“I didn’t, Mr. Dalgliesh. There was no call on Wednesday when I was working at Seton House but, of course, that didn’t worry me. He might not telephone for days. I was there again early this morning to finish some ironing when Mr. Plant rang. He’s the caretaker at the Cadaver Club and his wife does the cooking. He said they were very worried because Mr. Seton had gone out before dinner on Tuesday and hadn’t returned to the club. His bed hadn’t been slept in and his clothes and typewriter were still there. Mr. Plant didn’t like to make too much fuss at first. He thought that Mr. Seton might have stayed out for some purpose connected with his work-but he got worried when a second night went by and still no message. So he thought he’d better telephone the house. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t contact Mr. Seton’s half-brother because he recently moved to a new flat and we don’t know the address. There aren’t any other relations. You see, I wasn’t sure whether Mr. Seton would want me to take any action. I suggested to Mr. Plant that we should wait a little longer and we agreed to phone each other the minute there was any news, and then just before lunchtime, the post arrived and I got the manuscript.”

“We have it here,” proclaimed Miss Calthrop. “And the envelope.” She produced them from her capacious handbag with a flourish and handed them to Dalgliesh. The envelope was the ordinary commercial, buff-coloured, four-by-nine-inch size and was addressed, in typing, to Maurice Seton, Esq., Seton House, Monksmere, Suffolk. Inside were three quarto sheets of inexpert typescript, double spaced.

Miss Kedge said dully: “He always addressed the manuscript to himself. But that isn’t his work, Mr. Dalgliesh. He didn’t write it and he didn’t type it.”

“How can you be sure?” It was hardly a necessary question. There are few things more difficult to disguise than typing and the girl had surely copied enough Maurice Seton manuscripts to recognise his style.