Tied Up in Tinsel ra-27

by Ngaio Marsh

  “Of course I don’t. But it’s getting on for twenty-four hours, isn’t it? I really don’t think you should wait any longer. It might be best to call up your provincial Detective-Superintendent. Do you know him?”

  “Yes. Most uncongenial. Beastly about the staff. I really couldn’t.”

  “All right. Where’s the nearest station? Downlow?”

  “Yes. I believe so. Yes.”

  “Isn’t the super there a chap called Wrayburn?”

  “I–I did think of consulting Marchbanks. At the Vale, you know.”

  “I’m sure he’d give you the same advice.”

  “Oh!” Hilary cried out. “And I’m sure you’re right but I do dislike this sort of thing. I can’t expect you to understand, of course, but the staff here — they won’t like it either. They’ll hate it. Policemen all over the house. Asking questions. Upsetting them like anything.”

  “I’m afraid they’ll have to lump it, you know.”

  “Oh damn!” Hilary said pettishly. “All right. I’m sorry, Alleyn. I’m being disagreeable.”

  “Ring Wrayburn up and get it over. After all, isn’t it just possible that Moult, for some reason that hasn’t appeared, simply walked down the drive and hitched a lift to the nearest station? Has anyone looked to see if his overcoat and hat and money are in his room?”

  “Yes. Your wife thought of that. Nothing missing, as far as we could make out.”

  “Well — ring up.”

  Hilary stared at him, fetched a deep sigh, sat down at his desk, and opened his telephone directory.

  Alleyn walked over to the window and looked out. Beyond the reflected image of the study he could distinguish a mass of wreckage — shattered glass, rubbish, trampled weeds and, rising out of them close at hand, a young fir with some of its boughs broken. Troy had shown him the view from her bedroom and he realized that this must be the sapling that grew beneath Colonel Forrester’s dressing-room window. It was somewhere about here, then, that she had seen Vincent dispose of the Christmas tree at midnight. Here, too, Vincent and his helpers had been trampling about with garden forks and spades when Troy left for Downlow. Alleyn shaded the pane and moved about until he could eliminate the ghostly study and look further into the dark ruin outside. Now he could make out the Christmas tree, lying in a confusion of glass, soil and weeds.

  A fragment of tinsel still clung to one of its branches and was caught in the lamplight.

  Hilary had got his connection. With his back to Alleyn he embarked on a statement to Superintendent Wrayburn of the Downlow Constabulary and, all things considered, made a pretty coherent job of it. Alleyn, in his day, had been many, many times rung up by persons in Hilary’s position who had given a much less explicit account of themselves. As Troy had indicated: Hilary was full of surprises.

  Now he carefully enunciated details. Names. Times. A description. Mr. Wrayburn was taking notes.

  “I’m much obliged to you,” Hilary said. “There is one other point, Superintendent. I have staying with me —”

  “Here we go,” Alleyn thought.

  Hilary screwed round in his chair and made a deprecatory face at him. “Yes,” he said. “Yes. At his suggestion, actually. He’s with me now. Would you like to speak to him? Yes, by all means.” He held out the receiver.

  “Hullo,” Alleyn said, “Mr. Wrayburn?”

  “Would this be Chief-Superintendent Alleyn?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, well, well. Long time,” said Mr. Wrayburn brightly, “no see. When was that case? Back in ’65.”

  “That’s it. How are you, Jack?”

  “Can’t complain. I understand there’s some bother up your way?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “What are you doing there, Chief?”

  “I’m an accident. It’s none of my business.”

  “But you reckon we ought to take a wee look-see?”

  “Your D.C.C. would probably say so. Somebody ought to, I fancy.”

  “It’s a cold, cold world. I was counting on a nice quiet Christmas. So what happens? A church robbery, a suspected arson, and three fatal smashes in my district and half my chaps down with flu. And now this. And look at you! You’re living it up, aren’t you? Seats of the Mighty?”

  “You’ll come up, then, Jack?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Good. And Jack — for your information, it’s going to be a search-party job.”

  “Well, ta for the tip anyway. Over and out.”

  Alleyn hung up. He turned to find Hilary staring at him over his clasped hands.

  “Well,” Hilary said. “I’ve done it. Haven’t I?”

  “It really was advisable, you know.”

  “You don’t — You don’t ask me anything. Any questions about that wretched little man. Nothing.”

  “It’s not my case.”

  “You talk,” Hilary said crossly, “like a doctor.”

  “Do I?”

  “Etiquette. Protocol.”

  “We have our little observances.”

  “It would have been so much pleasanter — I’d made up my mind I’d — I’d —”

  “Look here,” Alleyn said. “If you’ve got any kind of information that might have even a remote bearing on this business, do for Heaven’s sake let Wrayburn have it. You said, when we were in the other room, that there’s been a development.”

  “I know I did. Cressida came in.”

  “Yes — well, do let Wrayburn have it. It won’t go any further if it has no significance.”

  “Hold on,” said Hilary. “Wait. Wait.”

  He motioned Alleyn to sit down and, when he had done so, locked the door. He drew the window curtains close shut, returned to his desk, and knelt down before it.

  “That’s a beautiful desk,” Alleyn said. “Hepplewhite?”

  “Yes.” Hilary fished a key out of his pocket. “It’s intact. No restoration nonsense.” He reached into the back of the kneehole. Alleyn heard the key turn. Hilary seemed to recollect himself. With a curious half-sheepish glance at Alleyn, he wrapped his handkerchief about his hand. He groped. There was an interval of a few seconds and then he sat back on his heels.

  “Look,” he said.

  On the carpet, near Alleyn’s feet, he laid down a crumpled newspaper package.

  Alleyn leant forward. Hilary pulled back the newspaper.

  He disclosed a short steel poker with an ornate handle.

  Alleyn looked at it for a moment. “Yes?” he said. “Where did you find it?”

  “That’s what’s so — upsetting.” Hilary gave a sideways motion of his head towards the window. “Out there,” he said. “Where you were looking — I saw you — just now when I was on the telephone. In the tree.”

  “The Christmas tree?”

  “No, no, no. The growing tree. Inside it. Lying across the branches. Caught up, sort of, by the handle.”

  “When did you find it?”

  “This afternoon. I was in here wondering whether, after all, I should ring up Marchbanks or the police and hating the idea of ringing up anybody because of — you understand — the staff. And I walked over to the window and looked out. Without looking. You know? And then I saw something catching the light in the tree. I didn’t realize at once what it was. The tree’s quite close to the window — almost touching it. So I opened the window and looked more carefully and finally I stepped over the ledge and got it. I’m afraid I didn’t think of fingerprints at that juncture.”

  Alleyn, sitting on the edge of his chair, still looked at the poker. “You recognize it?” he said. “Where it comes from?”

  “Of course. I bought it. It’s part of a set. Late eighteenth century. Probably Welsh. There’s a Welsh press to go with it.”

  “Where?”

  “Uncle Flea’s dressing-room.”

  “I see.”

  “Yes, but do you? Did Troy tell you? About the Fleas’ tin box?”

  “Mrs. Forrester says someb
ody had tried to force the lock?”

  “Exactly! Precisely! With a poker. She actually said with a poker. Well: as if with a poker. And it wasn’t Moult because Moult, believe it or not, keeps the key. So why a poker for Moult?”

  “Quite.”

  “And — there are dark marks on it. At the end. If you look. Mightn’t they be stains of black japanning? It’s a japanned tin box. Actually, Uncle Flea’s old uniform case.”

  “Have you by any chance got a lens?”

  “Of course I’ve got a lens,” Hilary said querulously. “One constantly uses lenses in our business. Here. Wait a moment.”

  He found one in his desk and gave it to Alleyn.

  It was not very high-powered but it was good enough to show, at the business end of the poker, a dark smear hatched across by scratches: a slight glutinous deposit to which the needle from a conifer adhered. Alleyn stooped lower.

  Hilary said, “Well? Anything?”

  “Did you look closely at this?”

  “No, I didn’t, I was expecting my aunt to come in. Aunt Bed is perpetually making entrances. She wanted to harry me and I didn’t want to add to her fury by letting her see this. So I wrapped it up and locked it away. Just in time, as it turned out. In she came with all her hackles up. If ladies have hackles.”

  “But you did notice the marks then?”

  “Yes. Just.”

  “They’re not made by lacquer.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Afraid? What do you mean — afraid?”

  “See for yourself.”

  Alleyn gave Hilary the glass. Hilary stared at him and then knelt by the crumpled paper with its trophy. Alleyn moved the desk lamp to throw a stronger light on the area. Hilary bent his body as if he performed some oriental obeisance before the poker.

  “Do you see?” Alleyn said. “It’s not what you supposed, is it? Look carefully. The deposit is sticky, isn’t it? There’s a fir needle stuck to it. And underneath — I think Mr. Wrayburn would rather you didn’t touch it — underneath, but just showing one end, there’s a gold-coloured thread. Do you see it?”

  “I — yes. Yes, I think — yes —”

  “Tell me,” Alleyn asked. “What colour was the Druid’s wig?”

  “Now, I tell you what,” Alleyn said to his wife. “This thing has all the signs of becoming a top-ranking nuisance, and I’m damned if I’ll have you involved in it. You know what happened that other time you got stuck into a nuisance.”

  “If you’re thinking of bundling me off to a pub in Downlow, I’ll jib.”

  “What I’m thinking of is a quick return by both of us to London.”

  “Before the local force gets any ideas about you?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You’re a bit late for that, darling, aren’t you? Where’s Mr. Wrayburn?”

  “In the study, I imagine. I left Bill-Tasman contemplating his poker and I told him it’d be better if he saw the Super alone. He didn’t much like the idea, but there it is.”

  “Poor Hilary!”

  “I daresay. It’s a bit of an earthquake under his ivory tower, isn’t it?”

  “Do you like him, Rory?”

  Alleyn said, “I don’t know. I’m cross with him because he’s being silly but — yes, I suppose if we’d met under normal conditions I’d have quite liked him. Why?”

  “He’s a strange one. When I was painting him I kept thinking of such incongruous things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Oh — fauns and camels and things.”

  “Which does his portrait favour?”

  “At first, the camel. But the faun has sort of intervened — I mean the Pan job, you know, not the sweet little deer.”

  “So I supposed. If he’s a Pan-job I’ll bet he’s met his match in his intended nymph.”

  “She went in, boots and all, after you, didn’t she?”

  “If only,” Alleyn said, “I could detect one pinch, one soupçon, of the green-eyed monster in you, my dish, I’d crow like a bloody rooster.”

  “We’d better finish changing. Hilary will be expecting us. Drinks at seven. You’re to meet Mr. Smith and the Fleas.”

  “I can wait.”

  There was a tap at the door.

  “You won’t have to,” said Troy. “Come in.”

  It was Nigel, all downcast eyes, to present Mr. Bill-Tasman’s compliments to Mr. Alleyn and he would be very glad if Mr. Alleyn would join him in the study.

  “In five minutes,” Alleyn said, and when Nigel had gone: “Which was that?”

  “The one that killed a sinful lady. Nigel.”

  “I thought as much. Here I go.”

  He performed one of the lightning changes to which Troy was pretty well accustomed, gave her a kiss, and went downstairs.

  Superintendent Wrayburn was a sandy man; big, of course, but on the bonier side. He was principally remarkable for his eyebrows, which resembled those of a Scotch terrier, and his complexion which, in midwinter, was still freckled like a plover’s egg.

  Alleyn found him closeted with Hilary in the study. The poker, rewrapped, lay on the desk. Before Hilary was a glass of sherry and before Mr. Wrayburn, a pretty generous whisky and water, from which Alleyn deduced that he hadn’t definitely made up his mind what sort of job he seemed to be on. He was obviously glad to see Alleyn and said it was quite a coincidence, wasn’t it?

  Hilary made some elaborate explanations about drinks being served for the houseparty in the drawing-room at seven but perhaps they could join the others a little later and in the meantime — surely now Alleyn would —?

  “Yes, indeed. Thank you,” Alleyn said. “Since I’m not on duty,” he added lightly and Mr. Wrayburn blushed beyond his freckles.

  “Well — nor am I,” he said quickly. “Yet. I hope. Not exactly.”

  Superintendent Wrayburn, Hilary explained, had only just arrived, having been held up at the station. He’d had a cold drive. It was snowing again. He was more than pleased to have Alleyn with them. He, Hilary, was about to give Mr. Wrayburn a — Hilary boggled a little at the word — a statement about the “unfortunate mishap.”

  Alleyn said “of course” and no more than that. Mr. Wrayburn produced his regulation notebook, and away Hilary went, not overcoherently and yet, Alleyn fancied, with a certain degree of artfulness. He began with Moult’s last-minute substitution at the Christmas tree, and continued with Vincent’s assurance that he had seen Moult (whom he thought to be the Colonel) after the performance, run from the courtyard into the entrance porch and thence to the dressing-room. “Actually,” Hilary explained, “it’s a cloakroom on one’s right as one comes into the house. It’s in the angle of the hall and the drawing-room which was so convenient. There’s a door from it into the hall itself and another one into the entrance porch. To save muddy boots, you know, from coming into the house.”

  “Quite,” said Mr. Wrayburn. He gazed at his notes. “So the last that’s known of him, then, is —?”

  “Is when, having taken off his robe and makeup with Miss Tottenham’s help, he presumably left the cloakroom with the avowed intention of going up to Colonel Forrester.”

  “Did he leave the cloakroom by the door into the hall, sir?”

  “Again — presumably. He would hardly go out into the porch and double back into the hall, would he?”

  “You wouldn’t think so, sir, would you? And nobody saw him go upstairs?”

  “No. But there’s nothing remarkable in that. The servants were getting the children’s supper ready. The only light, by my express orders, was from the candles on their table. As you’ve seen, there are two flights of stairs leading to a gallery. The flight opposite this cloakroom door is farthest away from the children’s supper table. The staff would be unlikely to notice Moult unless he drew attention to himself. Actually Moult was —” Hilary boggled slightly and then hurried on. “Actually,” he said, “Moult was supposed to help them but, of course, that was arran
ged before there was any thought of his substituting for Colonel Forrester.”

  “Yes, sir. I appreciate the position. Are there,” Wrayburn asked, “coats and so forth in this cloakroom, sir? Mackintoshes and umbrellas and gum boots and so on?”

  “Good for you, Jack,” thought Alleyn.

  “Yes. Yes, there are. Are you wondering,” Hilary said quickly, “if, for some reason —?”

  “We’ve got to consider everything, haven’t we, Mr. Bill-Tasman?”

  “Of course. Of course. Of course.”

  “You can’t think of any reason, sir, however farfetched, like, that would lead Mr. Moult to quit the premises and, if you’ll excuse the expression, do a bunk?”

  “No. No. I can’t. And—” Hilary looked nervously at Alleyn. “Well — there’s a sequel. You’re yet to hear — ”

  And now followed the story of the japanned uniform box, at which Mr. Wrayburn failed entirely to conceal his astonishment and, a stunning climax, the exhibition of the poker.

  Alleyn had been waiting for this. He felt a certain amusement in Mr. Wrayburn’s change of manner, which was instant and sharp. He became formal. He looked quickly from Hilary to the object on the desk and upon that his regard became fixed. The lens lay near at hand. Mr. Wrayburn said, “May I?” and used it with great deliberation. He then stared at Alleyn.

  ‘I take it,“ he said, ”You’ve seen this?”

  Alleyn nodded.

  Hilary now repeated his account of the finding of the poker, and Mr. Wrayburn peered out of the window and asked his questions and made his notes. All through this procedure he seemed in some indefinable way to invite Alleyn to enter into the discussion and to be disappointed that he remained silent.

  Hilary avoided looking at the object on his desk. He turned his back, bent over the fire, made as if to stir it and, apparently disliking the feel of the study poker, dropped it with a clatter in the hearth.

  Wrayburn said, “Yes,” several times in a noncommittal voice and added that things had taken quite a little turn, hadn’t they, and he must see what they could do about it. He told Hilary he’d like to take care of the poker and was there perhaps a cardboard box? Hilary offered to ring for one, but Wrayburn said he wouldn’t bother the staff at this stage. After some rummaging in his bureau, Hilary found a long tubular carton with a number of maps in it. He took them out and Wrayburn slid the wrapped poker tenderly into it. He suggested that it might be as well not to publicize the poker and Hilary was in feverish agreement. Wrayburn thought he would like to have a wee chat with the Detective Chief-Superintendent about the turn this seemed to be taking. Hilary winced. Wrayburn then asked Alleyn if he would be kind enough to show him the cloakroom. Hilary began to say that he himself would do so, but stopped short and raised his shoulders.