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asked our permission for a post mortem.’
    â€˜Oh.’
    â€˜Someone’s got the coroner to order one, which is a different kettle of fish altogether!’
    â€˜Who would do that?’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ said George Wansdyke, ‘but I’m certainly going to find out.’
    â€˜Wait a minute,’ said Pauline.
    â€˜I know what you’re going to say.’
    â€˜Nicholas?’
    â€˜I wouldn’t put it past him,’ said George Wansdyke.
    â€˜I wouldn’t put anything past him,’ said Pauline spitefully. ‘Anything at all.’
    â€˜No,’ said George.
    â€˜Nicholas Petforth,’ said Pauline, rolling the words round her tongue.
    â€˜Another name for trouble,’ he said ironically.
    â€˜No sense of family at all,’ said Mrs Wansdyke, who had been a Miss Hartley-Powell before her marriage and never forgot it.
    â€˜He’s not going to be buried in the family grave when his time comes,’ said George vigorously. ‘Not if I have any say in the matter.’
    â€˜Oh,’ said Mrs Wansdyke, whose attention span was not a long one, ‘that reminds me. Morton’s rang to say that they were arranging to open the grave up as planned on Friday.’
    â€˜Good,’ said George absently. ‘We’ll see about bringing the stone up to date afterwards.’
    â€˜I wonder if he’ll come to the funeral on Saturday,’ said Pauline.
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜Nicholas, of course. He always said he was fond of his aunt.’
    â€˜Actions speak louder than words,’ said George Wansdyke. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?’
    â€˜He’ll come,’ forecast Pauline Wansdyke with conviction. ‘For sure. You see if he doesn’t.’
    â€˜If he’s still got a suit to his back …’

CHAPTER III
    Although the devil didn’t show his face
    I’m pretty sure he was about the place.
    The funeral of Beatrice Wansdyke was the last thing on the mind of Detective-Inspector Sloan as he followed the pathologist through the mortuary doors into the dissecting room proper. In police measurement terms next Saturday and a funeral was a very long way away from this Tuesday and a post mortem. A week was a long time in other things besides politics.
    Dr Dabbe was soon struggling into gown and rubber apron. He was helped in this exercise by his assistant, a perennially silent man called Burns.
    â€˜There’s one thing, Sloan,’ said the pathologist, busily rolling up his sleeves.
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜The dibs don’t show here, do they?’
    â€˜No, Doctor.’ Sloan was the first to agree with that. Nothing of this world’s goods showed in the post mortem room.
    The pathologist, gowned now, moved over towards the dissecting table and ran his eyes over the body. ‘No external signs of violence immediately visible,’ he murmured. ‘I haven’t missed any gunshot wounds, have I, Burns?’
    â€˜No, Doctor,’ said the assistant, adding deadpan, ‘Not yet.’
    This was evidently a private joke between master and man.
    â€˜Nor a stab in the back?’
    â€˜The back has not been stabbed,’ said Burns.
    â€˜That leaves the field clear to begin, then,’ said Dabbe easily. He reached up and adjusted a small microphone hanging a little way above the post mortem table. ‘Are you there, Rita? We’re ready now.’
    The voice of the pathologist’s secretary came back to them through some unobtrusive intercom. ‘I’m here, Doctor. Carry on.’
    â€˜Body of an averagely nourished female,’ Dr Dabbe began dictating, ‘whose age has been given to me as fifty-nine and whose name I am told is Beatrice Gwendoline Wansdyke.’
    The voice of the secretary broke in. ‘She’s been positively identified, Doctor, now. By her niece.’
    The pathologist nodded and began peering forward at