“Quite recently. I actually happened to catch sight of him standing outside his erstwhile premises when I was over there. He doesn’t seem to have lost face — and God knows he’s got plenty to lose — or he wouldn’t have been asked to the party.”

“Wouldn’t you say it was a bit funny their being invited anyway?”

“Yes,” Alleyn agreed thoughtfully. “Yes, I think I would.”

“Would you reckon this pottery business of the sister’s was a money-spinner?”

“Not on a big scale.”

“Was she involved in any of the former charges?”

“She hasn’t got a CRO. Wait a bit, though. There’s a cross-reference. ‘See McGuigan, O.’ Fetch us down the Macs.” The sergeant on duty obliged.

“Here you are,” said Mr. Fox presently. “Take a look,” and without waiting for Alleyn to do so he continued in the slightly catarrhal voice he kept for reading aloud:

“ ‘McGuigan, Olive, supposed widow of Sean McGuigan, of whom nothing known. Sister of Kenneth Sanskrit q.v. Later assumed as first name, Xenoclea. Sus. drug traffic with brother. Charged with fortune-telling, for which fined, June, 1953. Reported to R.S.P.C.A. cruelty to cat, 1967. Charged and convicted. Fined with costs.’ Fred Gibson’s henchman left this out. He’ll be getting some ‘advice’ on this one,” said Fox.

“Ah. And Sam Whipplestone thinks she ill-treated his cat. Pretty little picture we’re building up, aren’t we? I must say I thought the ‘Xenoclea’ bit was too good to be true,” Alleyn grunted.

“Is it a made-up job, then, that name?”

“Not by her at least. Xenoclea was a mythical prophetess who wouldn’t do her stuff for Hercules because he hadn’t had a bath. After his Augean stables job, perhaps. I bet la belle Xenny re-christened herself and reverted to her maiden name when she took to her fortune-telling lay.”

“Where do they live?”

“Above the pottery pigs. There seems to be a flat up there: quite a sizable one by the look of it.”

“Does the brother live there with her — wait a bit,” said Fox, interrupting himself. “Where’s the guest list we made last night?”

“In my office, but you needn’t worry. I looked it up. That’s their joint address. While we’re at it, Br’er Fox, let’s see, for the hell of it, whether there’s anything on Sheridan, A.R.G., 1a, Capricorn Walk.”

But Mr. Sheridan had no criminal record.

“All the same,” Alleyn said, “we’ll have to get him sorted out. Even if it comes to asking the President if there’s a Ng’ombwanan link. He wasn’t asked to the reception, of course. Oh well, press on.”

They left the CRO and returned to Alleyn’s rooms, where he managed to reach Superintendent Gibson on the telephone.

“What’s horrible, Fred?”

“Nothing to report,” said the colourless man. “All quiet inside the premises, seemingly. We’ve stopped the demolition. Routine precaution.”

“Demolition?”

“Clearing up after the party. The Vistas people and the electrics. It’s silly really, seeing we can’t go in. If nothing develops they may as well get on with it.”

“Any ingoings or outcomings of interest?”

“"Post. Tradesmen. We looked over all deliveries, which wasn’t very popular. Callers offering condolences and leaving cards. The media of course. One incident.”

“What?”

“His Nibs, believe it or not."

“The President?”

“That’s right. Suddenly comes out by the front entrance with a dirty great dog on a leash and says he’s taking it for a walk in the park.”

Alleyn swore vigorously.

“What’s that?” asked Gibson.

“Never mind. Go on.”

“My sergeant, on duty at the entrance, tries to reason with him. I’m doing a cruise round in a job car and they give me a shout and I come in and try to reason with him. He’s very la-de-da, making out we’re fussy. It’s awkward,” said Mr. Gibson drearily.

“How did you handle it, Fred?”

“I’m stuck with it, aren’t I? So I say we’ll keep with it, and he says if it’s a bodyguard I’m worried about he’s got the dog and his own personal protection, and with that the door opens and guess who appears?” invited Mr. Gibson without animation.

“The spearman of last night?”

“That’s correct. The number one suspect in my book who we’d’ve borrowed last night, there and then, if we’d had a fair go. There he was, large as life.”

“You don’t surprise me. What was the upshot?”

“Ask yourself. In flocks the media, telly, press, the lot. He says ‘No comment’ and off he goes to his constitutional with the dog and the prime sus. and five of my chaps and a panda doing their best in the way of protection. So they all go and look at Peter Pan,” said Mr. Gibson bitterly, “and nobody shoots anybody or lobs in a bomb and they come home again. Tonight it’s the Palace caper.”

“That’s been scaled down considerably, hasn’t it?”

“Yes. Nondescript transport. Changed route. Small party.”

“At least he’s not taking the spearman with him.”

“Not according to my info. It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Poor Fred!”

“Well, it’s not what you’d pick in the way of a job,” said Gibson. “Oh, yes, and there’s another thing. He wants to see you. Or talk to you.”

“Why? Did you gather?”

“No. He just chucks it over his shoulder when he walks away. He’s awkward.”

“The visit may be cut short.”

“Can’t be too short for me,” said Gibson, and they took leave of each other.

“It’s a case,” Alleyn said when he’d replaced the receiver, “of ‘Where do we go for honey?’ I dunno, Br’er Fox. Press on, press on, but in what direction?”

“This Mr. Sheridan,” Fox ruminated. “He seems to have been kind of side-tracked, doesn’t he? I mean from the secret society or what-have-you angle.”

“I know he does. He wasn’t at the party. That’s why.”

“But he is a member of whatever they are.”

“Yes. Look here, Fox. The only reason — the only tenable reason — we’ve got for thinking there was some hanky-panky based on this idiot-group is the evidence, if you can call it that, of Mrs. C.-M. having loosed off a Luger with a blank charge, in the ladies’ loo. I’m quite convinced, if only because of their reaction — hers and the gallant Colonel’s — that she’s the girl who did it, though proving it will be something else again. All right. The highly suspect, the generally inadmissible word ‘coincidental’ keeps on rearing its vacant head in these proceedings, but I’ll be damned if I accept any argument based on the notion that two entirely unrelated attempts at homicide occurred within the same five minutes at an ambassadorial party.”

“You mean,” said Fox, “the idea that Mrs. C.-M. and this little gang had something laid on and never got beyond the first move because the spearman hopped in and beat them to it?”

“Is that what I mean? Yes, of course it is, but blow me down flat if it sounds as silly as I expected it to.”

“It sounds pretty silly to me.”

“You can’t entertain the notion?”

“It’d take a big effort.”

“Well, God knows. You may have to make it. I tell you what, Foxkin. We’ll try and get a bit more on Sheridan, if only for the sake of tidiness. And we’ll take a long shot and give ourselves the dreary task of finding out how a girl of sixteen was killed in London on the first of May, 1969. Name Glynis Chubb.”

“Car accident?”

“We don’t know. I get the impression that although the word accident was used, it was not used correctly. Lurking round the fringe of my rotten memory there’s something or another, and it may be so much nonsense, about the name Chubb in connection with an unsolved homicide. We weren’t involved. Not on our ground.”

“Chubb,” mused Fox. “Chubb, now. Yes. Yes, there was something. Now, what was it? Wait a bit, Mr. Alleyn. Hold on.”

Mr. Fox went into a glazed stare at nothing in particular, from which he was roused by Alleyn bringing his palm down smartly on his desk.

“Notting Hill Gate,” Alleyn said. “May 1969. Raped and strangled. Man seen leaving the area but never knocked off. That’s it. We’ll have to dig it out, of course, but I bet you that’s it. Still open. He left a red scarf behind and it was identified.”