by Ngaio Marsh
‘OK, boys,’ he sighed. ‘Eighty-thirty tomorrow and if any—calls for “My Girl’s Cutie” more than six times running we’ll quit and learn anthems.’
Dimitri crossed the ballroom.
‘Her ladyship particularly asked me to tell you,’ he said, ‘that there is something for you gentlemen at the buffet.’
‘Thanks a lot, Dim,’ said Mr Bronx. ‘We’ll be there.’
Dimitri glanced round the ballroom, walked out and descended the stairs.
Down in the entrance hall the last of the guests were collected. They looked wan and a little raffish but they shouted cheerfully, telling each other what a good party it had been. Among them, blinking sleepily through his glasses, was Lord Robert. His celebrated cape hung from his shoulders and in his hands he clasped his broad-brimmed black hat. Through the open doors came wreaths of mist. The sound of people coughing as they went into the raw air was mingled with the noise of taxi engines in low gear and the voices of departing guests.
Lord Robert was among the last to go.
He asked several people, rather plaintively, if they had seen Mrs Halcut-Hackett. ‘I’m supposed to be taking her home.’
Dimitri came up to him.
‘Excuse me, my lord, I think Mrs Halcut-Hackett has just left. She asked me if I had seen you, my lord.’
Lord Robert blinked up at him. For a moment their eyes met.
‘Oh. Thank you,’ said Lord Robert. ‘I’ll see if I can find her.’
Dimitri bowed.
Lord Robert walked out into the mist.
His figure, looking a little like a plump antic from one of Verlaine’s poems, moved down the broad steps. He passed a crowd of stragglers who were entering their taxis. He peered at them, watched them go off, and looked up and down the street. Lord Robert walked slowly down the street, seemed to turn into an insubstantial wraith, was hidden for a moment by a drift of mist, reappeared much farther away, walking steadily into nothingness, and was gone.
In his room at the Yard Alleyn woke with a start, rushing up on a wave of clamour from the darkness of profound sleep. The desk telephone was pealing. He reached out for it, caught sight of his watch and exclaimed aloud. Four o’clock! He spoke into the receiver.
‘Hullo?’
‘Mr Alleyn?’
‘Yes.’
He thought: ‘It’s Bunchy. What the devil—!’
But the voice in the receiver said:
‘There’s a case come in, sir. I thought I’d better report to you at once. Taxi with a fare. Says the fare’s been murdered and has driven straight here with the body.’
‘I’ll come down,’ said Alleyn.
He went down thinking with dismay that another case would be most unwelcome and hoping that it would be handed on to someone else. His mind was full of the blackmail business. Bunchy Gospel wouldn’t have said he’d found his man unless he was damn certain of him. The cakes-and-ale fellow. Dimitri. Well, he’d have opportunities, but what sort of evidence had Bunchy got? And where the devil was Bunchy? A uniformed sergeant waited for Alleyn in the entrance hall.
‘Funny sort of business, Mr Alleyn. The gentleman’s dead all right. Looks to me as if he’d had a heart attack or something, but the cabby insists it was murder and won’t say a word till he sees you. Didn’t want me to open the door. I did, though, just to make sure. Held my watch-glass to the mouth and listened to the heart. Nothing! The old cabby didn’t half go off pop. He’s a character.’
‘Where’s the taxi?’
‘In the yard, sir. I told him to drive through.’
They went out to the yard.
‘Dampish,’ said the sergeant and coughed.
It was very misty down there near the river. Wreaths of mist that were almost rain drifted round them and changed on their faces into cold spangles of moisture. A corpse-like pallor had crept into the darkness and the vague shapes of roofs and chimneys waited for the dawn. Far down the river a steamer hooted. The air smelt dank and unwholesome.
A vague huge melancholy possessed Alleyn. He felt at once nerveless and over-sensitized. His spirit seemed to rise thinly and separate itself from his body. He saw himself as a stranger. It was a familiar experience and he had grown to regard it as a precursor of evil. ‘I must get back,’ cried his mind and with the thought the return was accomplished. He was in the yard. The stones rang under his feet. A taxi loomed up vaguely with the overcoated figure of its driver standing motionless by the door as if on guard.
‘Cold,’ said the sergeant.
‘It’s the dead hour of the night,’ said Alleyn.
The taxi-driver did not move until they came right up to him.
‘Hullo,’ said Alleyn, ‘what’s it all about?’
‘’Morning, governor.’ It was the traditional hoarse voice. He sounded like a cabby in a play. ‘Are you one of the inspectors?’
‘I am.’
‘I won’t make no report to any copper. I got to look after meself, see? What’s more, the little gent was a friend of mine, see?’
‘This is Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, daddy,’ said the sergeant.
‘All right. That’s the stuff. I got to protect meself, ain’t I? Wiv a blinking stiff for a fare.’
He suddenly reached out a gloved hand and with a quick turn flung open the door.
‘I ain’t disturbed ’im,’ he said. ‘Will you switch on the glim?’
Alleyn’s hand reached out into the darkness of the cab. He smelt leather, cigars and petrol. His fingers touched a button and a dim light came to life in the roof of the taxi.
He was motionless and silent for so long that at last the sergeant said loudly:
‘Mr Alleyn?’
But Alleyn did not answer. He was alone with his friend. The small fat hands were limp. The feet were turned in pathetically, like the feet of a child. The head leant sideways, languidly, as a sick child will lean its head. He could see the bare patch on the crown and the thin ruffled hair.
‘If you look froo the other winder,’ said the driver, ‘you’ll see ’is face. ’E’s dead all right. Murdered!’
Alleyn said: ‘I can see his face.’
He had leant forward and for a minute or two he was busy. Then he drew back. He stretched out his hand as if to close the lids over the congested eyes. His fingers trembled.
He said: ‘I mustn’t touch him any more.’ He drew his hand away and backed out of the taxi. The sergeant was staring in astonishment at his face.
‘Dead,’ said the taxi-driver. ‘Ain’t he?’
‘—you!’ said Alleyn with a violent oath. ‘Can’t I see he’s dead without—’
He broke off and took three or four uncertain steps away from them. He passed his hand over his face and then stared at his fingers with an air of bewilderment.
‘Wait a moment, will you?’ he said.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Alleyn at last. ‘Give me a moment.’
‘Shall I get someone else, sir?’ asked the sergeant. ‘It’s a friend of yours, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Alleyn. ‘It’s a friend of mine.’
He turned on the taxi-driver and took him fiercely by the arm.
‘Come here,’ he said and marched him to the front of the car.
‘Switch on the headlights,’ he said.
The sergeant reached inside the taxi and in a moment the driver stood blinking in a white flood of light.
‘Now,’ said Alleyn. ‘Why are you so certain it was murder?’
‘Gorblimy, governor,’ said the driver, ‘ain’t I seen wiv me own eyes ’ow the ovver bloke gets in wiv ’im, and ain’t I seen wiv me own eyes ’ow the ovver bloke gets out at ’is lordship’s ’ouse dressed up in ’is lordship’s cloak and ’at and squeaks at me in a rum little voice same as ’is lordship: ‘Sixty-three Jobbers Row, Queens Gate’? Ain’t I driven ’is corpse all the way there, not knowing? ’Ere! You say ’is lordship was a friend of yours. So ’e was o’ mine. This is bloody murder, this is, and I want to see th
is Mr Clever, what’s diddled me and done in as nice a little gent as ever I see, swing for it. That’s me.’
‘I see,’ said Alleyn. ‘All right. I’ll get a statement from you. We must get to work. Call up the usual lot. Get them all here. Get Dr Curtis. Photograph the body from every angle. Note the position of the head. Look for signs of violence. Routine. Case of homicide. Take the name, will you? Lord Robert Gospell, two hundred Cheyne Walk—’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Stop Press News
LORD ROBERT GOSPELL DIES IN TAXI
Society Shocked. Foul Play Suspected
Full Story of Ball on Page 5
Evelyn Carrados let the paper fall on the counterpane and stared at her husband.
‘The papers are full of it,’ she said woodenly.
‘Good God, my dear Evelyn, of course they are! And this is only the ten o’clock racing edition brought in by a damn pup of a footman with my breakfast. Wait till we see the evening papers! Isn’t it enough, my God, that I should be rung up by some jack-in-office from Scotland Yard at five o’clock in the morning and cross-examined about my own guests without having the whole thing thrust under my nose in some insulting bloody broadsheet!’
He limped angrily about the room.
‘It’s perfectly obvious that the man has been murdered. Do you realize that at any moment we’ll have some damned fellow from Scotland Yard cross-questioning us and that all the scavengers in Fleet Street will be hanging about our door for days together? Do you realize—’
‘I think he was perhaps my greatest friend,’ said Evelyn Carrados.
‘If you look at their damned impertinent drivel on page five you will see the friendship well advertised. My God, it’s intolerable. Do you realize that the police rang up Marsdon House at quarter-past four—five minutes after we’d gone, thank God!—and asked when Robert Gospell left? Some fellow of Dimitri’s answered them and now a blasted snivelling journalist has got hold of it. Do you realize—’
‘I only realize,’ said Evelyn Carrados, ‘that Bunchy Gospell is dead.’
Bridget burst into the room, a paper in her hands. ‘Donna! Oh, Donna—it’s our funny little Bunchy. Our funny little Bunchy’s dead! Donna!’
‘Darling—I know.’
‘But, Donna—Bunchy!’
‘Bridget,’ said her stepfather, ‘please don’t be hysterical. The point we have to consider is—’
Bridget’s arm went round her mother’s shoulders.
‘But we mind,’ she said. ‘Can’t you see—Donna minds awfully.’
Her mother said: ‘Of course we mind, darling, but Bart’s thinking about something else. You see, Bart thinks there will be dreadful trouble—’
‘About what?’
Bridget’s eyes blazed in her white face as she turned on Carrados.
‘Do you mean Donald? Do you? Do you dare to suggest that Donald would—would—’
‘Bridgie!’ cried her mother, ‘what are you saying!’
‘Wait a moment, Evelyn,’ said Carrados. ‘What is all this about young Potter?’
Bridget pressed the back of her hand against her mouth, looked distractedly from her mother to her stepfather, burst into tears and ran out of the room.
‘BUNCHY’ GOSPELL DEAD
Mysterious death in taxi
Sequel to the Carrados Ball
Mrs Halcut-Hackett’s beautifully manicured hands closed like claws on the newspaper. Her lips were stretched in a smile that emphasised the carefully suppressed lines from her nostrils to the corners of her mouth. She stared at nothing.
General Halcut-Hackett’s dressing-room door was flung open and the General, wearing a dressing-gown but few teeth, marched into the room. He carried a copy of a ten o’clock sporting edition.
‘What!’ he shouted indistinctly. ‘See here! By God!’
‘I know,’ said Mrs Halcut-Hackett. ‘Sad, isn’t it?’
‘Sad! Bloody outrage! What!’
‘Shocking,’ said Mrs Halcut-Hackett.
‘Shocking!’ echoed the General. ‘Preposterous!’ and the explosive consonants pronounced through the gap in his teeth blew his moustache out like a banner. His bloodshot eyes goggled at his wife. He pointed a stubby forefinger at her.
‘He said he’d bring you home,’ he spluttered.
‘He didn’t do so.’
‘When did you come home?’
‘I didn’t notice. Late.’
‘Alone?’
Her face was white but she looked steadily at him.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Don’t be a fool.’
STRANGE FATALITY
Lord Robert Gospell dies after Ball
Full Story
Donald Potter read the headlines over and over again. From the centre of the page his uncle’s face twinkled at him. Donald’s cigarette-butt burnt his lips. He spat it into his empty cup, and lit another. He was shivering as if he had a rigor. He read the three lines again. In the next room somebody yawned horribly.
Donald’s head jerked back.
‘Wits!’ he said. ‘Wits! Come here!’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Come here!’
Captain Withers, clad in an orange silk dressing-gown, appeared in the doorway.
‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’ he enquired.
‘Look here.’
Captain Withers, whistling between his teeth, strolled up and looked over Donald’s shoulder. His whistling stopped. He reached out his hand, took the newspaper, and began to read. Donald watched him.
‘Dead!’ said Donald. ‘Uncle Bunch! Dead!’
Withers glanced at him and returned to the paper. Presently he began again to whistle through his teeth.
DEATH OF LORD ROBERT GOSPELL
Tragic end to a distinguished career
Suspicious Circumstances
Lady Mildred Potter beat her plump hands on the proofs of the Evening Chronicle obituary notice and turned upon Alleyn a face streaming with tears.
‘But who could have wanted to hurt Bunchy, Roderick? Everyone adored him. He hadn’t an enemy in the world. Look what the Chronicle says—and I must say I think it charming of them to let me see the things they propose to say about him—but look what it says. “Beloved by all his friends!” And so he was. So he was. By all his friends.’
‘He must have had one enemy, Mildred,’ said Alleyn.
‘I can’t believe it. I’ll never believe it. It must be an escaped lunatic.’ She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes and sobbed violently. ‘I shall never be able to face all this dreadful publicity. The police! I don’t mean you, Roderick, naturally. But everything—the papers, everyone poking and prying. Bunchy would have detested it. I can’t face it. I can’t.’
‘Where’s Donald?’
‘He rang up. He’s coming.’
‘From where?’
‘From this friend’s flat, wherever it is.’
‘He’s away from home?’
‘Didn’t Bunchy tell you? Ever since that awful afternoon when he was so cross with Donald. Bunchy didn’t understand.’
‘Why was Bunchy cross with him?’
‘He had run into debt rather. And now, poor boy, he is no doubt feeling too dreadfully remorseful.’
Alleyn did not answer immediately. He walked over to the window and looked out.
‘It will be easier for you,’ he said at last, ‘when Donald gets here. I suppose the rest of the family will come too?’
‘Yes. All our old cousins and aunts. They have already rung up. Broomfield—Bunchy’s eldest nephew, you know—I mean my eldest brother’s son is away on the Continent. He’s the head of the family, of course. I suppose I shall have to make all the arrangements and—and I’m so dreadfully shaken.’
‘I’ll do as much as I can. There are some things that I must do. I’m afraid, Mildred, I shall have to ask you to let me look at Bunchy’s things. His papers and so on.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Lady Mildred, ‘he would have
preferred you to anyone else, Roderick.’
‘You make it very easy for me. Shall I get it done now?’
Lady Mildred looked helplessly about her.
‘Yes. Yes, please. You’ll want his keys, won’t you?’
‘I’ve got the keys, Mildred,’ said Alleyn gently.
‘But—where—?’ She gave a little cry. ‘Oh, poor darling. He always took them with him everywhere.’ She broke down completely. Alleyn waited for a moment and then he said:
‘I shan’t attempt the impertinence of condoling phrases. There is small comfort in scavenging in this mess for crumbs of consolation. But I tell you this, Mildred, if it takes me the rest of my life, and if it costs me my job, by God! if I have to do the killing myself, I’ll get this murderer and see him suffer for it.’ He paused and made a grimace. ‘Good Lord, what a speech! Bunchy would have laughed at it. It’s a curious thing that when one speaks from the heart it is invariably in the worst of taste.’
He looked at her grey hair arranged neatly and unfashionably and enclosed in a net. She peered at him over the top of her drenched handkerchief and he saw that she had not listened to him.
‘I’ll get on with it,’ said Alleyn, and made his way alone to Lord Robert’s study.
LORD ROBERT GOSPELL DIES IN TAXI
Last night’s shocking Fatality
Who was the Second Passenger?
Sir Daniel Davidson arrived at his consulting-rooms at half-past ten. At his front door he caught sight of the news placard and, for the first time in his life, bought a sporting edition. He now folded the paper carefully and laid it on top of his desk. He lit a cigarette, and glanced at his servant.
‘I shan’t see any patients,’ he said. ‘If anybody rings up—I’m out. Thank you.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said the servant and removed himself.
Sir Daniel sat thinking. He had trained himself to think methodically and he hated slipshod ideas as much as he despised a vague diagnosis. He was, he liked to tell his friends, above all things, a creature of method and routine. He prided himself upon his memory. His memory was busy now with events only seven hours old. He closed his eyes and saw himself in the entrance-hall of Marsdon House at four o’clock that morning. The last guests, wrapped in coats and furs, shouted cheerfully to each other and passed through the great doors in groups of twos and threes. Dimitri stood at the foot of the stairs. He himself was near the entrance to the men’s cloakroom. He was bent on avoiding Lucy Lorrimer, who had stayed to the bitter end, and would offer to drive him home if she saw him. There she was, just going through the double doors. He hung back. Drifts of fog were blown in from the street. He remembered that he had wrapped his scarf over his mouth when he noticed the fog. It was at that precise moment he had seen Mrs Halcut-Hackett, embedded in furs, slip through the entrance alone. He had thought there was something a little odd about this. The collar of her fur wrap turned up, no doubt against the fog, and the manner in which she slipped, if so majestic a woman could be said to slip, round the outside of the group! There was something furtive about it. And then he himself had been jostled by that fellow Withers, coming out of the cloakroom. Withers had scarcely apologized, but had looked quickly round the melting group in the hall and up the stairs.