“Yes. They were married after a short engagement. Five months later he was killed in a motor accident. Wasn’t it awful?”

“Awful.”

“And then in six months or so along came this girl, Bridget. Evelyn called her Bridget because Paddy was Irish. And then, poor Evelyn, she married Herbert Carrados. Nobody ever knew why.”

“I’m not surprised. He’s a frightful bore. He must be a great deal older than Evelyn.”

“A thousand years and so pompous you can’t believe he’s true. You know him evidently.”

“Vaguely. He’s something pretty grand in the City.”

Alleyn lit his mother’s cigarette and his own. He walked over to the french window and looked across the lawn.

“Your garden is getting ready to come out, too,” he said. “I wish I hadn’t to go back to the Yard.”

“Now, darling? This minute?”

“Afraid so. It’s this case.” He waved some papers in his hand. “Fox rang up late last night. Something’s cropped up.”

“What sort of case is it?”

“Blackmail, but you’re not allowed to ask questions.”

“Rory, how exciting. Who’s being blackmailed? Somebody frightfully important, I hope?”

“Do you remember Lord Robert Gospell?”

“Bunchy Gospell, do you mean? Surely he’s not being blackmailed. A more innocent creature—”

“No, mama, he isn’t. Nor is he a blackmailer.”

“He’s a dear little man,” said Lady Alleyn emphatically. “The nicest possible little man.”

“Not so little nowadays. He’s very plump and wears a cloak and a sombrero like G.K.C.”

“Really?”

“You must have seen photographs of him in your horrible illustrated papers. They catch him when they can. ‘Lord Robert (“Bunchy”) Gospell tells one of his famous stories.’ That sort of thing.”

“Yes, but what’s he got to do with blackmail?”

“Nothing. He is, as you say, an extremely nice little man.”