Before they had time to answer he was out of the shop and had plunged, head down, into the storm outside.

It was not raining now, but the night was filled with so vast an uproar that there was no room for any perception but that of noise: the clamour of wind and irregular thud and crash of a monstrous tide. It broke over the foreshore and made hissing assaults on the foot of the steps. Alleyn went up them at a sort of a shambling run, bent double and feeling his way with his hands. When he reached the last flight and came into range of the hotel windows, his heart pounded like a ram and his throat was dry. He beat across the platform and went in by the main entrance. The night porter was reading behind his desk. He looked up in astonishment at Alleyn, who had not waited to put on his mackintosh.

“Did you get caught, sir?”

“I took shelter,” Alleyn said. “Good night.”

He made for the stairs and, when he was out of sight, waited for a moment or two to recover his wind. Then he went up to the second floor.

The passage had the vacant look of all hotel corridors at night. A radio blared invisibly. When he moved forward he realized the noise was coming from Miss Emily’s room. A brass band was playing “Colonel Bogey.”

He knocked on the door. After a moment or two it was opened by Jenny Williams.

It was as if a tableau had been organized for his benefit; as if he had been sent out of the room while the figures arranged themselves to their best effect. Miss Emily stood on the hearthrug, very pale and grand. Margaret Barrimore, with her hands to her mouth, was behind the door, on his left. The three men had pride of place: Major Barrimore stood centre, with his legs straddled and blood running from his nose into his gaping mouth. Dr. Mayne faced him and frowned at a cut across the knuckles of his own well-kept doctor’s hand. Patrick, dishevelled, stood between them, like a referee who has just stopped a fight. The radio bellowed remorselessly. There was a scatter of broken glass in the fireplace.

They all turned their heads and looked at Alleyn. They might have been asking him to guess the word of their charade.

“Can we switch that thing off?” he asked.

Jenny did so. The silence was deafening.

“I did it to drown the shouting,” she said.

“Miss Emily,” Alleyn said, “will you sit down?” She did so.

“It might be as well,” he suggested, “if everyone did.”

Dr. Mayne made an impatient noise and walked over to the window. Barrimore sucked his moustache, tasted blood and got out his handkerchief. He was swaying on his feet. Alleyn pushed a chair under him and he collapsed on it. His eyes were out-of-focus and he reeked of whisky. Mrs. Barrimore moved towards Dr. Mayne. Jenny sat down on an arm of Miss Emily’s chair, and Patrick on the edge of the table.

“And now,” Alleyn said, “what has happened?”

For a second or two nobody spoke; then Jenny said: “I asked you to come, so I suppose I’d better explain.”

“You better hold your tongue,” Barrimore mumbled through his bloodied handkerchief.

“That’ll do,” said Patrick dangerously.

Alleyn said to Jenny: “Will you, then?”

“If I can. All right. I’d come in to say ‘Good night’ to Miss Emily. Patrick was waiting for me downstairs, I think. Weren’t you?”

He nodded.

“Miss Emily and I were talking. I was just going to say ‘Good night’ when there was a tap on the door. I answered it. It was Mrs. Barrimore.”

“Jenny — No! No!” Margaret Barrimore whispered.

“Don’t stop her,” Miss Emily said quietly—“It’s better not to. I’m sure of it.”

“Patrick?” Jenny appealed to him.

He hesitated, stared at his mother and then said: “You’d beter go on, I think. Just the facts, Jenny.”

“Very well. Mrs. Barrimore was distressed and — I think — frightened. She didn’t say why. She looked ill. She asked if she could stay with us for a little while and Miss Emily said yes. We didn’t talk very much. Nothing that could matter.”

Margaret Barrimore said rapidly: “Miss Pride was extremely kind. I wasn’t feeling well. I haven’t been, lately. I had a giddy turn — I was near her room: that’s why I went there.”

Dr. Mayne said: “As Mrs. Barrimore’s doctor I must insist that she should not be troubled by any questioning. It’s true that she is unwell.” He jerked a chair forward and touched her arm. “Sit down, Margaret,” he said gently, and she obeyed him.

“As Mrs. Barrimore’s doctor,” her husband quoted and gave a whinnying laugh. “That’s wonderful! That’s a superb remark!”

“Will you go on please?”

“O.K. Yes. Well, that lasted quite a long time — just the three of us, here. And then Dr. Mayne came in to see Miss Pride. He examined the cut on her neck and he told us it would probably be too rough for us to cross the channel tomorrow. He and Mrs. Barrimore were saying ‘Good night’ when Major Barrimore came in.”

So far, Jenny had spoken very steadily, but she faltered now and looked at Miss Emily. “It’s — it’s then that — that things began to happen. I…”

Miss Emily, with perfect composure, said: “In effect, my dear Rodrigue, there was a scene. Major Barrimore made certain accusations. Dr. Mayne intervened. A climax was reached and blows were exchanged. I suggested, aside, to Jenny, that she solicit your aid. The fracas continued. A glass was broken. Mrs. Barrimore screamed and Mr. Patrick arrived upon the scene. He was unsuccessful and, after a renewal of belligerency, Major Barrimore fell to the floor. The actual fighting came to a stop, but the noise was considerable. It was at this juncture that the radio was introduced. You entered shortly afterwards.”

“Does everybody agree to this?”

There was no answer.

“I take it that you do.”

Dr. Mayne said: “Will you also take it that whatever happened has not the remotest shade of bearing upon your case? It was an entirely private matter and should remain so.” He looked at Patrick and, with disgust, at Major Barrimore. “I imagine you agree,” he said.

“Certainly,” Patrick said shortly.

Alleyn produced his stock comment on this argument. “If it turns out there’s no connection, I assure you I shall be glad to forget it. In the meantime, I’m afraid I must make certain.”

There was a tap at the door. He answered it. Fox, Bailey and Thompson had arrived. Alleyn asked Fox to come in and the others to wait.

“Inspector Fox,” he said, “is with me on this case.”

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Fox said.

They observed him warily. Miss Emily said: “Good evening, Mr. Fox. I have heard a great deal about you.”

“Have you, madam?” he rejoined. “Nothing to my discredit, I hope.” And to Alleyn: “Sorry to interrupt, sir.”

Alleyn gave him a brief summary of the situation and returned to the matter in hand.

“I’m afraid I must ask you to tell me what it was that triggered off this business,” he said. “What were Major Barrimore’s accusations?”

Nobody answered. “Will you tell me, Miss Emily?”

Miss Emily said: “I cannot. I am sorry. I–I find myself unable to elaborate upon what I have already said.” She looked at Alleyn in distress. “You must not ask me,” she said.

“Never mind.” He glanced at the others. “Am I to know?” he asked and, after a moment: “Very well. Let us make a different approach. I shall tell you, instead, what we have been doing. We have, as some of you know, been at Miss Cost’s shop. We have searched the shop and the living quarters behind it. I think I should tell you that we have found Miss Cost’s diary. It is a long, exhaustive and, in many places, relevant document. It may be put in evidence.”

Margaret Barrimore gave a low cry.

“The final entry was made last night. In it, she suggests that as a result of some undefined insult she is going to make public certain matters which are not specifically set out in that part of the diary but will not, I think, be difficult to arrive at when the whole document is reviewed. It may be that, after she made this last entry, she wrote a letter to the press. If so, it would have gone into the shop mailbag.”