by Ngaio Marsh
‘Speaking for myself,’ said Sir George, ‘I stayed where I was. There were signs of – ah – agitation and – ah – movement. Sort of thing that needs to be nipped in the bud if you don’t want a panic on your hands.’
‘And you nipped it, sir?’ Fox asked.
‘Well – I wouldn’t go so far – one does one’s best. I mean to say – I said something. Quietly.’
‘If there had been any signs of panic,’ said Sir John Smythe drily, ‘they did not develop.’
‘– “did not develop”,’ Mr Fox repeated. ‘And in issuing your warning, sir, did you face inwards? With your back to the garden?’
‘Yes. Yes, I did,’ said Sir George.
‘And did you notice anything at all out of the way, sir?’
‘I couldn’t see anything, my dear man. One was blinded by having looked at the brilliant light on the screen and the performer.’
‘There wasn’t any reflected light in the pavilion?’
‘No,’ said Sir George crossly. ‘There wasn’t. Nothing of the kind. It was too far away.’
‘I see, sir,’ said Fox placidly.
Lady Smythe suddenly remarked that the light on the screen was reflected in the lake. ‘The whole thing,’ she said, ‘was dazzling and rather confusing.’ There was a general murmur of agreement.
Mr Fox asked if during the dark interval anybody else had turned his or her back on the garden and peered into the interior. This produced a confused and doubtful response from which it emerged that the piercing screams of Mrs Cockburn-Montfort within the house had had a more marked effect than the actual report. The Smythes had both heard Alleyn telling the President to sit down. After the report everybody had heard the President shout out something in his own language. The plenipotentiary said it was an order. He shouted for lights. And immediately before or after that, Sir John Smythe said, he had been aware of something falling at his feet.
And then the light had gone up.
‘And I can only add, Inspector,’ said Sir John, ‘that I really have nothing else to say that can have the slightest bearing on this tragic business. The ladies have been greatly shocked and I must beg you to release them from any further ordeal.’
There was a general and heartfelt chorus of agreement. Sir George said, ‘Hear, hear,’ very loudly.
Fox said this request was very reasonable he was sure, and he was sorry to have put them all to so much trouble and he could assure the ladies that he wouldn’t be keeping them much longer. There were no two ways about it, he added, this was quite a serious affair, wasn’t it?
‘Well, then –’ said Sir John and there was a general stir.
At this juncture Alleyn came in.
In some curious and indefinable fashion he brought a feeling of refreshment with him rather like that achieved by a star whose delayed entry, however quietly executed, lifts the scene and quickens the attention of his audience.
‘We are so sorry,’ he said, ‘to have kept you waiting like this. I’m sure Mr Fox will have explained. This is a very muddling, tragic and strange affair and it isn’t made any simpler for me, at any rate, by finding myself an unsatisfactory witness and an investigating copper at one and the same time.’
He gave Lady Smythe an apologetic grin and she said – and may have been astonished to hear herself – ‘You poor man.’
‘Well, there it is and I can only hope one of you has come up with something more useful than anything I’ve been able to produce.’
His brother said: ‘Done our best. What!’
‘Good for you,’ Alleyn said. He was reading the sergeant’s notes.
‘We’re hoping,’ said Sir John, ‘to be released. The ladies –’
‘Yes, of course. It’s been a beastly experience and you must all be exhausted.’
‘What about yourself?’ asked Lady Smythe. She appeared to be a lady of spirit.
Alleyn looked up from the notes. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘you can’t slap me back. These notes seem splendidly exhaustive and there’s only one question I’d like to put to you. I know the whole incident was extremely confused, but I would like to learn if you all, for whatever reason or for no reason, are persuaded of the identity of the killer?’
‘Good God!’ Sir George shouted. ‘Really, my dear Rory! Who else could it be but the man your fellows marched off. And I must compliment you on their promptitude, by the way.’
‘You mean –?’
‘Good God, I mean the great hulking brute with the spear. I beg your pardon,’ he said to the black plenipotentiary and himself turned scarlet. ‘Afraid I spoke out of turn. Sure you understand.’
‘George,’ said his brother with exquisite courtesy, ‘would you like to go home?’
‘I? We all would. Mustn’t desert the post, though. No preferential treatment.’
‘Not a morsel, I assure you. I take it, then,’ Alleyn said, turning to the others, ‘that you all believe the spear-carrier was the assailant?’
‘Well – yes,’ said Sir John Smythe. ‘I mean – there he was. Who else? And, my God, there was the spear!’
The black plenipotentiary’s wife said something rather loudly in their native tongue.
Alleyn looked a question at her husband, who cleared his throat, ‘My wife,’ he said, ‘has made an observation.’
‘Yes?’
‘My wife has said that because the body was lying beside her, she heard.’
‘Yes? She heard?’
‘The sound of the strike and the death noise.’ He held a brief consultation with his wife. ‘Also a word. In Ng’ombwanan. Spoken very low by a man. By the Ambassador himself, she thinks.’
‘And the word – in English?’
‘“Traitor”,’ said the plenipotentiary. After a brief pause he added: ‘My wife would like to go now. There is blood on her dress.’
III
The Boomer had changed into a dressing-gown and looked like Othello in the last act. It was a black and gold gown and underneath it crimson pyjamas could be detected. He had left orders that if Alleyn wished to see him he was to be roused and he now received Alleyn, Fox and an attenuated but still alert Mr Whipplestone, in the library. For a moment or two Alleyn thought he was going to jib at Mr Whipplestone’s presence. He fetched up short when he saw him, seemed about to say something but instead decided to be gracious. Mr Whipplestone, after all, managed well with The Boomer. His diplomacy was of an acceptable tinge: deferential without being fulsome, composed but not consequential.
When Alleyn said he would like to talk to the Ng’ombwanan servant who waited on them in the pavilion The Boomer made no comment but spoke briefly on the house telephone.
‘I wouldn’t have troubled you with this,’ Alleyn said, ‘but I couldn’t find anybody who was prepared to accept the responsibility of producing the man without your authority.’
‘They are all in a silly state,’ generalized The Boomer. ‘Why do you want this fellow?’
‘The English waiter in the pavilion will have it that the man attacked him.’
The Boomer lowered his eyelids. ‘How very rococo,’ he said and there was no need for him to add: ‘as we used to say at Davidson’s.’ It had been a catchphrase in their last term and worn to death in the usage. With startling precision, it again returned Alleyn to that dark room smelling of anchovy toast and a coal-fire and to the group mannerisms of his and The Boomer’s circle so many years ago.
When the man appeared he cut an unimpressive figure, being attired in white trousers, a singlet and a wrongly buttoned tunic. He appeared to be in a state of perturbation and in deep awe of his President.
‘I will speak to him,’ The Boomer announced.
He did so, and judging by the tone of his voice, pretty sharply. The man, fixing his white-eyeballed gaze on the far wall of the library, answered with, or so it seemed to Alleyn, the clockwork precision of a soldier on parade.
‘He says no,’ said The Boomer.
‘Could you press a little?’
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br /> ‘It will make no difference. But I will press.’
This time the reply was lengthier. ‘He says he ran into someone in the dark and stumbled and for a moment clung to this person. It is ridiculous, he says, to speak of it as an attack. He had forgotten the incident. Perhaps it was this servant.’
‘Where did he go after this encounter?’
Out of the pavilion, it appeared, finding himself near the rear door, and frightened by the general rumpus. He had been rounded up by security men and drafted with the rest of the household staff to one end of the ballroom.
‘Do you believe him?’
‘He would not dare to lie,’ said The Boomer calmly,
‘In that case I suppose we let him go back to bed, don’t we?’
This move having been effected, The Boomer rose and so, of course, did Alleyn, Mr Whipplestone and Fox.
‘My dear Rory,’ said The Boomer, ‘there is a matter which should be settled at once. The body. It will be returned to our country and buried according to our custom.’
‘I can promise you that every assistance will be offered. Perhaps the Deputy Commissioner has already given you that assurance.’
‘Oh, yes. He was very forthcoming. A nice chap. I hear your pathologist spoke of an autopsy. There can be no autopsy.’
‘I see.’
‘A thorough enquiry will be held in Ng’ombwana.’
‘Good.’
‘And I think, since you have completed your investigations, have you not, it would be as well to find out if the good Gibson is in a similar case. If so I would suggest that the police, after leaving and at their convenience, kindly let me have a comprehensive report of their findings. In the meantime, I shall set my house in order.’
As this was in effect an order to quit, Alleyn gave his assurance that there would be a complete withdrawal of the Yard forces. The Boomer expressed his appreciation of the trouble that had been taken and said, very blandly, that if the guilty person was discovered to be a member of his own household, Alleyn, as a matter of courtesy, would be informed. On the other hand the police would no doubt pursue their security precautions outside the Embassy. These pronouncements made such sweeping assumptions that there was nothing more to be said. Alleyn had begun to take his leave when The Boomer interrupted him.
He said: ‘There is one other matter I would like to settle.’
‘Yes?’
‘About the remainder of my stay in England. It is a little difficult to decide.’
Does he, Alleyn asked himself, does The Boomer, by any blissful chance, consider taking himself back to Ng’ombwana? Almost at once? With the corpse, perhaps? What paeans of thanksgiving would spring from Gibson’s lips if it were so.
‘– the Buck House dinner party, of course, stands,’ The Boomer continued. ‘Perhaps a quieter affair will be envisaged. It is not for me to say,’ he conceded.
‘When is that?’
‘Tomorrow night. No. Tonight. Dear me, it is almost two in the morning!’
‘Your other engagements?’ Alleyn hinted.
‘I shall cancel the tree-planting affair and of course I shall not attend the race-meeting. That would not look at all the thing,’ he said rather wistfully, ‘would it?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘And then there’s the Chequers visit. I hardly know what to say.’ And with his very best top-drawer manner to the fore The Boomer turned graciously to Mr Whipplestone. ‘So difficult,’ he said, ‘isn’t it? Now, tell me. What would you advise?’
This, Alleyn felt, was a question to try Mr Whipplestone’s diplomatic resources to their limit. He rose splendidly to his ordeal.
‘I’m quite sure,’ he said, ‘that the Prime Minister and, indeed, all the organizations and hosts who had hoped to entertain your Excellency will perfectly understand that this appalling affair puts anything of the sort out of the question.’
‘Oh,’ said The Boomer.
‘Your Excellency need have no misgiving under that heading, at least,’ Mr Whipplestone gracefully concluded.
‘Good,’ said The Boomer, a trifle dismally Alleyn thought.
‘We mustn’t keep you up any longer,’ Alleyn said, ‘but before we take ourselves off, I would like, if I may, to ask one final rather unorthodox question.’
‘What is that?’
‘You are, I know, persuaded that neither the Ng’ombwanan waiter nor the guard – the mlinzi, is it? – is a guilty man.’
‘I am sure of it.’
‘And you believe, don’t you, that Mrs Cockburn-Montfort was mistaken in thinking her assailant was an African?’
‘She is a very stupid, hysterical woman. I place no value on anything she says.’
‘Have they – the Cockburn-Montforts – any reason to harbour resentment against you or the Ambassador?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said promptly. ‘They had reason and I’ve no doubt they still do. It is well known that the Colonel, having had a hand in the formation of our armed forces, expected to be retained and promoted. I believe he actually saw himself in a very exalted role. But, as you know, my policy has been to place my own people in all key positions. I believe the Colonel went into unwilling retirement, breathing fire. In any case,’ The Boomer added as an afterthought, ‘he had become alcoholic and no longer responsible.’
‘But they were asked to the reception?’
‘Oh yes! It was a suitable gesture. One could not ignore him. And now – what is this unorthodox question, my dear Rory?’
‘Simply this. Do you suspect anyone – specifically – of the murder of your Ambassador?’
Again that well-remembered, hooded look with the half-closed eyes. After a very long pause The Boomer said: ‘I have no idea, beyond my absolute certainty of the innocence of the mlinzi.’
‘One of your guests in the pavilion?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘I’m glad about that, at least,’ said Alleyn drily.
‘My dear boy!’ For a moment Alleyn thought they were to be treated to one of those bursts of Homeric laughter, but instead his friend touched him gently on the shoulder and gave him a look of such anxiety and affection that he found himself oddly moved.
‘Of course it was not a guest. Beyond that,’ The Boomer said, ‘I have nothing to say.’
‘Well, then –’ Alleyn glanced at Fox and Mr Whipplestone who once more made appropriate motions for departure.
‘I too have a question,’ said The Boomer and they checked. ‘My government wishes for a portrait to be hung in our Assembly. I would like, formally, to ask if your wife will accept this commission.’
‘I’ll deliver the message,’ said Alleyn, concealing his astonishment.
At the door he muttered to the others: ‘I’ll join you in a moment,’ and when they had gone he said: ‘I’ve got to say this. You will look after yourself, won’t you?’
‘Of course,’
‘After all –’
‘You need have no qualms. I shall sleep very soundly with my mlinzi outside my door.’
‘You don’t mean –?’
‘Certainly. It is his treasured privilege.’
‘For God’s sake!’
‘I shall also lock my door.’
Alleyn left on a gale of laughter.
They went in silence to their extemporized office. When they got there Mr Whipplestone passed his thin hand over his thinner hair, dropped into a chair and said, ‘He was lying.’
‘The President, sir?’ asked Fox in his best scandalized voice. ‘About the spearsman?’
‘No, no, no, no! It was when he said he didn’t suspect anybody – specifically – of the crime.’
‘Come on,’ Alleyn said. ‘Tell us. Why?’
‘For a reason that you will find perfectly inadmissible. His manner. I did, at one time, know these people as well, perhaps, as a white person can. I like them. They are not ready liars. But, my dear Alleyn, you yourself know the President very well indeed. Did you have the same reaction?�
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Alleyn said: ‘He is an honourable person and a very loyal friend. I believe it’d go deeply against the grain for him to lie to me. Yes, I did think he was uncomfortable. I think he may suspect somebody. I think he is withholding something.’
‘Have you any idea what?’
Alleyn shoved his hands down in his trouser pockets and walked about the room. In his white tie and tails with miniatures on his coat and with his general air of uncontrived elegance he presented an odd contrast to Mr Fox in his workaday suit, to the sergeant in uniform and even to Mr Whipplestone in his elderly smoking-jacket and scarf.
‘I’ve nothing,’ he said at last, ‘that will bear the light of day. Let’s leave it for the moment and stick to facts, shall we? Sam, could you, before we go, give us a résumé of what was said at that showdown in the ballroom? I know you’ve written a report and I’m damn grateful and will go over every word of it very carefully indeed. But just to go on with? And also exactly what the waiter said, which sounds like a sequel to what the butler saw, doesn’t it? When he came into the library?’
‘I’ll try,’ said Mr Whipplestone. ‘Very well. The waiter. At the outset the President told him to give an account of himself during the crucial minutes before and after the murder took place. His reply as far as I can translate it literally was, “I will say what I must say.”’
‘Meaning, in effect, “I must speak the truth”?’
‘Precisely, but he could equally have meant: “I will say what I am forced to say.”’
‘Suggesting that he had been intimidated?’
‘Perhaps. I don’t know. He then said that he’d collided with the other waiter in the dark.’
‘Chubb?’
‘Quite so,’ said Mr Whipplestone uneasily.
‘And Chubb says the man attacked him.’
‘Exactly. So you have told me.’
‘Do you think the man was lying?’
‘I think he might have merely left out mention of the attack.’
‘Yes, I see. And the man himself: the spearsman – mlinzi or whatever? Was he at all equivocal?’
Mr Whipplestone hesitated. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘No, with him it was different. He said – and I think I remember it exactly – that he had taken a terrible – in the sense of awe-inspiring – terrifying, if you like – oath of loyalty to the President and therefore could never, if he were guilty, declare his innocence to the President on the body of his victim.’