“Yes,” said Alleyn. “If you’re going to be sick, Bathgate, I implore you to go outside.”
“I’m all right.”
Alleyn slid his hand out of sight round the sharp outline of the body. After a moment he drew something out of the coffin. Nigel had turned away. He heard Fox’s exclamation and then Alleyn’s level voice: “So the tool, you see, was to be buried with the crime.”
“It’s from the kitchen,” said Fox. “They saw up stock bones with them.”
“Put it away, Fox. Bailey will have to see it. Thompson had better take a shot of the dismembered arm. In the meantime—”
Alleyn replaced the sheaf of lilies and stood for a moment looking at the shrouded figure.
“What sort of epitaph,” he said, “can be written for the late Lord Wutherwood, killed by cupidity and mutilated in the interests of black magic? We’d better finish our job, Fox. We haven’t got a warrant. She’ll have to be taken away and charged later. You attend to that, will you? I’d better see that young man.”
IV
“Robin may stay and listen too, mayn’t she?” asked Henry.
“Certainly. In a sense,” said Alleyn, “Miss Grey is the heroine in this case.”