“H «was,” Mark said, and as if he realized that this reply sounded uncomfortably short, he added, “My grandfather was a terrific ‘Vale Man,’ as we say in these parts. He liked to go all feudal and surround himself with local people. When Viccy Phinn went into the Service, I fancy grandfather asked if he could have him with the idea of making one corner of a Zlomcefield forever Swevenings. My God,” Mark added, “I didn’t mean to put it like that. I mean…”

“You’ve remembered, perhaps, that young Phinn blew out his brains in one corner of a Zlomce field.”

“You knew about that?”

“It must have been a great shock to your grandfather.”

Mark compressed his lips and turned away. “Naturally,” he said. He pulled out a case and still with his back to Alleyn lit himself a cigarette. The match scraped and Fox cleared his throat.

“I believe,” Alleyn said, “that Sir Harold’s autobiography is to be published.”

Mark said, “Did Phinn tell you that?”

“Now, why in the wide world,” Alleyn asked, “should Mr. Octavius Phinn tell me?”

There was a long silence broken by Mark.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Mark said. “I must decline absolutely to answer any more questions.”

“You are perfectly within your rights. It’s not so certain that you are wise to do so.”

“After all,” Mark said, “I must judge of that for myself. Is there any objection now to my driving to the dispensary?”

Alleyn hesitated for the fraction of a second. “No objection in the world,” he said. “Good morning to you, Dr. Lacklander.”

Mark repeated, “I’m sorry,” and with a troubled look at both of them went out of the room.

“Br’er Fox,” Alleyn said, “we shall snatch a couple of hours sleep at the Boy and Donkey, but before we do so, will you drag your fancy away from thoughts of District Nurses and bend it upon the bottom drawer on the left-hand side of Colonel Cartarette’s desk?”

Fox raised his eyebrows, stationed himself before the desk, bent his knees, placed his spectacles across his nose and did as he was bidden.

“Forced,” he said. “Recent. Chipped.”

“Quite so. The chip’s on the floor. The paper knife on the desk is also chipped and the missing bit is in the otherwise empty drawer. The job’s been done unhandily by an amateur in a hurry. We’ll seal this room and to-morrow we’ll put in the camera-and-dabs boys. Miss Kettle’s, Mr. Phinn’s and Dr. Lacklander’s prints’ll be on their statements. Lacklander’s and Mrs. Cartarette’s grog glasses had better be rescued and locked up in here. If we want dabs from the others, we’ll pick them up in the morning.” He took a folded handkerchief from his pocket, put it on the desk and opened it up. A pair of cheap spectacles was revealed. “And before we go to bed,” he said, “we’ll discover if Mr. Danberry-Phinn has left his dabs on his reach-me-down specs. And in the morning, Foxkin, if you are a good boy, you shall be told the sad and cautionary story of Master Ludovic Phinn.”

Kitty Cartarette lay in a great Jacobean bed. She had asked, when she was first married, to have it done over in quilted and buttoned peach velvet, but had seen at once that this would be considered an error in taste. Anxious at that time to establish her position, she had given up this idea, but the dressing-table and chairs and lamp had all been her own choice. She stared miserably at them now, and a fanciful observer might have found something valedictory in her glance. By shifting across the bed, she was able to see herself in her long glass. The pink silk sheet billowed up round her puffed and tear-stained face. “I do look a sight,” she muttered. She may have then remembered that she lay in her husband’s place, and if a coldness came over her at this recollection, nobody in Swevenings would have suggested that it was because she had ever really loved him. Lady Lacklander had remarked, indeed, that Kitty was one of those rare women who seem to get through life without forming a deep attachment to anybody, and Lady Lacklander would have found it difficult to say why Kitty had been weeping. It would not have occurred to her to suppose that Kitty was lonelier than she had ever been before, but merely that she suffered from shock, which, of course, was true.

There was a tap on the door and this startled Kitty. Maurice, with his queer old-fashioned delicacy, had always tapped.

“Hullo?” she said.

The door opened and Rose came in. In her muslin dressing-gown and with her hair drawn into a plait she looked like a school-girl. Her eyelids, like Kitty’s, were swollen and pink, but even this disfigurement, Kitty noticed with vague resentment, didn’t altogether blot out Rose’s charm. Kitty supposed she ought to have done a bit more about Rose. “But I can’t think of everything,” she told herself distractedly.

Rose said, “Kitty, I hope you don’t mind my coming in. I couldn’t get to sleep and I came out and saw the light under your door. Mark’s fetching me some sleeping things from Chyning and I wondered if you’d like one.”

“I’ve got some things of my own, thanks all the same. Has everybody gone?”

“Lady Lacklander and George have and, I think, Occy Phinn. Would you like Mark to look in?”

“What for?”

“You might find him sort of helpful,” Rose said in a shaky voice. “I do.”

“I daresay,” Kitty rejoined dryly. She saw Rose blush faintly. “It was nice of you to think of it, but I’m all right. What about the police? Are they still making themselves at home in your father’s study?” Kitty asked.

“I think they must have gone. They’re behaving awfully well, really, Kitty. I mean it is a help, Mr. Alleyn being a gent.”

“I daresay,” Kitty said again. “O.K., Rose,” she added. “Don’t worry. I know.”

Her manner was good-naturedly dismissive, but Rose still hesitated. After a pause she said, “Kitty, while I’ve been waiting — for Mark to come back, you know — I’ve been thinking. About the future.”

“The future?” Kitty repeated and stared at her. “I should have thought the present was enough!”

“I can’t think about that,” Rose said quickly. “Not yet. Not about Daddy. But it came into my mind that it was going to be hard on you. Perhaps you don’t realize — I don’t know if he told you, but — well—”

“Oh, yes,” Kitty said wearily, “I know. He did tell me. He was awfully scrupulous about anything to do with money, wasn’t he?” She looked up at Rose. “O.K., Rose,” she said. “Not to fuss. I’ll make out. I wasn’t expecting anything. My sort,” she added obscurely, “don’t.”

“But I wanted to tell you; you needn’t worry. Not from any financial point of view. I mean — it’s hard to say and perhaps I should wait till we’re more used to what’s happened, but I want to help,” Rose stammered. She began to speak rapidly. It was almost as if she had reached that point of emotional exhaustion that is akin to drunkenness. Her native restraint seemed to have forsaken her and to have been replaced by an urge to pour out some kind of sentiment upon somebody. She appeared scarcely to notice her stepmother as an individual. “You see,” she was saying, weaving her fingers together, “I might as well tell you. I shan’t need Hammer for very long. Mark and I are going to be engaged.”

Kitty looked up at her, hesitated, and then said, “Well, that’s fine, isn’t it? I do hope you’ll be awfully happy. Of course, I’m not exactly surprised.”

“No,” Rose agreed. “I expect we’ve been terribly transparent.” Her voice trembled and her eyes filled with réitérant tears. “Daddy knew,” she said.

“Yes,” Kitty agreed with a half-smile. “I told him.”

“You did?”

It was as if Rose was for the first time positively aware of her stepmother.

“You needn’t mind,” Kitty said. “It was natural enough. I couldn’t help noticing.”

“We told him ourselves,” Rose muttered.

“Was he pleased? Look, Rose,” Kitty said, still in that half-exhausted, half-good-natured manner, “don’t let’s bother to hedge. I know about the business over Old Man Lacklander’s memoirs.”