“Gilks!” he said.  “Your smart-alec suicide theory.  I like it.  It works for me.  And I think  I see how the clever bastard pulled it off.  Bring me pen.  Bring me paper.”

   He sat down with a flourish at the cherrywood farmhouse table which occupied the centre of the rear portion of the room and deftly sketched out a scheme of events which involved a number of household or kitchen implements, a swinging, weighted light fitting, some very precise timing, and hinged on the vital fact that the record turntable was Japanese.

   “That should keep your forensic chaps happy,” said Dirk briskly to Gilks.  The forensic chaps glanced at it, took in its salient points and liked them.  They were simple, implausible, and of exactly that nature which a coroner who liked the same sort of holidays in Marbella which they did would be sure to relish.

  “Unless,” said Dirk casually, “you are interested in the notion that the deceased had entered into some kind of diabolical contract with a supernatural agency for which payment was now being exacted?”

    The forensic chaps glanced at each other and shook their heads.  There was a strong sense from them that the morning was wearing on and that this kind of talk was only introducing unnecessary complications into a case which otherwise could be well behind them before lunch.

  Dirk made a satisfied shrug, peeled off his share of the evidence and, with a final nod to the constabulary, made his way back upstairs.