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dancers . . .’ He halted in embarrassment.
    â€˜I see,’ said Charles softly.
    â€˜The fact is, Vita had once caught me looking through this . . . crack and . . . You must promise you won’t tell her.’
    â€˜Of course not,’ he reassured.
    Norman del Rosa looked relieved. The confession had made him feel easier. Charles felt a wave of pity for the little man in his ridiculous wig. A Peeping Tom. The fact that he was spying on dancers made it even more ironic, since most of them were totally without shame, used to anyone and everyone wandering through their dressing rooms while they were changing. Still, in a way he could understand. Somehow he couldn’t imagine Norman having much of a sex-life with the fastidious Vita Maureen. A man who had been married to her for a few years could be excused worse deviations.
    â€˜I’m glad I’ve told you, actually, Charles. Weight off my mind. You won’t tell anyone, will you?’
    â€˜Of course not. You know what this means?’
    â€˜Well, I suppose it means that whatever was wrong with the cable didn’t go wrong until after Bill Peaky had tested it.’
    That was a rather naive way of putting it. But it was typical of Norman del Rosa’s timorous nature not to follow the logic through to its unpalatable conclusion.
    Cables don’t just go wrong. The cable which killed Bill Peaky had been incorrectly wired. The Live terminal had been attached where the Neutral should have been and vice versa. If the mains tester had not revealed this fault in the interval after the new cable had been installed, then it was a reasonable supposition that at that moment the wiring was correct. So it was a reasonable supposition that the wires had been subsequently reversed by a person or persons unknown. Which made it a reasonable supposition that Bill Peaky had been murdered.

CHAPTER THREE
    COMIC: I say, I say, I say, what’s the best way to serve turkey?
    FEED: I don’t know. What is the best way to serve turkey?
    COMIC: Join the Turkish army.
    Polly, the solicitor’s husky-voiced secretary, connected Charles with Gerald Venables. ‘Hello,’ the actor said buoyantly. ‘I think I’ve got another one.’
    â€˜Another what?’ asked Gerald cautiously. In the office he was all solicitor, very formal.
    â€˜Another murder.’
    â€˜Really? OK, spill the beans.’ The interest was instantaneous, signalled, as ever, by Gerald’s descent into American slang.
    â€˜Oh, I thought you’d gone off murder.’
    â€˜No, it’s still more fun than contract-fiddling.’
    â€˜I mean, you didn’t give me much help when Charlotte Mecken was murdered.’
    â€˜No, but dammit, her husband was a friend of mine.’
    â€˜True. Have you seen Hugo Mecken recently?’
    â€˜Couple of weeks ago. Met in a restaurant.’
    â€˜What’s he doing these days?’
    â€˜Drinking himself to death, so far as I could tell.’
    â€˜Yes, I was afraid that’s what would happen.’ Charles paused, swamped by a wave of depression. What was the point in his dabbling in detection when his efforts brought so little happiness to the people involved?
    But Gerald wouldn’t let him brood. ‘Come on, come on. What is it this time? Spear-carrier impaled on his spear? Stripper garotted with her G-string?’
    â€˜No. Did you read about Bill Peaky?’
    â€˜That comedian who got electrocuted out at Great Yarmouth?’
    â€˜Hunstanton, yes. I was there with Frances.’
    â€˜Ah, you two back together again. That’s good.’
    â€˜Were back together. I’m afraid we’ve had another row.’
    â€˜Oh God –’
    â€˜ANYWAY . . .’ Charles changed the subject forcibly. ‘About Peaky . . .’
    â€˜What, you think his death may not have be all it seemed?’
    â€˜It’s possible.’
    â€˜But surely the inquest . .