“Thank Gawd,” she whispered. And then: “I’m sorry, I’m sure, to give way like this. I can’t think what’s come over me.”

“Never mind.”

He got up and moved towards the photograph. Mrs. Chubb blew her nose.

“That’s an attractive face,” Alleyn said. “Is it your daughter?”

“That’s right,” she said. “Was.”

“I’m sorry. Long ago?”

“Six years.”

“An illness?”

“An accident.” She made as if to speak, pressed her lips together and then shot out, as if defiantly: “She was the only one, our Glynis was.”

“I can see the likeness.”

“That’s right.”

“Was the medallion special to her, perhaps?”

She didn’t answer. He turned round and found her staring at the photograph and wetting her lips. Her hands were clasped.

“If it was,” he said, “of course you’d be very upset when you thought you’d lost it.”

“It wasn’t hers.”

“No?”

“I hadn’t noticed it wasn’t there. It gave me a turn, like. When you — you held it out.”

“I’m sorry,” Alleyn repeated.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Was it in London — the accident?”

“Yes,” she said, and shut her mouth like a trap.

Alleyn said lightly: “It’s a rather unusual-looking medallion, isn’t it? An order or a badge or something of that sort perhaps?”

She pulled her hands apart as if the gesture needed force to accomplish it.

“It’s my husband’s,” she said. “It’s Chubb’s.”

“A club badge, perhaps?

“You could call it that, I suppose.”

She had her back to the door. It opened and her husband stood on the threshold.

“I don’t know anything about it,” she said loudly. “It’s got nothing to do with anything. Nothing.”

Chubb said: “You’re wanted downstairs.”

She got up and left the room without a glance at Alleyn or at her husband.

“Were you wanting to see me, sir?” Chubb asked woodenly. “I’ve just come in.”

Alleyn explained about the cat and the medallion. Chubb listened impassively. “I was curious,” Alleyn ended, “about the medallion itself and wondered if it was a badge.”

He said at once and without hesitation, “That’s correct, sir. It’s a little social circle with an interest in E.S.P. and so forth. Survival and that.”

“Mr. and Miss Sanskrit are members, aren’t they?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“And Mr. Sheridan?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you?” Alleyn said lightly.

“They was kind enough to make me an honorary member, like. Seeing I go in and do the servicing for some of their meetings, sir. And seeing I was interested.”

“In survival after death, do you mean?”

“That kind of thing.”

“Your wife doesn’t share your interest?”

He said flatly: “She doesn’t come into it, does she? It’s kind of complimentary to my services, isn’t it? Like wearing a livery button used to be.”

“I see. You must find a different place for it, mustn’t you?” Alleyn said easily. “Out of reach of Lucy Lockett. Good afternoon to you, Chubb.”

Chubb mouthed rather than sounded his response to this, and Alleyn left him, almost as bleached as his wife had been five minutes earlier.

Mr. Whipplestone was still sipping tea. Lucy was discussing a saucer of milk on the hearthrug.

“You must have some tea at once,” Mr. Whipplestone said, pouring it out “And some anchovy toast. I hope you like anchovy toast. It’s still quite eatable, I think.” He tipped back the lid of the hot-server and up floated the smell that of all others recalled Alleyn to his boyhood days with the Boomer. He took a piece of toast and his tea.

“I can’t stay long,” he said. “I oughtn’t to stay at all, in fact, but here goes.”

“About the Chubbs?” Mr. Whipplestone ventured. Alleyn gave him a concise account of his visit upstairs. On the whole it seemed to comfort him. “As you suggested,” he said, “the emblem of some insignificant little coterie, and Chubb has been made a sort of non-commissioned officer in recognition of his serving them sandwiches and drinks. Perhaps they think he’s psychic. That makes perfectly good sense. Well, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, of course. It’s not without interest — do you agree?” Alleyn asked—“that Sanskrit is on the police records for fraudulent practice as a fortune-teller? And he’s done time for the odd spot of drug trafficking.”

“I am not in the least surprised,” Mr. Whipplestone energetically declared. “In the realms of criminal deception he is, I feel sure, capable de tout. From that point of view, if from no other, I do of course deplore the Chubb connection.”

“And there’s Mrs. Cockburn-Montfort, who seems to be a likely candidate for the attempt-on-the-President stakes. Not a nice influence either, would you say?”

“Oh drat!” said Mr. Whipplestone. “Very well, my dear fellow. I’m a selfish, square old bachelor and I don’t want anything beastly to happen to my Chubbs because they make life pleasant for me.” His exasperated gaze fell upon his cat. “As for you,” he scolded, “if you’d be good enough to keep your paws to yourself this sort of thing wouldn’t happen. Mind that!”

Alleyn finished his tea and toast and stood up.

“Are you going, my dear chap?” Mr. Whipplestone asked rather wistfully.

“Needs must. Thank you for my lovely cuppa. Goodbye, my dear,” he said to Lucy Lockett. “Unlike your boss, I’m much obliged to you. I’m off.”

“To see Mrs. C.-M.?”

“On the contrary. To see Miss Sanskrit. She now takes precedence over the C.-M.”

Alleyn had not come face-to-face with the Sanskrits at the Embassy. Like all the guests who had not been in or near the pavilion, they had been asked for their names and addresses by Inspector Fox, ticked off on the guest list, and allowed to go home. He didn’t think, therefore, that Miss Sanskrit would recall his face or, if she did, would attach more importance to it than to any that she had seen among a hundred others at the reception.

He walked down Capricorn Mews, past the Napoli grocery shop, the flower shop and the garages. The late afternoon was warm, scents of coffee, provender, carnations and red roses drifted on the air, and for some reason the bells in the Basilica were ringing.

At the far end of the Mews, at its junction with the passageway into Baronsgate, was the coverted stable now devoted to the sale of pottery pigs. It faced up the Mews and was, therefore, in full view for their entire length. Alleyn, advancing towards it, entertained somewhere in the back of his thought a prospect of stamping and sweating horses, industrious stablemen, ammoniacal fumes and the rumble of Dickensian wheels. Pigeons, circling overhead and intermittently flapping down to the cobbled passage, lent a kind authenticity to his fancies.

But there, as he approached, was the window legend The Piggie Potterie and the nondescript sign-board: X. & K. Sanskrit. And there, deep in the interior in a sort of alcove at the far end, was a faint red glow indicating the presence of a kiln and, looming over it, the dim bulk of Miss Sanskrit.

He made as if to turn off into the passageway, checked, and stopped to peer through the window at the exhibits ranked on shelves nearest to it. A particularly malevolent pig with forget-me-nots on its flanks lowered at him rather in the manner of Miss Sanskrit herself, who had turned her head in the shadows and seemed to stare at him. He opened the door and walked in.

“Good afternoon,” he said.

She rose heavily and lumbered towards him, emerging from the alcove, he thought, like some dinosaur from its lair.

“I wonder,” Alleyn said, as if suddenly inspired, “if you can help me by any chance. I’m looking for someone who could make castings of a small ceramic emblem. It’s to be the badge for a newly formed club.”

“We don’t,” rumbled an astonishingly deep voice inside Miss Sanskrit, “accept commissions.”

“Oh. Pity. In that case,” Alleyn said, “I shall do what I came to do and buy one of your pigs. The doorstop kind. You don’t have pottery cats, I suppose? With or without flowers?”