“How dare you!” cried Mrs. Candour shrilly. “How dare you suggest such a thing, M. de Ravigne? Father!”

“Quiet, my child,” said Father Garnette.

Maurice Pringle burst out laughing. The others stared at him scandalised.

“Look at him,” coughed Maurice, “look! To the pure all things are pure.”

“Maurice!” cried Janey.

“Just a minute, please,” said Allevn.

They had forgotten all about Alleyn, but now they listened to him.

“Mr. Pringle,” he said, “will you be good enough to pull yourself together? You are behaving like a hysterical adolescent. That’s better. I gather from what you have all said that no one is prepared to volunteer information about the missing bonds.” Father Garnette began to speak, but Alleyn raised a finger. “Very well, I now wish to bring another exhibit to your notice. The book, if you please, Fox.”

Inspector Fox loomed forward and put a book into Alleyn’s hand. Alleyn held it up. It was the copy of Abberley’s Curiosities of Chemistry.

“Quis?” said Alleyn lightly.

Garnette turned and looked calmly at it. Mrs. Candour gaped at it with her mouth open. Maurice stared at it as if it were an offensive relic, Janey looked blank, M. de Ravigne curious. Mr. Ogden still glared at Father Garnette. Miss Wade balanced her pince-nez across her nose and leant forward to peer at the book. Claude Wheatley said: “What’s that? I can’t see.”

“It is Abberley’s Curiosities of Chemistry,” said Alleyn.

“Hey?” exclaimed Mr. Ogden suddenly and wheeled around in his chair. He saw the book and his jaw dropped.

“Why—” he said. “Why—”

“Yes, Mr. Ogden?”

Mr. Ogden looked exceedingly uncomfortable. A dead silence followed.

“What is it?” continued Alleyn patiently.

“Why nothing, Chief. Except that I’m quite curious to know where you located that book.”

“Anybody else know anything about it?” asked Alleyn.

“Yes,” said Father Garnette, “I do.”

He was still on his feet. He stretched out his hand and Alleyn gave him the book.

“This volume,” said Father Garnette, “appeared in my shelves some weeks ago. It is not mine and I do not know where it came from. I did not even open it. Simply found it there.”

“Next an unexpurgated translation of Petronius?”

“Ah — preciselah!” said Father Garnette.

He still held the book in his hands. Perhaps the habit of the pulpit caused him to let it fall open.

“Who left this book in my room?” he demanded.

“Look at it,” said Alleyn.

Garnette hesitated as though he wondered what Alleyn meant. Then he looked at the book. It had again fallen open at the page which gave the formula for sodium cyanide. For a moment Garnette scarcely seemed to take it in. Then with sudden violence he shut the book and dropped it on the table.

“I am the victim of an infamous conspiracy,” he said. The baa-ing vowel-sounds had disappeared, and the hint of a nasal inflection had taken their place.

“You tell us,” said Alleyn, “that this book was left in your shelves. When did you first discover it?”

“I do not remembah,” declared Garnette, rallying slightly.

“Try to remember.”

“It was there three Sundays ago, anyway,” volunteered Claude.

“Oh?” said Alleyn. “How do you know that, Mr. Wheatley?”

“Because, I mean, I saw it. And I know it was three Sundays ago because you see I do temple service — cleaning the silver, you know — and all that, every fortnight. And it was while I was doing that, I found it, and it wasn’t last Sunday, so it must have been three Sundays ago.”

“How did you come to find it?”

“Well, I — well, you see — well, I’d finished and Father was out and I thought I’d wait till he came in and so I went into his room to put some things away.”

“Where was the book?”

“Well, it was in the shelves.”

“Where you could see it?”

“Not quite.”

“It was behind the other books?”

“Yes, if you must know, it was,” said Claude turning an unattractive crimson. “As a matter of fact I had put all the books there myself — he stopped and looked nervously from Ogden to Garnette—”about a week before that. I was — I was tidying up in here. I didn’t look at them, then. The book on Chemistry wasn’t there that day. But it was there on the Sunday — a week later. You see I’d read most of the other books and I thought I’d try and find something else, and so—”

“Did you handle it?”

“I–I — just glanced at it.”

“You touched it. You’re sure of that?”

“Yes, I am. Because I remember I had my gloves on. The ones I do the polishing in. I like to keep my hands nice. I wondered if they’d marked it. Then I put it away and — and I read something else, you see.”

“Petronius, perhaps.”

“Yes, it was. I thought it marvellous.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t understand,” began Miss Wade.

“Nor do I,” interrupted Mrs. Candour. “Why is such a fuss being made about this book?”

“It’s a treatise on poisons,” said Maurice. “Cara was poisoned. Find the owner of the book and there’s your murderer. Q.E.D. Our wonderful police!”

“I’ve got an idea,” said Mr. Ogden with a curious inflection in his voice, “that it’s not just as simple as all that.”

“Really?” jeered Maurice. “You seem to know a damn’ sight too much to be healthy.”

“Maurice, please!” said Janey.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry, Jane.”

“The interesting thing about the book,” said Alleyn in his quietest voice, “is that if you handle it as Mr. Garnette did, it falls open at a discourse on cyanide.” He took the book and handed it to de Ravigne. “Like to try?” he asked.

De Ravigne took the book, but he must have handled it differently. It fell open at another place. He examined it closely, a curiously puzzled expression in his eyes.

“Let me see,” said Lionel. “Do, please.” With him the experiment worked successfully.

“How too marvellous!” said Claude.

“Here,” shouted Mr. Ogden suddenly, “lemme see.”

Lionel handed him the book, and he experimented with it while they all watched him. The book fell open repeatedly and each time at the same page.

“Well, for crying out loud!” said Mr. Ogden, and slammed it down on the table.

“Now,” Alleyn went on, “there’s one more exhibit. This box of cigarettes. Yours, isn’t it, Mr. Garnette?” He laid the Benares Box on the table.

“Ah, yes.”

“Will you open it?”

“Is this a sleight of hand act?” asked Maurice Pringle. “No deception practised.”

“None, on my part,” replied Alleyn good-humouredly. “As I think you will agree, Mr. Garnette.”

Garnette had opened the box. Cara Quayne’s note lay on the top of the cigarettes.

“What is this?” asked Garnette. And then: “My God, it’s her writing.”

“Will you read it aloud?”

Garnette read slowly. The habit of the pulpit was so strong in him that he pitched his voice and read deliberately with round vowels and stressed final consonants.

“Must see you. Terrible discovery. After service tonight.”

He put the paper down on the table and again looked at Alleyn. His lips twitched, but he did not speak. He moved his hands uncertainly. He looked neither guilty nor innocent, but simply puzzled.

“Where did this come from?” he said at last.

“It was found last night in that box,” Alleyn said.

“But — I did not know. I did not see it there.”

“Does anyone,” asked Alleyn, “know anything of this note?” Nobody spoke.

“Had Miss Quayne spoken to any of you of this terrible discovery she had made?”

“When was it written?” asked Maurice suddenly.

“Yesterday.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s dated,” answered Alleyn politely.

“Oh, Maurice, my poor pet!” said Janey, and for the first time that morning somebody laughed.

“Shut up!” exclaimed Maurice.

“You did not open this box yesterday, Mr. Garnette?” Alleyn went on.