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And at last Alleyn himself went to bed. The clock on the landing struck four as he walked down the passage to their room. When he parted the window curtains there was a faint grayness in the world outside. Troy was fast asleep.

iii

Marco brought their breakfast at eight o’clock. Troy had been awake for an hour. She had woken when Alleyn came to bed and had lain quiet and waited to see if he wanted to talk, but he had touched her head lightly and in a matter of seconds was dead to the world.

It was not his habit to use a halfway interval between sleep and wake. He woke like a cat, fully and instantly, and gave Marco good morning. Marco drew the curtains and the room was flooded with pallid light. There was no rain on the windowpanes and no sound of wind.

“Clearing, is it?” Alleyn asked.

“Yes, sir. Slowly. The Lake is still very rough.”

“Too rough for the launch?”

“Too much rough, sir, certainly.”

He placed elaborate trays across them both and brought them extra pillows. His dark rather handsome head came close to theirs.

“It must be quite a sight — the Lake and the mountains?” Alleyn said lightly.

“Very impressive, sir.”

“Your mysterious photographer should be there again with his camera.”

A little muscle jumped under Marco’s olive cheek.

“It is certain he has gone, sir. But, of course you are joking.”

“Do you know exactly how Madame Sommita was murdered, Marco? The details?”

“Maria is talking last night but she is excitable. When she is excitable she is not reasonable. Or possible to understand. It is all,” said Marco, “very dreadful, sir.”

“They forgot to take the mailbag to the launch last night. Had you noticed?”

Marco knocked over the marmalade pot on Troy’s tray.

“I am very sorry, madame,” he said. “I am very clumsy.”

“It’s all right,” Troy said. “It hasn’t spilt.”

“Do you know what I think, Marco?” said Alleyn. “I think there never was a strange photographer on the Island.”

“Do you, sir? Thank you, sir. Will that be all?”

“Do you have a key to the postbag?”

“It is kept in the study, sir.”

“And is the bag unlocked during the time it is in the house?”

“There is a posting box in the entrance, sir. Mr. Hanley empties it into the bag when it is time for the launch man to take it.”

“Too bad he overlooked it last night.”

Marco, sheet-white, bowed and left the room.

“And I suppose,” Troy ventured, “I pretend I didn’t notice you’ve terrified the pants off that poor little man.”

“Not such a poor little man.”

“Not?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Rory,” said his wife. “Under ordinary circumstances I never, never ask about cases. Admit.”

“My darling, you are perfection in that as in all other respects. You never do.”

“Very well. These circumstances are not ordinary and if you wish me to give my customary imitation of a violet by a mossy stone half-hidden from the view, you must also be prepared for me to spontaneously combust.”

“Upon my word, love, I can’t remember how much you do or do not know of our continuing soap opera. Let us eat our breakfasts and you ask questions the while. When, by the way, did we last meet? Not counting bed?”

“When I gave you the powder and brush in the studio. Remember?”

“Ah yes. Oh, and thank you for the dispatch case. Just what I wanted, like a Christmas present. You don’t know how she was killed, do you?”

“Signor Lattienzo told me. Remember?”

“Ah yes. He came up to the studio, didn’t he?”





“Yes. To see if I was all right. It was kind of him, really.”

“Very,” said Alleyn dryly.

“Don’t you like him?”

“Did he tell you in detail?”

“Just that she was stabbed. At first it seemed unreal. Like more bad opera. You know his flowery way of saying things. And then, of course, when it got real — quite appalling. It’s rather awful to be wallowing between silken sheets, crunching toast while we talk about it,” said Troy, “but I happen to be hungry.”

“You wouldn’t help matters if you suddenly decided to diet.”

“True.”

“I think I’d better tell you the events of the night in order of occurrence. Or, no,” said Alleyn. “You can read my file. While you’re doing that I’ll get up and see if Bert is still on duty, poor chap.”

“Bert? The chauffeur?”

“That’s right. I won’t be long.”

He gave her the file, put on his dressing gown and slippers, and went out to the landing. Bert was up and slightly disheveled. The chairs still barricaded the door.

“Gidday,” he said. “Glad to see you.”

“I’m sorry I’ve left it so late. Did you have a beastly night of it?”

“Naow. She was good. Wee bit drafty, but we mustn’t grumble.”

“Anything to report?”

“Maria. At four-twenty. I’m right out to it but I reckon she must of touched me because I open my eyes and there she bloody is, hanging over me with a key in her hand looking as if she’s trying to nut it out how to get the door open. Brainless. I say: ‘What’s the big idea?’ and she lets out a screech and drops the key. On me. Plonk. No trouble.”

“And did you—?”

“Grab it. Kind of reflex action, really.”

“You didn’t give it back to her, Bert?”

Bert assumed a patient, quizzical expression and produced the key from his trouser pocket.

“Good on you, boy,” said Alleyn, displaying what he hoped was the correct idiom and the proper show of enthusiasm. He clapped Bert on the shoulder. “What was her reaction?” he asked and wondered if he, too, ought to adopt the present tense.

“She’s moanin’,” said Bert.

“Moaning?”

“This is right. Complainin’. Reckonin’ she’ll put my pot on with the boss. Clawin’ at me to get it back. Reckonin’ she wants to lay out the deceased and say prayers and that lot. But never raising her voice, mind. Never once. When she sees it’s no dice and when I tell her I’ll hand the key over to you she spits in my face, no trouble, and beats it downstairs.”

“That seems to be the Maria form. I’ll take the key, Bert, and thank you very much indeed. Do you happen to know how many keys there are to the room? Four, is it?”

“That’s right. To all the rooms. Weird idea.”

Alleyn thought: This one, which was Rupert Bartholomew’s. The ones already in my pocket, and the Sommita’s in her evening bag at the bottom of her dressing-table drawer.

He said: “While I think of it. On the way over here you said something about a vet putting down Madame Sommita’s dog. You said he chloroformed it before giving it the injection.”

“That’s correct,” said Bert, looking surprised.

“Do you remember, by any chance, what happened to the bottle?”

Bert stared at him. “That’s a hairy one,” he said. “What happened to the bottle, eh?” He scratched his head and pulled a face. “Hold on,” he said. “Yeah! That’s right. He put it on a shelf in the hangar and forgot to take it away.”

“And would you,” said Alleyn, “know what became of it? Is it still there?”

“No, it is not. Maria come out to see if it was all O.K. about the dog. She’d been sent by the Lady. She seen the bottle. It was, you know, labeled. She reckoned it wasn’t safe having it lying around. She took it off.”

“Did she indeed?” said Alleyn. “Thank you, Bert.”

“Be my guest.”

Alleyn said: “Well, you’d better get something to eat, hadn’t you?”

“I don’t mind if I do,” said Bert. “Seeing you,” and went, in a leisurely ma

Alleyn returned to their bedroom. Troy was deep in the file and continued to read it while he shaved, bathed, and dressed. Occasionally she shouted an inquiry or a comment. She had just finished it and was about to get up when there was a tap on the door. Alleyn opened it and there was Mrs. Bacon, trim and competent: the very epitome of the five-star housekeeper.