‘That’s you in all your glory!’ he said. ‘Lady Jane, at her wedding with John Thomas.’

And he stuck flowers in the hair of his own body, and wound a bit of creeping–jenny round his penis, and stuck a single bell of a hyacinth in his navel. She watched him with amusement, his odd intentness. And she pushed a campion flower in his moustache, where it stuck, dangling under his nose.

‘This is John Thomas marryin’ Lady Jane,’ he said. ‘An’ we mun let Constance an’ Oliver go their ways. Maybe—’

He spread out his hand with a gesture, and then he sneezed, sneezing away the flowers from his nose and his navel. navel He sneezed again.

‘Maybe what?’ she said, waiting for him to go on.

He looked at her a little bewildered.

‘Eh?’ he said.

‘Maybe what? Go on with what you were going to say,’ she insisted.

‘Ay, what WAS I going to say?’

He had forgotten. And it was one of the disappointments of her life, that he never finished.

A yellow ray of sun shone over the trees.

‘Sun!’ he said. ‘And time you went. Time, my Lady, time! What’s that as flies without wings, your Ladyship? Time! Time!’

He reached for his shirt.

‘Say goodnight! to John Thomas,’ he said, looking down at his penis. ‘He’s safe in the arms of creeping Jenny! Not much burning pestle pestle about him just now.’

And he put his flannel shirt over his head.

‘A man’s most dangerous moment,’ he said, when his head had emerged, ‘is when he’s getting into his shirt. Then he puts his head in a bag. That’s why I prefer those American shirts, that you put on like a jacket.’ She still stood watching him. He stepped into his short drawers, and buttoned them round the waist.

‘Look at Jane!’ he said. ‘In all her blossoms! Who’ll put blossoms on you next year, Jinny? Me, or somebody else? ‘‘Good–bye, my bluebell, farewell to you!’’ I hate that song, it’s early war days.’ He then sat down, and was was pulling on his stockings. She still stood unmoving. He laid his hand on the slope of her buttocks. ‘Pretty little Lady Jane!’ he said. ‘Perhaps in Venice you’ll find a man who’ll put jasmine in your maiden–hair, and a pomegranate flower in your navel. Poor little lady Jane!’

‘Don’t say those things!’ she said. ‘You only say them to hurt me.’

He dropped his head. Then he said, in dialect:

‘Ay, maybe I do, maybe I do! Well then, I’ll say nowt, an’ ha’ done wi’t. But tha mun dress thysen, all’ go back to thy stately homes of England, how beautiful they stand. Time’s up! Time’s up for Sir John, an’ an for little Lady Jane! Put thy shimmy on, Lady Chatterley! Tha might be anybody, standin’ there be–out even a shimmy, an’ a few rags o’ flowers. There then, there then, I’ll undress thee, tha bob–tailed young throstle.’ And he took the leaves from her hair, kissing her damp hair, and the flowers from her breasts, and kissed her breasts, and kissed her navel, and kissed her maiden–hair, where he left the flowers threaded. ‘They mun stop while they will,’ he said. ‘So! There tha’rt bare again, nowt but a bare–arsed lass an’ a bit of a Lady Jane! Now put thy shimmy on, for tha mun go, or else else Lady Chatterley’s goin’ to be late for dinner, an’ where ‘ave yer been to my pretty maid!’

“I did not! I did not! Before God I swear that I did not!” cried our wretched prisoner.

“Tell us, then, how Cadogan West met his end before you laid him upon the roof of a railway carriage.”

“I will. I swear to you that I will. I did the rest. I confess it. It was just as you say. A Stock Exchange debt had to be paid. I needed the money badly. Oberstein offered me five thousand. It was to save myself from ruin. But as to murder, I am as innocent as you.”

“What you happened, then?”

“He had his suspicions before, and he followed me as you describe. I never knew it until I was at the very door. It was thick fog, and one could not see three yards. I had given two taps and Oberstein had come to the door. The young man rushed up and demanded to know what we were about to do with the papers. Oberstein had a short life-preserver. He always carried it with him. As West forced his way after us into the house Oberstein struck him on the head. The blow was a fatal one. He was dead within five minutes. There he lay in the hall, and we were at our wit’s end what to do. Then Oberstein had this idea about the trains which halted under his back window. But first he examined the papers which I had brought. He said that three of them were essential, and that he must keep them. ‘You cannot keep them,’ said I. ‘There will be a dreadful row at Woolwich if they are not returned.’ ‘I must keep them,’ said he, ‘for they are so technical that it is impossible in the time to make copies.’ ‘Then they must all go back together tonight,’ said I. He thought for a little, and then he cried out that he had it. ‘Three I will keep,’ said he. ‘The others we will stuff into the pocket of this young man. When he is found the whole business will assuredly be put to his account. I could see no other way out of it, so we did as he suggested. We waited half an hour at the window before a train stopped. It was so thick that nothing could be seen, and we had no difficulty in lowering West’s body on to the train. That was the end of the matter so far as I was concerned.”

“And your brother?”

“He said nothing, but he had caught me once with his keys, and I think that he suspected. I read in his eyes that he suspected. As you know, he never held up his head again.”

There was silence in the room. It was broken by Mycroft Holmes.

“Can you not make reparation? It would ease your conscience, and possibly your punishment.”

“What reparation can I make?”

“Where is Oberstein with the papers?”

“I do not know.”

“Did he give you no address?”

“He said that letters to the Hotel du Louvre, Paris, would eventually reach him.”

“Then reparation is still within your power,” said Sherlock Holmes.

“I will do anything I can. I owe this fellow no particular good-will. He has been my ruin and my downfall.”