“What,” Troy asked, making herself look at him, “do you think, Dr. Baradi?”

He sat near and a little behind her on the balustrade. His thighs bulged in their sharkskin trousers. “I think it will be less risky if your husband, who is not unfamiliar with the procedure, gives the anaesthetic. Her condition is not good.”

His voice flowed over her shoulder. It was really extraordinary she thought, how he could invest information about peritonitis and ruptured abscesses with such a gross suggestion of flattery. He might have been paying her the most objectionable compliments imaginable.

“Very well,” Alleyn said, “that’s decided, then. But you’ll need other help, won’t you?”

“If possible, two persons. And here we encounter a difficulty.” He moved round behind Troy but spoke to Alleyn. His manner was now authoritative. “I doubt,” he said, “if there is anyone in the house-party who could assist me. It is not every layman who enjoys a visit to an operating theatre. Surgery is not everybody’s cup of tea.” The colloquialism came oddly from him. “I have spoken to our host, of course. He is not yet stirring. He offers every possible assistance and all the amenities of the château with the reservation that he himself shall not be asked to perform an active part. He is,” said Baradi — putting on his sun-glasses —“allergic to blood.”

“Indeed,” said Alleyn politely.

“The rest of our household — we are seven—” Dr. Baradi explained playfully to Troy, “is not yet awake. Mr. Oberon gave a party here last night. Some friends with a yacht in port. We were immeasurably gay and kept going till five o’clock. Mr. Oberon has a genius for parties and a passion for charades. They were quite wonderful, our charades.” Troy was about to give a little ejaculation, which she immediately checked. He beamed at her. “I was cast for one of King Solomon’s concubines. And we had the Queen of Sheba, you know. She stabbed Solomon’s favourite wife. It was all a little strenuous. I don’t think any of my friends will be in good enough form to help us. Indeed, I doubt if any of them, even at the top of his or her form, would care to offer for the role. I don’t know if you have met any of them. Grizel Locke, perhaps? The Honourable Grizel Locke?”

The Alleyns said they did not know Miss Locke.

“What about the servants?” Alleyn suggested. Troy was all too easily envisaging Dr. Baradi as one of King Solomon’s concubines.

“One of the men is a possibility. He is my personal attendant and valet and is not quite unfamiliar with surgical routine. He will not lose his head. Any of the others would almost certainly be worse than useless. So we need one other, you see.”

A silence fell upon them, broken at last by Troy.

“I know,” she said, “what Dr. Baradi is going to suggest.” Alleyn looked fixedly at her and raised his left eyebrow.

“It’s quite out of the question. You well know that you’re punctually sick at the sight of blood, my darling.”

Troy, who was nothing of the sort, said: “In that case I’ve no suggestions. Unless you’d like to appeal to cousin Garbel.”

There was a moment of silence.

“To whom?” said Baradi softly.

“I’m afraid I was being facetious,” Troy mumbled.

Alleyn said: “What about our driver? He seems a hardy, intelligent sort of chap. What would he have to do?”

“Fetch and carry,” Dr. Baradi said. He was looking thoughtfully at Troy. “Count sponges. Hand instruments. Clean up. Possibly, in an emergency, play a minor role as unqualified assistant.”

“I’ll speak to him. If he seems at all possible I’ll bring him in to see you. Would you like to stroll back to the car with me, darling?”

“Please don’t disturb yourselves,” Dr. Baradi begged them. “One of the servants will fetch your man.”

Troy knew that her husband was in two minds about this suggestion and also about leaving her to cope with Dr. Baradi. She said: “You go, Rory, will you? I’m longing for my sunglasses and they’re locked away in my dressing-case.”

She gave him her keys and a ferocious smile. “I think, perhaps, I’ll have a look at Miss Truebody,” she added.

He grimaced at her and walked out quickly.

Troy went to Ricky. She touched his forehead and found it moist. His sleep was profound and when she opened the front of his shirt he did not stir. She stayed, lightly swinging the seat, and watched him, and she thought with tenderness that he was her defense in a stupid situation which fatigue and a confusion of spirit, brought about by many untoward events, had perhaps created in her imagination. It was ridiculous, she thought, to feel anything but amused by her embarrassment. She knew that Baradi watched her and she turned and faced him.

“If there is anything I can do before I go,” she said and kept her voice down because of Ricky, “I hope you’ll tell me.”

It was a mistake to speak softly. He at once moved towards her and, with an assumption of intimacy, lowered his own voice. “But how helpful!” he said. “So we shall have you with us for a little longer? That is good: though it should not be to perform these unlovely tasks.”

“I hope I’m equal to them.” She moved away from Ricky and raised her voice. “What are they?”

“She must be prepared for the operation.”

He told her what should be done and explained that she would find everything she needed for her purpose in Miss Truebody’s bathroom. In giving these specifically clinical instructions, he reverted to his professional manner, but with an air of amusement that she found distasteful. When he had finished she said: “Then I’ll get her fixed now, shall I?”

“Yes,” he agreed, more to himself than to her. “Yes, certainly, we shouldn’t delay too long.” And seeing a look of preoccupation and responsibility on his face, she left him, disliking him less in that one moment than at any time since they had met. As she went down the stone stairway she thought: “Thank heaven, at least, for the Queen of Sheba.”

ii

Alleyn found their driver in his vest and trousers on the running-board of the car. A medallion of St. Christopher dangled from a steel chain above the mat of hair on his chest. He was exchanging improper jokes with a young woman and two small boys, who, when he rose to salute his employer, drifted away without embarrassment. He gave Alleyn a look that implied a common understanding of women, and opened the car door.

Alleyn said: “We’re not going yet. What is your name?”

“Raoul, Monsieur. Raoul Milano.”

“You’ve been a soldier, perhaps?”

“Yes, Monsieur. I am thirty-three and therefore I have seen some service.”

“So your stomach is not easily outraged, then; by a show of blood, for instance? By a formidable wound, shall we say?”

“I was a medical orderly, Monsieur. My stomach also is an old campaigner.”

“Excellent! I have a job for you, Raoul. It is to assist Dr. Baradi, the gentleman you have already seen. He is about to remove Mademoiselle’s appendix and since we cannot find a second doctor, we must provide unqualified assistants. If you will help us there may be a little reward and certainly there will be much grace in performing this service. What do you say?”

Raoul looked down at his blunt hands and then up at Alleyn: “I say yes, M’sieur. As you suggest, it is an act of grace and in any case one may as well do something.”

“Good. Come along, then.” Alleyn had found Troy’s sunglasses. He and Raoul turned towards the passage, Raoul slinging his coat across his shoulders with the grace of a ballet dancer.

“So you live down in Roqueville?” Alleyn asked.

“In Roqueville, M’sieur. My parents have a little café, not at all smart, but the food is good and I also hire myself out in my car, as you see.”

“You’ve been up to the château before, of course?”

“Certainly. For little expeditions and also to drive guests and sometimes tourists. As a rule Mr. Oberon sends a car for his guests.” He waved a hand at a row of garage-doors, incongruously set in a rocky face at the back of the platform. “His cars are magnificent.”