Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 11: Photo-Finish, Light Thickens, Black Beech and Honeydew. Ngaio Marsh

paper and some clinkers. Nothing else. I heard someone coming and cleared out. I put the ashpan back under the study grate.’

      Alleyn bent over the trophy. ‘It’s a Sommita envelope,’ said Troy. ‘Isn’t it?’

      ‘Yes. Bigger than the Reece envelope but the same paper: like the letter she wrote to the Yard.’

      ‘Why would she write to The Watchman?’

      ‘We don’t know that she did.’

      ‘Don’t we?’

      ‘Or if she did, whether her letter was in this envelope.’ He took one of Troy’s brushes and used it to flip the envelope over. ‘It may have been stuck up,’ he said, ‘and opened before the gum dried. There’s not enough left to be certain. It’s big enough to take the photograph.’

      Dr Carmichael blew out his cheeks and then expelled the air rather noisily. ‘That’s a long shot, isn’t it?’ he said.

      ‘Of course it is,’ agreed Alleyn. ‘Pure speculation.’

      ‘If she wrote it,’ Troy said carefully, ‘she dictated it. I’m sure she couldn’t type, aren’t you?’

      ‘I think it’s most unlikely. The first part of her letter to the Yard was impeccably typed and the massive postscript flamboyantly handwritten. Which suggested that she dictated the beginning or told young Rupert to concoct something she could sign, found it too moderate and added the rest herself.’

      ‘But why,’ Dr Carmichael mused, ‘was this thing in the study, on Reece’s desk? I know! She asked that secretary of his to type it because she’d fallen out with young Bartholomew. How’s that?’

      ‘Not too bad,’ said Alleyn. ‘Possible. And where, do you suggest, is the letter? It wasn’t in the envelope. And, by the way, the envelope was not visible on Reece’s desk when you and I, Carmichael, visited him last night.’

      ‘Really? How d’you know?’

      ‘Oh, my dear chap, the cop’s habit of using the beady eye, I suppose. It might have been there under some odds and ends in his “out” basket.’

      Troy said: ‘Rory, I think I know where you’re heading.’

      ‘Do you, my love? Where?’

      ‘Could Marco have slid into the study to put the photograph in the postbag before Hanley had emptied the mailbox into it and could he have seen the typed and addressed envelope on the desk and thought there was a marvellous opportunity to send the photograph to The Watchman, because nobody would question it. And so he took out her letter or whatever it was and chucked it on the fire and put the photograph in the envelope and –’

      Troy, who had been going great guns, brought up short. ‘Blast!’ she said.

      ‘Why didn’t he put it in the postbag?’ asked Alleyn.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Because,’ Dr Carmichael staunchly declared, ‘he was interrupted and had to get rid of it quick. I think that’s a damn good piece of reasoning, Mrs Alleyn.’

      ‘Perhaps,’ Troy said, ‘her letter had been left out awaiting the writer’s signature and – no, that’s no good.’

      ‘It’s a lot of good,’ Alleyn said warmly. ‘You have turned up trumps, you two. Damn Marco. Why can’t he make up his dirty little mind that his best move is to cut his losses and come clean. I’ll have to try my luck with Hanley. Tricky.’

      He went out on the landing. Bert had resumed his guard duty and lounged back in the armchair reading a week-old sports tabloid. A homemade cigarette hung from his lower lip. He gave Alleyn the predictable sideways tip of his head.

      Alleyn said: ‘I really oughtn’t to impose on you any longer, Bert. After all, we’ve got the full complement of keys now and nobody’s going to force the lock with the amount of traffic flowing through this house.’

      ‘I’m not fussy,’ said Bert which Alleyn took to mean that he had no objections to continuing his vigil.

      ‘Well, if you’re sure,’ he said.

      ‘She’ll be right.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      The sound of voices indicated the emergence of the elevenses party. Miss Dancy, Sylvia Parry and Rupert Bartholomew came upstairs. Rupert, with an incredulous look at Bert and a scary one at Alleyn, made off in the direction of his room. The ladies crossed the landing quickly and ascended the next flight. Mr Reece, Ben Ruby and Signor Lattienzo made for the study. Alleyn ran quickly downstairs in time to catch Hanley emerging from the morning room.

      ‘Sorry to bother you,’ he said, ‘but I wonder if I might have a word. It won’t take a minute.’

      ‘But of course,’ said Hanley. ‘Where shall we go? Back into the library?’

      ‘Right.’

      When they were there Hanley winningly urged further refreshment. Upon Alleyn’s declining, he said: ‘Well, I will; just a teeny tiddler,’ and helped himself to a gin-and-tonic. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Alleyn?’ he said. ‘Is there any further development?’

      Alleyn said: ‘Did you type a letter to The Watchman some time before Madame Sommita’s death?’

      Hanley’s jaw dropped and the hand holding his drink stopped half-way to his mouth. For perhaps three seconds he maintained this position and then spoke.

      ‘Oh Christmas!’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten. You wouldn’t credit it, would you? I’d entirely forgotten.’

      He made no bones about explaining himself and did so very fluently and quite without hesitation. He had indeed typed a letter from the Sommita to The Watchman