“Did you meet or see or hear anyone?”

“Nobody.”

“Was there anything at all, however slight, that you noticed?”

“I think not. Except—”

“Yes.”

“When I’d passed the verandah and turned, I thought I smelt cigarette smoke. Turkish. But there was nobody about.”

“Thank you. When you left here I think Father Jourdain walked to your door with you?”

“Yes. He saw me go in, I suppose. Didn’t you, Father?”

“I did,” said Father Jourdain. “And I heard you lock it. It’s the same story, I imagine.”

“Yes, and I’d rather stay here, too,” said Miss Abbott.

“Are you sure?” Father Jourdain asked. “It’s not going to be very pleasant, you know. I can’t help feeling, Alleyn, that the ladies—”

“It would be much less pleasant for the ladies,” Miss Abbott said grimly, “to swelter in their cabins in a state of terrified ignorance.” Alleyn gave her an appreciative look.

“Very well,” he said. “Now, Mrs. Cuddy, if you please. Your cabin faces forward and to the starboard side and is next to Mr. McAngus’s. You and your husband went to it together. Is that right?” Mrs. Cuddy, who, unlike her husband, never smiled, turned her customary fixed stare upon Alleyn. “I don’t see that it matters,” she said, “but I retired with Mr. Cuddy, didn’t I, dear?”

“That’s right, dear.”

“And went to bed?”

“I did,” she said in an affronted voice.

“But your husband evidently did not go to bed?”

Mrs. Cuddy said after a pause and with some constraint, “He fancied a dip.”

“That’s right. I fancied it. The prickly heat was troubling me.”

“I told you,” Mrs. Cuddy said without looking at him, “it’s unwholesome in the night air and now see what’s happened. Fainting. I wouldn’t be surprised if you hadn’t caught an internal chill and with the trouble you’ve been having—”

Alleyn said, “So you changed into bathing trunks?”

“I don’t usually go in fully dressed,” Mr. Cuddy rejoined. His wife laughed shortly and they both looked triumphant.

“Which way did you go to the pool?”

“Downstairs, from here, and along the lower deck.”

“On the starboard side?”

“I don’t know what they call it,” Mr. Cuddy said contemptuously. “Same side as our cabin.”

“Did you see anything of Miss Abbott?”

“I did not,” Mr. Cuddy said and managed to suggest that there might be something fishy about it.

Miss Abbott raised her hand.

“Yes, Miss Abbott?”

“I’m sorry, but I do remember now that I noticed someone was in the pool. That was when I walked round the deck. It’s a good way off and down below; I didn’t see who it was. I’d forgotten.”

“Never mind. Mr. Cuddy, did you go straight into the pool?”

“It’s what I was there for, isn’t it?”

“You must have come out almost at once.”

There was a long pause. Mr. Cuddy said, “That’s right. Just a cooler and out.”

“Please tell me exactly what happened next.”

He ran the tip of his tongue round his lips. “I want to know where I stand. I’ve had a shock. I don’t want to go letting myself in for unpleasantness.”

“Mr. Cuddy’s very sensitive.”

“There’s been things said here that I don’t fancy. I know what the police are like. I’m not going to talk regardless. Pretending you was a cousin of the company’s!”

Alleyn said, “Did you commit this crime?”

“There you are! Asking me a thing like that.”

Mrs. Cuddy said, “The idea!”

“Because if you didn’t you’ll do well to speak frankly and truthfully.”

“I’ve got nothing to conceal.”

“Very well, then,” Alleyn said patiently, “don’t behave as if you had. You found the body. After a fashion you reported your discovery. Now, I want the details. I suppose you’ve heard of the usual warning. If I was thinking of charging you I’d be obliged to give it.”

“Don’t be a fool, man,” Captain Bannerman suddenly roared out. “Behave yourself and speak up.”

“I’m ill. I’ve had a shock.”

“My dear Cuddy,” Father Jourdain said, “I’m sure we all realize that you’ve had a shock. Why not get your story over and free yourself of responsibility?”

“That’s right, dear. Tell them and get it over. It’s all they deserve,” said Mrs. Cuddy mysteriously.

“Come along,” Alleyn said. “You left the pool and you started back. Presumably you didn’t return by the lower deck but by one of the two companion-ladders up to this deck. Which one?”

“Left hand.”

“Port side,” the captain muttered irritably.

“That would bring you to within a few feet of the verandah and a little to one side of it. Now, Mr. Cuddy, do go on like a sensible man and tell me what followed.”

But Mr. Cuddy was reluctant and evasive. He reiterated that he had had a shock, wasn’t sure if he could exactly recall the sequence of events and knew better than to let himself in for a grilling.

His was the sort of behaviour that is a commonplace in the experience of any investigating officer, but in this instance, Alleyn was persuaded, it arose from a specific cause. He thought that Mr. Cuddy hedged, not because he mistrusted the police on general grounds but because there was something he urgently wished to conceal. It became increasingly obvious that Mrs. Cuddy, too, was prickly with misgivings.

“All right,” Alleyn said. “You are on the ladder. You climb up it and your head is above the level of the upper deck. To your right, quite close and facing you, is the verandah. Can you see into the verandah?”

Mr. Cuddy shook his head.

“Not at all?”

He shook his head.

“It was in darkness? Right. You stay there for some time. Long enough to leave quite a large wet patch on the steps. It was still there some minutes later when I looked at them. I think you actually may have sat down on a higher step, which would bring your head below the level of the upper deck. Did you do this?”

A strange and unlovely look had crept into Mr. Cuddy’s face, a look at once furtive and — the word flashed up in Alleyn’s thoughts — salacious.

“I do hope,” Alleyn went on, “that you will tell me if this is in fact what happened. Surely there can be no reason why you shouldn’t.”

“Go on, Fred,” Mrs. Cuddy urged. “They’ll only get thinking things.”

“Exactly,” Alleyn agreed and she looked furious.

“All right, then,” Mr. Cuddy said angrily. “I did. Now!”

“Why? Was it because of something you saw? No? Or heard?”

“Heard’s more like it,” he said and actually, after a fashion, began to smile again.

“Voices?”

“Sort of.”

“What the hell,” Captain Bannerman broke out, “do you mean, sort of! You heard someone talking or you didn’t.”

“Not to say talking.”

“Well, what were they doing. Singing?” Captain Bannerman demanded and then looked horrified.

“That,” said Mr. Cuddy, “came later.”

There was a deadly little silence.

Alleyn said, “The first time was it one voice? Or two?”

“Sounded to me like one. Sounded to me—” he looked sidelong at his wife—“like hers. You know. Mrs. Blick.” He squeezed his hands together and added, “I thought at the time it was, well — just a bit of fun.”

Mrs. Cuddy said, “Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting.”

“Steady, Ethel.”

Father Jourdain made a small sound of distress. Brigid thought, “This is the worst thing yet,” and couldn’t look at the Cuddys. But Miss Abbott watched them with hatred and Mr. McAngus, who had not uttered a word since he was summoned, murmured, “Must we! Oh, must we!”

“I so agree,” Aubyn Dale began with an alcoholic travesty of his noblest manner. “Indeed, indeed, must we?”

Alleyn lifted a hand and said, “The answer, I’m afraid, is that indeed, indeed, we must. Without interruption, if possible.” He waited for a moment and then turned again to Cuddy. “So you sat on the steps and listened. For how long?”

“I don’t know how long. Until I heard the other thing.”

“The singing?”