Death in Ecstasy

by Ngaio Marsh

  “I am extremely glad you didn’t,” Alleyn managed to say.

  “Shall I continue?”

  “Please do.”

  “I had held my breath up to forty-five and exhaled slowly while inwardly repeating the word and, as I say, was about to enter the Outer Portal when she opened the door.”

  “Miss Quayne did?”

  “Who else? Before that I had not been aware of her presence in Father Garnette’s rooms. She had arrived before I did and had gone through the hall, no doubt. I left my overshoes outside,” added Miss Wade with magnificent irrelevancy.

  “She opened the door into Mr. Garnette’s rooms, and then you heard her?”

  “Yes. The curtain was hiding her, of course, but she raised her voice and, being in the front I heard her. Indeed, I felt a little annoyed with dear Cara. The altar door should never be used in meditation hours. Except, of course, by Father himself. And it was well after meditation began. I glanced at my watch. A quarter to three it was.”

  “Miss Wade, can you repeat exactly what you overheard Miss Quayne say?”

  “Her very words. ‘I don’t believe you are speaking the truth’ was what dear Cara said, ‘and I shall tell Father Garnette what you have done.’ ”

  Here Miss Wade paused and drew herself up with a little quiver.

  “To whom did she speak?”

  “I haven’t a notion,” said Miss Wade cosily.

  Alleyn stifled a groan.

  “No,” she went on, “that I do not know. Not Father, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” repeated poor Alleyn.

  “Whoever it was, was quite inaudible. And then she came hurrying down into the temple with a great lack of reverence, poor thing. She rushed past me without seeing me, though I remained kneeling and gave her a reproachful glance. There were some neophytes in the back pews. It really was naughty of Cara. Such a bad example.”

  “Did she seem much upset?”

  “Dis—tracted,” said Miss Wade.

  “Did anybody come out after her?”

  “On the contrary. Father Garnette came in at this door about five minutes later. He had been to lunch with M. de Ravigne. He spoke a few words to me. I had quite given up my meditation.”

  “Did you mention the incident to him?”

  “Now did I?” mused Miss Wade with her head on one side. “No! Definitely not. I would have done so, but he spoke of Higher Things.”

  “Have you told anybody else?”

  “No, I think not.”

  “Then let me implore you not to do so, Miss Wade. What you have just told me is of the greatest importance. Please promise me you will not repeat it.”

  Miss Wade bridled.

  “Really, officer,” she said. “I am not accustomed—”

  “No, no. Never mind all that. Please don’t think me over-bearing, but unless you will give me your word that you will keep this incident to yourself I—I shall be obliged to take very drastic measures. Miss Wade, it is for your own sake I insist on this silence. Do you understand?”

  “That I don’t,” said Miss Wade with spirit.

  Alleyn took one of the little black kid claws in his hand, and he bent his head and smiled at Miss Wade.

  “Please,” he said. “to oblige a poor policeman. Do promise.”

  She blinked up at him. Something rather youthful came back into her faded eyes. Her cheeks were pink.

  “It is a pity you have come down to this sort of work,” said Miss Wade. “You have what my dear Mama used to call quite an air. Very well, I promise.”

  Alleyn made her a bow. She tossed her head and went off down the alley-way at a brisk trot.

  He stood there and looked thoughtfully after her, his hat in his hand. At last, with a shrug, he went out to where Inspector Fox waited for him in a police car.

  “What’s wrong with the old lady?” asked Fox.

  “Nothing much. She just felt chatty.”

  “Anything of interest?”

  “Merely that she overheard Cara Quayne telling her murderer she’d speak to Garnette about him or her as the case may be.”

  “Lor’!” said Fox. “When, for Gawd’s sake?”

  “At about quarter to three yesterday afternoon.”

  “In the hall?”

  “Naturally,” said Alleyn promptly. “Listen.”

  He repeated Miss Wade’s statement. Fox stared solemnly out of the window.

  “Well, that’s very interesting, sir,” he said when Alleyn had finished. “That’s very interesting indeed. Do you think she caught him red-handed with the bonds?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Or else he (or she, you know, Fox) refused to let her see them. There’s been some talk of her adding to those bonds. She may have wanted to do so on the eve of her first innings as Chosen Vessel.”

  “That’s right, sir. D’you think she was poisoned to keep her quiet?”

  “I think she was killed, in the end, to keep her quiet. But he meant to do it anyway.”

  “How do you make that out?”

  “If it’s sodium cyanide he couldn’t make it between three and eight o’clock. He must have had it ready.”

  “Then what was the motive?”

  “Same as before, Fox. Why are we sitting in this car?”

  “I dunno, sir.’’

  “Tell him to drive—yes, tell him to drive to M. de Ravigne’s house.’’

  Fox gave the order.

  “What happened to Mr. Bathgate?” asked Alleyn.

  “He went up to his flat, sir. I think he took Miss Jenkins and Mr. Pringle with him.”

  “He’s a great hand at cultivating suspects,” said Alleyn. “It’s been useful before now.”

  “So it has.”

  They relapsed into silence. At a telephone-box Alleyn stopped for a moment to ring the Yard. A message had come through from Bailey, who was at Cara Quayne’s house. The blotting-paper in her bedroom desk had proved to be interesting. Lots of writing but in some foreign lingo. Alleyn could hear Bailey’s disparagement in this phrase. They had made out yesterday’s date and an address: “Madame la Comtesse de Barsac, Chateau Barsac, La Loupe, E. et L., France.” This had been checked up from an address book. They had also found evidence on the blotting-paper and on a crumpled sheet in the wastepaper basket of something that looked very much like a Will. Mr. Rattisbon had rung up and would ring again.

  “So put that on your needles and knit it,” said Alleyn when he had told Fox.

  The car turned into Lowndes Square and drew up by M. de Ravigne’s flat.

  Branscombe Chambers proved to be a set of small bachelor flats, and M. de Ravigne appeared to live in the best of them. This was on the fourth floor. They went up in the lift.

  “Any flats vacant here?” asked Alleyn of the liftman.

  “Yes, sir. One. Top floor.”

  “How many rooms?”

  “Three recep., one bed, one servant’s bed, bath and the usual, sir,” said the liftman. “These are service flats you know. Food all sent up.”

  “Ah, yes. Central heating throughout the building, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I can’t do without an open fire,” said Alleyn.

  “No, sir? These electric grates are very convincing though. There’s a blazing log effect in No. 5.”

  “Really? That’s not M. de Ravigne’s, is it?”

  “No, sir. He’s just got the usual heaters. Here you are, sir.”

  “Oh, yes. Sorry. Thank you.”

  “Thank you very much, sir.”

  A discreet dark man with a bluish chin opened the door to them. The voice of a piano came softly from within the flat. Monsieur was at home? He would inquire. He took Alleyn’s card and returned in a moment. Monsieur was at home and would they come in? The flat proved to be, if anything, over-heated. The little hall where they left their hats was as warm as a conservatory and smelt like one. An enormous bowl of freesias stood on a very beautiful Louis Seize table. From here, the servant
showed them into a long low drawing-room panelled in cream, and very heavily carpeted. It was not overfurnished, indeed, the general effect was one of luxurious restraint. The few pieces were “period” and beautiful. Three Tang ceramics stood alone in a magnificent lacquer cabinet. The only modern note was struck by the pictures—a Van Gogh, a Paul Nash and a Gerald Brockhurst. Seated at a baby grand piano was M. Raoul de Ravigne.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Alleyn Looks for a Flat

  M. DE RAVIGNE greeted them with a suavity so nicely tempered that it could not be called condescension. He looked very grand seigneur, standing with one long white hand on the piano, grave, polite, completely at his ease.

  “Will you be seated, messieurs? You come to pursue your inquiries about this tragedy?”

  “Yes,” said Alleyn in his most official voice, “we followed you here in the hopes that we might have a word or two in private. It is an unfortunate necessity in these affairs that the police must constantly make nuisances of themselves and most continually bring the realisation of an unhappy occurrence before those who would prefer to forget it.”

  “One understands that very readily. For myself I am only too anxious to be of any assistance, however slight, in bringing this animal to justice. What can I do for you, messieurs?”

  “You are extremely courteous, M. de Ravigne. First I would like to bring this letter to your notice.”

  De Ravigne held out his hand. Alleyn gave him his own letter, written to Cara Quayne the preceding Friday. De Ravigne glanced at it, read a word or two and then laid it on the arm of the chair. Fox took out his notebook.

  “You are correct,” said de Ravigne, “when you say that much unpleasantness attends the activities of the police. I have a profound distaste for having my correspondence handled by those whom it does not concern.”

  “Unhappily, the police are concerned in every scrap of evidence, relevant or irrelevant, which comes into their hands. Perhaps you can assure us of the irrelevance of this letter.”

  “I do so most emphatically. It has no bearing on the case.”

  Alleyn picked it up and looked through it.

  “Against what danger did you warn her so earnestly?” he asked quietly.

  “It was a personal matter, M. l’Inspecteur.”

  “Make that quite clear to us, monsieur, and it will be treated as such. You will see, I am sure, that a letter warning Miss Quayne against some unknown peril cannot be passed over without inquiry.”

  De Ravigne inclined his head slightly.

  “I see your argument, of course. The danger to which I refer had nothing to do with physical injury.”

  “You did not anticipate this tragedy?”

  “A thousand times, no. I? How should I?”

  “Then what was threatened?”

  “Her virtue, M. l’Inspecteur.”

  “I see,” said Alleyn.

  De Ravigne eyed him for a moment and then got up. He moved restlessly about the room, as though he was trying to come to some decision. At last he fetched up in front of Alleyn and began to speak in French rapidly and with a certain suppressed vehemence. Inspector Fox breathed heavily and leant forward slightly in his chair.

  “Judge of my position, monsieur. I loved her very much. I have loved her very much for so many years. Even since she was a dark jeune fille at a convent with my sister. At one time I thought that she would consent to a betrothal. It was in France when she had first made her debut. Her guardian, Madame de Verne, approved. It was in every way suitable. My own family, too. Then—I do not know how it came about, but perhaps it was her temperament to change as it was mine to remain constant—but she grew colder and—but this is of no importance. She came to London where we met again after a year. I found myself still her slave. She allowed me to see her. We became, after your English fashion, ‘friends.’ It was to amuse her, to interest her, that I myself introduced her to this accursed temple. I did not know then what I know now of the character of Father Garnette.”

  “How long did it take you to find him out?” asked Alleyn.

  De Ravigne lifted his shoulders very slightly and returned to English.

  “I do not know. I was not interested in his morals. It was the ceremonies, the ritual, the bizarre but intriguing form of paganism, that appealed to me. If I became aware that he amused himself, that he had his mistresses, it did not at all disconcert me. It was not inconsistent with the pagan doctrine. One lives one’s own life. I cannot say when I first realised that the role of Chosen Vessel held a certain significance for this priest. But I am not blind. Dagmar was elected, and—in short, monsieur, I am a man of the world and I saw, accepted, and disregarded l’affaire Candour. It was none of my business.”

  “Precisely,” said Alleyn, “but when Miss Quayne became a candidate—”

  “Ah, then, monsieur, I was in agony. Again, judge of my position. I had introduced her to this place, forgetting her temperament, her enthusiasms, her—what is your word?—her whole-heartedness. I myself was responsible. I was revolted, remorseful, distracted. I wrote the letter you hold in your hand.’

  “And continued,” said Alleyn, “to draw your dividends?’’

  “Sacre nom!” said de Ravigne. “So you know of that also?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Then it will be difficult to persuade you that it was my intention yesterday and, is doubly so today, to withdraw my capital from this affair.”

  “Five hundred, isn’t it?” asked. Alleyn.

  “Yes. If I did not make this gesture before, M. l’Inspecteur, it was because I was unwilling to bring about a fracas which would have involved more persons, than Father Garnette himself. When I first attended the little temple in Great Holland Road I found it in need of funds. I could not afford to give this sum, but I could afford to lend it. Mr. Ogden was also willing, and on a larger scale, to invest money. I left the business arrangements to Father Garnette and Mr. Ogden, who is a man of commerce. Myself, I have not the business temperament. But rest assured I shall withdraw. One cannot suffer oneself to become financially associated with such canaille.”

  “Do you call Mr. Ogden canaille, monsieur?”

  “Monsieur, I refer rather to the priest. But Ogden, he is very much of the people. His perceptions are not acute. He is not fastidious. No doubt he will not feel any delicacy in accepting his interest from this investment. As for the priest—but I prefer not to discuss the priest.”

  “Do you know that Mr. Garnette has been giving drugs to Pringle, Mrs. Candour and Miss Quayne?”

  De Ravigne did not answer at once. He lit a cigarette and then with an apology offered the box.

  “No?” he said. “Then perhaps your pipe?”

  “Not just at the moment, thank you so much. About this drug business.”

  “Ah, yes. Your information does not surprise me.”

  “You knew, then?”

  “Monsieur, I must repeat that the private affairs of the Initiates did not interest me.”

  “But—Miss Quayne?’’

  “I cannot believe that she indulged in the vice.”

  “Nevertheless—”

  “I cannot believe it,” said de Ravigne violently, “and I will not discuss it.”

  “Ah, well,” said Alleyn, “let us leave it then. Apropos of the letter, monsieur. Why did you emphasise your desire that she should destroy it?”

  “I have already told you of my distaste for having my letters read. That old Hebborn! She has her nose in everything and she is antagonistic to me. I could not endure that she should intrude her nose into it.”

  “Then why not write in French?”

  “But I wished to impress her of my calmness and deliberation,” said M. de Ravigne smoothly. “If I wrote in French, allowing my emotion full scope, what would she think? She would think: ‘Ah, he has shot himself off at the deep ending. This Gallic temperament! Tomorrow he will be calm again.’ So I write coolly in English and request that she destroys the letter.”

>   “Ah, yes, that explains the postscript.” Alleyn got to his feet and then, as if it were an afterthought, he said:

  “The book on chemistry. I understand you have seen it before?”

  De Ravigne hesitated for the fraction of a moment before he replied: “It is strange you should say that, I myself received the impression that I had encountered the book. But where? I cannot recollect.”

  “Was it in Mr. Ogden’s house?”

  “But of course! In his house. He showed it to me. How could I have forgotten? The priest was there and looked at it too. And the others. It was too stupid of me to forget. I remember I upset a glass of whisky and soda near it. Ogden fancied the book might be of value, I think, but it was of no interest to me. That is why I did not remember it. So the book is the good Ogden’s book? That is interesting, monsieur, is it not?”

  “Any information about the book is interesting. And speaking of books, M. de Ravigne, may I have the books of the Sacred Flame Company? I understand you’ve got them here.”

  “The books? Ah, yes. The good Ogden insisted that I glance at them. They seem to be in order. Naturally the theft of the bonds would not appear. Perhaps the good Ogden himself has seen to that. Perhaps he and the priest together have arranged these little matters. You see I am bitter, monsieur. I am not easily made suspicious, but when my suspicious are aroused—But the books! You shall have them, certainly.”

  He rang for his servant, who produced the books and gave them to Alleyn.

  “There’s one other question, M. de Ravigne, and then I shall trouble you no further. Do you know anything of a Madame la Comtesse de Barsac?”

  “My sister, monsieur,” said de Ravigne very frigidly.

  “Forgive me. I really didn’t know. She was the confidante of Miss Quayne, I think? A very good friend?”

  “That is so.”

  Alleyn got up.

  “A thousand thanks,” he said. “Is there anything else, Fox? Perhaps you—”

  “No thank you, sir,” said Fox cheerfully. “I think you’ve covered the ground.”

  “Then we will make our adieux, monsieur. You will have received notice of the inquest tomorrow?”