“Get him upstairs?” Douglas repeated, looking very startled. He reached for his dressing-gown. “I say,” he said. “This is pretty tough luck, isn’t it? I mean, what he said about Ursy and him?”

“Yes.”

“Half an hour ago,” said Douglas, thrusting his feet into his slippers. “That must have been just after we came up. I went out to the side lawn to have a look at the weather. He must have been up there then, good Lord.”

“Did you hear anything?”

Douglas gaped at him with his mouth open. “I heard the river,” he said. “That means there’s a southerly hanging round. Sure sign. You wouldn’t know.”

“No. Did you hear anything else?”

“Hear anything? What sort of thing?”

“Voices or footsteps.”

“Voices? Was he talking? Footsteps?”

“Let it pass,” said Alleyn. “Come on.”

They went down to the drawing-room.

Fabian was lying on the sofa with Ursula on a low stool beside him. Tommy Johns and Cliff stood awkwardly by the French windows looking at their boots. Markins, with precisely the correct shade of deferential concern, was setting out a tea tray with drinks. Terence Lynne stood composedly before the fire, which had been mended, and flickered its light richly in the folds of her crimson gown.

“Here, I say,” said Douglas. “This is no good, Fab. Damn bad luck.”

“Extremely tiresome,” Fabian murmured, looking at Ursula. He was still covered by grey blankets and Ursula had slid her hand beneath them. “Give the stretcher-bearers a drink, Douglas. They must need it.”

“You mustn’t,” said Ursula.

“See section four. Alcohol after cerebral injuries, abstain from.”

Markins moved away with decorum. “You must have a drink, Markins,” said Fabian weakly. Douglas looked scandalized.

“Thank you very much, sir,” said Markins primly.

“You’ll have whisky, won’t you, Tommy? Cliff?”

“I don’t mind,” said Tommy Johns. “The boy won’t take it, thank you.”

“He looks as if he wants it,” said Fabian, and indeed Cliff was very white.

“He doesn’t take whisky, thank you,” said his father, with uncomfortable emphasis.

“I think you ought to get to bed, Fab,” fussed Douglas. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Alleyn?”

“We’ll drink to your recovery when we’ve finished the job,” Alleyn said.

“I’m not going to be carried upstairs and don’t you think it.”

“Well then, you shall walk and Grace and I will see you up.”

“O.K.,” said Douglas amiably.

“One’s enough,” Fabian said peevishly. “I tell you, I’m all right. You give these poor swine a drink, Douglas. Mr. Alleyn started the rescue squad, didn’t he? He might like to finish the job.”

He sat up and grimaced. He was very white and his hands trembled.

“Please Fab, go slow,” said Ursula. “I’ll come and see you.”

“Come on,” Fabian said to Alleyn. He grinned at Ursula. “Thank you, darling,” he said. “I’d like you to come but not just yet, please.”

When they were outside in the hall, Fabian took Alleyn’s arm. “Sorry to appear churlish,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you. God, I do feel sick.”

Alleyn got him to bed. He was very docile. Remembering Markins’ story of the medicine cupboard in the bathroom, Alleyn raided it and found dressings. He clipped away the thick hair. The wound, a depression, swollen at the margin and broken only at the top, was seen to be clearly defined. He cleaned it and was about to put on a dressing when Fabian, who was lying face downwards on his pillow, said: “I didn’t get that by falling, did I? Some expert’s had a crack at me, hasn’t he?”

“What makes you think so?” said Alleyn, pausing with the lint in his fingers.

“After a fashion I can remember. I was on my feet when I got it. Where the main track branches off to the wool-shed. It felt just like the bump I got at Dunkirk only, thank the Lord, it’s not on the same spot. I think I called out. You needn’t bother to deny it. Somebody cracked me.”

“Any more ideas?”

“It was where that bank with a bit of scrub on it overhangs the track. I was coming back from the annex. There’s always water or ice lying about on the far side so I walked close in to the bank. Whoever it was must have been lying up there, waiting. But why? Why me?”

Alleyn dropped the lint over the wound and took up a length of strapping. “You were wearing my coat,” he said.

“Stay me with flagons!” Fabian whispered. “So I was.” And he was silent while Alleyn finished his dressing. He was comfortable enough lying on his side with a thick pad of cotton wool under his head. Alleyn tidied his room and when he turned back to the bed Fabian was already dozing. He slipped out.

Before going downstairs he visited the other bedrooms. There were no damp shoes in any of them. Douglas’ and Fabian’s working boots were evidently kept downstairs. “But it was something quieter than working boots,” Alleyn muttered and returned to the drawing-room.

He found the two Johnses on the point of departure and Markins about to remove the tray. Douglas, lying back in an armchair with his feet in the hearth and a pipe in his mouth, glanced up with evident relief. Terence Lynne had unearthed her inevitable knitting and, erect on the sofa, her feet to the fire, flashed her needles composedly. Ursula, who was speaking to Tommy Johns, went quickly to Alleyn.

“Is he all right? May I go up?”

“He’s comfortably asleep. I think it will be best to leave him. You may listen at his door presently.”

“We’ll be going,” said Tommy Johns. “Good night all.”

“Just a moment,” said Alleyn.

“Hullo!” Douglas looked up quickly. “What’s up now?” And before Alleyn could answer, he added sharply: “He is all right, isn’t he? I mean, shall I go down-country for a doctor? I could get back inside four hours if I stepped on it. We don’t want to take any risks with an injury to the head.”

“No,” Alleyn agreed, “we don’t. If you feel you want to do something of the sort, of course you may, but I fancy he’ll do very well. I’m sure his skull is not injured. It seems to have been a glancing blow.”

“A blow?” Terence Lynne’s voice struck harshly. Her mouth was open. The muscle of the upper lip was contracted, showing her teeth in the parody of a smile.

“But didn’t he fall on his head?” Douglas shouted.

“He fell on his face because he’d been struck on the back of the skull.”

“D’you mean someone attacked him?”

“I do.”

“Good God,” Douglas whispered.

Ursula stood before Alleyn, her hands jammed down in the pockets of her dressing-gown. Her voice shook but she held her chin up and looked squarely at him. “Does that mean somebody wanted to kill Fabian?” she said.

“It was a dangerous assault,” Alleyn said.

“But—” She moved quickly to the door. “I’m going to him,” she said. “He mustn’t be left alone.”

“Please stay here, Miss Harme. The house is locked up and I have the key of his door in my pocket. You see,” Alleyn said, “we are all in here, so he is quite safe.”

It was at this point that Terence Lynne, winding her hands in her scarlet knitting, broke into a fit of screaming hysteria.

Police officers are not unfamiliar with hysterics. Alleyn dealt crisply with Miss Lynne. While Tommy Johns and Douglas turned their backs, Cliff looked sick and Markins interested; Ursula, with considerable aplomb, offered to fetch a jug of cold water and pour it over the patient. This suggestion, combined with Alleyn’s less drastic treatment, had its effect. Miss Lynne grew quieter, rose, and walking to the far end of the room seemed to fight down savagely her own incontinence.

“Really, Terry,” Ursula said, “you of all people!”

“Shut up, Ursy,” said Douglas.

“Well, after all, Douglas darling, he’s my young man.”

Douglas glared at her and, after a moment’s hesitation, went to Terence Lynne and spoke to her in a low voice. Alleyn heard her say: “No! Please leave me alone. I’m all right. Please go away.” He returned, looking discomfited and portentous.