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narrative style.
    ‘My sister Fanny,’ she said, ‘married. A Mr George Winterbottom who was profitably engaged in Trade. So much for him. He died, leaving her a childless widow with a more than respectable fortune. Included in her inheritance was the soi-disant island which I mentioned in my letter.’
    ‘Portcarrow?’
    ‘Precisely. You cannot be unaware of recent events on this otherwise characterless promontory.’
    ‘No, indeed.’
    ‘In that case I shall not elaborate. Suffice it to remind you that within the last two years there has arisen, fructified and flourished, a cult of which I entirely disapprove and which is the cause of my present concern and of my calling upon your advice.’
    She paused. ‘Anything I can do, of course –’ Alleyn said.
    ‘Thank you. Your accent has deteriorated. To continue. Fanny, intemperate as ever, encouraged her tenants in their wart-claims. She visited the Island, interviewed the child in question, and, having at the time an infected outbreak on her thumb, plunged it in the spring whose extreme coldness possibly caused it to burst. It was no doubt ripe to do so but Fanny darted about talking of miracles. There were other cases of an equally hysterical character. The thing had caught on and my sister exploited it. The inn was enlarged, the spring was enclosed, advertisements appeared in the papers. A shop was erected on the Island. The residents, I understand, are making money hand-over-fist.’
    ‘I should imagine so.’
    ‘Very well. My sister Fanny (at the age of 87), has died. I have inherited her estates. I need hardly tell you that I refuse to countenance this unseemly charade, still less to profit by it.’
    ‘You propose to sell the place?’
    ‘Certainly not. Do,’ said Miss Emily sharply, ‘pull yourself together, Roderique. This is not what I expect of you.’
    ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Emily.’
    She waved her hand. ‘To sell would be to profit by its spurious fame and allow this nonsense full play. No, I intend to restore theIsland to its former state. I have instructed my solicitors to acquaint the persons concerned.’
    ‘I see,’ said Alleyn. He got up and stood looking down at his old tutoress. How completely Miss Emily had taken on the character of a certain type of elderly Frenchwoman. Her black clothes seemed to disclaim, clear-sightedly, all pretence to allure. Her complexion was grey: her jewellery of jet and gold. She wore a general air of disassociated fustiness. Her composure was absolute. The setting was perfectly consonant with the person: pieces of buhl; formal, upholstered, and therefore dingy, chairs; yellowing photographs, among which his own young, thin face stared back at him, and an unalterable arrangement of dyed pampas plumes in an elaborate vase. For Miss Emily, her room was absolutely comme-il-faut. Yes, after all, she must be –
    ‘At the age of eighty-three,’ she said, with uncanny prescience, ‘I am not to be moved. If that is in your mind, Roderique.’
    ‘I’m much too frightened of you, Miss Emily, to attempt any such task.’
    ‘Ah, no!’ she said in English. ‘Don’t say that! I hope not.’
    He kissed her dry little hand as she had taught him to do. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘tell me more about it. What is your plan?’
    Miss Emily reverted to the French language. ‘In effect, as I have told you, to restore the status quo. Ultimately I shall remove the enclosure, shut the shop and issue a general announcement disclaiming and exposing the entire affair.’
    Alleyn said: ‘I’ve never been able to make up my mind about these matters. The cure of warts by apparently irrational means is too well-established to be questioned. And even when you admit the vast number of failures, there is a pretty substantial case to be made out for certain types of faith-healing. Or so I understand. I can’t help wondering why you are so very fierce about it all, Miss Emily. If you are repelled by the inevitable vulgarities, of