“Better not move him, son. You know what a fussy little creep this police surgeon is. And see if you can’t find a light switch. Slomon’s bound to moan about the dark.” He sneaked a look at his watch. How much longer before he could get to the party? Where was bloody Slomon?

His question was answered by a clatter of footsteps from the top of the stairs and a peevish voice that inquired, “Anyone down there?”

Shelby’s torch guided the newcomer down. Dr. Slomon, a short, fat, self-important individual wearing an expensive-looking camel-haired overcoat, peered distastefully into the murk as Frost waded over. “Inspector Frost! I might have guessed. Somehow one associates you with places like this.” His overcoat was unbuttoned, and beneath it Frost could see a bow tie, and a smart black evening dress suit.

“You needn’t have got tar ted up just to come down here Doc. Any old suit would have done.”

Slomon smiled sourly. “If you must know, I was on my way to Inspector Harrison’s retirement party when I got this call. I hope it’s not going to take long.”

“So do I,” said Frost. “Hold on a tick, we’re trying to find the light switches.”

At first there didn’t seem to be any way of turning on the lights, but eventually the beam of the torch followed the wiring down until it disappeared inside a small wooden cupboard on which was stencilled Switches -Keep Locked. In obedience to this request, the cupboard door had been secured with an enormous brass only just popped up to the surface. I grabbed his arms to pull him out… and his bloody arms came off. I was left holding the damn things while he sank to the bottom again.” Both Shelby and Slomon winced at this choice tidbit of reminiscence.

“Will this do, Doc?” asked Frost, dumping the body at the foot of the stairs and shaking his sleeves where water had run up his arm.