Overture to Death

by Ngaio Marsh

  “—of whom nobody shall make mock in my presence. Pray continue your most interesting narrative,” said Alleyn.

  CHAPTER TEN

  According to Templett

  “—AND SO YOU see,” concluded Templett, “there is absolutely nothing about any of us that is at all out of the ordinary. You might find the same group of people in almost any of the more isolated bits of English countryside. The parson, the squire, the parson’s daughter, the squire’s son, the two church hens and the local medico.”

  “And the lady from outside,” added Alleyn, looking at his notes. “You have forgotten Mrs. Ross.”

  “So I have. Well, she’s simply a rather charming newcomer. That’s all. I’m blessed if I can see who, by the wildest flight of imagination, could have wanted to kill this very dull middle-aged frumpish spinster. I shouldn’t have thought she had an enemy in the world.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” said Sergeant Roper, unexpectedly. Alleyn looked up at him.

  “No?”

  “No, sir, I wouldn’t say that. To speak frankly, she was a very sharp-tongued lady. Mischievous like. Well, over-bearing. Very curious, too. Proper nosey-parker. My missus always says you couldn’t change your mind without it being overheard at the Red House. My missus is friendly with the cook up to Red House, but she never says anything she doesn’t want everybody in the village to hear about. Miss Campanula used to order the meals and then wait for the news, as you might say. They call her the Receiving Set in Chipping.”

  “Do they indeed,” murmured Alleyn.

  “You don’t murder people for being curious,” said Templett.

  “I can’t imagine it with Miss Campanula.”

  “I don’t reckon anybody did want to murder Miss Campanula,” said Roper, stolidly.

  “Hullo!” Alleyn ejaculated. “What’s all this?”

  “I reckon they wanted to murder Miss Prentice.”

  “Good God!” said Templett. “I never thought of that!”

  “Never thought of what?” said Alleyn.

  “I forgot to tell you. Good Lord, what a fool! Why didn’t you remind me, Roper? Good Lord!”

  “May we hear now?” asked Alleyn patiently.

  “Yes, of course.”

  In considerable confusion, Templett explained about Miss Prentice’s finger and the change of pianists.

  “This is altogether another kettle of fish,” said Alleyn. “Let’s get a clear picture. You say that up to twenty minutes to eight Miss Prentice insisted that she was going to do the overture and entr’acte?”

  “Yes. I told her three days ago she’d better give it up. There was this whitlow on her middle finger and she mucked about with it and got some sort of infection. It was very painful. D’you think she’d give in? Not a bit of it. Said she’d alter the fingering of her piece. Wouldn’t hear of giving up. I asked her to-night if she’d let me look at it. Oh, no! It was ‘much easier’! She’d got a surgical stall over it. At about twenty to eight I passed the ladies dressing-room. The door was half-open and I heard a sound like somebody crying. I could see her in there alone, rocking backwards and forwards holding this damned finger. I went in and insisted on looking at it. All puffed up and as fiery as hell! She was in floods of tears but she still said she’d manage. I put my foot down. Dinah Copeland came in, saw what was up, and fetched her father who’s got more authority over these women than anybody else. He made her give in. Old Idris, poor old girl, had turned up by then and was all agog to play the famous Prelude. She’s played it in and out of season for the last twenty years, if it’s been written as long as that. Somebody was sent off to the Red House for the music and a dress; she was dressed up for her part, you see. The rector said he’d make an announcement about it. By that time Miss Prentice had settled down to being a martyr and—but, look here, I’m being most amazingly indiscreet. Now, don’t go and write all this down in that notebook and quote me as having said it.”

  Dr. Templett looked anxiously at Fox whose notebook was flattened out on his enormous knee.

  “That’s all right, sir,” said Fox blandly. “We only want the essentials.”

  “And I’m giving you all the inessentials. Sorry.”

  “I didn’t say that, now, doctor.”

  “We can take it,” Alleyn said, “that, in your opinion, up to twenty to eight everybody, including Miss Campanula and Miss Prentice, believed the music would be provided by Miss Prentice.”

  “Certainly.”

  “And this Venetian Suite was Miss Prentice’s music?’

  “Yes.”

  “Nobody could have rigged this apparatus inside the piano after seven-forty?”

  “Lord, no! The audience began to arrive at about half-past seven, didn’t it, Roper? You were on the door.”

  “The Cains turned up at seven-twenty,” said Roper, “and Mr. and Mrs. Biggins and that young limit Georgie, were soon after them. I was on duty at seven. Must have been done before then, sir.”

  “Yes. What about the afternoon and morning? Anybody here?”

  “We were all in and out during the morning,” said Dr. Templett. “The Y.P.F.C. girls did the decorating and fixed up the supper arrangements and so on, and we got out stuff ready behind the scenes. Masses of people.”

  “You’d been rehearsing here, I suppose?”

  “Latterly. We did most of the rehearsing up in the study in Pen Cuckoo. It was too cold here until they got extra heaters in. We had our dress rehearsal here on Thursday night. Yesterday afternoon at five, Friday I mean, we went up to Pen Cuckoo and had what Dinah calls a run-through for words.”

  “What about this afternoon before the performance?”

  “It was shut up during the afternoon. I called in at about three o’clock to drop some of my gear. The place was closed then and the key hung up between the wall of the outside place and the main building. We’d arranged that with Dinah.”

  “Did you notice the piano?”

  “Now, did I? Yes. Yes, I did. It was where it is now, with bunting all over the top and a row of pot plants. They’d fixed it up like that in the morning.”

  “Did anybody else look in at three o’clock while you were here?”

  “Let me think. Yes, Mrs. Ross was there with some foodstuff. She left it in the supper-room at the back of the stage.”

  “How long were you both in the place?”

  “Oh, not long. We—talked for a minute or two and then came away.”

  “Together?”

  “No. I left Mrs. Ross arranging sandwiches on plates. By the way, if you want anything to eat, do help yourselves. And there’s some beer under the table. I provided it, so don’t hesitate.”

  “Very kind of you,” said Alleyn.

  “Not a bit. Be delighted. Where were we? Oh, yes. I had a case over near Moorton and I wanted to look in at the cottage hospital. I wasn’t here long.”

  “Nobody else came in?”

  “Not then.”

  “Who was the first to arrive in the evening?”

  “I don’t know. I was the last. Had an emergency case at six. When I got home I found my wife not so well again. We didn’t get here till half-past seven. Dinah Copeland thought I wasn’t going to turn up and had worked herself into a frightful stew. She’d be able to tell you all about times of arrival. I bet she got here long before the rest of the cast. Dinah Copeland. That’s the parson’s daughter. She produced the play.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Well, I suppose you don’t want me any longer. Good Lord, it’s nearly two o’clock!”

  “Awful, isn’t it? We shall be here all night, I expect.”

  “No, we won’t bother you any more, Dr. Templett.”

  “What about moving the body? Shall I fix up for the mortuary van to come along as early as possible?”

  “I wish you would.”

  “I’ll have to do the P.M., I suppose?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  “Pretty plain sailing, it’ll be, poo
r old girl. Well, good-night or good-morning, er—I don’t know your name, do I?”

  “Alleyn.”

  ‘What, Roderick Alleyn?”

  “Yes.”

  “By George, I’ve read your book of criminal investigation. Damned good. Fascinating subject, isn’t it?”

  “Enthralling.”

  “For the layman, what? Not such fun for the expert.”

  “Not quite such fun.”

  Dr. Templett shook hands, turned to go, and then paused.

  “I tell you what,” he said. “I’d like to see how this booby-trap worked.”

  “Yes, of course. Come and have a look.”

  Bailey was at the piano with an insulator and a strong lamp.

  Thompson stood by with his cameras.

  “How’s it going, Bailey?” asked Alleyn.

  “Finished the case, sir. Not much doing. Somebody must have dusted the whole show. We may get some latent prints but I don’t think there’s a chance myself. Same with the Colt. We’re ready to take it down.”

  “All right. Go warily, we don’t want to lose any prints if they’re there. I’ll move the front of the piano off and you hold the gun.”

  Bailey reached a gloved hand inside the top.

  “I’ll take off the pulley on the front panel, sir.”

  “Yes. That’ll give us a better picture than if you dismantled the twine altogether.”

  Fox undid the side catches and Alleyn lifted away the front of the piano and put it on one side.

  “Hullo,” he said, “this silk panelling seems as though it’s had water spilt on it. It’s still dampish. Round the central hole.”

  “Blood?” suggested Dr. Templett.

  “No. There’s a little blood. This was water. A circular patch of it. Now, I wonder. Well, let’s have a look at the works.”

  The Colt, supported at the end of the barrel by Bailey’s thumb and forefinger, was revealed with its green twine attachments. The butt was still jammed against the pegs at the back. Alleyn picked up the detached pulley and held it in position.

  “Good God!” said Dr. Templett.

  “Ingenious, isn’t it?” Alleyn said. “I think we’ll have a shot of it like this, Thompson. It’ll look nice and clear for the twelve good men and true.”

  “Is the safety catch on?” demanded Dr. Templett, suddenly stepping aside.

  “It is. You’ve dealt with the soft pedal, haven’t you, Bailey?” He stooped and pressed the left pedal down with his hand. The batten with its row of hammers moved towards the string. The green twine tightened in the minute pulleys.

  “That’s how it worked. You can see where the pressure comes on the trigger.”

  “A very neat-fingered person, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Alleyn?” said Fox.

  “Yes,” said Alleyn. “Neat and sure fingers.”

  “Oh. I don’t know,” said Templett. “It’s amazingly simple really. The only tricky bit would be passing the twine through the trigger guard, round the butt, and through the top pulley. That could be done before the gun was jammed in position. No, it’s simpler than it looks.”

  “It’s like one of these affairs in books,” said Bailey disgustedly. “Someone trying to think up a new way to murder. Silly, I call it.”

  “What do you say, Roper?” said Alleyn.

  “To my way of thinking, sir,” said Sergeant Roper, “these thrillers are ruining our criminal classes.”

  Dr. Templett gave a shout of laughter. Roper turned scarlet and stared doggedly at the wall.

  “What d’you mean by that, my lad?” asked Fox, who was on his knees, staring into the piano.

  Thompson, grinning to himself, touched off his flashlight.

  “What I mean to say, Mr. Fox,” said Roper. “It puts ideas in their foolish heads. And the talkies, too. Especially the young chaps. They get round the place talking down their noses and making believe they’re gangsters. Look at this affair! I bet the chap that did this got the idea of it out of print.”

  “That’s right, Roper, stick to it,” said Dr. Templett. Roper disregarded him. Templett repeated his goodnights and went away.

  “Go on, Roper. It’s an idea,” said Alleyn when the door had slammed. “What sort of print do you imagine would inspire this thing?”

  “One of those funny drawings with bits of string and cogs and umbrellas and so forth?” suggested Thompson.

  “Heath Robinson? Yes.”

  “Or more likely, sir,” said Roper, “one of they four-penny boys’ yarns in paper covers like you buy at the store in Chipping. I used to buy them myself as a youngster. There’s always a fat lad and a comic lad and the comical chap plays off the fat one. Puts lighted crackers in his pants and all that. I recollect trying the cracker dodge under the rector’s seat at Bible class, and he gave me a proper tanning for it, too, did rector.”

  “The practical joke idea again, you see, Fox,” said Alleyn.

  “Well,” said Fox, stolidly. “Do we start off reading the back numbers of a boys’ paper, or what?”

  “You never know, Brer Fox. Have you noticed the back of the piano where the bunting’s pinned down? There are four holes in the centre drawing pin and three to each of the others. Will you take the Colt out now, and all the rest of the paraphernalia? I’m going to take a look round the premises. We’ll have to start seeing these people in the morning. Who the devil’s that?”

  There was a loud knock at the front entrance. “Will I see?” asked Sergeant Roper.

  “Do.”

  Roper tramped off down the centre aisle and threw open the doors.

  “Good-morning,” said a man’s voice outside. “I wonder if I can come in for a moment. It’s raining like Noah’s half-holiday and I’d like to have a word with—”

  “Afraid not, sir,” said Roper.

  “But I assure you I want to see the representative from Scotland Yard. I’ve come all the way from London,” continued the voice plaintively. “I have, indeed. I represent the Evening Mirror. He’ll be delighted to see me. Is it by any chance—”

  “Yes, it is,” said Alleyn loudly and ungraciously. “You can let him in, Roper.”

  A figure in a dripping mackintosh and streaming hat made a quick rush past Roper, gave a loud exclamation expressive of delight, and hurried forward with outstretched hand.

  “I am not pleased to see you,” said Alleyn.

  “Good-morning, Mr. Bathgate,” said Fox. “Fancy it being you.”

  “Yes, just fancy!” agreed Nigel Bathgate. “Well, well, well! I never expected to find the old gang. Bailey, too, and Thompson. It’s like the chiming of old bellses to see you all happily employed together.”

  “How the blue hell did you get wind of this?” inquired Alleyn.

  “The gentleman who does market and social notes for the Chipping Courier was in the audience to-night and like a bright young pressman he rang up the Central News. I was in the office when it came through and you couldn’t see my rudder for the foam. Down here in four hours with one puncture. God bless my soul, now, what’s it all about?”

  “Sergeant Roper will perhaps spare a moment to throw you a bone or two. I’m busy. How are you?”

  “Grand. Angela would send her love if she knew I was here, and your godson wants you to put him down for Hendon. He’s three on Monday. Is it too late?”

  “I’ll inquire. Roper, you will allow Mr. Bathgate to sit quietly in a corner somewhere. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Coming, Fox?”

  Alleyn and Fox went up on the stage, looked round the box-set, and explored the wings.

  “We’ll have to go over this with a tooth-comb,” Alleyn said, “looking for Lord knows what, as usual. Miss Dinah Copeland seems to have gone to a lot of trouble. The scenery’s been patched up. Improvised footlights, you see, and I should think the two big overheads are introduced.”

  He went into the prompt corner.

  “Here’s the play. Shop Window, by Hunt. Rather a good comedy. Very professional, with all the calls
marked and so on. A bicycle bell. Probably an adjunct of the telephone of the stage. Let’s have a look behind.”

  A short flight of steps on each side of the back wall led down into a narrow room that ran the length of the stage.

  “Mrs. Ross’s supper arrangements all laid out on the table. Lord, Fox, those sandwiches look good.”

  “There’s a lot more in this basket,” said Fox. “Dr. Templett did say—”

  “And beer under the table,” murmured Alleyn. “Brer Fox?”

  “A keg of it,” said Fox, who, was exploring. “Dorset draught beer. Very good, Dorset draught.”

  “You’re right,” said Alleyn after an interval. “It’s excellent. Hullo!”

  He stooped and picked something out of a box on the floor.

  “Half a Spanish onion. Any onion in your sandwiches?”

  “No.”

  “Nor in mine. It’s got flour or something on it.” He put the onion on the table and began to examine the plates of sandwiches. “Two kinds only, Fox. Ham and lettuce on the one hand, cucumber on the other. Hullo, here’s a tray all set out for a stage tea. Nobody eats anything. Wait a bit.”

  He lifted the lid of the empty silver teapot and sniffed at the inside.

  “The onion appears to have lived in the teapot. Quaint conceit, isn’t it? Very rum, indeed. Come on.”

  They explored the dressing-rooms. There were two on each side of the supper-room.

  “Gents to the right, ladies to the left,” said Alleyn. He led the way into the first room on the left. He and Fox began a methodical search through the suitcases and pockets.

  “Not quite according to Cocker, perhaps,” Alleyn remarked, peering at Miss Prentice’s black marocain on the wall. “But I think we’ll ask afterwards. Anyway, I’m provided with a blank search-warrant so we’re all right. Damn this onion, my hand stinks of it. This must be the two spinsters’ rooms, judging by the garments.”

  “Judging by the pictures,” said Fox, “it’s a Bible classroom in the ordinary way.”

  “Yes. The Infant Samuel. What about next door? Ah, rather more skittish dresses. This will be Dinah Copeland and Mrs. Ross. Dr. Templett seemed rather self-conscious about Mrs. Ross, I thought. Miss Copeland’s grease paints are in a cardboard box with her name on it. They’ve been used a lot. Mrs. Ross’s, in a brand new japanned tin affair and brand new themselves, from which, inspired by Dorset draught, I deduce that Miss Copeland may be a professional, but Mrs. Ross undoubtedly is not. Here’s a card in the new tin box. ‘Best luck for to-night, B.’ A present, by gum! Who’s B., I wonder. Now for the men’s rooms.”