‘Of course it’s correct. It’s what I told you.’

‘You also told me how much you had enjoyed The Marriage of Figaro. You didn’t mention anything unusual about the performance.’

‘Because there was nothing unusual about it. It was a semi-professional company. They did it very well.’

‘You were there from the very beginning?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about the singer playing Figaro?’

‘I can’t remember who played the part. But he was fine. Where exactly are you going with this, Detective Inspector?’

Hare paused before he answered. His voice was matter-of-fact but, at the same time, lethal. ‘It was actually an unusual performance, sir. Had you been there at the beginning, you would have seen the director come onto the stage to announce that Mr Henry Dickson, who was playing Figaro, had been injured in a car accident. He liked to go for a walk before the performance and he was actually the victim of a hit-and-run. He was lucky not to be killed. So his part was played by a last-minute replacement, Mr Bentley, who unfortunately had to perform holding the libretto. The general consensus was that he really wasn’t up to scratch and at the end of the evening quite a few members of the audience asked for their money back.’

Francis Pendleton had listened to all this in deathly silence.

‘Did you attend the opera, Mr Pendleton?’ the detective chief inspector asked.

There was another long pause. Then: ‘No.’

‘You didn’t discuss the hotel finances with your wife. The two of you argued.’

Pendleton said nothing. He nodded.

‘What time did you really leave the house?’

‘I have no idea. Later than I said. But not very much later.’

‘It was after you murdered your wife.’

Francis Pendleton buried his head in his hands. ‘Thank God,’ he whispered. ‘You won’t believe this, but it’s all I’ve wanted – for this to be over. I’ll make a full confession. I’ll tell you everything. Am I under arrest?’

‘If you’ll come with us, sir, we’ll formally charge you when we get to the station.’

‘I’m sorry, Detective Chief Inspector. You have no idea how sorry I am. I don’t know how I’ve managed to live with myself and I couldn’t have gone on much longer.’ He looked down at his feet. ‘I need to put some shoes on. And can I fetch my jacket from upstairs?’

‘Yes, sir. We’ll wait for you here.’

‘Thank you. I … ’ Pendleton was about to say something more but then he dropped the idea and left the room, moving like a sleepwalker.

‘Well, that was easier than I thought it would be,’ Hare said. He turned to Pünd. ‘We both agreed that he was the most likely suspect. And it turns out we were right.’

But Pünd looked uncertain. ‘There is still the question of the telephone,’ he muttered. ‘And the ten moments drawn up by Miss Cain, the timings on which this entire case rests. I wonder, even now, if they will work.’

‘It’s a conversation we can have at the local police station, Mr Pünd. The important thing is that we’ve got the murderer. He’s confessed. We’ll have plenty of time to iron out all the details over the next couple of days.’

‘There is something else I would like to ask you, Detective Chief Inspector. Have the police apprehended the driver who struck the unfortunate Mr Dickson with his car?’

‘Not yet. They don’t have very much to go on. Two people who went past at about that time think they saw a pale-coloured car parked on the side of the road, but they can’t tell us what actual colour it was because of the rain and they didn’t see the driver.’

‘The pale colour, though. That is interesting … ’

He might have continued, but at that moment Miss Cain suddenly cried out, pointing at the window. ‘There!’

They all turned and saw the same thing. A figure had been looking into the room through the glass, spying on them.

‘Who …?’ Hare began.

But the figure had already gone, darting away so quickly that it was impossible to know who it was. All they had seen was a head pressed against the glass with the eyes hooded by a hand. They couldn’t even have said if it was a man or a woman.

Everyone acted at once. The uniformed policeman threw open the door and hurried into the front hall, followed by his colleague. Detective Chief Inspector Hare, realising that the French windows were the fastest way out, ran over to them and turned the key, which was still in the lock. With Pünd right behind him, he hurried outside.

They were at the side of the house. Francis Pendleton’s bright green Austin-Healey was parked in its bay. The road was in front of them. As they stood there, the two uniformed policemen came bursting out of the front door. Hare quickly gave orders.

‘One of you stay here. Make sure Pendleton doesn’t leave. The other one, head off down to the main road and see if there’s a car!’

One of the policemen positioned himself by the front door. The other hurried down the drive. Hare went over to Pünd. ‘Did you see them?’

‘I did see someone but I did not see who it was.’

‘Eric Chandler?’

‘He could not have moved so quickly. And his mother, also, is too old.’

Hare looked around the empty garden. ‘Maybe it was something completely innocent. A postman or a delivery boy.’

‘They have taken great care to hide themselves.’

‘That’s true.’

Pünd and Hare continued round to the back of the house but there was no one there either. A back door led into an area behind the kitchen and when Hare tried it, he found that it was unlocked. Had the mysterious intruder come out that way? A low wall surrounded Clarence Keep, with shrubs on the other side. If they had climbed over, they would be invisible at once. Certainly, there was no one in sight. They had arrived too late.

And then the scream came, loud and high-pitched, from the hallway.

The policeman standing guard outside front the door was the first to go back in. Pünd and Detective Chief Inspector Hare arrived about ten seconds later. None of them would forget what they saw.

Miss Cain was standing at the bottom of the stairs with her back to the door. She was the one who had screamed and she was still almost hysterical.

Francis Pendleton was coming down the stairs. He had put on his jacket and his shoes. He seemed to be holding something in front of him. His face was completely white.

There was blood seeping through his fingers. Pünd remembered the film prop he had seen, the Turkish knife with its multicoloured handle that had been used in Harem Nights. He looked for it on the hall table, knowing it wouldn’t be there. Francis Pendleton was holding it. The curved blade was buried deep in his chest.

He stumbled forward. Miss Cain reached out as if to embrace him and he fell into her arms. She screamed again.

Francis Pendleton collapsed on the ground and lay still.

THIRTEEN

POST-MORTEM

Detective Chief Inspector Hare took charge immediately. ‘Look after her!’ he shouted at Pünd as he sprang forward to examine the body. Pünd put his arm around his secretary, leading her into the kitchen. She was no longer screaming but seemed to be in shock. The front of her dress was covered in blood. The policeman was standing there staring, absolutely still. He was young, in his twenties, and had clearly never seen a dead man before, and certainly not one who had still been alive only moments before.

‘Get upstairs!’ Hare snapped at him. ‘Search the house. It’s quite likely that the killer’s still here!’ At the same time, he had gone down on one knee and taken hold of Pendleton’s pulse.

The policeman raced up to the first-floor corridor and disappeared round the corner. In the kitchen, Pünd found a chair and gently helped Miss Cain to sit down. She was trembling violently and there were tears streaming down her cheeks. Somewhere in the back of his mind it occurred to him that if she hadn’t already resigned this would certainly have been the last straw. He didn’t want to leave her alone and he was relieved when the second policeman, alerted by the screams, appeared at the door.

Pünd turned to him. ‘Can you look after this lady?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Did you bring a radio transmitter with you?’

‘I’m afraid not, sir. We had no idea … ’

‘No matter. Detective Chief Inspector Hare will call for an ambulance and for further assistance. Please stay here.’

He was about to leave when a door at the back of the kitchen opened and Phyllis Chandler appeared. ‘What’s happening?’ she demanded. ‘I heard screaming. Why are the police here?’