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recently lain. There were some bright green daubs on the wall. It was blood, Rafferty knew, though looking more Martian than human. The colour was just an idiosyncrasy of one particular chemical. Another turned blood to the most delightful pink.
    “These marks showed up by the victim's head when I tried the orthotolidine test,” Appleby told them. “They're not very clear, I'm afraid. Looks like somebody tried to wash them off. Any ideas?”
    Rafferty couldn't make much of them and said so. “What do you make of them?” he asked Appleby.
    “They were definitely drawn rather than splashed, and drawn by the dead man, most likely. I noticed his right index finger was blood-stained.”
    Llewellyn hunkered down beside them and studied the marks for a few moments before he ventured a more considered suggestion. “Could be an attempt at a name. Ian, say, or Isaac and Moon never got beyond the first letter.” Llewellyn pointed. “See? The first 'I” is fairly weak. The second is a better attempt.'
    Rafferty contradicted him. “I doubt it's a name. If it was, and it meant anything significant, Moon's killer would only have needed to pick up Moon's finger and alter the lettering, to a 'J” for John,' he glanced slyly at Llewellyn. “Or 'L” for-'
    Llewellyn didn't give him a chance to go on. “The murderer seems to have considered the marks important enough to have made an attempt to get rid of them.”
    “Probably just rattled by the sight of the bright blood on the white wall. Even killers can have weak stomachs, you know. Moon had just been hit on the head. I doubt his brain was functioning sufficiently to write anything meaningful.” He stood up, pulling rank and closing the discussion and his workaholic Catholic conscience immediately began to berate him. Do you have to be so childish, Rafferty? it asked him. Yes, he snapped silently back. I do. Why don't you mind your own bloody business?
    The trouble was that Llewellyn could be such an all-fired know-all. And he was so often right in his deductions, and Rafferty so often wrong, that he frequently got on Rafferty's nerves. Still, Rafferty's conscious managed another rebuke. You could try being a little more grown up about it.
    Although, most of the time, and somewhat to Rafferty's surprise, he and Llewellyn got on pretty well, there were still occasions, like at the beginning of another investigation, for instance, when he was prone to over-reaction. Too aware of the fact that, beside Llewellyn, he was over-emotional, impetuous and only half-educated, one part of him wanted to put Llewellyn down even while the other, more sensible part of him acknowledged his reaction was childish. Defensively, he reminded himself that, although Llewellyn might have more education and brain-power he had yet to solve a case, and immediately felt better. “Maybe you're right. Look into it,” he now magnanimously invited Llewellyn. “See how many people with names beginning with 'I” Moon knew.'
    Llewellyn gave a stiff nod in acknowledgement. Personally, Rafferty doubted there'd be any such acquaintances. Or, if there were, there'd be none who'd had the opportunity to murder Moon.
    “Seeing as you've spurned the first of my clues,” Appleby broke in. “How about taking a look at the second? You'll like this one,” he promised. “There are several nice bloody fingerprints on the outside of the window sill. Definitely not the dead man's. Fraser's taken an impression of them.”
    Rafferty waved another olive branch at Llewellyn's poker-face. “That sounds more like it, hey, Dafyd? Something to get your teeth into.”
    “If you say so, sir,” Llewellyn replied woodenly.
    Irritated all over again, Rafferty opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, a sudden commotion from the stairway stopped him.
    A voice yelling, “Come back! You can't go up there,” was followed by the pounding of heavy copper's feet on the stairs.
    Rafferty strode across the room and flung the