Clutch of Constables ra-25

by Ngaio Marsh

  The Zodiac cruised tranquilly through the morning. After luncheon Mr Lazenby occasioned some surprise by appearing in a bathing slip, blowing up an inflatable mattress and sun-bathing on deck. “Once an Aussie, always an Aussie,” he observed. Mr and Miss Hewson were so far encouraged as to change into Hawaiian shorts and floral tops. Dr Natouche had already appeared in immaculate blue linen and Caley Bard in conservative slacks and cotton shirt. Troy settled at a table in the saloon, finished her drawing and treated it to a lovely blush of aquarelle crayons which she had bought for fun and because they were easy to carry. Each of the signs now bore a crazy resemblance to the person she had assigned to it. Caley Bard’s slew-eyed glance looked out of the Scorpion’s head. Virgo was a kind of ethereal whiff of what Miss Rickerby-Carrick might have been. The Hewsons, stylisées, put their heads together for the Twins. Mr Lazenby, naked, blindfold—and in elegant retreat, displayed the Scales. Something about the stalked eyes of the Crab quoted Mr Pollock’s rather prominent stare. Mrs Tretheway, translated into classic splendour, presented the Fish on a celestial platter. The Ram had a steering wheel between his hoofs and the boy, Tom—Aquarius, carried water in a ship’s bucket. Troy’s short dark locks tumbled about the brow of the Goat, while her husband glanced ironically through the Lion’s mask. The Bull, vainglorious, rode his motor-bike. Splendidly alone, the dark Archer drew his bow. Troy was amused with her picture but sighed at the thought of doing the lettering.

  The Hewsons, passing through the saloon, devoured by curiosity and swathed in tact, asked if they might have a peep.

  This led to everybody, except Dr Natouche, gathering round her. “Just see what you’ve done with children’s chalks and a drop of ink!” Caley Bard exclaimed. “What magic!” He gave a little crowing sound, burst out laughing and looked round at his fellow-passengers. “Do you see!” he cried. “Do you see what she’s done?”

  After some reflection they did, each recognising the others more readily than him—or her—self. It appeared that Troy had been lucky in three of her choices. The Hewsons were, in fact, twins and, by an extraordinarily felicitous chance, had been born under Gemini while Miss Rickerby-Carrick confessed, with mantling cheeks and conscious looks, as Caley Bard afterwards put it, to Virgo. She still seemed frightened and stared fixedly at Troy.

  “Natouche,” Caley Bard called up the companionway, “you must come down and see this.”

  He came down at once. Troy gave him the drawing and for the second time heard his laugh. “It is beautiful and it is comical,” he said presently and handed it back to Troy. “I know, of course, that one must not frivolously compare the work of one great artist with another but may I say that Erni is perhaps your only contemporary who would have approached the subject like this.”

  “Very perceptive of you,” said Caley Bard.

  “I want to put the rhyme in the middle,” Troy said, “but my lettering’s hopeless: it takes ages to do and is awful when it’s finished. I suppose nobody here would do a nice neo-classic job of lettering?”

  “I would,” said Mr Pollock. He was close behind Troy, staring over her arm at the drawing. “I—” he paused and, most unaccountably, Troy was revisited by yesterday’s impression of an impending crisis. “I started in that business,” Pollock said and there seemed to be a note of apology in his voice. “Commercial art. You know? Gave it up for real estate. I—if you show me what you’d like—the type of lettering—I’ll give satisfaction.”

  He was looking at the drawing with the oddest expression in his barrow-boy face: sharp, appreciative and somehow—what?—shamefaced? Or—could Mr Pollock possibly be frightened?

  Troy said, cordially. “Will you really? Thank you so much. It just wants to be a sort of Garamond face. A bit fantasticated if you like.”

  Dr Natouche had a book in his hand with the dust-jacket titled in Garamond. “That sort of thing,” Troy said pointing to it.

  Mr Pollock looked reluctantly but sharply at it and then bent over the drawing. “I could do that,” he said. “I don’t know anything about fantasticate,” and added under his breath something that sounded like: “I can copy anything.”

  Mr Lazenby said loudly: “You’re very sure of yourself, Mr Pollock, aren’t you?” and Caley Bard ejaculated: “Honestly, Pollock, how you dare!”

  There followed a brief silence. Pollock mumbled: “Only a suggestion, isn’t it? No need to take it up, is there?”

  “I’d be very glad to take it up,” Troy said. “There you are: it’s all yours.”

  She moved away from the table and after a moment’s hesitation he sat down at it.

  Troy went up on deck where she was soon joined by Caley Bard.

  “You didn’t half snub that little man,” she said.

  “He irritates me. And he’s a damn sight too cool about your work.”

  “Oh come!”

  “Yes, he is. Breathing down your neck. My God, you’re you. You’re ‘Troy’. How he dares!”

  “Do come off it.”

  “Have you noticed how rude he is to Natouche?”

  “Well, that—yes. But you know I really think direct antagonism must be more supportable than the ‘don’t let’s be beastly’ line.”

  “The Rickerby-Carrick line, in fact?”

  “If you like. Yes.”

  “You know,” he said, “if you weren’t a passenger in the good ship Zodiac I think I’d rat.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “It’s not. Where did you get to last night?”

  “I had a telephone call to make.”

  “It couldn’t have taken you all evening.”

  Remembering Fox’s suggestion Troy, who was a poor liar, lied. “It was about a fur I left at the gallery. I had to go to the police station.”

  “And then?”

  “I went to the church.”

  “You’d much better have come on a one-pub-crawl with me,” he grumbled. “Will you dine tomorrow night in Longminster?”

  Before Troy could reply, Miss Rickerby-Carrick, looking scared, came up from below, attired in her magenta wrapper. Her legs were bare and her arthritic toes emerged like roots from her sandals. She wore dark glasses and a panama hat and she carried her Li-lo and her diary. She paused by the wheel-house for her usual chat with the Skipper, continued on her way and to Troy’s extreme mortification avoided her and Bard with the kind of tact that breaks the sound-barrier, bestowing on them as she passed an understanding smile. She disappeared behind a stack of chairs covered by a tarpaulin, at the far end of the deck.

  Troy said: “Not true, is she? Just a myth?”

  “What’s she writing?”

  “A journal. She calls it her self-propelling confessional.”

  “Would you like to read it?”

  “Isn’t it awful — but, yes, I can’t say I wouldn’t fancy a little peep.”

  “How about tomorrow night? Dinner ashore, boys, and hey for the rollicking bun.”

  “Could we decide a bit later?”

  “In case something more interesting turns up, you cautious beast.”

  “Not altogether that.”

  Well — what?”

  “We don’t know what everybody will be doing,” Troy said feebly and then: “I know. Why don’t we ask Dr Natouche to come?”

  “We shall do nothing of the sort and I must say I think that’s a pretty cool suggestion. I invite you to dine, tête-à-tête and—”

  Miss Rickerby-Carrick screamed.

  It was a positive, abrupt and piercing scream and it brought everybody on deck.

  She was leaning over the after-taffrail, her wrapper in wild disarray. She gesticulated and exclaimed and made strange grimaces.

  “My diary! Oh stop! Oh please! My diary!” cried Miss Rickerby-Carrick.

  Somehow or another she had dropped it overboard. She made confused statements to the effect that she had been observing the depths, had leant over too far, had lost her grip. She lamented with catarrhal extravagance, she pointed aft where
indeed the diary was to be seen, open and fairly rapidly submerging. Her nose and eyes ran copiously.

  The Tretheways behaved with the greatest address. The Skipper put the Zodiac into slow-astern, Tom produced a kind of long-handled curved hook used for clearing river-weed and Mrs Tretheway, placidity itself, emerged from below and attempted to calm Miss Rickerby-Carrick

  The engine was switched off and the craft, on her own momentum came alongside Miss Rickerby-Carrick’s diary. Tom climbed over the taffrail, held to it with his left hand and with his right, prepared to angle.

  “But no!” screamed Miss Rickerby-Carrick. “Not with that thing! You’ll destroy it! Don’t, don’t, don’t! Oh please. Oh please.”

  “Stone the crows!” Mr Lazenby astonishingly ejaculated.

  With an air of hardy resignation he rose from his Li-lo, turned his back on the company, removed his spectacles and placed them on the deck. He then climbed over the taffrail and neatly dived into The River. Miss Rickerby-Carrick screamed again, the other passengers ejaculated and, with the precision of naval ratings, lined the port side to gaze at Mr Lazenby. He was submerged but quickly reappeared with his long hair plastered over his eyes and the diary in his hand.

  The Skipper instructed him to go ashore and walk a couple of chains downstream where it was deep enough for the Zodiac to come alongside. He did so, holding the diary clear of the water. He climbed the bank and squatted there, shaking the book gently and separating and turning over the leaves. His hair hung to one side like a caricature of a Carnaby Street fringe, completely obscuring the left eye.

  Miss Rickerby-Carrick began to give out plaintive little cries interspersed with gusts of apologetic laughter and incoherent remarks upon the waterproof nature of her self-propelling pen. She could not wait for Mr Lazenby to come aboard but leant out at a dangerous angle to receive the book from him. The little lump of leather, Troy saw, still dangled from her neck.

  “Oh ho, ho!” she laughed, “my poor old confidante. Alas, alas!”

  She thanked Mr Lazenby with incoherent effusion and begged him not to catch cold. He reassured her, accepted his dark glasses from Troy who had rescued them and turned aside to put them on. When he faced them all again it really seemed as if in some off-beat fashion and without benefit of dog-collar, he had resumed his canonicals. He even made a little parsonic noise: “N’yer I’ll just get out of my wet bathers,” he said. ”There’s not the same heat in the English sun: not like Bondi.” And retired below.

  “Well!” said Caley Bard. “Who says the Church is effete?”

  There was a general appreciative murmur in which Troy did not join.

  Had she or had she not seen for a fractional moment, in Mr Lazenby’s left hand, a piece of wet paper with the marks of a propelling pencil across it?

  While Troy still mused over this, Miss Rickerby-Carrick who squatted on the deck examining with plaintive cries the ruin of her journal, suddenly exclaimed with much greater emphasis.

  The others broke off and looked at her with that particular kind of patient endurance that she so pathetically inspired.

  This time, however, there was something in her face that none of them had seen before: a look, not of anxiety or excitement but, for a second or two Troy could have sworn, of sheer panic. The dun skin had bleached under its freckles and round the jawline. The busy mouth was flaccid. She stared at her open diary. Her hands trembled. She shut the drenched book and steadied them by clutching it.

  Miss Hewson said: “Miss Rickerby-Carrick, are you O.K.?”

  She nodded once or twice, scrambled to her feet and incontinently bolted across the deck and down the companionway to the cabins.

  “And now,” Troy said to herself. “What about that one? Am I still imagining?”

  Again she had sensed a kind of stillness, of immense constraint and again she was unable to tell from whom it emanated.

  “Like it or lump it,” Troy thought, “Superintendent Tillottson’s going to hear about that lot and we’ll see what he makes of it. In the meantime—”

  In the meantime, she went to her cabin and wrote another letter to her husband.

  Half an hour later the Zodiac tied up for the afternoon and night at Crossdyke.

  Chapter 4 – Crossdyke

  “As I told you,” Alleyn said. “I rang up the Yard from San Francisco. Inspector Fox, who was handling the Andropulos Case, was away, but after inquiries I got through to Superintendent Tillottson at Tollardwark. He gave me details of his talks with my wife. One detail worried me a good deal more than it did him.”

  Alleyn caught the inevitable glint of appreciation from the man in the second row.

  “Exactly,” he said. “As a result I talked to the Yard again and was told there was no doubt that Foljambe had got himself to England and that he was lying doggo. Information received suggested that Andropulos had tried a spot of blackmail and had been fool enough to imply that he’d grass on the Jampot if the latter didn’t come across with something handsome. Andropulos had in fact talked to one of our chaps in the way they do when they can’t make up their minds to tell us something really useful. It was pretty obvious he was hinting at the Jampot.

  “So he was murdered for his pains.

  “The method used had been that of sudden and violent pressure on the carotids from behind and that method carries the Jampot’s signature. It is sometimes preceded by a karate chop which would probably do the trick anyway, but it’s his little fancy to make assurance double-sure.” The Scot in the second row gave a smirk to indicate his recognition of the quotation. “If I’m not careful,” Alleyn thought, “I’ll be playing up to that chap.”

  “There had,” he said, “been two other homicides, one in Ismalia and one in Paris where undoubtedly Foljambe had been the expert. But not a hope of cracking down on him. The latest line suggested that he had lit off for France. An envelope of the sort used by a well-known travel-agency had been dropped on the floor near Andropulos’s body and it had a note of the price of tickets and times of departure from London scribbled on the back. It had, as was afterwards realised, been planted by the Jampot and had successfully decoyed Mr Fox across the Channel. A typical stroke. I’ve already talked about his talent—it amounts to genius—for type-casting himself. I don’t think I mentioned that when he likes to turn it on he has a strong attraction for many, but not all, women. His ear for dialects of every description is phenomenal, of course, but he not only speaks whatever it may be—Oxbridge, superior grammar, Australasian, barrow-boy or Bronx, but he really seems to think along the appropriate wave-lengths. Rather as an actor gets behind the thought-pattern of the character he plays. He can act stupid, by the way, like nobody’s business. He is no doubt a great loss to the stage. He is gregarious, which you’d think would be risky and he has a number of unexpected, off-beat skills that occasionally come in very handy indeed.

  “Well: you’ll appreciate the situation. Take a look at it. Andropulos has been murdered, almost certainly by the Jampot and the Jampot’s at large. Andropulos, scarcely a candidate, one would have thought, for the blameless delights of British Inland Waterways was to have been a passenger in the Zodiac. My wife now has his cabin. There’s no logical reason in the wide world why his murderer should be her fellow-passenger: indeed the idea at first sight is ludicrous, and yet and yet—my wife tells me that her innocent remark about ‘Constables’ seemed to cast an extraordinary gloom upon someone or other in the party, that the newspaper report of Andropulos’s murder has been suppressed by someone in the Zodiac, that she’s pretty sure an Australian padre who wears dark glasses and conceals his right eye has purloined a page of a farcical spinster’s diary, that she half-suspects him of listening in to her telephone conversation with Mr Fox and that she herself can’t escape a feeling of impending disaster. And there’s one other feature of this unlikely set-up that, however idiotically, strikes me as being more disturbing than all the rest put together. I wonder if any of you—”

  But the man in
the second row already had his hand up.

  “Exactly,” Alleyn said when the phenomenon had delivered himself of the correct answer in a strong Scots accent. “Quite so. And you might remember that I am five thousand odd miles away in San Francisco on an extremely important conference. What the hell do I do?”

  After a moment’s thought the hand went up again.

  “All right, all right,” Alleyn said. “You tell me.”

  -1-

  Hazel Rickerby-Carrick sat in her cabin turning over with difficulty the disastrous pages of her diary.

  They were not actually pulp; they were stuck together, buckled, blistered and disfigured. They had half-parted company with the spine and the red covers had leaked into them. The writing, however, had not been irrevocably lost.

  She separated the entries for the previous day and for that afternoon. “I’m at it again,” she read dismally. “Trying too hard, as usual. It goes down all right with Mavis, of course, but not with these people: not with Troy Alleyn. If only I’d realised who she was from the first! Or if only I’d heard she was going to be next door in Cabin 7: I could have gone to the Exhibition. I could have talked about her pictures. Of course, I don’t pretend to know anything about—” Here she had had second thoughts and had abstained from completing the aphorism. She separated the sopping page from its successor using a nail-file as a sort of slice. She began to read the final entry. It was for that afternoon, before the diary went overboard.

  “—I’m going to write it down. I’ve got my diary with me: here, now. I’m lying on my Li-lo on deck (at the ‘blunt end’!!!) behind a pile of chairs covered with a tarpaulin. I’m having a sun-tan. I suppose I’m a goose to be so shy. In this day and age! What one sees! And of course it’s much healthier and anyway the body is beautiful: beautiful. Only mine isn’t so very. What I’m going to write now, happened last night. In Tollardwark. It was so frightful and so strange and I don’t know what I ought to do about it. I think what I’ll do is I’ll tell Troy Alleyn. She can’t say it’s not extraordinary because it is.