Rose made a slight distasteful movement. “I hadn’t thought of it,” she said. “It doesn’t make any difference.”

“No,” Kitty agreed, “in a way, I suppose it doesn’t — now. What’s the matter?”

Rose’s chin had gone up. “I think I hear Mark,” she said.

She went to the door.

“Rose,” Kitty said strongly, and Rose stopped short. “I know it’s none of my business but — you’re all over the place now. We all are. I wouldn’t rush anything! ‘Don’t rush your fences,’ that’s what your father would have said, isn’t it?”

Rose looked at Kitty with an air of dawning astonishment. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “What fences?”

She had opened the door. A well-kept hand came round it and closed over hers.

“Hallo?” Mark’s voice said. “May I come in?”

Rose looked at Kitty, who again hesitated. “Why, yes,” she said. “Of course. Come in, Mark.”

He was really a very handsome young man: tall, dark and with enough emphasis in his mouth and jaw to give him the masterful air that is supposed to be so irrestible to women. He stood looking down at Kitty with Rose’s hand drawn through his arm. They made what used to be known as a striking couple.

“I heard your voices,” he said, “and thought I’d look in. Is there anything I can do at all? I’ve bought some things for Rose to help her get to sleep; if you’d like to take one, it might be quite an idea.”

“I’ll see,” she said. “I’ve got something, actually, somewhere.”

“Shall we leave one in case?” Mark suggested. He shook a couple of capsules from a packet onto her bedside table and fetched a glass of water. “One is enough,” he said.

He was standing above Kitty and between her and Rose, who had not moved from the door at the far end of the room. Kitty looked up into his face and said loudly, “You were the first there, weren’t you?”

Mark made a slight admonitory gesture and turned towards Rose. “Not actually the first,” he said quietly. “Miss Kettle—”

“Oh — old Kettle,” Kitty said irritably, dismissing her. “What I want to know — after all, I am his wife — what happened?”

“Rose,” Mark said. “You run along to bed.”

“No, Mark darling,” Rose said, turning deadly white. “I want to know, too. Please. It’s worse not to.”

“Yes, much worse,” Kitty agreed. “Always.”

Mark waited for an appreciable time and then said quickly, “Well first of all — there’s no disfigurement to his face—”

Kitty made a sharp grimace and Rose put her hands to her eyes.

“—and I don’t think he felt anything at all,” Mark said. He lifted a finger. “All right. It was a blow. Here. On the temple.”

“That—?” Rose said. “Just that?”

“It’s a very vulnerable part, darling.”

“Then — might it be some sort of accident?”

“Well — no, I’m afraid not.”

“O, Mark, why not?”

“It’s out of the question, Rose darling.”

“But why?”

“The nature of the injuries.”

“More than one?” she said. He went quickly to her and took her hands in his.

“Well — yes.”

“But you said—” Rose began.

“You see, there are several injuries all in that one small area. It wouldn’t do any good if I let you think they might have been caused accidentally, because the — the pathologist will certainly find that they were not.”

Kitty, unnoticed, said, “I see,” and added abruptly, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can take any more to-night. D’you mind?”

Mark looked at her with sharpened interest. “You should try to settle down.” He lifted her wrist professionally.

“No, no,” she said and drew it away. “That’s unnecessary, thanks all the same. But I do think Rose ought to go to bed before she drops in her tracks.”

“I quite agree,” Mark said again, rather coldly, and opened the door. Rose said, “Yes, I’m going; I hope you do manage to sleep, Kitty,” and went out. Mark followed her to her own door.

“Mark, darling, good-night,” Rose said. She freed herself gently.

“To-morrow,” he said, “I’m going to carry you off to Nunspardon.”

“Oh,” she said, “no — I don’t think we can quite do that, do you? Why Nunspardon?”

“Because I want to look after you and because, making all due allowances, I don’t think your stepmother’s particularly sympathetic or congenial company for you,” Mark Lacklander said, frowning.

“It’s all right,” Rose said. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve learned not to notice.”

Fox was duly acquainted with the story of Ludovic Phinn over a breakfast of ham and eggs in the parlour of the Boy and Donkey shortly after dawn. Bailey and Thompson, who had also spent the tag end of the night at the pub, were already afoot in Bottom Meadow with the tools of their trade, and the Home Office pathologist was expected from London. The day promised to be fine and warm.

“I know about young Phinn,” Alleyn said, “because his debacle occurred when I was doing a spell in the Special Branch in 1937. At that time the late Sir Harold Lacklander was our Ambassador at Zlomce, and Master Danberry-Phinn was his personal secretary. It was known that the German Government was embarked on a leisurely and elaborate parly with the local government over railway concessions. We picked up information to the effect that the German boys were prepared to sign an important and, to us, disastrous undertaking in the fairly distant future. Lacklander was instructed to throw a spanner in the works. He was empowered to offer the Zlomce boys certain delectable concessions, and it was fully expected that they would play. The Germans, however, learnt of his little plot and immediately pressed on their own negotiations to a successful and greatly accelerated conclusion. Our government wanted to know why. Lacklander realized that there had been a leakage of information and, since there was nobody else in a position to let the leakage occur, he tackled young Phinn, who at once broke down and admitted that it was his doing. It seems that he had not been able to assimilate his Zlomce oats too well. It’s an old and regrettable story. He arrived with his alma mater’s milk wet on his lips, full of sophisticated backchat and unsophisticated thinking. He made some very dubious Zlomce chums, among whom was a young gent whom we afterwards found to be a German agent of a particularly persuasive sort. He was said to have fastened on young Phinn, who became completely sold on the Nazi formula and agreed to act for the Germans. As usual, our sources of information were in themselves dubious. Phinn was judged on results, and undoubtedly he behaved like a traitor. On the night after a crucial cable had come through for his chief, he went off to the gypsies or somewhere with his Nazi friend. The decoding of the cable had been entrusted to him. It developed that he presented his Zlomce chums with the whole story. It was said afterwards that he’d taken bribes. Lacklander gave him bottled hell, and he went away and blew his brains out. We were told that he’d had a kind of hero-fixation on Lacklander, and we always thought it odd that he should have behaved as he did. But he was, I believe, a brilliant but unbalanced boy, an only child whose father, the Octavius we saw last night, expected him to retrieve the fortunes of their old and rather reduced family. His mother died a few months afterwards, I believe.”

“Sad,” said Mr. Fox.

“It was indeed.”

“Would you say, Mr. Alleyn, now, that this Mr. Phinn, Sr., was slightly round the bend?”

“Dotty?”

“Well — eccentric.”

“His behaviour in the watches of last night was certainly oddish. He was a frightened man, Fox, if I ever saw one. What do you think?”

“The opportunity was there,” Fox said, going straight to the first principle of police investigation.

“It was. And, by the way, Bailey’s done his dab-drill. The spectacles are Mr. Danberry-Phinn’s.”

“There now!” Fox ejaculated with the utmost satisfaction.

“It’s not conclusive, you know. He might have lost them down there earlier in the day. He’d still be very chary of owning to them.”