Overture to Death ra-8

by Ngaio Marsh

  “That’s how I read it,” agreed Alleyn. “Now, look here.”

  He took an envelope from his pocket, opened it, and, using tweezers, took out four minute reddish-brown scraps, which he laid on a sheet of paper.

  “Salvage from the box,” he said.

  Nigel prodded at them with the tweezers.

  “Rubber,” said Nigel.

  “Convey anything?”

  “Somebody wearing goloshes. Miss Prentice, by gosh. I bet she wears goloshes. Or Miss C. herself. Good Lord,” said Nigel, “perhaps the rector’s right. Perhaps it is a case of suicide.”

  “These bits of rubber were caught on a projecting nail and some rough bits of wood inside the box.”

  “Well, she might have trodden inside the box before she picked it up.”

  “You have your moments,” said Alleyn. “I suppose she might.”

  “Goloshes!” said Fox and chuckled deeply.

  “Here!” said Nigel, angrily. “Have you got a case?”

  “The makings of one,” said Alleyn. “We’re not going to tell you just yet, because we don’t want to lower our prestige.”

  “We like to watch your struggles, Mr. Bathgate,” said Fox.

  “We are, as it might be,” said Alleyn, “two experts on a watch-tower in the middle of a maze. ‘Look at the poor wretch,’ we say as we nudge each other, ‘there he goes into the same old blind alley. Jolly comical,’ we say, and then we laugh like anything. Don’t we, Fox?”

  “So we do,” agreed Fox. “But never you mind, Mr. Bathgate, you’re doing very nicely.”

  “Well, to hell with you anyway,” said Nigel. “And moreover what about Gladys Wright putting her splay foot on the soft pedal an hour and a half before the tragedy?”

  “Perhaps she wore goloshes.” said Fox, and for the first time in these records he broke into a loud laugh.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  According to Mr. Saul Tranter

  i

  Alleyn finished his report by nine o’clock. At a quarter-past nine they were back in the Biggins’s Ford, driving through pelting rain to the hall.

  “I’ll have to go up to the Yard before this case is many hours older,” said Alleyn. “I telephoned the A.C. this morning but I think I ought to see him and there are a lot of odd things to be cleared up. Perhaps tomorrow night. I’d like to get to the bottom of that meeting between Master Henry, Dinah Copeland and Miss Prentice. I rather think Master Henry wishes to unburden himself and Miss Dinah won’t let him. Here we are.”

  Once more they crunched up the gravel path to the front door. The shutters had been closed and they and the windows were all locked. P.C. Fife was on duty. He let them in and being an incurious fellow retired thankfully when Alleyn said he would not be wanted for two hours.

  “I’ll ring up the Chipping station when we’re leaving,” said Alleyn.

  The hall smelt of dying evergreens and varnish. It was extremely cold. The piano still stood in its old position against the stage. The hole in the faded silk gaped mournfully. The aspidistras drooped a little in their pots. A fine dust had settled over everything. The rain drove down steadily on the old building and the wind shook the shutters and howled desperately under the eaves.

  “I’m going to light these heaters,” said Nigel.

  “There’s a can of paraffin in one of the back rooms. This place smells of mortality.”

  Alleyn opened his case and took out Georgie Biggins’s water-pistol. Fox wedged the butt between steel pegs in the iron casing. The nozzle fitted a hole in the fretwork front. They had left the cord and pulleys in position.

  “On Friday,” said Alleyn, “there was only the long rent in the tucked silk. You see there are several of them. The material has rotted in the creases. No doubt Georgie arranged the silk tastefully behind the fretwork, so that the nozzle didn’t catch the light. We’ll have a practical demonstration from Mr. Bathgate, Fox. Now, if you fix the front pulley, I’ll tie the cord round the butt of the pistol. Hurry up. I hear him clanking in the background.”

  They had just dropped a sheet of newspaper on the rack when Nigel reappeared with a large can.

  “There’s some fairly good beer in that room,” said Nigel. He began to fill the tank of the heater from his can.

  Alleyn sat down at the piano, struck two or three chords, and began to vamp “Il était une Bergère.”

  “That’s odd, Fox,” he said.

  “What’s wrong, Mr. Alleyn?”

  “I can’t get the soft pedal to budge. You try. Don’t force it.”

  Fox seated himself at the piano and picked out “Three Blind Mice,” with a stubby forefinger.

  “That’s right,” he said. “It makes no difference.”

  “What’s all this?” demanded Nigel, and bustled forward.

  “The soft pedal doesn’t work.”

  “Good Lord!”

  “It makes no difference to the sound,” said Fox.

  “You’re not using it.”

  “Yes, I am, Mr. Bathgate,” lied Fox.

  “Here,” said Nigel, “let me try.”

  Fox got up. Nigel took his place with an air of importance.

  “Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C — Minor,” he said. He squared his elbows, raised his left hand and leant forward. The voice of the wind mounted in a thin wail and seemed to encircle the building. Down came Nigel’s left hand like a sledge-hammer.

  “Pom. Pom. POM!”

  Nigel paused. A violent gust shook the shutters so impatiently that, for a second, he raised his head and listened. Then he trod on the soft pedal.

  The newspaper fell forward on his hands. The thin jet of water caught him between the eyes like a cold bullet. He jerked backwards, uttered a scandalous oath, and nearly lost his balance.

  “It does work.” said Alleyn.

  But Nigel did not retaliate. Above all the uneasy clamour of the storm, and like an echo of the three pretentious chords, sounded a loud triple knock on the front door.

  “Who the devil’s that?” said Alleyn.

  He started forward, but before he could reach the door it crashed open, and on the threshold stood Henry Jernigham with streaks of rain lacing his chalk-white face.

  ii

  “What the hell’s happening in here?” demanded Henry.

  “Suppose you shut the door,” said Alleyn.

  But Henry stared at him as if he had not heard. Alleyn walked past him, slammed the door, and secured the catch. Then he returned to Henry, took him by the elbow, and marched him up the hall.

  Fox waited stolidly. Nigel wiped his face with his handkerchief and stared at Henry.

  “Now what is it?” demanded Alleyn.

  “My God!” said Henry, “who played those three infernal chords?”

  “Mr. Bathgate. This is Mr. Bathgate, Mr. Jernigham, and this is Detective-Inspector Fox.” Henry looked dimly at the other two and sat down suddenly.

  “Oh, Lord,” he said.

  “I say,” said Nigel. “I’m most extraordinarily sorry if I gave you a shock, but I assure you I never thought — ”

  “I’d come into the lane,” said Henry, breathlessly, “the rectory trees were making such a noise in the wind that you couldn’t hear anything else.”

  “Yes?” said Alleyn.

  “Don’t you see? I’d come up the path and just as I reached the door a great gust of wind and rain came screeching round the building like the souls of the damned. And then, when it dropped, those three chords on a cracked piano! My God, I tell you I nearly bolted.”

  Henry put his hand to his face and then looked at his fingers.

  “I don’t know whether it’s sweat or rain,” he said, “and that’s a fact. Sorry! Not the behaviour of a pukka sahib. No, by Gad, sir. Blimp wouldn’t think anything of it.”

  “I can imagine it was rather trying,” said Alleyn. “What were you doing there, anyway?”

  “Going home. I stayed on to supper at the rectory. Only just left. Mr. Copeland’s in such a
hoo that he’s forgotten all about choking me off. When I occurred at cold supper he noticed me no more than the High Church blanc-mange. I say, sir, I am sorry I made such an ass of myself. Honestly! How I could!”

  “That’s all right,” said Alleyn. “But why did you turn in here?”

  “I thought if that splendid fellow Roper held the dog-watch, I might say, ‘Stand ho! What hath this thing appeared?’ and get a bit of gossip out of him.”

  “I see.”

  “Have a cigarette?” said Nigel.

  “Oh, thank you. I’d better take myself off.”

  “Would you like to wait and see a slight experiment?” asked Alleyn.

  “Very much indeed, sir, if I may.”

  “Before we begin, there’s just one thing I’d like to say to you, as you are here. I shall call on Miss Prentice to-morrow and I shall use every means within the law to get her to tell me what took place on that encounter in Top Lane on Friday. I don’t know whether you’d rather give me your version first.”

  “I’ve told you already, she’s dotty,” said Henry with nervous impatience. “It’s my belief she is actually and literally out of her senses. She looks like death and she won’t leave her room except for meals, and then she doesn’t eat anything. She said at dinner to-night that she’s in danger, and that in the end she’ll be murdered. It’s simply ghastly. God knows whom she suspects, but she suspects somebody, and she’s half dead with fright. What sort of sense will you get out of a woman like that?”

  “Why not give us a sane version first?”

  “But it’s nothing to do with the case,” said Henry, “and if you feel like saying ‘tra-la,’ I’d be grateful if you’d restrain yourselves.”

  “If it turns out to be irrelevant,” said Alleyn, “it shall be treated as such. We don’t use irrelevant statements.”

  “Then why ask for them?”

  “We like to do the winnowing ourselves.”

  “Nothing happened in Top Lane.”

  “You mean Miss Prentice stood two feet away from you both, stared into your face until her heels sank an inch into the ground, and then walked away without uttering a word?”

  “It was private business. It was altogether our affair.”

  “You know,” said Alleyn, “that won’t do. This morning at Pen Cuckoo, and this afternoon at the rectory, frankness was the keynote of your conversation. You have said that you wouldn’t put it past Miss Prentice to do murder, and yet you boggle at repeating a single word that she uttered in Top Lane. It looks as though it’s not Miss Prentice whom you wish to protect.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hasn’t Miss Copeland insisted on your taking this stand because she’s nervous on your account? What were you going to call out to me this afternoon when she stopped you?”

  “Well,” said Henry unexpectedly, “you’re quite right.”

  “See here,” said Alleyn, “if you are innocent of murder, I promise you that you are not going the right way to make us think so. Remember that in a little place like this we are bound to hear of all the rifts and ructions and this thing only happened twenty-six hours ago. We’ve scarcely touched the fringe of local gossip, and already I know that Miss Prentice is opposed to your friendship with Miss Dinah Copeland. I know very well that to you police methods must seem odious and—”

  “No, they don’t,” said Henry. “Of course, you’ve got to do it.”

  “Very well, then.”

  “I’ll tell you this much, and I dare say it’s no more than you’ve guessed: My Cousin Eleanor was thrown into a dither by finding us there together, and our conversation consisted of a series of hysterical threats and embarrassing accusations on her part.”

  “And did you make no threats?”

  “She’ll probably tell you I did,” said Henry; “but, as I have said six or eight times already, she’s mad. And I’m sorry, sir, but that’s all I can tell you.”

  “All right,” said Alleyn with a sigh. “Let’s get to work, Fox.”

  iii

  They removed the water-pistol and set up the Colt in its place. Alleyn produced the “Prelude” from his case and put it on the rack. Henry saw the hole blown through the centre and the surrounding ugly stains. He turned away and then, as if he despised this involuntary revulsion, moved closer to the piano and watched Alleyn’s hands as they moved inside the top.

  “You see,” said Alleyn, “all the murderer had to do was exactly what I’m doing now. The Colt fits into the same place, and the loose end of cord which was tied round the butt of the water-pistol is tied round the butt of the Colt. It passes across the trigger. It is remarkably strong cord, rather like fishing line. I’ve left the safety catch on. Now look.”

  He sat on the piano stool and pressed the soft pedal. The two pulleys stood out rigidly from their moorings, the cord tautened as the dampers moved towards the strings and checked.

  “It’s stood firm,” said Alleyn. “Georgie made sure of his pulleys. Now.”

  “By gum!” ejaculated Nigel, “I never thought of—”

  “I know you didn’t.”

  Alleyn reached inside and released the safety catch. Again he trod lightly on the soft pedal. This time the soft pedal worked. The cord tightened in the pulleys and the trigger moved back. They all heard the sharp click of the striker.

  “Well, there you are for what it’s worth,” said Alleyn lightly.

  “Yes, but last night the top of the piano was smothered in bunting and six he-men aspidistras,” objected Henry.

  “So you think it was done last night,” said Alleyn.

  “I don’t know when it was done, and I don’t think it could have been done last night, unless it was before we all got to the hall.”

  Alleyn scowled at Nigel, who was obviously pregnant with a new theory.

  “It’s perfectly true,” said Nigel defiantly. “Nobody could have moved those pots after 6.30.”

  “I so entirely agree with you,” said Alleyn. A bell pealed distantly. Henry jumped.

  “That’s the telephone,” he said and started forward.

  “I’ll answer it, I think,” said Alleyn. “It’s sure to be for me.”

  He crossed the stage, found a light switch and made his way to the first dressing-room on the left. The old-fashioned manual telephone pealed irregularly until he lifted the receiver.

  “Hullo?”

  “Mr. Alleyn? It’s Dinah Copeland. Somebody wants to speak to you from Chipping.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Here you are,” said Dinah. The telephone clicked and the voice of Sergeant Roper said, “Sir?”

  “Hullo?”

  “Roper, sir. I thought I should find you, seeing as how Fife is still asleep here. I have a small matter in the form of a recent arrest to bring before your notice, sir.”

  “In what form?”

  “By name Saul Tranter, and by employment as sly a poacher as ever you see; but we’ve cotched him very pretty, sir, and the man’s sitting here at my elbow with guilt written all over him in the form of two fine cock-pheasants.”

  “What the devil—?” began Alleyn, and checked himself. “Well, Roper, what about it?”

  “This chap says he’s got a piece of information that’ll make the court think twice about giving him the month’s hard he’s been asking for these last two years. He won’t tell me, sir, but in his bold way he asks to be faced with you. Now, we’ve got to get him down to the lock-up some time and — ”

  “I’ll send Mr. Bathgate down, Roper. Thank you.” Alleyn hung up the receiver and stared thoughtfully at the telephone.

  “I’ll have to see about you,” he told it and returned to the front of the hall.

  “Hullo,” he said, “where’s Master Henry?”

  “Gone home,” said Fox. “He’s a funny sort of young gentleman, isn’t he?”

  “Rather a bumptious infant, I thought,” said Nigel.

  “He’s about the same age as you were when I first met you,�
� Alleyn pointed out, “and not half as bumptious. Bathgate, I’m afraid you’ll have to go into Chipping and get a poacher.”

  “A poacher!”

  “Yes. Treasure-trove of Roper’s. Apparently the gentleman wishes to make a blunderbuss about his impending sentence. He says he’s got a story to unfold. Bring Fife with him. Stop at the pub on the way back and get your own car, and let Fife drive the Ford here and he can use it afterwards to deliver this gentleman to the lock-up. We’ll clear up this place to-night.”

  “Am I representative of a leading London daily or your odd-boy?”

  “You know the answer to that better than I do. Away you go.”

  Nigel went, not without further bitter complaint. Alleyn and Fox moved to the supper-room.

  “All this food can be thrown away to-morrow,” said Alleyn. “There’s something else I want to see down here, though. Look, there’s the tea-tray ready to be carried on in the play. Mrs. Ross’s silver, I dare say. It looks like her. Modern, expensive and streamlined.”

  He lifted the lid of the teapot.

  “It reeks of onion. Dear little Georgie.”

  “I suppose someone spotted it and threw it out. You found it lying on the floor here, didn’t you, Mr. Alleyn?”

  “In that box over there. Yes. Bailey has found Georgie’s and Miss P’s prints in the pot, so presumably Miss P. hawked out the onion.

  He stooped down and looked under the table.

  “You went all over here last night, didn’t you, Fox? Last night! This morning! ‘Little Fox, we’ve had a busy day.’ ”

  “All over it, sir. You’ll find the onion peel down there. Young Biggins must have skinned it and then put it in the teapot.”

  “Did you find any powder in here?”

  “Powder? No. No, I didn’t. Why?”

  “Or flour?”

  “No. Oh, you’re thinking of the flour on the onion.”

  “I’ll just get the onion.”

  Alleyn fetched the onion. He had put it in one of his wide-necked specimen bottles.

  “We haven’t had time to deal with this as yet,” he said. “Look at it, Fox, it’s pinkish. That’s powder, not flour.”

  “Perhaps young Biggins fooled round with it in one of the dressing-rooms.”