Looking at her, Alleyn thought there was not much evidence of loving-kindness in her own demeanour.

“What,” she asked with laborious articulation, “did he say about me? What did he say?”

“Miss Bracey, we didn’t speak of you at all.”

“What did you speak about? Why did he stay behind to speak to you. He did, didn’t he? Why?”

“He told me about his overcoat.”

She glowered at him and sucked at her cigarette as if it were a respirator. “Did he tell you about his scarf?” she asked.

“The yellow one with H. on it?”

She gave a sort of laugh. “Embroidered,” she said. “By his devoted Gerts. God, what a fool! And he goes on wearing it. Slung round his neck like a halter and I wish it’d throttle him.”

She leaned back, rested her head against the crimson plush and shut her eyes. Her left hand slid from her lap and the cigarette fell from her fingers. Alleyn picked it up and threw it into a nearby sandbox. “Thanks,” she said without opening her eyes.

“Why did you stay behind? What do you want to tell me?”

“Stay behind? When?”

“Now.”

“Then, you mean.”

The clock above the box-office ticked. The theatre made a settling noise up in its ceiling. Miss Bracey sighed.

“Did you go back into the theatre?”

“Loo. Downstairs cloaks.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

She said very distinctly: “Because it didn’t matter.”

“Or because it mattered too much?”

“No.”

“Did you see or hear anyone while you were in the downstairs foyer?”

“No. Yes, I did. I heard Winty and Marco in the office upstairs. They came out. And I left, then. I went away. Before they saw me.”

“Was there someone else you saw? Jobbins?”

“No,” she said at once.

“There was someone, wasn’t there?”

“No.No. No.”

“Why does all this distress you so much?”

She opened her mouth and then covered it with her hand. She rose and swayed very slightly. As he put out a hand to steady her she broke from him and ran hazardously to the pass-door. It was unlocked. She pulled it open and left it so. Alleyn stood in the doorway and she backed away from him across the portico. When she realized he wasn’t going to follow she flapped her hand in a lunatic fashion and ran towards the car park. He was in time to see her scramble into her mini-car. Someone was sitting in the passenger seat who caught sight of Alleyn and turned away. It was Charles Random.

“Do you want her held?” Fox said at his elbow.

“No. What for? Let her go.”

“I think that’s the lot,” Peregrine said. He laid down his pen, eased his fingers and looked up at Emily.

The bottom of Phipps Passage having turned out to be windy and rich in dubious smells, they had crossed the bridge and retired upon the flat. Emily got their lunch ready while Peregrine laboured to set down everything he could remember of his encounters with Mr. Conducis. Of Jeremy there was nothing to be seen.

Emily said: “ ‘What I did in the Hols. Keep it bright, brief and descriptive.’ ”

“I seem to have done an unconscionable lot,” Peregrine rejoined. “It’s far from brief. Look.”

“No doubt Mr. Alleyn will mark it for you. ‘Quite G. but should take more pains with his writing.’ Are you sure you haven’t forgotten the one apparently trifling clue round which the whole mystery revolves?”

“You’re very jokey, aren’t you? I’m far from sure. The near-drowning incident’s all complete, I think, but I’m not so sure about the visit to Drury Place. Of course, I was drunk by the time that was over. How extraordinary it was,” Peregrine said. “Really, he was rum. Do you know, Emmy, darling, it seems to me now as if he acted throughout on some kind of compulsion. As if it had been he, not I, who was half-drowned and behaving (to mix my metaphor, you pedantic girl) like a duck that’s had its head chopped off. He was obsessed while I was merely plastered. Or so it seems, now.”

“But what did he do that was so odd?”

“Do? He—well, there was an old menu card from the yacht Kalliope. It was in the desk and he snatched it up and burnt it.”

“I suppose if your yacht’s wrecked under your feet you don’t much enjoy being reminded of it.”

“No, but I got the impression it was something on the card—” Peregrine went into a stare and after a long pause said in a rather glazed manner: “I think I’ve remembered.”

“What?”

“On the menu. Signatures: you know? And, Emmy, listen.”

Emily listened. “Well,” she said. “For what it’s worth, put it in.”

Peregrine put it in. “There’s one other thing,” he said. “It’s about last night. I think it was when I was in front and you had come through from backstage. There was the disturbance by the boy—catcalls and the door-slamming. Somewhere about then, it was, that I remember thinking of The Cherry Orchard. Not consciously but with one of those sort of momentary, back-of-the-mind things.”

“The Cherry Orchard?”

“Yes, and Miss Joan Littlewood.”

“Funny mixture. She’s never produced it, has she?”

“I don’t think so. Oh, damn, I wish I could get it. Yes,” Peregrine said excitedly. “And with it there was a floating remembrance, I’m sure — of what? A quotation: ‘Vanished with a — something perfume and a most melodious—’ what? I think it was used somewhere by Walter de la Mare. It was hanging about like the half-recollection of a dream when we walked up the puddled alleyway and into Wharfingers Lane. Why? What started it up?”

“It mightn’t have anything to do with Trevor or Jobbins.”

“I know. But I’ve got this silly feeling it has.”

“Don’t try to remember and then you may.”

“All right. Anyway the End of Hols essay’s ready for what it’s worth. I wonder if Alleyn’s still at the theatre.”

“Ring up.”

“O.K. What’s that parcel you’ve been carting about all day?”

“I’ll show you when you’ve rung up.”

A policeman answered from The Dolphin and said that Alleyn was at the Yard. Peregrine got through with startling promptitude.

“I’ve done this thing,” he said. “Would you like me to bring it over to you?”

“I would indeed. Thank you, Jay. Remembered anything new?”

“Not much, I’m afraid.” The telephone made a complicated jangling sound.

“What?” Alleyn asked. “Sorry about that twang. What did you say? Nothing new?”

“Yes!” Peregrine suddenly bawled into the receiver. “Yes. You’ve done it yourself. I’ll put it in. Yes. Yes. Yes.”

“You sound like a pop singer. I’ll be here for the next hour or so. Ask at the Yard entrance and they’ll send you up. ’Bye.”

“You’ve remembered?” Emily cried. “What is it? You’ve remembered.”

And when Peregrine told her, she remembered, too.

He re-opened his report and wrote feverishly. Emily unwrapped her parcel. When Peregrine had finished his additions and swung round in his chair he found, staring portentously at him, a water-colour drawing of a florid gentleman. His hair was curled into a cockscomb. His whiskers sprang from his jowls like steel wool and his prominent eyes proudly glared from beneath immensely luxuriant brows. He wore a frock coat with satin reveres, a brilliant waistcoat, three alberts, a diamond tie-pin and any quantity of rings. His pantaloons were strapped under his varnished boots, and beneath his elegantly arched arm his lilac-gloved hand supported a topper with a curly brim. He stood with one leg straight and the other bent. He was superb.

And behind, lightly but unmistakably sketched in, was a familiar, an adorable façade.

“Emily? It isn’t—? It must be—?”

“Look.”

Peregrine came closer. Yes, scribbled in faded pencil at the bottom of the work: Mr. Adolphus Ruby of The Dolphin Theatre. “Histrionic Portraits” series, 23 April 1855.