“Yes,” said Alleyn, raising an eyebrow at it. “A fragment of the covering used on a film package for a Leica or similar camera.”

“That’s right, sir. I thought I wasn’t mistaken. A bloke in our mess had used those films and I remembered the look of them. Now it seemed pretty funny to me that a man in Markins’ position should be able to afford a Leica camera. They cost anything from £25 to £100 out here when you could get them. Of course, I said to myself, it mightn’t be his. But there was a suit hanging up in the cupboard and in one of the pockets I found a sales docket from a photographic supply firm. Markins had spent five pounds there, and amongst the stuff he’d bought were twelve films for a Leica. I suppose he was afraid he’d run out. I shifted one of his locked cases and it rattled and clinked. I bet it had his developing plant in it. When I left his room I was satisfied I’d hit on something pretty startling. Markins was probably going to photograph everything he could lay his hands on in our workroom and send it on to his principals.”

“I see,” said Alleyn. “So what did you do?”

“Told Fabian,” said Douglas. “Right away.”

Alleyn looked at Fabian.

“Oh yes. He told me and we disagreed completely over the whole thing. In fact,” said Fabian, “we had one hell of a flaming row over it, didn’t we, Doug?”

“There’s no need to exaggerate,” said Douglas. “We merely took up different attitudes.”

“Wildly different,” Fabian agreed. “You see, Mr. Alleyn, my idea, for what it’s worth, was this. Suppose Markins was a dirty dog. If questioned about his nightly prowl he had only to say: (a) That his tummy was upset and he didn’t feel up to going to the downstairs Usual Offices so had visited ours, or (b) that it wasn’t him at all. As for his photographic zeal, if it existed, he might have been given a Leica camera by a grateful employer or saved up his little dimes and dollars and bought one second-hand in America. Every photographic zealot is not a fifth columnist. If he kept his developing stuff locked up it might be because he was innately tidy or because he didn’t trust us, and I must say that with Douglas on the premises he wasn’t far wrong.”

“So you were for doing nothing about it?”

“No. I thought we should keep our stuff well stowed away and our eyes open. I suggested that if, on consideration, we thought Markins was a bit dubious, we should report the whole story to the people who are dealing with espionage in this country.”

“And did you agree with this plan, Grace?”

Douglas had disagreed most vigorously. He had, he said with a short laugh, the poorest opinion of the official counter-espionage system and would greatly prefer to tackle the matter himself. “That’s what we’re like out here, sir,” he told Alleyn. “We like to go to it on our own and get things done.” He added that he felt, personally, so angry with Markins that he had to do something about it. Fabian’s suggestion he dismissed as unrealistic. Why wait? Report the matter certainly, but satisfy themselves first and then go direct to the Authority they had seen at Army Headquarters and get rid of the fellow. They argued for some time and separated without having come to any conclusion. Douglas on parting from Fabian encountered his aunt, who as luck would have it launched out on an encomium upon her manservant. “What should I do without my Markins? Thank heaven he comes back this evening. I touch wood,” Flossie had said, tapping a gnarled finger playfully on her forehead, “every time he says he’s happy here. It’d be so unspeakably dreadful if he were lost to us.”

This, Douglas said, was too much for him. He followed his aunt into the study and, as he said, gave her the works. “I stood no nonsense from Flossie,” said Douglas, brushing up his moustache. “We understood each other pretty well. I used to pull her leg a bit and she liked it. She was a good scout, taking her all round, only you didn’t want to let her ride roughshod over you. I talked pretty straight to her. I told her she’d have to get rid of Markins and I told her why.”

Terence Lynne said under her breath: “I never realized you did that.”

Flossie had been very much upset. She was caught. On the one hand there was her extreme reluctance to part with her jewel, as she had so often called Markins; on the other her noted zeal, backed up by public utterance, in the matter of counter-espionage. Douglas said he reminded her of a speech she had made in open debate in which she had wound up with a particularly stately peroration: “I say now, and I say it solemnly and advisedly,” Flossie had urged, “that, with our very life-blood at stake, it is the duty of us all not only to get a guard upon our own tongue but to make a public example of anyone, be he stranger or dearest friend, who, by the slightest deviation from that discretion which is his duty, endangers in the least degree the safety of our realm. Make no doubt about it,” she had finally shouted, “there is an enemy in our midst, and let each of us beware lest, unknowingly, we give him shelter.” This piece of rhetoric had a wry flavour in regurgitation, and for a moment Flossie stared miserably at her nephew. Then she rallied.

“You’ve been working too hard, Douglas,” she said. “You’re suffering from nervous strain, dear.”

But Douglas made short work of this objection and indignantly put before her the link with Mr. Kurata Kan, at which Flossie winced, the vagueness of Markins’ antecedents, the importance of their work, the impossibility of taking the smallest risk and their clear duty in the matter. It would be better, he said, if, after further investigation on Douglas’ part, Markins still looked suspicious, for Flossie and not Douglas or Fabian to report the matter to the highest possible authority.

Poor Flossie wrung her hands. “Think of what he does,” she wailed. “And he’s so good with Arthur. He’s marvellous with Arthur. And he’s so obliging, Douglas. Single-handed butler in a house of this size! Everything so nice, always. And there’s no help to be got. None.”

“The girls will have to manage.”

“I don’t believe it!” she cried, rallying. “I’m always right in my judgment of people. I never go wrong. I won’t believe it.”

But, as Ursula had said, Flossie was an honest woman and it seemed as if Douglas had done his work effectively. She tramped up and down the room hitting her top teeth with a pencil, a sure sign that she was upset. He waited.

“You’re right,” Flossie said at last. “I can’t let it go.” She lowered her chin and looked at Douglas over the tops of her pince-nez. “You were quite right to tell me, dear,” she said. “I’ll handle it.”

This was disturbing. “What will you do?” he asked.

“Consider,” said Florence magnificently. “And act.”

“How?”

“Never you mind.” She patted him rather too vigorously on the cheek. “Leave it all to your old Floosie,” she said. This was the abominable pet name she had for herself.

“But, Auntie,” he protested, “we’ve a right to know. After all—”

“So you shall. At the right moment.” She dumped herself down at her desk. She was a tiny creature but all her movements were heavy and noisy. “Away with you,” she said. Douglas hung about. She began to write scratchily and in a moment or two tossed another remark at him. “I’m going to tackle him,” she said.

Douglas was horrified. “Oh, no, Aunt Floss. Honestly, you mustn’t. It’ll give the whole show away. Look here, Aunt Floss—”

But she told him sharply that he had chosen to come to her with his story and must allow her to deal with her own servants in the way that seemed best to her. Her pen scratched busily. When in his distress he roared at her, she, too, lost her temper and told him to be quiet. Douglas, unable to make up his mind to leave her, stared despondently through the window and saw Markins, neatly dressed, walk past it mopping his brow. He had tramped up from the front gate.