by Ngaio Marsh
“’E won’t leave ’is ’oller not without you picks ’im up,” said Stanley.
Alleyn picked the baby up. The baby instantly seized his nose, screamed with ecstasy, and beat with the other hand upon Alleyn’s face.
It was on this tableau that Janey opened her door.
The Chief Inspector hurriedly deposited the child on the pavement, gave Stanley a shilling for the party, took off his hat, and said:
“May I come in, Miss Jenkins?”
“Inspector Alleyn?” said Janey. “Yes. Of course.”
As she shut the door Stanley was heard to say “Coo! It’s a cop,” and the baby instantly began to roar again.
Without speaking Janey led the way upstairs to the studio. A solitary chair was drawn up to the gas fire. The room was scrupulously tidy and rather desolate.
“Won’t you sit down?” said Janey without enthusiasm. “I’ll get another chair,” offered Alleyn and did so.
“I suppose Mr. Bathgate sent you here?” asked Janey.
“Yes. In effect he did.”
“I was a fool.”
“Why?”
“To make friends with—your friend.”
“On the contrary,” said Alleyn, “you were very wise. If I may say so without impertinence you would do well to make friends with me.”
Janey laughed unpleasantly.
“Dilly, dilly, dilly,” she said.
‘No. Not ‘dilly, dilly dilly.’ You didn’t murder Miss Quayne, did you?”
“You can hardly expect me to answer ‘yes.’”
“I expect an answer, however.”
“Then,” said Janey, “I did not murder Cara Quayne.”
“Did Mr. Pringle murder Miss Quayne?”
“No.”
“You see,” said Alleyn with a smile, “we get on like a house on fire. Where was Mr. Pringle at three o’clock on Sunday afternoon?”
She drew in her breath with a little gasp.
“I’ve told you.”
“But I’m asking you again. Where was he?”
“Here.”
“That,” said Alleyn harshly, “is your story and you are sticking to it? I wish you wouldn’t.”
“What do you mean!”
“It’s not true, you know. He may have lunched with you but he did not stay here all the afternoon. He went to the temple.”
“You knew—”
“Now you give me an opportunity for the detective’s favorite cliché. ‘I didn’t know, but you have just told me?’”
“You’re hateful!” she burst out suddenly. “Hateful! Hateful!”
“Don’t cry!” said Alleyn more gently. “It’s only a cliche and I would have found out anyway.”
“To come prying into my house! To find the weak place and go for it! To pretend to make friends and then trap me into breaking faith with—with someone who can’t take care of himself.”
“Yes,” he said, “it’s my job to do those sorts of things.”
“You call it a smart bit of work, I suppose.”
“The other word for it is ‘routine.’”
“I’ve broken faith,” said Janey. “I’ll never be able to help him again. We’re done for now.”
“Nonsense!” said Alleyn crisply. “Don’t dramatise yourself.”
Something in his manner brought her up sharply. For a second or two she looked at him and then she said very earnestly:
“Do you suspect Maurice?”
“I shall be forced to if you both insist on lying lavishly and badly. Come now. Do you know why he went to the temple on Sunday afternoon?”
“Yes,” said Janey, “I think I know. He hasn’t told me.”
“Is it something to do with the habit he has contracted?”
“He told you himself about that, didn’t he?”
“He did. We have analysed Mr. Garnette’s cigarettes and found heroin. I believe, however, that Mr. Pringle has gone further than an indulgence in drugged cigarettes. Am I right?”
“Yes,” whispered Janey.
“Mr. Garnette is responsible for all this, I suppose.”
“Yes.” She hesitated, oddly, and then with a lift of her chin repeated: “Yes.”
“Now,” Alleyn continued, “please will you tell me when Mr. Pringle left here on Sunday afternoon?”
She still looked very earnestly at him. Suddenly she knelt on the rug and held her hands to the heater, her head turned towards him. The movement was singularly expressive. It was as though she had come to a definite decision and had relaxed.
“I will tell you,” she said. “He went away from here at about half-past two. I’m not sure of the exact time. He was very restless and—and difficult. He had smoked three of those cigarettes and had got no more with him. We had a scene.”
“May I know what it was about?”
“I’ll tell you. Mr. Alleyn, I’m sorry I was so rude just now. I must have caught my poor Maurice’s manners, I think. I do trust you. Perhaps that’s not the right word because you haven’t said you think him innocent. But I know he’s innocent and I trust you to find out.”
“You are very brave,” said Alleyn.
“The scene was about—me. When he’s had much of that stuff he wants to make love. Not as if it’s me, but simply because I’m there. I’m not posing as an ingénue of eighteen—and they’re not so ‘ingénue’ nowadays either. I’m not frightened of passion and I can look after myself, but there’s something about him then that horrifies me. It’s like a nightmare. Sometimes he seems to focus his—his senses on one tiny little thing—my wrist or just one spot on my arm. It’s morbid and rather terrifying.”
She spoke rapidly now as though it was a relief to speak and without any embarrassment or hesitation.
“It was like that on Sunday. He held my arm tight and kissed the inside. Just one place over and over again. When I told him to stop he wouldn’t. It was horrible. I can give you no idea. I struggled and when he still went on, I hit his face. Then there was the real scene. I told him he was ruining himself and degrading me and all because of the drugs. Then we quarreled about Father Garnette, desperately. I said he was to blame and that he was rotten all through. I spoke about Cara.” She stopped short.
“That made him very angry?”
“Terribly angry. Hatefully angry. For a moment I was frightened. He said if that was what they did—You understand?”
“Yes,” said Alleyn.
“Then he suddenly let me go. He had been almost screaming, but now he began to speak very quietly. He simply told me he would go to the church flat and get more of—more heroin. ‘A damn’ big shot of it,’ he said. He told me quite slowly and distinctly that Father Garnette had some in the bedroom and that he would take it. Then he laughed, gently, and went away. And then in the evening, when he’d had more of that stuff, I suppose, he met me as though nothing had happened. That’s a pretty good sample of the happy wooing we enjoy together.”
She still knelt on the rug at Alleyn’s feet. She had gone very white and now she began to tremble violently.
“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “It’s silly. I don’t know why—I can’t help it.”
“Don’t mind!” said Alleyn. “It’s shock, and thinking about it again.”
She laid her hand on his knee and after a second he put his lightly over it.
“Thank you,” said Janey. “I didn’t see him again until the evening. After you had finished with us I walked back with him to his door. He told me I was to say he had been here all the afternoon. I promised. I promised: that’s what is so awful. He said: ‘If they go for the wrong man—’ and then he stopped. I came on here by myself. That’s all.”
“I see,” said Alleyn. “Have you got any brandy on the premises?”
“There’s some—over there.”
He got a rug off the couch and dropped it over her shoulders. Then he found the brandy and brought her a stiff nip. “Down with it,” he ordered.
“All right,” answered Jane
y shakily. “Don’t bully.” She drank the brandy and presently a little colour came back into her face.
“I have made a fool of myself. I suppose it’s because I’d kept it all bottled up inside me.”
“Another argument in favour of confiding in the police,” said Alleyn.
She laughed and again put her hand on his knee.
“—who are only human,” Alleyn added and stood up.
“You’re a very aloof sort of person to confide in, aren’t you?” said Janey abruptly. “Still, I suppose you must be human or I wouldn’t have done it. Is it time we went to the inquest?”
“Yes. May I drive you there or do you dislike the idea of arriving in a police car?”
“No, but I think I’d better collect Maurice.”
“In that case I shall go. Are you all right?”
“I’m not looking forward to it. Mr. Alleyn, shall I have to repeat all—this—to the coroner?”
“The conduct of an inquest is on the knees of the coroner. Sometimes he has housemaid’s knees and then it’s all rather trying. This gentleman is not of that type, however. I think we shall have a quick show and an adjournment.”
“An adjournment? For what?”
“Oh,” said Alleyn vaguely, “for me to earn my wages, you know.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sidelight on Mrs. Candour
THE INQUEST was as Alleyn had said it would be. Only the barest bones of the case were exhibited to the jury. Owing, no doubt, to Nigel’s handling of a “scoop” the public interest was terrific. Alleyn himself had by this time become a big draw. It would be a diverting pastime to discuss how far homicide cases have gone to cater for the public that used to patronise stock “blood-and-thunder” at Drury Lane. In the days when women of breeding did not stand in queues to get a front seat at a coroner’s inquest or a murder trial, melodrama provided an authentic thrill. Nowadays melodrama is not good enough when with a little inconvenience one can watch a real murderer turn green round the gills, while an old gentleman in a black cap, himself rather pale, mumbles actor-proof lines about hanging by the neck until you are dead and may God have mercy on your soul. No curtain ever came down on a better tag. The inquest is a sort of curtain-raiser to the murder trial, and, in cases such as that of Cara Quayne, provides an additional kick. Which of these people did it? Which of these men or women will hang by the neck until he or she is dead?
That priest, Jasper Garnette. Darling, such an incredible name, but rather compelling, don’t you think? A definite thrill? Or don’t you? He seems to have been…Can anyone go to the temple?…Chosen Vessel…My sweet, you have got a mind like a sink, haven’t you! The American?…Too hearty and wholesome.…Still, one never knows, I must say…De Ravigne? My dear, I know him. Not frightfully well. His cousin.…No, it was, his sister.…Of course one never knows. That Candour female… God, what a mess! The boy? Pringle? Wasn’t he one of the Essterhaugh, Browne-White lot? Of course one knows what they’re like. He looks as if he might be rather fun. Darling, did you ever see anything to approach Claude and Lionel? Still, one never knows. One never knows until the big show comes on. One never knows.
In all this undercurrent of conjecture Alleyn, little as he heeded it, played a star part. His was as popular a name as that of the learned pathologist, or the famous counsel who would be briefed if Alleyn did his bit and produced an accused to stand trial. Chief Inspector Alleyn himself, as he assembled the bare bones of the case before the coroner, glanced once round the court and thought vaguely: “All the harpies, as usual.”
Nigel Bathgate, Dr. Kasbek, Dr. Curtis and the pathologist were the first witnesses. Dr. Kasbek was asked by a very small juryman why he had not thought it worth while to send for remedies. He said dryly that there was no remedy for death. The ceremony of the cup was outlined and the finding of sodium cyanide described. Alleyn then gave a brief account of his subsequent investigations in the House of the Sacred Flame.
Father Jasper Garnette was called and gave a beautiful rendering of a saint among thieves. He was followed by the rest of the Initiates. Mr. Ogden’s deportment was so elaborately respectful that even the coroner seemed suspicious. M. de Ravigne was aloof and looked as if he thought the court smelt insanitary. Mrs. Candour wore black and a stage make-up. Miss Wade wore three cardigans and a cairn-gorm brooch. She showed a tendency to enlarge on Father Garnette’s purity of soul and caused the solicitor who watched the proceedings on Father Garnette’s behalf to become very fidgety. Maurice Pringle was called on the strength of his being the first to draw attention to Cara Quayne’s condition. He instantly succeeded in antagonising the coroner. Claude Wheatley, who followed him, got very short commons indeed. The coroner stared at him as though he was a monster, asked him precisely what he did mean, and then said it seemed to be so entirely irrelevant that Mr. Wheatley might stand down. Janey merely corroborated the rest of the evidence. It was all over very quickly. The coroner, crisp man, glanced once at Alleyn and ordered an adjournment.
“He’s a specimen piece, that one,” said Alleyn to Fox as they walked away. “I only wish there were more like him.”
“What are the orders for this afternoon, sir?”
“Well, Fox, we must come all over fashionable and pay a round of calls. There are still two ladies and a gentleman to visit. I propose we have a bite of lunch and begin with Mrs. Candour. She’s expecting us.”
They had their bite of lunch and then made their way to Queen Charlotte flats, Kensington Square, where, in a setting of mauve and green cushions, long-legged dolls and tucked lampshades, Mrs. Candour received them. She seemed disappointed that Alleyn had not come alone, but invited them both to sit down. She herself was arranged on a low divan and exuded synthetic violets. She explained that she suffered from shock. The inquest had been too much for her. The room was stiflingly heated by two ornate radiators and the hot water pipes gurgled like a dyspeptic mammoth.
Alleyn engulfed himself in a mauve satin tub hard by the divan. Inspector Fox chose the only small chair in the room and made it look foolish.
“My doctor is coming at four o’clock,” said Mrs. Candour. “He tells me my nerves are shattered. But shattered!”
She gesticulated clumsily. The emeralds flashed above her knuckles. Alleyn realised that she wished him to see a hot-house flower, enervated, perhaps a little degenerate, but fatal, fatal. With a mental squirm he realised he had better play up. He lowered his deep voice, bent his gaze on her and said:
“I cannot forgive myself. You should rest.”
“Perhaps I should. It doesn’t matter. I must not think of myself.”
“That is wonderful of you,” said Alleyn.
She shrugged elaborately and sighed.
“It is all so ugly, I cannot bear ugliness. I have always surrounded myself with decorative things. I must have beauty, or I sicken.”
“You are sensitive,” pronounced Alleyn with a strong man’s scowl.
“You feel that?” She looked restively at Inspector Fox. “That is rather clever of you, Mr. Alleyn.”
“My consciousness of it brought me here this afternoon. We want your help Mrs. Candour. It is the sensitive people who see things, who receive impressions that may be invaluable.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Candour with a sad smile.
“Before I ask you for this particular kind of help I just want to confirm your statement about your own movements on Sunday. It’s purely a matter of form. You were here all day, I think you said.”
“Yes, all day. How I wish it had been all the evening too!”
“I bet you do,” thought Alleyn. Aloud he said: “Perhaps your servants would be able to confirm this. No doubt they will remember that you were indoors all day.”
“There are only two maids. I—I expect they will remember.”
“Perhaps Inspector Fox might have a word with them.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Candour very readily indeed. “You would like to see them alone, I expect, Inspector? I�
�ll ring.’’
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Fox. “I won’t keep them long.” A musical comedy parlourmaid who had shown them in, showed Fox out. His voice could be heard rumbling distantly in the flat.
“And now,” said Mrs. Candour turning intimately to Alleyn. “And now, Mr. Alleyn.”
Alleyn leant back in his chair and looked at her until she glanced down and up again. Then he said:
“Do you remember a party at Mr. Ogden’s four weeks ago, yesterday?”
“Just a moment. Will you get me a cigarette? On the table over there. No, not those,” said Mrs. Candour in a hurry. “The large box. The others are Virginian. I loathe Virginian cigarettes.”
Alleyn opened the wrong box.
“Do you?” he said. “What make is this? I don’t know the look of them.” He took one out and smelt it.
“They are hateful. Someone sent them. I meant to have them thrown away. I think the servants have upset—My cigarette, Mr. Alleyn. Mayn’t I have it?”
“I’m so sorry,” said Alleyn and brought the other box. He lit hers for her, stooping over the divan. She made a great business of it.
“You?” she murmured at last.
“Thank you. I prefer Virginians,” he said. “May I have one of these?”
“Oh, please don’t. They are disgusting. Quite unsmokable.”
“Very well,” said Alleyn and took out his case. “Do you remember the party?”
“At Sammy Ogden’s? Do I? Yes, I believe I do.”
“Do you remember that M. de Ravigne looked at one of the books?”
She closed her eyes and laid the tips of her thick fingers on the lids.
“Let me think. Yes!” She opened her eyes wide. “I remember. M. de Ravigne collects old books. He was browsing along the shelves. I can see it all now. I was talking to Father and poor Cara had joined us. Then Sammy came up. I remember that M. de Ravigne called to him: ‘Where did you find this?’ and he looked across and said: ‘On a bookstall. Is it worth anything?’ And Father went across and joined them. He adores books. They draw him like a magnet.”
“He has a remarkable collection,” said Alleyn. “Was he interested in this particular one?”