“Yes, please.” Alleyn took the parcel in his long hands. “So he didn’t open it?”
“Well — well, no,” said Lord Charles. “Actually I was talking to my brother and told Michael to put the parcel down. I didn’t want to be interrupted.”
“I see, sir.” Alleyn turned the parcel over in his hand.
“Please, Mr. Alleyn!” said Lady Charles suddenly. “It’s rather precious and terribly breakable.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize. May I ask what it is?”
“A piece of Chinese pottery. As old as the hills and perfectly hideous I think.”
“Good heavens!” Alleyn put the parcel delicately on the table. “Am I in a muddle,” he asked, “or was Lord Wutherwood a collector? I seem to remember a loan exhibition—”
“That’s right,” said Frid. “There’s a Ming or Ho or something gallery at Deepacres. All horses and smug goddesses, you know.”
“Well, Giggle,” said Alleyn, “Master Michael got this parcel and went away with it. What did you do?”
“I waited for a while, sir, and then I heard his lordship call for her ladyship so I came along to this flat and got my coat and cap, sir, from the staff sitting-room and I looked in at the door to say I was going. Then I went downstairs, sir. Master Michael came as far as the landing.”