by Ngaio Marsh
“I—well. I—”
“A left-handed murderer to be sure. Tinkerton, you great gump, Tinkerton, Tinkerton, Tinkerton.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Preparation for Poverty
ROBERTA WAS SO deadly tired that she was not able to feel anything but a sort of dull astonishment and a sense of release. This was followed by the ironical reflection that once more the Lampreys, through no effort of their own, had got out of a scrape. They would not even have to face the distasteful ordeal of giving evidence against their uncle’s widow. She looked at Henry and wondered if she only imagined there was an unfamiliar glint of purpose in his eye, or if in sober truth the horrors of the last thirty hours had developed some latent possibilities in his character. He seemed to be listening intently to Alleyn. Roberta forced herself to listen too.
“…all we had to work on,” the pleasant voice was saying. “If she had done what she said she did, she would have met Baskett on his way from the hall or in the servants’ sitting-room. She told us she met nobody. She didn’t know, or had forgotten, that Baskett went down the passage while she was hiding in the hall cupboard. She heard Michael say good-bye to Giggle and remembered to fit that in with her story. But she told us that as she crossed the landing and followed Giggle downstairs she saw Lord Wutherwood sitting in the lift. You can’t see any one who sits in that lift. The doors were shut and the window in the outer door is too high. If Tinkerton was innocent, why did she tell those purposeless lies? Our theory is that Tinkerton, knowing that Lord Wutherwood meant to refuse his brother, left Nanny Burnaby in Flat 26, got as far as the hall door, found the hall full of the charade party and, as she told us, hung back until they went into the drawing-room, then joined Baskett for a glass of sherry, saw Cook in the kitchen and, leaving the kitchen ostensibly to wash her hands, went back to the hall and slipped into the open cupboard where she left impressions of her heels. She overheard the quarrel between your father and his brother. We have a detailed account of that quarrel from Miss Cora Blackburn.”
“Miserable little snooper,” said Henry. “You can’t open a door in that flat without finding Blackburn tiptoeing away on the other side.”
“A good many people overheard the interview,” Alleyn remarked.
“One up to you, sir,” said Henry.
“But Blackburn’s account happened to be the only one we felt inclined to believe.”
“Robin,” said Henry, “we have not distinguished ourselves, my darling. But why, Mr. Alleyn, did you reject our united story (unhappily somewhat fanciful) in favour of a curious parlour-maid’s (probably correct)?”
“Well,” Alleyn said, “it’s a long story but the constable on duty in the drawing-room speaks French. That’s one reason.”
“Dear me! I must say we have made fools of ourselves.”
“To go on with Tinkerton. Tinkerton heard the quarrel and thought it a wonderful opportunity to secure Giggle, together with a nice fat legacy, and throw suspicion of guilt on somebody else. She and Giggle would no doubt keep their respective jobs with Lady Wutherwood. Your old nanny told Fox there was something between them. Old nannies are not always reliable witnesses but—”
“She’s right about that,” said Henry. “I remember now. There was some row about it between Uncle G. and Aunt V. He said Tinkerton was debauching Giggle. How Giggle could! Imagine it!”
“We won’t,” said Alleyn. “To continue. Michael left Giggle and took the parcel into the dining-room. The coast was clear for Tinkerton. We think she may have crossed the landing and got Giggle to come out there. She probably told him then of the quarrel. I fancy Tinkerton, like Lady Macbeth, was the brains of the party, and I may add that a casual conversation with a Shakespearian P.C. first gave me this idea. Sometime between Michael’s departure to the dining-room and Lady Charles’s return from Flat 26 the thing was concocted. Either a tentative plot was interrupted by Lord Wutherwood coming out and getting into the lift, or the whole thing took shape in Tinkerton’s fertile brain after he was there. Here was their opportunity. He was alone and he had quarrelled violently with his brother who had audibly wished him dead. They made themselves scarce while Baskett put Lord Wutherwood into his coat. As soon as Basket had gone, out they came. Giggle got his instructions. He was to go to the deserted landing below, summon the lift with Lord Wutherwood inside it, kill him, and go on downstairs. Tinkerton would recall the lift and as soon as she had touched the button hurry down after Giggle leaving all of you upstairs with a very healthy motive. All went according to plan, except that neither of them knew that injuries to the brain are not always instantly fatal. As soon as Lord Wutherwood entered the lift she gave Giggle the skewer and gloves, sent him along to get Michael as his witness, took to her old hidy-hole until Giggle had gone, and then returned to the landing. She would see the lift go down and stop at the lower landing. She would hear the doors open. Possibly she would hear another more ominous sound. She would hear the doors close again. That was her cue. She pressed the button and followed Giggle downstairs. The lift returned to the top floor and Tinkerton, having summoned it, passed it on her way down. The commissionaire saw them go out to the car, one after another, just as they said. If it seemed impossible for Giggle to have killed him then it must seem equally impossible for Tinkerton to do so since she was on Giggle’s heels. Michael provided the upstairs alibi. The pause on the second floor was sandwiched neatly between their two appearances.”
“They took frightful risks, sir.”
“They took one big risk. I think Giggle left the doors open while he attacked Lord Wutherwood. Tinkerton, in that case, would be quite safe, if she kept her thumb on the call button up above. That would prevent anybody summoning the lift to the ground floor and it would return to the top floor the moment Giggle left it and closed the doors behind him. The great risk was that somebody would come out on the landing and notice that the lift was not there, or catch it on its return, or even see it returning. In that case the job would have been up to Tinkerton. If somebody appeared as the lift was going down, she would have had to keep her thumb on the button and no sooner did it stop than it would return, with Lord Wutherwood angrily alive inside it. If somebody appeared during the few seconds after the attack but before the lift returned, and before Tinkerton got away, she would have had to distract the newcomer’s attention. Ask if she might fetch Lady Wutherwood. Faint, like Lady Macbeth. Slam the hall door on her own finger. Anything to draw attention away from the lift. That was their difficult moment, but it only lasted a few seconds, and remember that Tinkerton knew pretty well what you were all doing. She wouldn’t have been implicated but Giggle would. Giggle was the mug.”
“Why did she kill him?”
“Because he’d lost his nerve. This morning we questioned him about the lift and about his legacy. He went to pieces. He was a stupid fellow, ready enough to act quickly when the brains of the party shoved the weapon in his hand and egged him on, but wildly incapable of keeping his head afterwards, when the mental rot set in. No doubt he returned to Brummell Street in a state of terror and Tinkerton decided he was dangerous. She’s a clever, a desperate and a courageous woman. Moreover she is in her mistress’ confidence. I’ll bet you anything you like that Tinkerton is the buyer of whatever drug Lady Wutherwood takes and that she gets a little commission on the side. As Lady Wutherwood’s confidante, she undoubtedly knows a great deal about the witchcraft business. We shall only find Lady Wutherwood’s prints on the—” Alleyn checked himself—“on the objects connected with this last crime, but I’ll stake my life that Tinkerton visited the kitchen sometime during the night and brought away an instrument which she laid ready to hand in the green drawing-room. You may be sure Tinkerton knew very well what her mistress meant to do during the small hours. You may be sure it was Tinkerton who suggested that Lady Wutherwood should test the power of the Hand of Glory and Tinkerton who slipped down the backstairs and pulled out the fuse plug. One can imagine the instructions that were poured i
nto that demented ear. First she was to secure the hand, then take it up to the top landing and down the deserted passage to the end room. There she would find a sleeping man. Let her make any noise she could think of, drop his heavy boots on the floor, scream, shake the bed. No one would stir, said Tinkerton, for all would be under the soporific spell of the severed hand.”
“So poor Aunt V. was the cat’s-paw.”
“Yes. Tinkerton may even have persuaded her that her Little Master required the death of the chauffeur. She may have told her where to find the razor. Her prints on the razor would be useful and her reaction when she found Giggle already murdered wouldn’t matter. Let her make whatever noise she liked. Let her be found there, with the razor in her hand. I’m sorry, Miss Grey, it’s a beastly story but I think you’ll feel better if you know exactly what happened, however unpleasant the recital.”
“Yes,” said Roberta. “But I still don’t quite see.”
“It may be Aunt V., after all,” said Henry. “Egged on by Tinkerton.”
“No. Only a left-handed person could have done it. I shan’t describe the nature of the injury.”
“I’d rather you did,” said Henry. “Robin, dear, perhaps if you—”
“I’d rather know, too, Henry. It’s beastly to wonder.”
“Well,” said Alleyn, “the murderer stood behind the head of the bed and the angle and position of the injury precludes any possibility of it being a right-handed attack. That’s all you need to know, isn’t it?”
“But why didn’t she arrange it to look like suicide?” asked Henry and Alleyn saw with astonishment that the passionate interest of the amateur had already replaced in Henry’s mind the horror of the scene with Lady Wutherwood. Henry had not seen Giggle and so, though he lay upstairs with his throat slit, his injury had an academic interest and Henry was prepared to discuss it.
“Tinkerton was very careful that it should not look like suicide,” Alleyn said. “A theory of suicide might have led to the possibility of Giggle’s complicity and that would have come altogether too close to Tinkerton. No. Tinkerton was desperate. With Giggle in a state of terror, blundering in his statements to the police, threatening perhaps to confess and be hanged, she had to revise her plans drastically and disastrously. We must now be led to plump for Lady Wutherwood as a homicidal maniac. The whole object of the first crime went west but Tinkerton was in terror of her life. She made up her mind to cut her losses and Giggle’s throat.”
“Won’t it be very hard to prove all this, sir?”
“If Miss Grey hadn’t heard the lift and if you both had slept through the night, we should have had little against her beyond the left-handed evidence and her earlier lies. As it is you heard Lady Wutherwood downstairs and saw her come upstairs and go to the top landing on the errand that was to be thought murderous. But when Campbell followed her to the chauffeur’s bedroom and found her there with the body Giggle had been dead for over two hours. We’ve medical evidence for that. It was half past two then. The nurse will swear that at one o’clock Lady Wutherwood was in bed and had not stirred. The nurse had her cocoa in a thermos flask. Tinkerton brought it to her at eleven o’clock. The previous night she drank it immediately. To-night she was about to drink it, she had actually set out her cup and saucer before Tinkerton went away, when the storm reminded her that she had left the window open in the next room. She shut the window, decided to write a letter and forgot her cocoa. She did not drink it until two hours later. In the meantime Tinkerton had killed Giggle. The nurse drank her cocoa at two o’clock and immediately fell into a deep sleep.”
“How much did Aunt V. know?”
“She knew, at least, that she must keep still and pretend to be asleep for as long as the nurse was waking. She had been well instructed, it seems. She has made one statement. I’m afraid it will not be much use as evidence but it is illuminating. Dr. Curtis tells me she has said over and over again: ‘Why were they not asleep? She said they would all sleep like the dead.’ And when he asks her: ‘Who said this?’ she answers ‘Tinkerton’!”
“Well, that’s over,” said Charlot, raising her black hat until it perched on her grey curls and tipped over her nose. “I must say that we do look a collection of old black crows.”
“We always turn rather peculiar at funerals,” said Frid. “I suppose it’s because we all wear each other’s clothes. Where did you get that hat, Mummy?”
“It’s Nanny’s. I haven’t got a black. And these are Nanny’s gloves. Aren’t they frightful?”
“Really, it’s rather as if we were dressed up for another charade,” said Stephen. “Robin’s the only girl among you who doesn’t look p-peculiar.” And perhaps remembering that Roberta’s black clothes were rather tragically her own, Stephen hurried on. “Why didn’t you all b-buy yourselves funeral garments, darling?”
“Much too expensive,” said Charlot. “And that reminds me. You’ve all got to pay the greatest attention. I’m going to speak seriously to you.”
“Immy,” said Lord Charles suddenly, “where is Aunt Kit?”
“For pity’s sake, Charlie, don’t tell me Aunt Kit is lost again.”
“No, Mummy,” said Patch. “She’s just ‘disappeared’ into 26.”
“Well, you know what happened the last time she did that.”
“Talking about hats,” said Frid, “did you ever see anything to equal hers?”
“We are not talking about hats,” said Charlot seriously. “We are talking about money.”
“Oh gosh!” groaned Mike. He was lying on the hearthrug with sheets of expensive note-paper scattered about him. He was writing.
“About money,” Charlot repeated firmly. “I do think, Charlie darling, don’t you, that we should make our plans at the very outset. Let’s face it; we’re poor people.” And catching sight of Roberta’s astonished eyes, Charlot repeated: “We’re going to be very hard up for a long time.”
“Well,” said Colin, “Step and I are going to get jobs.”
“And I shall be playing small but showy parts in no time,” added Frid.
“My poor babies,” Charlot exclaimed dramatically, “you are so sweet. But in the meantime…” She broke off. “What are you doing, Mike?”
“Writing a letter,” said Mike, blushing.
“To whom, darling?”
“Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn.”
“What about?” asked Colin.
“Oh, something. As a matter of fac’ I just wanted to remind him about something. We were talking about jobs and I said I might rather like to be a detective.” He returned to his letter. Charlot shook her head fondly at him, lit a cigarette, and with an air of the greatest solemnity took up her theme. “In the meantime,” she said, “there will be the most ghastly death duties and then we shall have Deepacres and Brummell Street, and all the rest of it, hung round our necks like milestones.”
“Millstones, darling,” said Henry.
“You’re wrong,” said Charlot. “Hung round our necks like the upper and nether milestones is the full expression. You’re thinking of the mills of God. Charlie, how much do you suppose we’ll have when everything has been paid up?”
“Really, darling, I don’t quite know. Old Rattisbon will tell us, of course.”
“Well, at a guess.”
“I really—well, I suppose it should be about thirty thousand.”
“Per annum,” asked Patch casually, “or just the bare thirty thousand to last for ever?”
“My dear child; a year of course.”
“And, of course,” said Charlot, “at least half of that will go in taxes and then there will be people like Mr. Grumball to pacify and those enormous places to run. What shall we have left?”
“Nothing,” said Colin deeply.
“So there you are, you see,” cried Charlot triumphantly. “Nothing! I was thinking about it during the funeral and I clearly foresee that we must use our cunning and cut our capers according to our cloth. Now this is my plan. We’
ll never manage to let Brummell Street, shall we?”
“Well—” began Lord Charles.
“My dear, look at it! It’s monstrous, Charlie. Still it’s a house and it’s quite large. My plan is that we get rid of this flat and live in it. Rent free. Until we decide whether we are to use Deepacres.”
“Mummy, we can’t,” said Frid. “It’s too ghastly.”
“What?”
“The Brummell Street house.”
“Do you mean Giggle or the furniture, Frid?”
“Well, both. The furniture, really. I don’t believe in ghosts though of course it would be rather awful if Giggle’s blood—”
“That will do, Frid,” said Lord Charles.
“Drip, drip, drip.”
“Frid!”
“What does Frid mean?” asked Michael.
“Nothing,” said Frid. “But Mummy, 24 Brummell Street! Honestly!”
“My poor baby, I know. But attend to me. Let me finish. My cunning tells me that we can improve Brummell Street. Sell the most valuable of Aunt V.’s monsters—”
“Good heavens, Immy,” Lord Charles interrupted, “what about V.? I mean, haven’t we got V. on our hands? I mean she’s mad.”
“We must keep our heads about that,” said Charlot capably. “Dr. Kantripp will help. As soon as she has given her evidence—”
“But will she give evidence?” Henry asked. “She’d cut a pretty queer figure in the witness-box talking about soporific spells.”
“Do let’s keep to the point,” said his mother. “We were in Brummell Street. Now with what we save on rent we shall be able to make a few meagre alterations to the Brummell Street house. Paint the walls and change the curtains and get at least enough bathrooms for ordinary cleanliness. We could cover the worst of the chairs that we don’t sell with something dirt cheap but amusing.”