The others stirred. Fabian reached over to the wood box and flung a log on the fire. Douglas muttered impatiently. Terence Lynne put down her knitting and folded her elegant hands together in her lap.

“In what direction?” Alleyn asked.

“I’m not sure. You know how it is. Dream and waking overlap, and by the time you are really alert the sound that came into your dream and woke you has stopped. I simply know that it was real.”

“Mrs. Duck returning from the party,” said Terence.

“But it was three o’clock, Terry. I heard the grandfather strike about five minutes later and Duckie says they got back at quarter to two.”

“They’d hung about, cackling,” said Douglas.

“For an hour and a quarter? And anyway Duckie would come up the back stair. I don’t suppose it amounts to anything, Mr. Alleyn, because we know now that — that it hadn’t — that it happened away from the house. It must have. But I don’t care what anyone says,” Ursula said, lifting her chin, “somebody was about on the landing at five minutes to three that morning.”

“And we don’t know definitely and positively,” said Fabian, “that it wasn’t Flossie herself.”

CHAPTER III

ACCORDING TO DOUGLAS

Fabian’s suggestion raised a storm of protest. The two girls and Douglas Grace began at once to combat it. It seemed to Alleyn that they thrust it from them as an idea that shocked and horrified their emotions rather than offended their reason. In the blaze of fire-light that sprang from the fresh log he saw Terence Lynne’s hands weave together.

She said sharply: “That’s a beastly thing to suggest, Fabian.”

Alleyn saw Douglas Grace slide his arm along the sofa behind Terence. “I agree,” Douglas said. “Not only beastly but idiotic. Why in God’s name should Flossie stay out until three in the morning, return to her room, go out again and get murdered?”

“I didn’t say it was likely. I said it wasn’t impossible. We can’t prove it wasn’t Flossie.”

“But what possible reason—”

“A rendezvous?” Fabian suggested and looked out of the corner of his eyes at Terence.

“I consider that’s a remark in abominable taste, Fab,” said Ursula.

“Do you, Ursy? I’m sorry. Must we never laugh a little at people after they are dead? But I’m very sorry. Let’s go back to our story.”

“I’ve finished,” said Ursula shortly, and there was an uncomfortable silence.

“As far as we’re concerned,” said Douglas at last, “that’s the end of the story. Ursula went into Aunt Floss’s room the next morning to do it out, and she noticed nothing wrong. The bed was made but that meant nothing because we all do our own beds and Ursy simply thought Flossie had tidied up before she left.”

“But it was odd all the same,” said Terence. “Mrs. Rubrick’s sheets were always taken off when she went away and the bed made up again the day she returned. She always left it unmade, for that reason.”

“It didn’t strike me at the time,” said Ursula. “I ran the carpet-sweeper over the floor and dusted and came away. It was all very tidy. She was a tremendously orderly person.”

“There was another thing that didn’t strike you, Ursula,” said Terence Lynne. “You may remember that you took the carpet-sweeper from me and that I came for it when you’d finished. It wanted emptying and I took it down to the rubbish bin. I noticed there was something twisted around one of the axles, between the wheel and the box. I unwound it.” Terence paused, looking at her hands. “It was a lock of wool,” she said tranquilly. “Natural wool, I mean, from the fleece.”

“You never told us that,” said Fabian sharply.

“I told the detective. He didn’t seem to think it important. He said that was the sort of thing you’d expect to find in the house at shearing time. He was a town-bred man.”

“It might have been there for ages, Terry,” said Ursula.

“Oh, no. It wasn’t there when you borrowed the sweeper from me. I’m very observant of details,” said Terence, “and I know. And if Mrs. Rubrick had seen it she’d have picked it up. She hated bits on the carpet. She had a ‘thing’ about them and always picked them up. I’ll swear it wasn’t there when she was in the room.”

“How big was it?” Fabian demanded.

“Quite small. Not a lock really. Just a twist.”

“A teeny-weeny twist,” said Ursula in a ridiculous voice, suddenly gay again. She had a chancy way with her, one moment nervously intent on her memories, the next full of mockery.

“I suppose,” said Alleyn, “one might pick up a bit of wool in the shed and, being greasy, it might hang about on one’s clothes?”

“It might,” said Fabian lightly.

“And being greasy,” Douglas added, “it might also hang about in one’s room.”

“Not in Auntie Floss’s room,” Ursula said. “I always did her room, Douglas, you shan’t dare to say I left greasy wool lying squalidly about for days on the carpet. Pig!” she mocked at him.

He turned his head lazily and looked at her. Alleyn saw his arm slip down the back of the sofa to Terence Lynne’s shoulders. Ursula laughed and pulled a face at him. “It’s all nonsense,” she said, “this talk of locks of wool. Moonshine!”

“Personally,” said Terence Lynne, “I can’t think it very amusing. For me, and I’d have thought for all of us, the idea of sheep’s wool in her room that morning is perfectly horrible.”

“You’re hateful, Terry,” Ursula flashed at her. “It’s bad enough to have to talk about it. I mind more than any of you. You all know that. It’s because I mind so much that I can’t be too solemn. You know I’m the only one of us that loved her. You’re cold as ice, Terry, and I hate you.”

“Now then, Ursy,” Fabian protested. He knelt up and put his hands over hers. “Behave!” he said. “Be your age, woman. You astonish me.”

“She was a darling and I loved her. If it hadn’t been for her—”

“All right, all right.”

“You would never even have seen me if it hadn’t been for her.”

“Who was it,” Fabian murmured, “who held the grapes above Tantalus’ lips? Could it have been Aunt Florence?”

“All the same,” said Ursula with that curious air, half-rueful, half-obstinate, that seemed to characterize her relationship with Fabian, “you’re beastly to me. I’m sorry, Terry.”

“May we go on?” asked Douglas.

Alleyn, in his chair beyond the fire-light, stirred slightly and at once they were attentive and still.

“Captain Grace,” Alleyn said. “During the hunt for the diamond brooch, you went up to the house for a torch, didn’t you?”

“For two torches, sir. I gave one to Uncle Arthur.”

“Did you see anyone in the house?”

“No. There was only Markins. Markins says he was in his room. There’s no proof of that. The torches are kept on the hall table. The telephone rang while I was there and I answered it. But that only took a few seconds. Somebody wanting to know if Aunt Florence was going north in the morning.”

“From the terrace in front of the house you look down on the fenced paths, don’t you? Could you see the other seachers from there?”

“Not Uncle Arthur or Fabian, but I could just see the two girls. It was almost dark. I went straight to my uncle with the torch; he was there all right.”

“Were you with him when he found the brooch?”

“No. I simply gave him the torch and returned to my own beat with mine. I heard him call out a few moments later. He left the brooch where it was for me to see. It looked like a cluster of blue and red sparks in the torchlight. It was half hidden by zinnia leaves. He said he’d looked there before. It wasn’t too good for him to stoop much and his sight wasn’t so marvellous. I suppose he’d just missed it.”

“Did you go into the end path, the one that runs parallel with the others and links them?”

“No. He did.”

“Mr. Rubrick?”

“Yes. Earlier. Just as I was going to the house and before you went down there, Ursy, and talked to Terry.”