“Of course it is serious,” she said.

“I mean, if you understand me, that before an order is made for an inquest, the coroner who makes it has to be certain of one or two points. What about the death certificate, for instance?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, was one signed?”

“Yes.”

“By Sir John Phillips?”

“I don’t know. Possibly. Mr. Thoms, the assistant surgeon, may have signed it.”

“Yes. Well, now, Mr. Thoms is a well-known surgeon. Sir Derek was a distinguished patient. He would take every care before he signed. I think that would be considered sufficiently conclusive by the coroner.”

“But these threats! I am convinced he was murdered. I shall demand an inquest.”

Fox stared gravely into the fire.

“Perhaps,” he said, rather ponderously, “perhaps you would like me to ring up the coroner, and put the case before him.”

“Certainly, if you will.”

“It would be better if you could tell him, definitely, who signed the certificate.”

“Mr. Jameson, my husband’s secretary, may know. He had an appointment with the Prime Minister at three.”

Inspector Fox consulted a large, bland watch.

“It’s fifteen minutes to four.”

“I shall ring up the House,” she said, and did.

She got Ronald at last and asked her question.

“It was Mr. Thoms?” she said into the telephone. Ronald’s voice quacked audibly in the room. “Yes. Thank you. Have you discussed the matter? I see. No, I think not, Mr. Jameson; I am communicating directly with the police.”

She hung up the receiver and informed Fox that Thoms had signed the certificate.

Inspector Fox then rang up the coroner. He held a long and muffled conversation. The coroner talked a great deal and appeared to be agitated. Lady O’Callaghan listened. Her fingers drummed bonily on the arm of her chair. For her, it was a terrific gesture. At last Fox rang off.

“It’s as I thought,” he said. “He says he cannot interfere.”

“Then I shall go direct to the Prime Minister.”

He got rather ponderously to his feet.

“I don’t think I’d do that, Lady O’Callaghan — at least not yet. If you’ll allow me to I’d like to talk it over with my superior, Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn.”

“Alleyn? I think I’ve heard of him. Isn’t he— ”

She paused. Cicely O’Callaghan had nearly dropped a brick. She had been about to say “Isn’t he a gentleman?” She must have been really very much perturbed to come within hail of such a gaffe. Inspector Fox answered her very simply.

“Yes,” he said, “he’s rather well known. He’s a very highly educated man. Quite a different type from me, you might say.”

Again a faint pink tinged her cheeks.

“I am grateful to you for the trouble you are taking,” she told him.

“It’s all in the day’s work,” said Fox. “If you’ll excuse me, Lady O’Callaghan, I’ll get along. I’ll speak to the chief at once. If you’re agreeable, I’ll show him the correspondence.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you very much. I’ll wish you good afternoon.”

“Will you have something to drink before you go?”

“No, thank you. Very kind of you, I’m sure.” He tramped to the door, turned and made a little bow.

“I hope you’ll allow me to offer my sympathy,” he said. “It’s a great loss to the nation.”

“Thank you.”

“Good afternoon, Lady O’Callaghan.”

“Good afternoon, inspector.”

So Inspector Fox went to the Yard to see Alleyn.

Friday, the twelfth. Afternoon and evening.

Hullo, Brer Fox,” said Alleyn, looking up from his desk. “Where’ve you been in your new bowler?”

“Paying a call on the Snow Queen,” replied Fox with unexpected imaginativeness. “And when I say ‘Snow Queen’ I don’t mean cocaine, either.”

“No? Then what do you mean? Sit down and have a smoke. You look perturbed.”

“Well, I am,” said Fox heavily. He produced a pipe and blew down it, staring solemnly at his superior. “I’ve been to see the wife of the late Home Secretary,” he said.

“What! You are coming on.”

“Look here, chief. She says it’s murder.”

“She says what’s murder?”

“Him. Sir Derek O’Callaghan.”

Alleyn put his pipe down and swung round slowly in his chair.

“Oh!” he said. He raised one eyebrow to an excruciating height and twisted his mouth sideways. This trick invested his handsome face with a kind of impish fastidiousness.

“What sort of woman is she?” he asked.

“A very cold fishy sort of lady,” answered Fox. “A Snow Queen, in fact. Not the hysterical sort, if that’s what you mean.”

“She was a Rattisbon. All the Rattisbons are a bit frosty. I was at school with her brother — who was, of course, called ‘Ratsbane.’ I speak like Mr. Gossip, don’t I? A very churlish fellow, he was. Well, let’s have the whole story.”

Fox told him the whole story, dwelling a little on the letters.

“I see,” said Alleyn. “And she’s hell-bent on an inquest?”

“That she is. If we won’t do anything, she’s going to the Prime Minister. He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he, sir?”

“I know the old creature, yes. As a matter of fact, he summoned me to the presence on another matter about a fortnight ago and we had an Oppenheimian conversation about anarchists. He was very perturbed and asked me if I didn’t consider O’Callaghan would be in personal danger if he pushed the Bill. Well, one never knows, and I said so. Some bright young Communist might bowl a bomb. As a matter of cold fact, I greatly doubt it. They do a certain amount of mischief, they’re an almighty nuisance, but as murderers I’ve no real faith in the British anarchist. Anarchist! The word is vieux jeu.”

“I suppose that’s French?”

“Quite right, Fox. I always said you had a flair for languages.”

“I’m teaching myself with the gramophone. All the same, sir, these anarchists are no joke.”

“Of course they’re not. The P.M., as I believe the member for Little Squidgemere calls him, thought O’Callaghan ought to have police protection. I quite agreed. I couldn’t very well do anything else. O’Callaghan pooh-poohed the idea. As you know, we were looking after him in our unassuming way. On the afternoon of the Cabinet Meeting, when they decided to introduce the Bill, I went along to Downing Street myself. I’d got wind of that insufferable nuisance Nicholas Kakaroff, and found him standing about in the street, dressed up as something rather ridiculous — a photographer, I think. He made off, with all his infra-red rays and whatnot, as soon as he saw me. I took a taxi and followed O’Callaghan home. We were alongside each other at one moment. He turned up the lights in his car and I returned the compliment.”

“His servants are all right, aren’t they?” asked Fox. “Oh, yes; we went as far as that. But, of course, we couldn’t do much without O’Callaghan’s permission or knowledge.”

“No. I think her ladyship suspects the surgeon or the girl.”

“ ‘The Surgeon or the Girl’ — it sounds like a talkie. Sir John Phillips is a very able man and handy, so I understand, with the knife. She thinks he dug it into an unlawful spot, because O’Callaghan had been interfering with his girl — is that it?”

“She thinks Sir Derek was poisoned, otherwise that seems to be the general idea, but of course his letter isn’t very explicit.”

“Have you got the letters?”

“Yes. Here they are.” Alleyn read them carefully.

“You know, Fox, hundreds of people write letters like these without planning murder.”

“Isn’t that what I tried to tell her!”

“My poor Foxkin! See if you can find the Press report of his death.”

Fox produced a paper.

“I brought it with me,” he said.

“You think of everything. Here we are. He died an hour after the operation was over. The anæsthetist was worried… peritonitis… ruptured abscess… ‘unwilling to turn aside from the gigantic task’… he’d neglected his tummy, evidently. It sounds straightforward enough, and yet— ”