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guess that he would have blood on his right hand and arm, but if he managed it quickly and shielded himself with the bed linen, he might well have got away with just a spot or two. And that, if he didn’t panic, could easily be wiped off on one of the sheets and that spot on the sheet then mingled in with the blood that the wound produced.”
    “What about his clothing?”
    St. James examined the two pillows, set them on a chair, and peeled back the bottom sheet from the mattress a careful inch at a time. “The killer might well have worn no clothes at all,” he noted. “It would be far easier to see to it in the nude. Then he could return to his room, or to her room,” this with a nod at Macaskin, “and wash the blood off with soap and water. If there was any on him in the first place.”
    “That would be a risk, wouldn’t it?” Macaskin asked. “Not to mention cold as the dickens.”
    St. James paused to compare the hole in the sheet with that in the mattress. “The entire crime was a risk. Joy Sinclair might well have awakened and screamed like a banshee.”
    “If she was asleep in the first place,” Lynley noted. He had gone to the dressing table near the window. A jumble of articles took up its surface: make-up, hair brushes, hair dryer, tissues, a mass of jewellery among which were three rings, five silver bangles, and two strings of coloured beads. A gold hoop earring lay on the floor. “St. James,” Lynley said, his eyes on the table, “when you and Deborah go to an hotel, do you lock the door?”
    “As soon as possible,” he replied with a smile. “But I suppose that comes from living in the same house with one’s father-in-law. A few days out of his presence and we become hopeless reprobates, I’m ashamed to say. Why?”
    “Where do you leave the key?”
    St. James looked from Lynley to the door. “In the keyhole, generally.”
    “Yes.” From the dressing table, Lynley picked up the door key by the metal ring that attached the key to its plastic identification tab. “Most people do. So why do you suppose Joy Sinclair locked the door and put the key on the dressing table?”
    “There was an argument last night, wasn’t there? She was part of it. She may well have been distracted or upset when she came in. She may have locked the door and tossed the key there in a fit of temper.”
    “Possibly. Or perhaps she wasn’t the one who locked the door at all. Perhaps she didn’t come in by herself but with someone else who did the locking up while she waited in the bed.” Lynley noticed that Inspector Macaskin was pulling at his lip. He said to him, “You don’t agree?”
    Macaskin chewed on the side of his thumb for a moment before he dropped his hand with a look of distaste, as if it had climbed to his mouth of its own volition. “As to someone being with her,” he said, “no, I don’t think so.”
    Lynley dropped the key back on to the dressing table and went to the wardrobe, opening the doors. Inside, clothes hung in a haphazard arrangement; shoes were tossed to the back; a pair of blue jeans was in a heap on the floor; a suitcase yawned, displaying stockings and brassieres.
    Lynley looked through these items and turned back to Macaskin. “Why not?” he asked him as St. James crossed the room to the chest of drawers and began going through it.
    “Because of what she was wearing,” Macaskin explained. “You couldn’t have recognised much from the CID photographs, but she had on a man’s pyjama top.”
    “Doesn’t that make it even more likely that someone was with her?”
    “You’re thinking that she had on the pyjama top of whoever came to see her. I can’t agree.”
    “Why not?” Lynley closed the wardrobe door and leaned against it, his eyes on Macaskin.
    “Realistically then,” Macaskin began with the assurance of an exponent who has given his subject a great deal of prior thought, “does a man bent on seduction go to a woman’s room in his oldest pyjamas? Top