“Hoping we don’t have to extend to London?”

“Fervently. And, by the by, Fox, we’d better ask Mr. Rattisbon to let us fingerprint the Will. They should find the lady herself, Mr. R. and Johnson and Briggs. And Lord knows how many shop-assistants. But courage, comrade, we may find that in addition to witnessing the Will, G. M. Johnson or Marleena Briggs or even that casket of carnal delights, Sister Jackson, was detailed to pop into a stationer’s shop on her day off.”

When they reached Greengages, this turned out to be the answer. Johnson and Briggs had their days off together and a week before Mrs. Foster died they had made the purchase at a stationer’s in Greendale. Mrs. Foster had given them a present and told them to treat themselves to the cinema and tea.

“That’s fine,” said Alleyn. “We just wanted to know. Was it a good film?”

They fell into an ecstasy of giggles.

“I see. One of those?”

“Aw!”

“Anybody else know about the shopping?”

“Aw, no,” said G. M. Johnson.

“Yes they did, you’re mad,” said Marleena Briggs.

“They never.”

“They did, too. The Doctor did. He come in while she told us.”

“Dr. Schramm came in and heard all about it?” said Alleyn casually.

They agreed and were suddenly uninterested.

He then asked each of them in turn if she recognized the writing on an envelope he had addressed to himself and their prints having been thus obtained he gave them a tip.

“There you are, both of you. Treat yourselves to another shocker and a blow-out of cream buns.”

This interview concluded, Alleyn was approached by the manager of the hotel, who evidently viewed their visit with minimal enthusiasm. He hustled them into his office, offered drinks and looked apprehensive when these were declined.

“It’s just about the room,” he said. “How much longer do you people want it? We’re expecting a full house by next week and it’s extremely inconvenient, you know.”

“I hope this will be positively our last appearance,” said Alleyn cheerfully.

“Without being uncivil, so do I. Do you want someone to take you up?”

“We’ll take ourselves, thank you all the same. Come along, Br’er Fox,” said Alleyn. “En avant. You’re having one of your dreamy spells.”

He led the way quickly to the lifts.

The second floor seemed to be deserted. They walked soundlessly down the carpeted passage to Number 20. The fingerprint and photography men had called and gone and their seal was still on the door. Fox was about to break it when Alleyn said: “Half a jiffy. Look at this.”

Opposite the bedroom door was a curtained alcove. He had lifted the curtain and disclosed a vacuum cleaner. “Handy little hidey-hole, isn’t it?” he said. “Got your torch on you?”

“As it happens,” Fox said and gave it to him. He went into the alcove and closed the curtain.

The lift at the far end of the long passage whined to a stop. Sister Jackson and another lady emerged. Fox, with a movement surprisingly nippy for one of his bulk, joined his superior in the alcove.

“Herself,” he whispered. Alleyn switched off his torch.

“See you?”

“Not to recognize.”

“Impossible. Once seen.”

“She had somebody with her.”

“No need for you to hide, you fathead. Why should you?”

“She flusters me.”

“You’re bulging the curtain.”

But it was too late. The curtain was suddenly withdrawn and Sister Jackson discovered. She screamed.

“Good morning, Sister,” Alleyn said and flashed his torchlight full in her face. “Do forgive us for startling you.”

“What,” she panted, her hand on her spectacular bosom, “are you doing in the broom cupboard?”

“Routine procedure. Don’t give it another thought.”

“And you, don’t shine that thing in my face. Come out”

They emerged.

In a more conciliatory tone and with a sort of huffy come-to-ishness she said: “You gave me a shock.”

“So did you us,” said Mr. Fox. “A nice one,” he roguishly added.

“I daresay.”

She was between them. She flashed upward glances first at one, then the other. Her bosom slightly heaved.

“We really do apologize,” he said.

“I should hope so.” She laid her hand, which was plump, on his closed one. He was surprised to feel a marked tremor and to see that the colour had ebbed out of her face. She kept up the flirtatious note, however, though her voice was unsteady. “I suppose I’ll have to forgive you,” she said. “But only if you tell me why you were there.”

“I caught sight of something.”

He turned his hand over, opened it and exposed the crumpled head of a pink lily. It was very dead and its brown pollen had stained his palm.

“I think,” he said, “it will team up with the ones in Mrs. Foster’s last bouquet. I wondered what the electrician was doing in the broom cupboard.”

She gaped at him. “Electrician?” she said. “What electrician?”

“Don’t let it worry you. Excuse us, please. Come on, Fox. Goodbye, Sister.”

When she had starched and bosomed herself away he said: “I’m going to take another look at that broom-hide. Don’t spring any more confrontations this time. Stay here.”

He went into the alcove, drew the curtains on himself and was away for some minutes. When he rejoined Fox he said: “They’re not so fussy about housework in there. Quite a lot of dust on the floor. Plenty of prints — housemaid’s, no doubt, but on the far end, in the corner away from the vacuum cleaner where nobody would go normally, there are prints, left and right, side by side, with the heels almost touching the wall. Men’s crepe-soled shoes, and beside them — guess.”

He opened his hand and disclosed another dead lily head. “Near the curtain I could just find the prints again but overlaid by the housemaid’s and some regulation type extras. Whose, do you think?”

“All right, all right,” said Fox. “Mine.”

“When we go down we’ll look like sleuths and ask the desk lady if she noticed the electrician’s feet.”

“That’s a flight of fancy, if you like,” said Fox. “And she won’t have.”

“In any case Bailey and Thompson will have to do their stuff. Come on.”

When they were inside Number 20 he went to the bathroom where the fetid bouquet still mouldered in the basin. It was possible to see that the finds matched exactly and actually to distinguish the truss from which they had been lost.

“So I make a note: ‘Find the electrician’?” asked Fox.

“You anticipate my every need.”

“How do you fancy this gardener? Gardener?”

“Not much!” said Alleyn. “Do you?”

“You wouldn’t fancy him sneaking back with the flowers when Miss Foster and party had gone?”

“Not unless he’s had himself stretched: the reception girl said slight, short and bespectacled. Bruce Gardener’s six foot three and big with it. He doesn’t wear spectacles.”

“He’d be that chap in the Harris tweed suit at the inquest?”

“He would. I meant to point him out to you.”

“I guessed,” said Fox heavily.

“Claude Carter, on the contrary, is short, slight, bespectacled and in common with the electrician and several million other males, doesn’t wear overalls.”

“Motive? No. Hang on. He gets Mrs. Foster’s bit from her first husband.”

“Yes.”

“Ask if anyone knows about electricians? And nobody will,” Fox prophesied.

“Ask about what bus he caught back to Quintern and get a dusty answer.”

“Ask if anyone saw him any time, anywhere.”

“With or without lilies. In the meantime, Fox. I seem to remember there’s an empty cardboard box and a paper shopping bag in the wardrobe. Could you put those disgusting lilies in the box? Keep the ones from the broom cupboard separate. I want another look at her pillows.”

They lay as they had lain before: three of them: luxuriant pillowcases in fine lawn with broiderie-anglaise threaded with ribbon. Brought them with her, Alleyn thought. Even Greengages wouldn’t run to these lengths.