“I’m sorry to trouble you,” Alleyn said, “but can you, by any chance, tell me the name of the large building near the entrance to the tunnel?”

“Ah, yes, yes,” the attendant said. “Certainly, Monsieur, since I am a native of these parts. It is known to everybody, this house, on account of its great antiquity. It is the Château de la Chèvre d’Argent.”

“I thought it might be,” said Alleyn.

ii

Alleyn reminded the sleepy attendant that they were leaving the train at Roqueville and tipped him generously. The man thanked him with that peculiarly Gallic effusiveness that is at once too logical and too adroit to be offensive.

“Do you know,” Alleyn said, as if on an after-thought, “who lives in the Château de la Chèvre d’Argent?”

The attendant believed it was leased to an extremely wealthy gentleman, possibly an American, possibly an Englishman, who entertained very exclusively. He believed the ménage to be an excessively distinguished one.

Alleyn waited for a moment and then said, “I think there was a little trouble there tonight. One saw a scene through a lighted window when the train halted.”

The attendant’s shoulders suggested that all things are possible and that speculation is vain. His eyes were as blank as boot buttons in his pallid face. Should he not perhaps fetch the baggage of Monsieur and Madame and the little one, in readiness for their descent at Roqueville? He had his hand on the door of Alleyn’s compartment when from somewhere towards the rear of the carriage, a woman screamed twice.

They were short screams, ejaculatory in character, as if they had been wrenched out of her, and very shrill. The attendant wagged his head from side to side in exasperation, begged Alleyn to excuse him and went off down the corridor to the rear-most compartment. He tapped. Alleyn guessed at an agitated response. The attendant went in and Troy put her head out of her own door.

“What now, for pity’s sake?” she asked.

“Somebody having a nightmare or something. Are you ready?”

“Yes. But what a rum journey we’re having!”

The attendant came back at a jog-trot. Was Alleyn perhaps a doctor? An English lady had been taken ill. She was in great pain: the abdomen, the attendant elaborated, clutching his own in pantomime. It was evidently a formidable seizure. If Monsieur, by any chance—

Alleyn said he was not a doctor. Troy said, “I’ll go and see the poor thing, shall I? Perhaps there’s a doctor somewhere in the train. You get Ricky up, darling.”

She made off down the swaying corridor. The attendant began to tap on doors and to enquire fruitlessly of his passengers if they were doctors. “I shall see my comrades of the other voitures,” he said importantly. “Evidently one must organize.”

Alleyn found Ricky sketchily half-dressed and in a child’s panic.

“Where have you been, however?” he demanded. “Because I didn’t know where everyone was. We’re going to be late for getting out. I can’t find my pants. Where’s Mummy?”

Alleyn calmed him, got him ready and packed their luggage. Ricky, white-faced, sat on the lower bunk with his gaze turned on the door. He liked, when travelling, to have his family under his eye. Alleyn, remembering his own childhood, knew his little son was racked with an illogical and bottomless anxiety, an anxiety that vanished when the door opened and Troy came in.

“Oh golly, Mum!” Ricky said and his lip trembled.

“Hullo, there,” Troy said in the especially calm voice she kept for Ricky’s panics. She sat down beside him, putting her arm where he could lean back against it, and looked at her husband.

“I think that woman’s very ill,” she said. “She looks frightful. She had what she thought was some kind of food poisoning this morning and dosed herself with castor-oil. And then, just now she had a violent pain, really awful, she says, in the appendix place and now she hasn’t any pain at all and looks ghastly. Wouldn’t that be a perforation, perhaps?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, my love.”

“Rory, she’s about fifty and she comes from the Bermudas and has no relations in the world and wears a string bag on her head and she’s never been abroad and we can’t just let her be whisked on into the Italian Riviera with a perforated appendix, if that’s what it is.”

“Oh, damn!”

“Well, can we? I said—” Troy went on, looking sideways at her husband —“that you’d come and talk to her.”

“Darling, what the hell can I do?

“You’re calming in a panic, isn’t he, Rick?”

“Yes,” said Ricky again turning white. “I don’t suppose you’re both going away, are you, Mummy?”

“You can come with us. You could look through the corridor window at the sea. It’s shiny with moonlight and Daddy and I will be just on the other side of the poor thing’s door. Her name’s Miss Truebody and she knows Daddy’s a policeman.”

“Well, I must say…” Alleyn began indignantly.

“We’d better hurry, hadn’t we?” Troy stood up, holding Ricky’s hand. He clung to her like a limpet.

At the far end of the corridor their own car attendant stood with two of his colleagues outside Miss Truebody’s door. They made dubious grimaces at one another and spoke in voices that were drowned by the racket of the train. When they saw Troy, they all took off their silver-braided caps and bowed to her. A doctor, they said, had been discovered in the troisième voiture and was now with the unfortunate lady. Perhaps Madame would join him. Their own attendant tapped on the door and with an ineffable smirk at Troy, opened it. “Madame!” he invited.

Troy went in, and Ricky feverishly transferred his hold to Alleyn’s hand. Together, they looked out of the corridor window.

The railway, in this part of the coast, followed an embankment a few feet above sea level and as Troy had said, the moon shone on the Mediterranean. A long cape ran out over the glossy water and near its tip a few points of yellow light showed in early-rising households. The stars were beginning to pale.

“That’s Cap St. Gilles,” Alleyn said. “Lovely, isn’t it, Rick?”

Ricky nodded. He had one ear tuned to his mother’s voice which could just be heard beyond Miss Truebody’s door.

“Yes,” he said, “it is lovely.” Alleyn wondered if Ricky was really as pedantically mannered a child as some of their friends seemed to think.

“Aren’t we getting a bit near?” Ricky asked. “Bettern’t Mummy come now?”

“It’s all right. We’ve ten minutes yet and the train people know we’re getting off. I promise it’s all right. Here’s Mummy now.”

She came out followed by a small bald gentleman with waxed moustaches, wearing striped professional trousers, patent-leather boots and a frogged dressing-gown.

“Your French is badly needed. This is the doctor,” Troy said, and haltingly introduced her husband.

The doctor was formally enchanted. He said crisply that he had examined the patient, who almost certainly suffered from a perforated appendix and should undoubtedly be operated upon as soon as possible. He regretted extremely that he himself had an urgent professional appointment in St. Céleste and could not, therefore, accept responsibility. Perhaps the best thing to do would be to discharge Miss Truebody at Roqueville and send her back by the evening train to St. Christophe where she could go to a hospital. Of course, if there was a surgeon in Roqueville the operation might be performed there. In any case he would give Miss Truebody an injection of morphine. His shoulders rose. It was a position of extreme difficulty. They must hope, must they not, that there would be medical man and suitable accommodation available at Roqueville? He believed he had understood Madame to say that she and Monsieur l’Inspecteur-en-Chef would be good enough to assist their compatriot.

Monsieur l’Inspecteur glared at his wife and said they would, of course, be enchanted. Troy said in English that it had obviously comforted Miss Truebody and impressed the doctor to learn of her husband’s rank. The doctor bowed, delivered a few definitive compliments and, lurching in a still dignified manner down the swinging corridor, made for his own carriage, followed by his own attendant.