“On the night of the disappearance, the shearers, the gardeners, the boys, the station cook, the classer, the shepherds and the cow-man were all at an entertainment held some fifteen miles away?”

“Dance at the Social Hall, Lakeside. It’s across the flat on the main road,” said Fabian, jerking his head at the vast emptiness of the plateau. “Arthur let them take the station lorry. We had more petrol in those days.”

“That leaves the house-party, the Johns family, Mrs. Duck, the roustabout, and Markins?”

“Exactly.”

Alleyn clasped his long hands round his knee and turned to his companion. “Now, Mr. Losse,” he said tranquilly, “will you tell me exactly why you asked me to come?”

Fabian beat his open palm against the driving wheel. “I told you in my letter. I’m living in a nightmare. Look at the place. Our nearest neighbour’s ten miles up the road. What do you think it feels like? And when in January shearing came round again, there were the same men, the same routine, the same long evenings, the same smell of lavender and honeysuckle and oily wool. We’re crutching now and getting it all over again. The shearers talk about it. They stop when any of us come up, but every smoke-oh and every time they knock off it’s The Murder. What a beastly soft noise the word makes. They’re using the wool press of course. The other evening I caught one of the boys that sweep up the crutchings squatting in the press while the other packed a fleece round him. Experimenting. God, I gave them a fright, the little bastards.” He swung round and confronted Alleyn. “We don’t talk about it. We’ve clamped down on it now for six months. That’s bad for all of us. It’s interfering with my work. I’m doing nothing.”

“Your work. Yes, I was coming to that.”

“I suppose the police told you.”

“I’d heard already at Army Headquarters. It overlaps my job out here.”

“I suppose so,” said Fabian. “Yes, of course.”