She moved forward sensuously to the single chair and with great deliberation began to unzip her evening dress. It fell about her knees to the ground. Underneath she wore nothing but a black brassière and G-string. Sitting now with her back to the audience she twisted her hands to unhook the brassière. Immediately from the crowded tables there came a hoarse murmuring. ‘Rosie! Rosie! Come on, Rosie! Give! Give!’”

Miss Calthrop stopped reading. There was complete silence. Most of her listeners seemed stunned. Then Bryce called out: “Well, go on, Celia! Don’t stop now that it’s getting really exciting. Does Rosie fall on the Hon. Martin Carruthers and rape him? He’s had it coming to him for years. Or is that too much to hope?”

Miss Calthrop said: “There’s no need to go on. The proof we need is there.”

Sylvia Kedge turned again to Dalgliesh. “Mr. Seton would never call a character Rosie, Mr. Dalgliesh. That was his mother’s name. He told me once that he would never use it in any of his books. And he never did.”

“Particularly not for a Soho prostitute,” broke in Miss Calthrop. “He talked to me about his mother quite often. He adored her. Absolutely adored her. It nearly broke his heart when she died and his father married again.” Miss Calthrop’s voice throbbed with all the yearning of frustrated motherhood.

Suddenly Oliver Latham said: “Let me see that.”

Celia handed the manuscript to him and they all watched with anxious expectancy while he scanned it. Then he handed it back without a word.

“Well?” asked Miss Calthrop. “Nothing. I just wanted to have a look at it. I know Seton’s handwriting but not his typing. But you say that he didn’t type this.”

“I’m sure he didn’t,” said Miss Kedge. “Although I can’t exactly say why. It just doesn’t look like his work. But it was typed on his machine.”

“What about the style?” asked Dalgliesh.