Artists in Crime

by Ngaio Marsh

  ‘No, no. Not till after dinner. Minor point, but we may’s well be accurate, Inspector.’

  ‘Certainly, sir. Stupid of me. Was it about the time you had coffee that she first spoke of it?’

  ‘No. Wait a bit, though. Tell you what—just to show you—what I was saying about my faculty for tabulatin’ detail—’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I ’member Valmai made a face over her coffee. Took a swig at it and then did a sort of shudder and m’wife said: “What’s up?” or words to the same effect, and Val said the coffee was bitter, and then Pilgrim looked a bit sheepish and I said: “Was yours bitter?” and he said: “Matter of fact it was!” Funny—mine was all right. But my idea is that Val was feeling a bit off colour then, and he just agreed the coffee was bitter to keep her in countenance. In my opinion the girl had a liver. Pilgrim persuaded her to have a glass of port after champagne, and she said at the time it would upset her. Damn bad show. She’s a lovely thing. Damn good rider to hounds. Lovely hands. Goes as straight and as well as the best of ‘em. Look at that.’ He fumbled in a drawer of his writing-desk and produced a press photograph of Valmai Seacliff looking magnificent on a hunter. Captain Pascoe gloated over it, handed it to Alleyn, and flung himself back in his chair. He appeared to collect his thoughts. ‘But to show you how one notices little things,’ he resumed. ‘Not till after dinner that she talked about feeling under the weather. Matter of fact, it was when I took her empty cup. Precise moment. There you are.’ And he laughed triumphantly.

  ‘Splendid, sir. I wish everyone was as clear-minded. I remember a case where the whole thing hinged on just such an incident. It was a question of who put sugar in a cup of tea, and do you think we could get anyone who remembered? Not a bit of it. It’s only one witness in a hundred who can give us that sort of thing.’

  ‘Really? Well, I’ll lay you a tenner, Inspector, I can tell you about the coffee on Friday night. Just for the sake of argument.’

  ‘I’m not betting, sir.’

  ‘Ha, ha, ha. Now then. M’wife poured out our coffee at that table over there. Pilgrim handed it round for her. He put Val’s down beside her with his own, told her he’d put sugar in it, and went back to the table for mine. There you are, Inspector. Val complained her coffee was bitter. She asked Pilgrim if his tasted funny and he said it did, and —‘ He stopped short and his eyes bulged. ‘Look here,’ he said, ‘wayI’m talking anybody might think this was a case of hanky-panky with the coffee. Good Lord, Inspector. Here! I say, I hope you don’t—’

  ‘Don’t let that bother you, sir. We’re only taking a sample case and I congratulate you. We don’t get our information as lucidly as that very often, do we, Fox?’

  ‘Very nice, indeed, sir,’ agreed Fox, wagging his head.

  ‘And then,’ said Alleyn. ‘I believe you played bridge?’

  ‘Yes. That’s right. But by that time Val was looking very seedy and said her head was splitting, so after two or three hands we chucked it up and m’wife took Val up to her room.’

  ‘Gave her some aspirin perhaps?’

  ‘No. Pilgrim rushed off and got some aspirin for her. Anxious about her as an old man. Engaged couples, what? Ha! She took the bottle up with her. M’wife tucked her up and went to her own room. Pilgrim said he was sleepy—I must say he’s a dreary young blighter. Not nearly good enough for Val. Said he felt like bed and a long sleep. Dull chap. So we had a whisky and soda and turned in. That was at half-past ten. I wound up the clocks, and we went and had a look at Val and found she was in bed. Very attractive creature, Val. Naughty little thing hadn’t taken the aspirin. Said it made her sick trying to swallow. So Pilgrim dissolved three in water and she promised she’d take ‘em. M’wife looked in later and found her sound alseep. We were all tucked up and snoozing by eleven, I should think. And now let’s see. Following morning—’

  Captain Pascoe described the following morning with a wealth of detail to which Alleyn listened with every sign of respect and appreciation. Drinks were again suggested. ‘Well, if you won’t, I will,’ said Captain Pascoe, and did, twice. Alleyn asked to see the bedrooms. Captain Pascoe mixed himself a third drink, and somewhat noisily escorted them over the house. The guest-rooms were at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Val had this one, and that fellow was next door. What! Felt like a good long sleep! My God.’ Here the captain laughed uproariously and pulled himself together. ‘Not that Val’d stand any nonsense. Thoroughly nice girl. Looks very cometoish, but b’lieve me—na poo. I know. Too much other way ‘fanything. I mean, give you ‘ninstance. Following morning took her round rose garden. Looking lovely. Little purple cap and little purple gloves. Lovely. Just in friendly spirit I said, “ffected little thing, wearing little purple gloves,’ and gave little left-hand purple glove little squeeze. Just like that. Purely platonalistic. Jumped as if I’d bitten her and snatched away. Pooff!’

  Captain Pascoe sat on the edge of Valmai’s bed and finished his drink. He glared round the room, sucking his upper lip.

  ‘Tchah!’ he said suddenly. ‘Look ’t that. Disgraceful. Staff work in this house is ’bominable. M’wife’s away. Maid’s away. Only that feller to look after me. Meals at club. Nothing to do, and look at that.’

  He pointed unsteadily to the mantelpiece.

  “Bominable. Never been touched. Look at this!’

  He turned his eye on the bedside table. Upon it stood a row of books. A dirty table-napkin lay on top of the books. Captain Pascoe snatched it up. Underneath it was a tumbler holding three fingers of murky fluid.

  ‘D’yer know what that is? That’s been there since Friday night. I mean!’ He lurched again towards the bedside table. Alleyn slipped in front of him.

  ‘Maddening that sort of thing. I wonder if we might see Mr Pilgrim’s room, sir.’

  ‘By George, we’ll see every room in this house,’ shouted Captain Pascoe. ‘By God, we’ll catch them red-handed.’

  With this remarkable pronouncement he turned about and made for the door. Alleyn followed him, looked over his shoulder at Fox, raised his left eyebrow, and disappeared.

  To Nigel’s surprise, Fox said: ‘Wait here, Mr Bathgate, please,’ darted out of the room and reappeared in about a minute.

  ‘Stand by that door if you please, Mr Bathgate,’ whispered Fox. ‘Keep the room clear.’

  Nigel stood by the door and Fox, with surprising dexterity and speed, whipped a small wide-necked bottle from his pocket, poured the contents of the tumbler into it, corked it, and wrapped the tumbler up in his handkerchief.

  ‘Now, sir. If you’ll take those down to the car and put them in the chief’s case—thank you very much. Quickly does it.’

  When Nigel got back he found that Captain Pascoe, accompanied by Alleyn, had returned to the hall and was yelling for his servant. The servant arrived and was damned to heaps. Fox came down. Captain Pascoe suddenly collapsed into an armchair, showed signs of drowsiness, and appeared to lose all interest in his visitors. Alleyn spoke to the servant.

  ‘We are police officers and are making a few inquiries about the affair at Bossicote. Will you show us the garage, please?’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said the man stolidly.

  ‘It’s nothing whatever to do with your employer, personally, by the way.’

  Captain Pascoe’s servant bestowed a disappointed glance upon his master and led his visitors out by the front door.

  ‘The garage is a step or two down the lane, sir. The house, being old and what they call restored, hasn’t many conveniences.’

  ‘Do you keep early hours here? What time do you get up in the mornings?’

  ‘Breakfast is not till ten, sir. The maids are supposed to get up at seven. It’s more like half-past. The Captain and Mrs Pascoe breakfast in their rooms, you see, and so do most guests.’

  ‘Did Mr Pilgrim and Miss Seacliff breakfast in their rooms?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. There’s the garage, sir.’

  He showed them a double garage about 2
00 yards down the lane. Captain Pascoe’s Morris Cowley occupied less than half the floor space.

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Alleyn. ‘Plenty of room here. I suppose, now, that Mr Pilgrim’s car fitted in very comfortably?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir.’

  ‘Nice car, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very nice job, sir. Tiger on petrol, sir.’

  ‘Really? What makes you think that?’

  ‘Well, sir, I asked the gentleman on Saturday morning was she all right for petrol—I’m butler-chauffeur, sir—and he said yes, she was filled up as full as she’d go in Bossicote. Well, sir, I looked at the gauge and she’d eaten up two gallons coming over here. Twelve miles, sir, no more. I looked to see if she was leaking but she wasn’t. Something wrong there, sir, isn’t there?’

  ‘I agree with you,’ said Alleyn. ‘Thank you very much, I think that’s all.’

  ‘Thank you very much indeed, sir,’ said the butler-chauffeur, closing his hand gratefully.

  Alleyn, Fox and Nigel returned to their car and drove away.

  ‘Get that tumbler, Fox?’ asked Alleyn.

  ‘Yes, sir. And the liquid. Had to go down to the car for a bottle.’

  ‘Good enough. What a bit of luck, Fox! You remember the Seacliff told us Mrs Pascoe was leaving on Saturday and giving the maids a holiday? My golly, what a bit of luck.’

  ‘Do you think the stuff was the melted aspirin Pilgrim doled out for her on Friday night?’ asked Nigel.

  ‘That’s my clever little man,’ said Alleyn. ‘I do think so. And if the tumbler has Pilgrim’s prints, and only his, we’ll know.’

  ‘Are you going to have the stuff analyzed?’

  ‘Yes. Damn quick about it, too, if possible.’

  ‘And what then?’

  ‘Why then,’ said Alleyn, ‘we’ll be within sight of an arrest.’

  CHAPTER 20

  Arrest

  The analyst’s report on the contents of the tumbler came through at nine-thirty that evening. The fluid contained a solution of Bayer’s Aspirin —approximately three tablets. The glass bore a clear imprint of Basil Pilgrim’s fingers and thumb. When Alleyn had read the analyst’s report he rang up his Assistant Commissioner, had a long talk with him, and then sent for Fox.

  ‘There’s one thing we must make sure of,’ he said wearily, ‘and that’s the position of the light on the figure outside the studio window. Our game with the string wasn’t good enough. We’ll have to get something a bit more positive, Brer Fox.’

  ‘Meaning, sir?’

  ‘Meaning, alas, a trip to Tatler’s End.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. We’ll have a Yard car. It’ll be needed in the morning. Come on.’

  So for the last time Alleyn and Fox drove through the night to Tatler’s End House. The Bossicote church clock struck midnight as Fox took up his old position outside the studio window. A fine drizzle was falling, and the lane smelt of leaf-mould and wet grass. The studio lights were on and the blind was drawn down.

  ‘I shall now retire to the shady spot where Ethel and her boy lost themselves in an interlude of modified rapture,’ said Alleyn.

  He walked down the lane and returned in a few minutes.

  ‘Fox,’ he said, ‘the ray of light that comes through the hole in the blind alights upon your bosom. I think we are on the right track.’

  ‘Looks like it,’ Fox agreed. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘We spend the rest of the night with my mamma. I’ll ring up the Yard and get the official party to pick us up at Danes Lodge in the morning. Come on.’

  ‘Very good, Mr Alleyn. Er—’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Well, sir. I was thinking of Miss Troy. It’s going to be a bit unpleasant for her, isn’t it? I was wondering if we couldn’t do something to make it a bit easier.’

  ‘Yes, Fox. That’s rather my idea, too. I think—damn it all, it’s too late to bother her now. Or is it? I’ll ring up from Danes Lodge. Come on.’

  They got to Danes Lodge at twelve-thirty, and found Lady Alleyn reading D. H. Lawrence before a roaring fire in her little sittingroom.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Lady Alleyn. ‘I got your message, Roderick. How nice to see you again, Mr Fox. Come and sit down.’

  ‘I’m just going to telephone,’ said Alleyn. ‘Won’t be long.’

  ‘All right, darling. Mr Fox, help yourself to a drink and come and tell me if you have read any of this unhappy fellow’s books.’

  Fox put on his spectacles and gravely inspected the outside of The Letters of D. H. Lawrence.

  ‘I can’t say I have, my lady,’ he said, ‘but I seem to remember we cleaned up an exhibition of this Mr Lawrence’s pictures a year or two ago. Very fashionable show it was.’

  ‘Ah yes. Those pictures. What did you think of them?’

  ‘I don’t exactly know,’ said Fox. ‘They seemed well within the meaning of the act, I must say, but the colours were pretty. You wouldn’t have cared for the subjects, my lady.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I? He seems never to have found his own centre of gravity, poor fellow. Some of these letters are wise and some are charming, and some are really rather tedious. All these negroid deities growling in his interior! One feels sorry for his wife, but she seems to have had the right touch with him. Have you got your drink? That’s right. Are you pleased with your progress in this case?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. It’s coming on nicely.’

  ‘And so you are going to arrest somebody tomorrow morning? I thought as much. One can always tell by my son’s manner when he is going to make an arrest. He gets a pinched look.’

  ‘So does his prisoner, my lady,’ said Fox, and was so enraptured with his own pun that he shook from head to foot with amazed chuckles.

  ‘Roderick!’ cried Lady Alleyn as her son came in, ‘Mr Fox is making nonsense of your mother.’

  ‘He’s a wise old bird if he can do that,’ said Alleyn. ‘Mamma, I’ve asked Miss Agatha Troy if she will lunch here with you tomorrow. She says she will. Do you mind? I shan’t be here.’

  ‘But I’m delighted, darling. She will be charming company for me and for Mr Bathgate.’

  ‘What the devil—!’

  ‘Mr Bathgate is motoring down tomorrow to their cottage to see his wife. He asked if he might call in.’

  ‘It’s forty miles off his course, the little tripe-hound.’

  ‘Is it, darling? When I told him you would be here he said he’d arrive soon after breakfast.’

  ‘Really, Mum! Oh well, I suppose it’s all right. He’s well trained. But I’m afraid he’s diddled you.’

  ‘He thinks he has, at all events,’ said Lady Alleyn. ‘And now, darling, as you are going to make an arrest in the morning, don’t you think you ought to get a good night’s sleep?’

  ‘Fox?’

  ‘Mr Fox has been fabulously discreet, Roderick.’

  ‘Then how did you know we were going to arrest anybody?’

  ‘You have just told me, my poor baby. Now run along to bed.’

  At ten o’clock the next morning two police cars drove up to Tatler’s End House. They were followed by Nigel in a baby Austin. He noted, with unworthy satisfaction, that one or two young men in flannel trousers and tweed coats hung about the gate and had evidently been refused admittance by the constable on duty. Nigel himself had been given a card by Alleyn on the strict understanding that he behaved himself and brought no camera with him. He was not allowed to enter the house. He had, he considered, only a minor advantage over his brother journalists.

  The three cars drew up in the drive. Alleyn, Fox, and two plainclothes men went up the steps to the front door. Nigel manoeuvred his baby Austin into a position of vantage. Alleyn glanced down at him and then turned away as Troy’s butler opened the front door.

  ‘Will you come in, please?’ said the butler nervously. He showed them into Troy’s library. A fire had been lit and the room would now have seemed pleasantly familiar to Alleyn if h
e had been there on any other errand.

  ‘Will you tell Miss Troy of our arrival, please?’

  The butler went out.

  ‘I think, Fox, if you don’t mind—’ said Alleyn.

  ‘Certainly, sir. We’ll wait in the hall.’

  Troy came in.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Alleyn, and his smile contradicted the formality of his words. ‘I thought you might prefer to see us before we go any further.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve realized from what I said last night on the telephone that as far as the police are concerned the first stage of this business may come to an end this morning?’

  ‘Yes. You are going to make an arrest, aren’t you?’

  ‘I think we shall probably do so. It depends a little on the interview we hope to have in a minute or two. This has been an abominable week for you. I’m sorry I had to keep all these people together here and station bluebottles at your doors and before your gates and so on. It was partly in your own interest. You would have been overrun with pressmen.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Do you want me to tell you—?’

  ‘I think I know.’

  ‘You know?’

  ‘I think I do. Last night I said to myself: “Which of these people do I feel in my own bones is capable of this crime?” There was only one—only one of whom it did not seem quite preposterous to think: “It might—it just might be you!” I don’t know why—there seems to be no motive, but I believe I am right. I suppose woman’s instinct is the sort of phrase you particularly abominate.’

  ‘That depends a little on the woman,’ said Alleyn gravely.

  ‘I suppose it does,’ said Troy and flushed unexpectedly.

  ‘I’ll tell you who it is,’ he said after a moment. And he told her. ‘I can see that this time the woman’s instinct was not at fault.’

  ‘It’s—so awful,’ whispered Troy.

  ‘I’m glad you decided to lunch with my mother,’ said Alleyn. ‘It will be easier for you to get right away from everything. She asked me to say that she would be delighted if you would come early. I suggest that you drive over there now.’