it be of the slightest interest?”

“A green dress? If she had it two years ago? Think.”

She was on her feet with a quick controlled movement.

“But that’s nonsense! You mean — Wally?”

“Yes. I do. The Green Lady.”

“But — most people have always thought he imagined her! And even if he didn’t — there are lots of green dresses in the summertime.”

“Of course. What I’m trying to find out is whether this was one of them. Is there nothing that would call to mind when you gave it to her?”

She waited for a moment, looking down at her hands.

“Nothing. It was over a year ago, I’m sure.” She turned aside. “Even if I could remember, which I can’t, I don’t think I should want to tell you. It can’t have any bearing on this ghastly business — how could it? — and, suppose you’re right, it’s private to Dulcie Carstairs.”

“Perhaps she’d remember.”

“I don’t believe it. I don’t for a moment believe she would think of playing a — a fantastic trick like that. It’s not like her. She was never the Green Lady.”

“I haven’t suggested she was, you know.” Alleyn walked over to her. She lifted her head and looked at him. Her face was ashen.

“Come,” he said, “don’t let us fence any more. You were the Green Lady, weren’t you?”

He wondered if she would deny it and what he could say if she did. Very little. His assumption had been based largely on a hunch, and he liked to tell himself that he didn’t believe in hunches. He knew that she was deeply shocked. Her white face and the movement of her hands gave her away completely; but she was, as Miss Emily had remarked, a woman of character.

She said: “I have been very stupid. I suppose I should congratulate you. What gave you the idea?”

“I happened to notice your expression when that monstrous girl walked out from behind the boulder. You looked angry. But, more than that, I’ve been told Wally sticks to it that his Green Lady was tall and very beautiful. Naturally, I thought of you.”

A door slammed upstairs. Someone, a man, cleared his throat raucously.

She twisted her hands into his. Her face was a mask of terror. “Mr. Alleyn, promise me — for God’s sake promise me you won’t speak about this to my husband. It won’t help you to discuss it with him. I swear it won’t. You don’t know what would happen if you did.”

“Does he not know?”

She tried to speak, but only looked at him in terror.

“He does know?”

“’It makes no difference. He would be — he would be angry — that you knew.”

“Why should he mind so much? You said what you said, I expect, impulsively. And it worked. Next morning the boy’s hands were clean. You couldn’t undo your little miracle.”

“No, no, no, you don’t understand. It’s not that. It’s — O God, he’s coming down. O God, how can I make you? What shall I do? Please, please.”

“If it’s possible I shall say nothing.” He held her hands firmly for a moment until they stopped writhing in his. “Don’t be frightened,” he said and let her go. “He’d better not see you like this. Where does that door lead to? The kitchen?” He opened it. “There you are. Quickly.”

In a moment she was gone.

Major Barrimore came heavily downstairs. He yawned, crossed the little hall and went into the old Private Taproom. The slide between it and the parlour was still there. Alleyn heard the clink of glass. A midafternoon drinker, he thought, and wondered if the habit was long-established. He picked up his suitcase, went quietly into the hall, and out at the front door. He then noisily returned.

“Anyone at home?” he called.

After an interval, the door of the Private opened and Barrimore came out, dabbing at his mouth with a freshly laundered handkerchief and an unsteady hand. He was, as usual, impeccably turned-out. His face was puffy and empurpled, and his manner sombre.

“Hullo,” he said. “You.”

“I’m on my way to sign in,” Alleyn said cheerfully. “Can you spare me a few minutes? Routine, as usual. One’s never done with it.”

Barrimore stared dully at him and then opened the door of the parlour. “In here,” he said.

Margaret Barrimore had left the faintest recollection of her scent behind her, but this was soon lost in the Major’s blended aura of Scotch-cigar-and-hair-lotion.

“Well,” he said. “What’s it this time? Made any arrests?”

“Not yet.”

“Everybody nattering about the boy, I s’pose. You’d think they’d all got their knife into the poor kid.”

“You don’t agree?”

“I don’t. He’s too damn’ simple, f’one thing. No harm in him, f’r ’nother. You get to know ’bout chap’s character in a regiment. Always pick the bad ’uns. He’s not.”

“Have you any theories, yourself?”

The Major, predictably, said: “No names, no pack-drill.”

“Quite. But I’d be glad of your opinion.”

“You wouldn’t, old boy. You’d hate it.”

Now, Alleyn thought, this is it. I know what this is going to be. “I?” he said. “Why?”