“It must have been forested at one time,” said Alleyn. “There are burnt tree stumps all over these hills.”

And from the trees came the voice of a solitary bird, a slow cadence, deeper than any they had ever heard, ringing, remote and cool, above the sound of water. Carolyn stopped to listen. Suddenly Alleyn realised that she was deeply moved and that her eyes had filled with tears.

“I’ll go back for the luncheon basket,” he said, “if you’ll find a place for us to sit. Here’s the rug.”

When he turned back he saw that she had gone farther up the river-bed and was sitting in shade, close to the stream. She sat very still and it was impossible to guess at her mood from her posture. As he walked towards her, he wondered of what she thought. He saw her hands move up and pull off the black London hat. In a moment she turned her head and waved to him. When he reached her side he saw that she had been crying.

“Well,” said Alleyn, “how do you feel about lunch? They’ve given me a billy to make the authentic brew of tea — I thought you would insist on that, but if you’re not tourist-minded, there’s some sort of white wine. Anyway we’ll make a fire because it smells pleasant. Will you unpack the lunch while I attempt to do my great open spaces stuff with sticks and at least three boxes of matches?”

She could not answer, and he knew that at last the sprightly, vague, delightfully artificial Carolyn had failed her, and that she was left alone with herself and with him.

He turned away, but her voice recalled him.

“You won’t believe it,” she was saying. “Nobody will believe it — but I was so fond of my Alfie-pooh.”

Chapter XVIII

DUOLOGUE

Alleyn did not at once reply. He was thinking that by a sort of fluke he was about to reach a far deeper layer of Carolyn’s personality than was usually revealed. It was as though the top layers of whimsicality and charm and gaiety had become transparent and through them appeared — not perhaps the whole innermost Carolyn but at least a part of her. “And this because she is unhappy and I have jerked her away from her usual background and brought her to a place where the air is very clear and heady, and there is the sound of a mountain stream and the voice of a bird with a note like a little gong.”

Aloud he said:

“But I can believe it very easily. I thought you seemed fond of him.”

He began to break up a branch of dry driftwood.

“Not romantically in love with him,” continued Carolyn. “My poor fat Alfie! He was not a romantic husband, but he was so kind and understanding. He never minded whether I was amusing or dull. He thought it impossible that I could be dull. I didn’t have to bother about any of that.”

Alleyn laid his twigs between two flat stones and tucked a screw of paper under them.

“I know,” he said. “There are people to whom one need not show off. It’s a great comfort sometimes. I’ve got one of that kind.”

“Your wife! But I didn’t know—”

Alleyn sat back on his heels and laughed. “No, no. I’m talking about a certain Detective-Inspector Fox. He’s large and slow and innocently straight-forward. He works with me at the Yard. I never have to show off to old Fox, bless him. Now let’s see if it will light. You try, while I fill the billy.”

He went down to the creek and, standing on a boulder, held the billy against the weight of the stream. The water was icy cold and swift-running, and the sound of it among the stones was so loud that it seemed to flow over his senses. Innumerable labials all sounding together with a deep undertone that muttered among the boulders. It was pleasant to lift the brimming billy out of the creek and to turn again towards the bank where Carolyn had lit the fire. A thin spiral of smoke rose from it, pungent and aromatic.

“It’s alight — it’s going!” cried Carolyn, “and doesn’t it smell good?”

She turned her face up to him. Her eyes were still dimmed with tears, her hair was not quite smooth, her lips parted tremulously. She looked beautiful.

“It would be so happy,” she said, “if there was nothing but this.”

Alleyn set the can of water on the stones and built up the fire. They moved away from it and lit cigarettes.

“I am glad you do not go into ecstasies over nature,” said Alleyn. “I was rather afraid you would.”

“I expect I should have — yesterday. Dear Mr. Alleyn, will you ask me all your questions now? I would like you to get it over, if you don’t mind.”

But Alleyn would not ask his questions until they had lunched, saying that he was ravenous. They had white wine with their lunch, and he brewed his billy-tea to take the place of coffee. It was smoky but unexpectedly good. He wondered which of them was dreading most the business that was to come. She helped him to pack up their basket and then suddenly she turned to him:

“Now, please. The interview.”

For perhaps the first time in his life, Alleyn found himself unwilling to carry his case a step further. He had set the stage deliberately, hoping to bring about precisely this attitude in Carolyn. Here she was, taken away from her protective background, vulnerable, and not unfriendly and yet—

He thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out a little box. He opened it and laid it on the rug between them.

“My first question is about that. You can touch it if you like. It has been ‘finger-printed’.”

Inside the box lay the little green tiki.

“Oh! — ” It was an involuntary exclamation, he would have sworn. For a second she was simply surprised. Then she seemed to go very still. “Why, it’s my tiki — you’ve found it. I’m so glad.” The least fraction of a pause. “Where was it?”

“Before I tell you where it was, I want to ask you if you remember what you did with it before we sat down at the table.”

“But I have already told you. I don’t remember. I think I left it on the table.”

“And if I should tell you that I know you slipped it inside your dress?”

Another long pause. The fire crackled, and above the voice of the stream sounded the note of the solitary bird.

“It is possible. I don’t remember.”

“I found it on the floor of the gallery above the stage.”

She was ready for that. Her look of astonishment was beautifully done. With her hands she made a gesture eloquent of bewilderment.

“But I don’t understand. In the grid? How did it get there?”

“I suggest that it dropped out of your dress.”

How frightened she was! Cold nightmarish panic was drowning her before his eyes.

“I don’t know — what — you — mean.”

“Indeed you do. You can refuse to answer me if you think it wise.” He waited a second. “My next question is this: Did you go up into the grid before the catastrophe?”

“Before! The relief was too much for her. The single word, with its damning emphasis, was spoken before she could command herself. When it was too late she said quietly: ”No. I did not go up there.”

“But afterwards? Ah, don’t try!” cried Alleyn. “Don’t try to patch it up. Don’t lie. It will only make matters worse for you and for him.”

“What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

“You don’t understand! Tell me this. Was that morning in your dressing-room the only time Hambledon asked you if you would marry him, supposing your husband to be dead?”

“Who told you this story? What morning?”

“The morning you arrived in Middleton. Your conversation was overheard. Now, please answer. Believe me I know altogether too much for there to be anything but disaster in your evasion. You will damage yourself and Hambledon, perhaps irrevocably, if you try to hold out.” He paused staring at his own thin hands clasped about his knees. “You think, of course, that I am trying to trap you, to frighten you into a sort of confession. That may be true, but it is equally true that I am trying to help you. Can you believe that?”