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“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 manner, downstairs.

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.

“Good morning, Mr. Alleyn,” said Mrs. Bacon. “I’ve just come up to see if Mrs. Alleyn has everything she wants. I’m afraid, in all this disturbance, she may have been neglected, and we can’t have that, can we?”

Alleyn said we couldn’t and Troy called out for her to come in.

When she had been assured of Troy’s well-being, Mrs. Bacon told Alleyn she was glad of the opportunity to have a word with him. “There are difficulties. It’s very inconvenient,” she said as if the plumbing had failed them.

“I’m sure it is,” he said. “If there’s anything I can do—”

“It’s Maria.”

“Is she still cutting up rough?”

“Indeed she is.” Mrs. Bacon turned to Troy. “This is all so unpleasant, Mrs. Alleyn,” she apologized. “I’m sorry to bring it up!”

The Alleyns made appropriate noises.

“Of course she is upset,” Mrs. Bacon conceded. “We understand that, don’t we? But really!”

“What form is it taking now?” Alleyn asked.

“She wants to go — in there.”

“Still on that lay, is she. Well, she can’t.”

“She — being a Catholic, of course, one should make allowances,” Mrs. Bacon herself astonishingly allowed. “I hope you’re not—?” she hurriedly added, turning pink. “And, of course, being a foreigner should be taken into consideration. But it’s getting more than a joke. She wants to lay Madame out. I was wondering if — just to satisfy her?”

“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Bacon,” Alleyn said. “The body must be left as it is until the police have seen it.”

“That’s what they always say in the thrillers, of course. I know that, but I thought it might be an exaggeration.”

“Not in this instance, at any rate.”

“She’s worrying Mr. Reece about it. He’s spoken to me. He’s very much shocked, you can sense that, although he doesn’t allow himself to show it. He told me everything must be referred to you. I think he would like to see you.”

“Where is he?”

“In the study. That Italian gentleman, Mr. Lattienzo, and Mr. Ruby are with him. And then,” Mrs. Bacon went on, “there are the two ladies, the singers, who stayed last night, I must say what I can to them. They’ll be wondering. Really, it’s almost more than one can be expected to cope with.”

“Maddening for you,” said Troy.

“Well, it is. And the staff! The two housemaids are talking themselves into hysterics and refusing to come up to this landing, and the men are not much better. I thought I could depend on Marco, but he’s suddenly gone peculiar and doesn’t seem to hear when he’s spoken to. Upon my word,” said Mrs. Bacon, “I’ll be glad to see the police on the premises and I never thought I say that in my occupation.”