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man ever since the Gospell murder. Is he really the answer to the maiden’s prayer, Henry?’

      ‘Do stop being crisp and modish, Frid,’ begged Henry irritably. ‘You know that, like all the rest of us, you’re nearly dead with terror.’

      ‘No, I’m not, honestly. I may wake up in the night bathed in a cold sweat but at the moment I’m sort of stimulated. Only I wish one of the twins would stop being mad.’

      ‘I wish to God you’d all stop being mad,’ said Lord Charles with sudden violence. ‘I feel as if I were looking at you and listening to you for the first time. Someone in this flat killed my brother.’

      There was an awkward silence broken by Frid.

      ‘But, Daddy,’ said Frid, ‘you didn’t like Uncle G. Now, did you?’

      ‘Be quiet, Frid,’ ordered Henry. ‘You don’t think any of the family did it, do you, father?’

      ‘Good God, of course I don’t!’

      ‘Well, who does everybody think did it?’ asked Frid brightly.

      ‘Tinkerton,’ said Colin.

      ‘Or Giggle,’ said Stephen.

      ‘You only say Tinkerton or Giggle because you don’t know them as well as Baskett and the maids,’ Henry pointed out.

      ‘And Nanny,’ added Frid.

      ‘If I’d been Uncle G.’s or Aunt V.’s servant,’ said Colin, ‘I’d have murdered both of them long ago. I must say I’m rather glad it’s going to be Alleyn. If we’ve got to be grilled it may as well, be by a gent. But then I’m a snob, of course.’

      ‘I th-think it’ll be rather uncomfortable,’ said Stephen. ‘I’d rather it was the old-fashioned sort that says: ‘’Ere, ’ere, ’ere, wot’s all this?”’

      ‘Which shows how ignorant you are,’ said Frid. ‘No detective speaks like that. But I do think, Daddy, that Henry ought to ring up Nigel Bathgate. You know how he raves about Mr Alleyn. He’s his Watson and glories in it.’

      ‘Why should I ring him up?’ Henry demanded. ‘Ring him up yourself.’

      ‘Well, I will presently. I think it’s only kind.’

      ‘What’s Alleyn like?’ asked Colin.

      ‘Oh, very nice,’ said Henry. ‘Sort of old-world without any Blimpishness. Rather frighteningly polite and quiet.’

      ‘Hell!’ said Stephen.

      The drawing-room door opened and Patch came in wearing pyjamas and a dressing-gown. Her hair had been lugged off her forehead by Nanny with such ferocious emphasis that her eyebrows were slightly raised. Two hard plaits hung between her shoulders. Her round face shone and she smelt of bath powder. To Roberta she was a mere enlargement of herself at twelve and still very much of the nursery.

      ‘Mike’s asleep,’ said Patch, ‘and I’ve never been wider awake in my life. Please Daddy, don’t send me back. My teeth keep chattering.’

      ‘Oh, Patch, darling!’ said Lord Charles helplessly. ‘I’m so sorry. Come up to the fire.’

      ‘You can’t face the police like that, Patch,’ said Frid. ‘You’re too fat for negligée appearances.’

      ‘I don’t care. I’m going to sit by darling Roberta and get warm. Daddy, are the police here now?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Where’s Mummy?’

      ‘With Aunt Violet.’

      ‘Was Uncle G. murdered? Nanny’s being so maddening. She won’t talk about it.’

      ‘Yes, he was,’ said Frid impatiently. ‘It’s no good trying to fob Patch off with a vague story, Daddy. Uncle G.’s been dotted one, Patch, and he’s dead.’

      ‘Who dotted him one?’ asked Patch, rubbing her hands slowly over her knees.

      ‘It must have been someone –’ Lord Charles waved his hand – ‘some lunatic who wandered up here. A wandering lunatic. Obviously. Don’t think about it, Patch. The police will find out about it.’

      ‘Golly, how thrilling,’ said Patch. She had squatted down by Roberta who could feel her quivering like a puppy. ‘Daddy,’ she said, ‘I’ve thought of something.’

      ‘What is it?’ asked her father wearily.

      ‘You’ll be able to get rid of the bum.’

      ‘Be quiet, Patch,’ said Henry. ‘You’re not to talk about the bum.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Because I tell you.’

      Patch looked impertinently at Henry. ‘Okay, Rune,’ she said.

      ‘What!’ cried Roberta.

      ‘It’s quite right,’ said Patch. ‘Henry’s to be called the Earl of Rune now. Isn’t he, Daddy?’

      ‘Good God!’ said Henry slowly, ‘so I am.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Patch with a certain complacency, ‘you are. And I, for instance, am now the Lady Patricia Lamprey. Aren’t I, Daddy?’

      ‘Shut up, Patch,’ said Colin.

      ‘Yes, yes,’ said Lord Charles hurriedly. ‘Never mind about it now, Patch.’

      ‘And Daddy,’ Patch persisted stubbornly, ‘you’re now –’

      The drawing-room door opened. Alleyn stood on the threshold with Fox behind him.

      ‘May I come in, Lord Wutherwood?’ asked Alleyn.

      IV

      Afterwards, when Roberta had time to review the events of that incredible day, she remembered that until Alleyn appeared, an image of a fictitious detective had hung about at the back of all her thoughts; an image of a man coldly attentive with coarse hands and a large soapy-shining face. Alleyn was so little like this image that for a moment she thought he must be some visitor, fantastically de trop, who had dropped in to see the Lampreys. The sight of Fox disabused her of this idea. There was no mistake about Fox.

      The new Lord Wutherwood put his glass in his waistcoat pocket and, with his usual air of punctilious courtesy, hurried forward. He shook hands, bending his elbow sharply and holding his hand out at right-angles to his forearm, a modish, diplomatic handshake.

      ‘Do come in,’ he said. ‘We have left you very much to yourselves out there but I hoped if there was anything we could do you would let us know.’

      ‘There was nothing, thank you so much,’ said Alleyn, ‘until now. I felt I should go over the information Fox had already got before I bothered all of you. But now –’

      ‘Yes, yes, of course. My wife and my small son are not here at the moment but this is the rest of the family … My eldest son you have already met. My daughter …’

      The introductions were solemnly performed. Alleyn bowed to each of the Lampreys. Roberta on her footstool was so much in shadow that Lord Charles forgot her, but Alleyn’s dark eyes turned gravely to the small figure.

      ‘I beg your pardon, Robin, my dear,’ said Lord Charles. ‘Miss Grey is a New Zealand friend of ours, Mr Alleyn.’

      ‘How do you do,’ said Roberta.

      ‘New Zealand?’ said Alleyn.

      ‘Yes. I only got here yesterday,’ said Roberta and wondered why he looked so gently at her before he turned to Lord Charles.

      ‘This is a

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