Death in Ecstasy

by Ngaio Marsh

  “Say it slid out on to her lips,” continued Fox monotonously.

  “Say she drank it! You make me tired, Mr. Fox. It wouldn’t slide out, it’d slide back on the top of the wine. Isn’t that right?”

  “Um,” said Fox again.

  “What d’yer mean ‘Um’! That’s fair enough, isn’t it, sir?” He appealed to Alleyn.

  “Conjecture,” said Alleyn. “Surmise and conjecture.”

  “You started it,” remarked Nigel perkily.

  “So I did. That’s all the thanks I get for thinking aloud. Come on, Fox. It grows beastly late. Shut up your find. We’ll know more about it when the analyst has spoken his piece.”

  Fox took the little box from him, shut it, and put it into the bag.

  “What’s next, sir?” he asked.

  “Why, Mr. Garnette’s little bottle. Where is Mr. Garnette?”

  “In his rooms. Dr. Curtis is there and one of our men.”

  “I wonder if he has converted them. Let us join the cosy circle. You can tackle the vestry now, Bailey.”

  Fox, Alleyn and Nigel went up to Father Garnette’s rooms, leaving Bailey and his satellites to continue their prowling.

  Father Garnette sat at his desk which, with its collection of objects de piété, so closely resembled an altar. Dr. Curtis sat at the table. A uniformed constable with a perfectly expressionless face stood by Father Garnette’s prie-Dieu, furnishing a most fantastic juxtaposition of opposites. They all had the look of persons who have not spoken for a considerable time. Father Garnette was pallid and a little too dignified; Dr. Curtis was wan and puffed with surpressed yawning; the constable was merely pale by nature.

  “Ah, Mr. Garnette,” said Alleyn cheerfully, “here we are at last. You must long for your bed.”

  “No, no,” said Father Garnette. “No, no.”

  “We shan’t keep you very much longer. I wonder if you will allow me to make an inspection of these rooms? I’m afraid it ought to be done.”

  “An inspection! But really, Inspector, is that necessarah? I must confess I—” Father Garnette stopped and then added a throaty sound suggestive of sweet reasonableness coupled with distress.

  “You object?” said Alleyn briskly. “Then I shall have to leave my men here for the time being. I’m so sorry.”

  “But—I cannot understand—”

  “You see I’m afraid there is little doubt that this is a case of homicide. That means there is a certain routine that we are obliged to follow. A search of the premises is part of this routine. Of course, if you object—”

  “I—no—I—”

  “You don’t?”

  “Not if—no. It is merely that this little dwelling is very precious to me. It is filled with the thoughts—the medita- tions of a specially dedicated life. One shrinks a little from the thought of—ah—”

  “Of fools stepping in where—but no, of course this is one of the places where angels tread all over the place. We’ll be as quick as we can. You can help us if you will. The bedroom is through there, I suppose?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any other rooms?”

  “The usual offices,” said Father Garnette grandly: “bathroom, etceterah, etceterah.”

  “Any back door?”

  “Ah—yes.”

  “Is it locked?”

  “Invariablah.”

  “Have a look, will you, Fox? I’ll take this room.”

  Fox dived past a black velvet portière. The constable, at a nod from Alleyn, followed him.

  “Would you rather stay here?” asked Alleyn of Father Garnette. Father Garnette cast a somewhat distracted glance round the room and said he thought he would.

  “Finished with me, Alleyn?” asked Dr. Curtis.

  “Yes, thanks, Curtis. Inquest on Tuesday, I suppose. They’ll want a post-mortem, of course.”

  “Of course. I’ll be off.”

  “Lucky creature. Good night.”

  “Good night. Good night, Father Garnette.”

  “Good night, my dear doctor,” ejaculated Father Garnette on a sudden gush of geniality.

  The little divisional surgeon hurried away. Nigel attempted to make himself inconspicuous by standing in a corner and was at once told to come out of it and give a hand.

  “Make a note of anything I tell you about. Now, Mr. Garnette, I understand that in preparing the wine for tonight’s ceremony Mr. Wheatley used two ingredients. Where did he find the bottles?”

  Father Garnette pointed to a very nice Jacobean cupboard. It was unlocked. Alleyn opened the doors and revealed an extremely representative cellar. All the ingredients for the more elaborate cocktails, some self-respecting port, the brandy that had been recommended by Dr. Curtis, and a dozen bottles of an aristocrat in hocks. On a shelf by themselves stood four bottles of dubious appearance—“Le Comte’s Invalid Port.” One was empty.

  “That will be the one broached to-night?” asked Alleyn.

  “Ah—yes,” said Father Garnette.

  Alleyn moved the others to one side and discovered a smaller label-less bottle, half full. He took it out carefully, holding it by the extreme end of the neck. The cork came out easily. Alleyn sniffed at the orifice and raised an eyebrow.

  “Big magic, Mr. Garnette,” he remarked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Did this provide the second ingredient in the potion mixed by Mr. Wheatley?”

  “Ah—broomp,” said Father Garnette, clearing his vocal passage, “yes. That is so.”

  Alleyn drew a pencil from his pocket, dipped it into the bottle and then sucked it pensively.

  “How much of this was used?” he asked.

  Father Garnette inclined his head.

  “The merest soupçon,” he said. “It is perfectly pure.”

  “The best butter,” murmured Alleyn. He put the bottle in his bag, which Fox had left on the table.

  “You have a complete cellar without it, I see,” he said coolly.

  “Ah yes. Will you take something, Inspector? This has been a trying evening—for all of us.”

  “No, thank you so much.”

  “Mr.—ah—Bathgate?’

  Nigel’s tongue arched longingly but he too refused a drink.

  “I am very much shaken,” said Father Garnette. “I feel wretchard. Quite wretchard.”

  “You had better have a peg yourself, perhaps,” suggested Alleyn. Father Garnette passed his hand wearily across his forehead and then let his arm flop on the desk.

  “Perhaps I had, perhaps I had,” he said with a sort of brave smile. He poured himself out a pretty stiff nip, took a pull at it, and sat down at the table.

  Alleyn went on with his investigation of the room. He moved to the desk. Father Garnette watched him.

  “I wonder if you would mind moving into the next room, Mr. Garnette,” said Alleyn placidly.

  “I—but—I—Surely, Inspector, I may at least watch this distasteful proceeding.”

  “I think you should spare yourself the pain. I want Inspector Fox to search you.”

  “I have already been searched.”

  “That was before you changed, I think. I expect Fox will have almost finished in there. I suggest you go to bed.”

  “I do not want to go to bed,” complained Father Garnette. He took another resolute pull at his drink.

  “Don’t you? It would be simpler. However, I’ll get Fox to look you over now. You will have to strip, I’m afraid. Fox.”

  “Sir?” Inspector Fox thrust a large bland face round the curtain.

  Father Garnette suddenly leapt to his feet.

  “I refuse,” he said very loudly. “This is too much. You exceed your duty. I refuse.”

  “What’s up, sir?” asked Fox.

  “Mr. Garnette doesn’t want to be searched again, Fox. Did he object the first time?”

  “He did not.”

  “Curious. Ah well!”

  “I just thought I’d mention it, sir. The back door is not locked.”


  “Oh,” said Alleyn. “I thought, Mr. Garnette, that you said it was invariably locked.”

  “So it is, Inspectah. I cannot understand—I locked it myself, this afternoon.”

  Alleyn took out his notebook and wrote in it. Then he handed it to Fox, who came through the curtain, put on a pair of spectacles, and read solemnly. Father Garnette’s eyes were glued on the notebook.

  “That’s very peculiar, sir,” said Fox. “Look here.” He swung round with his back to Alleyn and held up a tightly clenched paw. Father Garnette stared at Fox wildly.

  “Very peculiar,” repeated Fox.

  Nigel could have echoed his words, for Alleyn, with amazing swiftness whipped the bottle from his bag and, holding it delicately, tipped a handsome proportion of its contents into Father Garnette’s glass. He returned the bottle to the bag and strolled over to Fox.

  “Ah yes,” he said. “Remarkable.”

  “What d’you mean?” asked Garnette loudly. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s of no consequence,” murmured Alleyn, “of no consequence whatever.”

  “I demand—” began Garnette. He glared unhappily at the two detectives, suddenly flopped down into his chair, and drank off the contents of the glass.

  “Carry on, Fox,” said Alleyn.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Contents of a Desk, a Safe,

  and a Bookcase

  THE BEHAVIOUR of Father Garnette underwent a rapid and most perceptible change. This difference was first apparent in his face. It was, rather as though a facile modeller in clay had touched the face in several places, leaving subtle but important alterations in its general expression. It became at once bolder and more sly. The resemblance to a purveyor of patent medicines triumphed over the more saintly aspect. Indeed, Father Garnette no longer looked in the least like a saint. He looked both shady and blowsy.

  Nigel, fascinated, watched this change into something rich and strange. Alleyn, busy at the desk, had his back to the priest. Inspector Fox had returned to the bedroom where he could be heard humming like a Gargantuan bumble-bee. Presently he burst into song:

  Frerer Jacker, Frerer Jacker,

  Dormy-vous, dormy-vous.

  It was an earnest attempt to reproduce the intermediate radio French lesson.

  The clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly, cleared its throat, and struck twelve.

  “Say, ho, why can’t we get together?”

  Alleyn turned slowly and regarded him.

  “That’s the way Ogden talks when he talks when he talks,” added Father Garnette with an air of great lucidity.

  “Oh, yes?” said Alleyn.

  “Get together,” repeated Father Garnette, “let’s get together at the river. The beautiful the beautiful the river. Why can’t we gather at the river? I ran a revivalist joint way down in Michitchigan back in ’14. It was swell. Boy, it was swell.”

  “Was Mr. Ogden with you in Michigan?” asked Alleyn.

  “That big sap!” said Father Garnette with bitter scorn. “Why, he thinks I’m the sand-fly’s garters.” He appeared to regret this last observation and added, with something of his former manner: “Mr. Ogden is sassherated in holy simplicity.”

  “Oh,” said Alleyn. “When did you meet Mr. Ogden?”

  “Crossing th’ ’Tlantic. He gave me a piece of gold. Ogden’s all right. Sassherated in simplicity.”

  “So it would appear.”

  “Listen,” said Father Garnette. “You got me all wrong. I never did a thing to that dame. Is it likely? Little Cara! No, sir.”

  He looked so obscene as he made this statement that Nigel gave an involuntary exclamation.

  “Be quiet, Bathgate,” ordered Alleyn very quietly.

  “Why can’t we get together?” resumed Father Garnette. “I’ll talk.”

  “What with?” asked Alleyn.

  “With the right stuff. You lay off this joint and you won’t need to ask for the say-so. What’s it worth?”

  “What’s it worth to you?”

  “It’s your squeak,” said Father Garnette obscurely.

  “You’re bluffing,” said Alleyn, “you haven’t got tuppence.”

  Father Garnette was instantly thrown into a violent rage. “Is that so!” he said, so loudly that Fox came back to listen. “Is that so! Listen, you poor simp. In my own line there’s no one to touch me. Why? Because I got brains sanimaginasshon and mor’n that—because I got one hundred per cent essay.”

  “What’s that?” asked Alleyn.

  “Essay! Ess-shay. ‘It.’ ”

  “So you say,” grunted Alleyn most offensively.

  “So I say and what I say’s so I say,” said Father Garnette with astounding rapidity. “If you don’t believe me—look f’ yourself.”

  He made an effort to rise, fell back in his chair, fumbled in his pocket and produced a ring of keys.

  “Little leather box in desk,” he said. “And not only that. Safe.”

  “Thank you,” said Alleyn. Father Garnette instantly fell asleep.

  Alleyn, without another glance at him, returned to the desk and pulled out the bottom drawer.

  “Lor’, sir,” said Fox, “you’ve doped the gentleman.”

  “Not I,” Alleyn grunted. “He’s merely tight.”

  “Tight!” ejaculated Nigel. “What was in the bottle?”

  “Proof spirit. Over-proof as like as not.”

  “Pure alcohol?”

  “Something of the sort. That or rectified spirit, I imagine. Have to be analysed. This is a very exotic case. Thorndyke stuff. Not my cup of tea at all.”

  “What,” asked Nigel, “did you write on that paper you gave Fox?”

  “A suggestion that he should attract Mr. Garnette’s attention.”

  “You bad old Borgia!”

  “Stop talking. Can’t you see I’m detecting. What’s the back door like, Fox?”

  “Ordinary key and bolts. Funny it was open.”

  “Very funny. Go through that waste-paper basket, will you? And the grate.”

  Fox knelt on the hearth-rug. The fire had almost burnt out. For some time the detectives worked in silence. Suddenly Fox grunted.

  “How now, brown cow?” asked Alleyn.

  “If you mean me, sir, here’s a bit of something.”

  “What?”

  Fox, using tweezers, drew two scraps of burnt paper from the ash-tray and laid them before Alleyn. Nigel got up to look. They were the merest fragments of paper, but there were one or two words printed on them in green pencil:

  “Oh, Lord!” said Alleyn, “what now! Let’s see. Same paper as this stuff on his desk? No. I can’t see a green pencil anywhere. We’ll have to find out when that thing was last cleaned out. Any more bits?”

  “That’s the lot,” said Fox.

  “Put it away tenderly. We’ll have to brood over it. I want to get this desk cleaned up. Ah, here we are.” He drew out a purple suede case and examined the keys. Father Garnette uttered a stertorous snore. Fox, still looking scandalised, walked over to him.

  “He’d be better in bed,” said Fox.

  “So he would. Make it so, will you, Fox? Mr. Bathgate will help you. And from his fair and unpolluted breath may violets spring. Ugh, you horrid old man!” added Alleyn with sudden violence. He had taken a bundle of letters from the box and was reading one of them.

  Fox, assisted by Nigel, heaved and hauled Father Garnette into the bedroom, which was draped in rose-coloured plush and satin. Here were more idols, more Nordic bijouterie, more cushions.

  “Very classy, isn’t it, sir?” remarked Fox as he lowered Father Garnette on to the divan bed.

  “It’s villainous, Fox,” said Nigel. He contemplated Father Garnette with distaste.

  “Must we undress this unpleasant old blot?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid so, sir. Can you find his pyjamas?”

  From under a violently embroidered coverlet Nigel drew out a confection in purple silk.

  “L
ook, Inspector, look! Really, it’s too disgusting.”

  “Not quite my fancy, I will say, sir,” conceded Fox who had attacked Father Garnette’s right boot. “I believe in wool next the skin, summer and winter. I’d feel kind of slippery in that issue.”

  Nigel tried to picture Inspector Fox in purple satin pyjamas, failed to do so and laughed himself into a good humour. They put Father Garnette to bed. He muttered a little, opened his eyes once, said: “Thank you, my son” in faultless English, showed signs of feeling very ill, but appeared to get over it, and finally sank again into the deepest slumber.

  They rejoined Alleyn and found him poring over an array of letters.

  “Something doing, sir?” asked Fox.

  “Much. Most of it odious. These are all letters from women.”

  “Any from the deceased?”

  “Yes.” Alleyn grimaced. “There it is. Read it. A mixture of pseudo-mystic gibberish and hysterical adulation. Garnette seems actually to have persuaded her that the—the union—was blessed, had a spiritual significance—puh!” He made a violent gesture. “Read it. It’s important.”

  Nigel read over Fox’s shoulder. The letter was written on mauve paper printed with Cara Quayne’s address in Shepherd Market. It was undated. It began:

  BELOVED FATHER AND SPOUSE IN ECSTASY,

  I know you will be out this afternoon, but I feel I must make oblation for the divine, glorious, ecstatic bliss that has been mine ever since last night. I am half frightened, tremulous. Am I worthy? I—the Chosen Vessel? How can I make oblation? With this you will find a parcel. It contains the bonds I told you of, £5,000. Oh, how hateful to speak of money, but—I know you will understand—it is a thank-offering. Tell them about it, and let them give too until we have enough for a new temple. I want you to find it when you come in—after I have gone. Oh, for a new temple. I want you to find it when you come in—after I have gone. Oh, beloved holy—

  The letter ran on to eight pages.

  “Very peculiar indeed, sir,” said Fox who read the whole thing through with a perfectly impassive demeanour. “That will be the money Mr. Ogden and monsieur talked about. In the safe here, they said.”