by Ngaio Marsh
“Yes, of course.”
A canvas flap was pulled aside, letting out a triangle of light on the grass. A man came out. He wore a heavy overcoar and muffler and his hat was pulled over his face, but the constable had recognized his voice and shifted uneasily.
“Oh, it’s you, Bream,” said Thomas Ancred.
“Yes, Mr. Thomas.”
“Cold, isn’t it?”
“Hard frost before dawn, sir.”
Above them the church clock gave a preparatory whirr and with a sweet voice told two in the morning.
“I don’t like this much, Bream.”
“Very upsetting, sir, I’m sure.”
“Terribly upsetting, yes.”
“And yet, sir,” said Bream with a didactic air, “I been thinking: this here poor remains beant a matter to scare a chap, if rightly considered. It beant your respected father hisself as you might put it, sir. He’s well away receiving his reward by now, and what you are called to look upon is a harmless enough affair. No more, if you’ll excuse me, than a left-off garment. As has been preached at us souls regular in this very church.”
“I dare say,” said Thomas. “Nevertheless… Well, thank you.”
He moved away down the gravel path. The London officer turned to watch him. Thomas did not move quite out of range of the veiled light. He stood, with his head bent, near the dim shape of a gravestone and seemed to be rubbing his hands together.
“Cold and nervous, poor chap,” Bream said to himself.
“Before we go any further” (that was Chief Inspector Alleyn again), “will you make a formal examination, Mr. Mortimer? We’d like your identification of the name-plate and your assurance that everything is as it was at the time of the funeral.”
A clearing of the throat, a pause and then a muffled voice. “Perfectly in order. Our own workmanship, Mr. Alleyn. Casket and plate.”
“Thank you. All right, Thompson.”
The click of metal and the faint grind of disengaging screws. This seemed to Bream to continue an unconscionable time. Nobody spoke. From his mouth and nostrils and those of the London constable, little jets of breath drifted out and condensed on the frozen air. The London man switched on his flash-lamp. Its beam illuminated Thomas Ancred, who looked up and blinked.
“I’m just waiting,” he said. “I won’t go away.”
“Quite all right, sir.”
“Now,” ordered the voice in the enclosure, “everything free? Right!”
“Just ease a little, it’s a precision fit. That’s right. Slide?”
“Oh, cripes!” Bream said to himself.
Wood whispered along wood. This sound was followed by complete silence. Thomas Ancred turned away from grass to gravel path and walked aimlessly to and fro.
“Curtis? Will you and Dr. Withers—?”
“Yes. Thanks. Move that light a little this way, Thompson. Will you come here, Dr. Withers?”
“The — ah — the process is quite satisfactory, don’t you consider, Doctor? Only a short time, of course, but I can assure you there would be no deterioration.”
“Indeed? Remarkable.”
“One is gratified.”
“I think we’ll have that bandage taken away, if you please. Fox, will you tell Mr. Ancred we’re ready for him?”
Bream watched the thick-set Inspector Fox emerge and walk over towards Thomas. Before he had gone more than a few paces there was a sudden and violent ejaculation inside the enclosure. “Good God, look at that!” Inspector Fox paused. The Chief Inspector’s voice said, very sharply, “Quiet, Dr. Withers, please,” and there followed a rapid whispering.
Inspector Fox moved away and joined Thomas Ancred. “If you’ll come this way, Mr. Ancred.”
“Oh! yes, of course. Very good. Right ho! ” said Thomas in a high voice, and followed him back to the enclosure. “If I moved a bit,” Bream thought, “when they opened the flaps I’d see in.” But he did not move. The London constable held the doorway open, glancing impassively into the tent before he let the canvas fall. The voices began again.
“Now, this is not going to be a very big ordeal, Mr. Ancred.”
“Oh, isn’t it? Oh, good.”
“Will you—?”
Bream heard Thomas move. “There, you see. Quite peaceful.”
“I — yes — I identify him.”
“That’s all right, then. Thank you.”
“No,” said Thomas, and his voice rose hysterically, “it’s not all right. There’s something all wrong, in fact. Papa had a fine head of hair. Hadn’t he, Dr. Withers? He was very proud of it, wasn’t he? And his moustache. This is bald. What have they done with his hair?”
“Steady! put your head down. You’ll be all right. Give me that brandy, Fox, will you? Damn, he’s fainted.”
iv
“Well, Curtis,” Alleyn said as the car slid between rows of sleeping houses, “I hope you’ll be able to give us something definite.”
“Hope so,” said Dr. Curtis, stifling a heavy yawn.
“I’d like to ask you, Doctor,” said Fox, “whether you’d expect one fatal dose of arsenic to have that effect.”
“What effect? Oh, the hair. No. I wouldn’t. It’s more often a symptom of chronic poisoning.”
“In for one of those messes, are we?” Fox grumbled. “That will be nice. Fields of suspects opened up wide, with the possibility of Miss O. being framed.”
“There are objections to chronic poisoning, Br’er Fox,” Alleyn said. “He might die when he’d concocted a Will unfavourable to the poisoner. And moreover, you’d expect a progressive loss of hair, not a sudden post-mortem moult. Is that right, Curtis?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, then,” Fox persisted heavily, “how about the embalming process? Would that account for it?”
“Emphatically not,” Mr. Mortimer interjected. “I’ve given the Chief Inspector our own formula. An unusual step, but in the circumstances desirable. No doubt, Doctor, he has made you conversant—”
“Oh, yes,” sighed Dr. Curtis. “Formalin. Glycerine. Boric Acid. Menthol. Potassium nitrate. Sodium citrate. Oil of cloves. Water.”
“Precisely.”
“Hey!” said Fox. “No arsenic!”
“You’re two days late with the news, Br’er Fox. Things have moved while you were at Ancreton. Arsenic went out some time ago, didn’t it, Mr. Mortimer?”
“Formalin,” Mr. Mortimer agreed with hauteur, “is infinitely superior.”
“There now,” Fox rumbled with great satisfaction. “That does clear things up a bit, doesn’t it, Mr. Alleyn? If arsenic’s found it’s got no business to be there. That’s something definite. And what’s more, any individual who banked on its being used by the embalmer made the mistake of his or her life. Nothing for counsel to muddle the jury with, either. Mr. Mortimer’s evidence would settle that. Well.”
Alleyn said: “Mr. Mortimer, had Sir Henry any notion of the method used?”
In a voice so drowsy that it reminded Alleyn of the dormouse’s, Mr. Mortimer said: “It’s very curious, Chief Inspector, that you should ask that question. Oh, very curious. Because, between you and I, the deceased gentleman showed quite an unusual interest. He sent for me and discussed the arrangements for the interment. Two years ago, that was.”
“Good Lord!”
“That is not so unusual in itself. Gentlemen of his position do occasionally give detailed instructions. But the deceased was so very particular. He — well, really,” Mr. Mortimer said, coughing slightly, “he quite read me a little lecture on embalming. He had a little book. Yes,” said Mr. Mortimer, swallowing a yawn, “rather a quaint little book. Very old. It seemed an ancestor of his had been embalmed by the method, quate outdated, I may say, outlined in this tainy tome. Sir Henry wished to ascertain if our method was similar. When I ventured to suggest the book was somewhat démodé, he became — well, so annoyed that it was rather awkward. Very awkward, in fact. He was insistent that we should use the same proc
ess on — ah — for — ah — himself. He quate ordered me to do it.”
“But you didn’t consent?”
“I must confess, Chief Inspector, I–I—the situation was most awkward. I feared, he would upset himself seriously. I must confess that I compromaysed. In point of fact, I—”
“You consented?”
“I would have gladly refused the commission altogether but he would take no refusal. He forced me to take the book away with me. I returned it with compliments, and without comment through the registered post. He replied that when the time came I was to understand my instructions. The — ah — the time came and — and—”
“You followed your own method, and said nothing to anybody?”
“It seemed the only thing to do. Anything else was impossible from the point of view of technique. Ridiculous, in fact. Such preposterous ingredients! You can’t imagine.”
“Well,” said Fox, “as long as you can testify there was no arsenic. Eh, Mr. Alleyn?”
“I must say,” said Mr. Mortimer, “I don’t at all care for the idea of giving evidence in an affair of this sort. Ours is a delicate, and you might say exclusive, profession, Chief Inspector. Publicity of this kind is most undesirable.”
“You may not be subpoenaed, after all,” said Alleyn.
“Not? But I understood Inspector Fox to say—”
“You never know. Cheer up, Mr. Mortimer.”
Mr. Mortimer muttered to himself disconsolately and fell into a doze.
“What about the cat?” Fox asked. “And the bottle of medicine?”
“No report yet.”
“We’ve been busy,” Dr. Curtis complained. “You and your cats! The report should be in some time to-day. What’s all this about a cat anyway?”
“Never you mind,” Alleyn grunted, “you do your Marsh-Berzelius tests with a nice open mind. And your Fresenius process later on, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Dr. Curtis paused in the act of lighting his pipe. “Fresenius process?” he said.
“Yes, and your ammonium chloride and your potassium iodide and your Bunsen flame and your platinum wire. And look for the pretty green line, blast you!”
After a long silence Dr. Curtis said: “It’s like that, is it?” and glanced at Mr. Mortimer.
“It may be like that.”
“Having regard to the general lay-out?”
“That’s the burden of our song.”
Fox said suddenly: “Was he bald when they laid him out?”
“Not he. Mrs. Henry Ancred and Mrs. Kentish were both present. They’d have noticed. Besides, the hair was there, Fox. We collected it while you were ministering to Thomas.”
“Oh!” Fox ruminated for a time and then said loudly: “Mr. Mortimer! Mr. Mortimer!”
«Wha—?”
“Did you notice Sir Henry’s hair when you were working on him?”
“Eh! Oh, yes,” said Mr. Mortimer, hurriedly, but in a voice slurred with sleep. “Yes, indeed. We all remarked on it. A magnificent head of hair.” He yawned hideously. “A magnificent head of hair,” he repeated.
Alleyn looked at Dr. Curtis. “Consistent?” he asked.
“With your green line? Yes.”
“Pardon?” said Mr. Mortimer anxiously.
“All right, Mr. Mortimer. Nothing. We’re in London. You’ll be in bed by daybreak.”
CHAPTER XVII
Escape of Miss O
i
At breakfast Alleyn said: “This case of ours is doing the usual snowball business, Troy.”
“Gathering up complications as it goes?”
“A mass of murky stuff in this instance. Grubby stuff, and a lot of it waste matter. Do you want an interim report?”
“Only if you feel like making one. And is there enough time?”
“Actually there’s not. I can answer a crisp question or two, though, if you care to rap them out at me.”
“You know, I expect, what they’ll be.”
“Was Ancred murdered? I think so. Did Sonia Orrincourt do it? I don’t know. I shall know, I believe, when the analyst sends in his report.”
“If he finds the arsenic?”
“If he finds it in one place, then I’m afraid it’s Sonia Orrincourt. If he finds it in three places, it’s Sonia Orrincourt or one other. If he doesn’t find it at all, then I think it’s that other. I’m not positive.”
“And — the one other?”
“I suppose it’s no more unpleasant for you to speculate about one than about several.”
“I’d rather know, if it’s all right to tell me.”
“Very well,” Alleyn said, and told her.
After a long silence she said: “But it seems completely unreal. I can’t possibly believe it.”
“Didn’t everything they did at Ancreton seem a bit unreal?”
“Yes, of course. But to imagine that underneath all the showings-off and temperaments this could be happening… I can’t. Of all of them… that one!”
“Remember, I may be wrong.”
“You’ve a habit of not being wrong, though, haven’t you?”
“The Yard,” said Alleyn, “is littered with my blunders. Ask Fox. Troy, is this very beastly for you?”
“No,” said Troy, “it’s mostly bewildering. I didn’t form any attachments at Ancreton. I can’t give it a personal application.”
“Thank God for that,” he said and went to the Yard.
Here he found Fox in, waiting with the tin of rat-bane. “I haven’t had a chance to hear your further adventures at Ancreton, Foxkin. The presence of Mr. Mortimer rather cramped our style last night. How did you get on?”
“Quite nicely, sir. No trouble really about getting the prints. Well, when I say no trouble, there was quite a bit of high-striking in some quarters as was to be expected in that family. Miss O. made trouble, and, for a while, stuck out she wouldn’t have it, but I talked her round. Nobody else actually objected, though you’d have thought Mrs. Kentish and Miss Desdemona Ancred were being asked to walk into the condemned cell, the way they carried on. Bailey got down by the early train in the morning and worked through the prints you asked for. We found a good enough impression in paint on the wall of Mrs. Alleyn’s tower. Miss O. all right. And her prints are in the book. Lots of others too, of course. Prints all over the cover, from when they looked at it after it turned up in the cheese-dish, no doubt. I’ve checked up on the letters, but there’s nothing in it. They handed them round and there you are. Same thing in the flower-room. Regular mess of prints and some odds and ends where they’d missed sweeping. Coloured tape off florist’s boxes, leaves and stalks, scraps of sealing-wax, fancy paper and so on. I’ve kept all of it in case there was anything. I took a chance to slip into Miss O.’s room. Nothing beyond some skittish literature and a few letters from men written before Sir Henry’s day. One, more recent, from a young lady. I memorized it. ‘Dear S. Good for you, kid, stick to it, and don’t forget your old pals when you’re Lady A. Think the boy friend’d do anything for me in the business? God knows, I’m not so hot on this Shakespeare, but he must know other managements. Does he wear bed-socks? Regards Clarrie.’ ”
“No mention of the egregious Cedric?”
“Not a word. We looked at Miss Able’s cupboard. Only her own prints. I called in at Mr. Juniper’s. He says the last lot of that paper was taken up with some stuff for the rest of the house a fortnight ago. Two sets of prints on the bell-push from Sir Henry’s room — his own and old Barker’s. Looks as if Sir Henry had grabbed at it, tried to use it and dragged it off.”
“As we thought.”
“Mr. Juniper got in a great way when I started asking questions. I went very easy with him, but he made me a regular speech about how careful he is and showed me his books. He reckons he always double-checks everything he makes up. He’s particularly careful, he says, because of Dr. Withers being uncommonly fussy. It seems they had a bit of a row. The doctor reckoned the kids’ medicine wasn’t right, and Juniper took it fo
r an insult. He says the doctor must have made the mistake himself and tried to save his face by turning round on him. He let on the doctor’s a bit of a lad and a great betting man, and he thinks he’d been losing pretty solidly and was worried, and made a mistake weighing the kids or something. But that wouldn’t apply to Sir Henry’s medicine, because it was the mixture as before. And I found out that at the time he made it up he was out of arsenic and hasn’t got any yet.”
“Good for Mr. Juniper,” said Alleyn dryly.
“Which brings us,” Fox continued, “to this tin.” He laid his great hand beside it on the desk. “Bailey’s gone over it for dabs. And here we have got something, Mr. Alleyn, and about time too, you’ll be thinking. Now this tin has got the usual set of prints. Some of the search party’s, in fact. Latent, but Bailey brought them up and got some good photographs. There’s Mrs. Kentish’s. She must have just touched it. Miss Desdemona Ancred seems to have picked it up by the edge. Mr. Thomas Ancred grasped it more solidly round the sides and handled it again when he took it out of his bag. Mrs. Henry Ancred held it firmly towards the bottom. Sir Cedric’s prints are all over it, and there, you’ll notice, are the marks round the lid where he had a shot at opening it.”
“Not a very determined shot.”
“No. Probably scared of getting rat-bane on his manicure,” said Fox. “But the print is, you see—”
“No Orrincourt?”
“Not a sign of her. Not a sign of glove-marks either. It was a dusty affair, and the dust, except for the prints we got, wasn’t disturbed.”
“It’s a point. Well, Fox, now Bailey’s finished with it we can open it.”
The lid was firm and it took a penny and considerable force to prise it up. An accretion of the contents had sealed it. The tin was three-parts full, and the greyish paste bore traces of the implement that had been used to scoop it out.
“We’ll have a photo-micrograph of this,” Alleyn said.
“If Orrincourt’s our bird, sir, it looks as if we’ll have to hand the tin over to the defence, doesn’t it?”