“If you would lend me your torch,” he said. “It is a little awkward, this lock."

Alleyn gave him his torch. The shadow darted across the passage and reared itself up the opposite wall. After some fumbling, the key was engaged and noisily turned. Baradi shoved at the door and with a grind of its hinges it opened suddenly inwards and he fell forward with it, dropping the torch, nose first, on the stone threshold. There was a tinkle of glass and they were left with with the guttering candle.

“Ah, sacré nom d’un chien!” Baradi ejaculated. “My dear Mr. Allen, what have I done!”

Alleyn said: “Be careful of the broken glass.”

“I am wearing sandals. But how careless! I am so sorry.”

“Never mind. The passage seems to be unlucky for us this evening. Let’s hope there’s not a third mishap. Don’t give it another thought. Shall we go in?” Alleyn laid down his walking-stick and took up the candle and the broken torch. They went in, Baradi shutting the door with a heave and a weighty slam.

It seemed to be a small room with whitewashed stone walls and a shuttered window. Candlelight wavered over a bank of flowers. A coffin stood in the middle on trestles. The mingled odours of death and tuberoses were horrible.

“I hope you are not over-sensitive,” Baradi said. “We have done our best. Mr. Oberon was most particular, but — well — as you see—”

Alleyn saw. The lid of the coffin had been left far enough withdrawn to expose the head of its inhabitant, which was literally bedded in orchids. A white veil of coarse net lay over the face, but it did little to soften the inexorable indignities of death.

“The teeth,” said Baradi, “make a difference, don’t they?”

Looking at them Alleyn was reminded of Teresa’s generality to the effect that all English spinsters have teeth like mares. This lonely spinster’s dentist had evidently subscribed to Teresa’s opinion and Alleyn saw the other stigmata of her kind: the small mole, the lines and pouches, the pathetic tufts of grey hair from which the skin had receded.

He backed away. “I thought it better to see her,” he said, and his voice was constrained and thin. “In case there should be any question of identification.”

“Much better. Are you all right? For the layman it is not a pleasant experience.”

Alleyn said: “I find it quite appalling. Shall we go? I’m afraid I—” His voice faded. He turned away with a violent movement and at the same time jerked his handkerchief. It flapped across the candle flame and extinguished it.

In the malodorous dark Baradi cursed unintelligibly. Alleyn gabbled: “The door, for God’s sake, where is the door? I’m going to be sick.” He lurched against Baradi and sent him staggering to the far end of the room. He drop-kicked the candlestick in the opposite direction. His hands were on the coffin. His left hand discovered the edge of the lid, slid under it, explored a soft material, a tight band and the surface beneath. His fingers, inquisitive and thrusting, found what they sought.

“I can’t stand this!” he choked out. “The door!”

Baradi was now swearing in French. “Idiot!” he was saying. “Maladroit, imbécile!”

Alleyn made retching noises. He found his way unerringly to the door and dragged it open. A pale lessening of the dark was admitted. He staggered out into the passage-way and rested against the stone wall. Baradi came after him and dragged the door shut. Alleyn heard him turn the key in the lock.

“That was not an amusing interlude,” Baradi said. “I warned you it would not be pleasant.”

Alleyn had his handkerchief pressed to his mouth. He said indistinctly: “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize — I’ll be all right.”

“Of course you will,” Baradi snapped at him. “So shall I when my bruises wear off.”

“Please don’t let me keep you. Fresh air. I’ll go back to the car. Thank you: I’m sorry.”

Apparently Baradi had regained his temper. He said: “It is undoubtedly the best thing you can do. I recommend a hot bath, a stiff drink, two aspirins and bed. If you’re sure you’re all right and can find your way back—”

“Yes, yes. It’s passing off.”

“Then if you will excuse me. I am already late. Good night, Mr. Alleyn.”

Alleyn, over his handkerchief, watched Baradi return up the steps, open the side-door and disappear into the house. He waited for some minutes, accustoming his eyes to the night.

“Somehow,” he thought, “I must get a wash,” and he wiped his left hand vigorously on his handkerchief which he then threw into the shadows.

But he did not wipe away the memory of a not very large cavity under the left breast of a sprigged locknit nightgown.

iii

He had been right about the nearness of the servants’ entrance. The stone passage-way dipped, turned and came to an end by a sort of open pent-house. Alleyn had to grope his way down steps, but the non-darkness that is starlight had filtered into the purlieus of the Chèvre d’Argent and glistened faintly on ledges and wet stone. He paused for a moment and looked back and upwards. The great mass of stone and rock made a black hole in the spangled heavens. The passage-way had emerged from beneath a bridge-like extension of the house. This linked the seaward portion with what he imagined must be the original fortress, deep inside the cliff-face. Alleyn moved into an inky-dark recess. A light had appeared on the bridge.

It was carried by the Egyptian servant, who appeared to have something else, possibly a tray, in his hand. He was followed by Baradi. Unmistakably it was Baradi. The servant turned and his torchlight flickered across the dark face. The doctor no longer wore his robe. Something that looked like a smooth cord hung round his neck. They moved on and were lost inside the house. Alleyn gave a little grunt of satisfaction and continued on his way.

A lantern with a stub of candle in it hung by a half-open door and threw a yellow pool on the flat surface beneath.

“Monsieur?” a voice whispered.

“Raoul?”

“Oui, Monsieur. Tout va bien. Allons.”

Raoul slid out of the penthouse. Alleyn’s wrist was grasped. He moved into the pool of light. Raoul pushed the door open with his foot. They entered a stone corridor, passed two closed doors and turned right. Raoul tapped with his finger-tips on a third door. Teresa opened it and admitted them.

It was a small neat bedroom, smelling a little fusty. One of old Marie’s Madonnas, neatly inscribed: “Notre Dame de Paysdoux” stood on a corner shelf with a stool before it. Dusty paper flowers, candles and a photograph of Teresa in her confirmation dress, with folded hands and upturned eyes, completed the décor. A sacred print, looking dreadfully like Mr. Oberon, hung nearby. Across the bed were disposed two white gowns. A washstand with a jug and basin stood in a further corner.

Teresa, looking both nervous and complacent, pushed forward her only chair.

Alleyn said: “It is possible to wash one’s hands, Teresa? A little water and some soap?”

“I will slip out for some warm water, Monsieur. It is quite safe to do so. Monsieur will forgive me. I had forgotten. The English always wish to wash themselves.”

Alleyn did not correct this aphorism. When she had gone he said: “Well, Raoul?”

“The servants have gone out, Monsieur, with the exception of the Egyptian, who is occupied downstairs. The guests are in their rooms. It is unlikely that they will emerge before the ceremony.” He extended his hands, palms upwards. “Monsieur, how much mischief have I made by my imbecility?”

Alleyn said: “Well, Raoul, you certainly rang the bell,” and then seeing his companion’s bewilderment and distress, added: “It was not so bad after all. It worked out rather well. Dr. Baradi and I have visited the body of a murdered woman.”

“Indeed, Monsieur?”

“It lies among orchids in a handsome coffin in a room across the passage of entrance. The coffin, as M. le Commissaire had already ascertained, arrived this morning from an undertaker in Roqueville.”