Overture to Death

by Ngaio Marsh

  “I was, and I can give you my word I got a fright. Thought the whole place had exploded. The old piano went on buzzing for Lord knows how long. By gum, it took all my self-control not to have a peep inside the lid before I went off to Moorton. But, ‘No,’ I thought. ‘You’re handing over, and you’d better not meddle.’ ”

  “Extraordinarily considerate. We breathed our fervent thanks, didn’t we, Fox? I suppose that conversation piece you’ve got for a sergeant has told you all about it?”

  Blandish pulled an expressive grimace.

  “I shut him up after the second recital,” he said. “He wants sitting on, does Roper, but he’s got his wits about him. I’d like to hear your account.”

  While he devoured his eggs and bacon, Alleyn gave him the history of the night. When he came to the discovery of the message in Dr. Templett’s coat Blandish laid down his knife and fork and stared at him.

  “Glory!” he said.

  “I know.”

  “This is hell,” said Blandish. “I mean to say, it’s awkward.”

  “Yes.”

  “Not to put too fine a point on it, Mr. Alleyn, it’s bloody awkward.”

  “It is.”

  “By gum, I’m not so sure I do regret being out of it. It may not be anything, of course, but it can’t be overlooked. And I’ve been associated with the doctor I don’t know how many years.”

  “Like him?” asked Alleyn.

  “Do I like him? Well, now, yes. I suppose I do. We’ve always got on very pleasantly, you know. Yes, I—well, I’m accustomed to him.”

  “You’ll know the questions we’re going to ask. In this sort of affair we have to batten on local gossip.”

  Alleyn went to the corner of the dining-room, got his case and took from it the anonymous letter. It was flattened between two sheets of glass joined, at the edges, with adhesive tape. The corner, back and sides of the paper bore darkened impressions of fingers.

  “There it is. We brought up three sets of latent prints. One of them corresponds with a print taken from a powder box in the dressing-room used by the victim and Miss Prentice. It has been identified as the victim’s. A second has its counterpart on a new japanned make-up box, thought to be the property of Mrs. Ross. The third is repeated on other papers in the wallet, and is obviously Dr. Templett’s.”

  “Written by deceased, sent to Mrs. Ross and handed by her to the doctor?”

  “It seems indicated. Especially as two of Mrs. Ross’s prints, if they are hers, appear to be superimposed on the deceased prints, and one of Dr. Templett’s lies across two of the others. We’ll get more definite results when Bailey develops his photographs.”

  “This is an ugly business. You mentioned local gossip, Mr. Alleyn. There’s been a certain amount in this direction, no denying it, and the two ladies in question were mainly responsible, I fancy.”

  “But is it a motive for murder?” asked Fox of nobody in particular.

  “Well, Brer Fox, it might be. A doctor, in a country district especially, doesn’t thrive on scandal. Is Templett a wealthy man, do you know, Blandish?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say he was,” said Blandish. “They’re an old Vale family, and the doctor’s a younger son. His elder brother was a bit of a rip. Smart regiment before the war, and expensive tastes. It’s always been understood the doctor came in for a white elephant when he got Chippingwood. I’d say he needs every penny he earns. He’s a hunting man, too, and that costs money.”

  “What about Mrs. Ross?”

  “Well, there you are! If you’re to believe everything you hear, they are pretty thick. But gossip’s not evidence, is it?

  “No, but it’s occasionally based on some sort of foundation, more’s the pity. Ah, well! It indicates a line and we’ll follow the pointer. Now, about the automatic. It’s Mr. Jernigham’s all right.”

  “I’ve heard all about that, Mr. Alleyn, and that’s not too nice either, though I wouldn’t believe, if I saw the weapon smoking in his hand, that the squire would shoot a woman, let alone plan to murder his own flesh and blood. Unlikely enough people have turned out to be murderers, as we all know, and I suppose that it is not beyond the possibilities that Mr. Jernigham might kill his man in hot blood; but I’ve known him all my life, and I’d stake my reputation he’s not the sort to do an underhand fantastic sort of job like this. The man’s not got it in him. That’s not evidence, either—”

  “It’s expert opinion, though,” said Alleyn, “and to be respected as such.”

  “The squire’s acting Chief Constable while Sir George Dillington’s away.”

  “We seem to be on official preserves wherever we turn,” said Alleyn. “I’ll call at Pen Cuckoo later in the morning. The mortuary van came before it was light. Dr. Templett’s doing the post-mortem this afternoon. Either Fox or I will be there. I think our first job now is to call on Mr. Georgie Biggins.”

  “Young limb of Satan! You’ll find him in the last cottage on the left, going out of Chipping, The station’s in Great Chipping, you know—only five miles from here. Roper and a P.C. enjoy their midday snooze at a substation in this village. Both are at your service.”

  “Is there a car of sorts I could hire for the time being? You’ll need the official bus for your own work, of course.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m afraid we shall. It’s a tidy stretch over to Moorton Park, and we’ll be going backwards and forwards. No doubt about our men being Posh Jimmy & Co. Typical job. Funny how they stick to their ways, isn’t it? About a car. As a matter of fact, the Biggins’s have got an old Ford they hire.”

  “Splendid. An admirable method of approaching Mr. Georgie. How old is he?”

  “In years,” said Blandish, “he’s about thirteen. In sin he’s a hundred. A limb, if ever there was one. Nerve of a rhinoceros.”

  “We’ll see if we can shake it,” said Alleyn.

  The superintendent departed, lamenting the amount of work that lay before him.

  Alleyn and Fox lit their pipes and walked through Chipping. By daylight it turned out to be a small hamlet with a row of stone cottages on each side of the road, a general store, a post office, and the Jernigham Arms. Even the slope of Cloudyfold, rising steeply above it from the top of Pen Cuckoo Vale, did not rob Chipping of its upland character. It felt high in the world, and the cold wind blew strongly down the Vale road.

  The Biggins’s cottage stood a little apart from the rest of the village, and had a truculent air. It was one of those barefaced Dorset cottages, less picturesque than its neighbours, and more forbidding.

  As Alleyn and Fox approached the front door, they heard a woman’s voice:

  “Whatever be the matter with you, then, mumbudgeting so close to my apron strings? Be off with you!”

  Silence.

  “To be sure,” continued the voice, “if you wasn’t so strong as a young foal, Georgie Biggins, I’d think something ailed you. Stick out your tongue.”

  Silence.

  “As clean as a whistle. Stick it in again, then. Standing there like you was simple Dick with your tongue lolling! I never see! What ails you?”

  “Nuthun,” said a small voice.

  “Nuthun killed nobody.”

  Alleyn tapped on the door.

  Another silence was broken by a sharp whispering and an unmistakable scuffle.

  “Do what I tell you!” ordered the voice. “Me in my working apron, and Sunday morning! Go on with you.”

  There was a sound of rapid retreat and then the door opened three inches to disclose a pair of boot-button eyes and part of a very white face.

  “Hullo,” said Alleyn. “I’ve come to see if I can hire a car. This is Mr. Biggins’s house, isn’t it?”

  “Uh.”

  “Have you got a car for hire?”

  “Uh.”

  “Well, how about opening the door a bit wider and we can talk about it?”

  The door opened very slowly to another five inches. Georgie Biggins stood revealed in his Sunday su
it. His moon-face was colourless and he had the look of a boy who may bolt without warning.

  Alleyn said, “Now, what about this car? Is your father at home?”

  “Along to pub corner,” said Georgie in a stifled voice. “Mum’s comeun.”

  The cinema has made all little boys familiar with the look of a detective. Alleyn kept a change of clothes in the Yard in readiness for sudden departures. His shepherd’s plaid coat, flannel trousers and soft hat may have reassured George Biggins, but when the boot-button eyes ranged farther afield and lit on Inspector Fox, in his dark suit, mackintosh and bowler, their owner uttered a yelp of pure terror, turned tail and charged into his mother, who had at that moment walked out of the bedroom. She was a large woman, and she caught her son with a practised hand.

  “Now!” she said. “That’s enough and more, for sure. What’s the meanings of these goings-on? You wait till your Dad comes home. I never see!”

  She advanced to the door, bringing her son with her by the scruff of the neck.

  “I’m sure I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” she said.

  Alleyn asked about the car and was told he could have it. Mrs. Biggins examined both of them with frank curiosity and led the way round the house to a dilapidated shed where they found a Ford car, six years old, but, as Alleyn cheerfully remarked, none the worse for that. He paid a week’s rental in advance. Mrs. Biggins kept a firm but absent-minded grip on her son’s shirt collar.

  “I’ll get you a receipt,” she said. “Likely you’re here on account of this terrible affair.”

  “That’s it,” said Alleyn.

  “Are you from Scotland Yard, then?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Biggins, that’s us.” Alleyn looked good naturedly at Master Biggins. “Is this Georgie?” he asked.

  The next second, Master Biggins had left the best part of his Sunday collar in his mother’s hand and had bolted like a rabbit, only to find himself held as if in a vise by the terrible man in the mackintosh and bowler.

  “Now, now, now,” said Fox. “What’s all this?”

  The very words he had so often heard on the screen.

  “Georgie!” screamed Mrs. Biggins in a maternal fury. Then she looked at her son’s face and at the hands that held him.

  “Here, you!” she stormed at Fox. “What are you at, laying your hands on my boy?”

  “There’s nothing to worry about, Mrs. Biggins,” said Alleyn. “Georgie may be able to help us, that’s all. Now, look here, wouldn’t it be better if we went indoors out of sight and sound of your neighbours?”

  The shot went home.

  “Mighty me!” said Mrs. Biggins, still almost as white as her child, but rallying. “Mighty me, it’s true enough they spend most of the Lord’s Day minding other folks’ business and clacking their tongues. Georgie Biggins, if you don’t hold your noise have the skin off you. Do us go in, then.”

  In a cold but stuffy parlour, Alleyn did his best with mother and son. Georgie was now howling steadily. Mrs. Biggins’s work-reddened hands pleated and re-pleated the folds of her dress. But she listened in silence.

  “It’s just this,” said Alleyn. “Georgie is in no danger, but we believe he is in a position to give us extremely important information.”

  Georgie checked a lamentable roar and listened.

  Alleyn took the water-pistol from his pocket and handed it to Mrs. Biggins.

  “Do you recognise it?”

  “For sure,” she said slowly. “It’s his’en.”

  Georgie burst out again.

  “Young Biggins,” said Alleyn, “is this your idea of being a detective? Come here.”

  Georgie came.

  “See here, now. How would you like to help the police bring a murderer to justice? How would you like to work with us? We’re from Scotland Yard, you know. It’s not often you’ll get the chance to work with the Yard, is it?”

  The black eyes fastened on Alleyn’s and brightened.

  “What are the other chaps going to think if you, if you”—Alleyn hunted for the right phrase—“you solve the problem that has baffled the greatest sleuths of all time?” He glanced at his colleague. Fox, looking remarkably bland, closed one eye.

  “If you come in with us,” Alleyn continued, “you’ll be doing a man’s job. How about it?”

  A faintly hard-boiled expression crept over Georgie Biggins’s undistinguished face.

  “Okay,” he said in a treble voice still fuddled with tears.

  “Good enough.” Alleyn took the water-pistol from Mrs. Biggins. “This is your gun, isn’t it?”

  “Yaas,” said Georgie; and, remembering James Cagney the week before last at Great Chipping Plaza, he added with a strong Dorset accent: “Sure it’s my gat.”

  “You fixed that water-pistol in the piano in the hall, didn’t you?”

  “So what?” said Georgie.

  This was a little too much for Alleyn. He contemplated the child for a moment and then said:

  “Look here, Georgie, never you mind about the pictures. This is real. There’s somebody about who ought to be locked up. You’re an Englishman, a man of Dorset, and you want to see right done, don’t you? You thought it would be rather fun if Miss Prentice got a squirt of water in the eye when she put her foot on the soft pedal. I’m afraid I agree. It would have been funny.”

  Georgie grinned.

  “But how about the music? You’d forgotten about that, hadn’t you?”

  “Nah, I had not. My pistol’s proper strong pistol. ’Twould have bowled over the music, for certain, sure.”

  “You may be right,” said Alleyn. “Did you try it after you had fixed it up?”

  “Nah.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause something happened.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nuthin! Somebody made a noise. I went away.”

  “Where did you get the idea?” said Alleyn after a pause. “Come on, now.”

  “I’ll be bound I know, the bad boy,” interrupted his mother. “If our Georgie’s been up to such-like capers, it’s out of one of the clap-trappy tales he’s always at. Aye, only last week he tied an alarm clock under faather’s chair and set ’un for seven o’clock when he takes his nap, and there was the picture in this rubbish to give him away.”

  “Was it out of a book, Georgie?”

  “Yeas. Kind of.”

  “I see. And partly out of your Twiddletoy model, wasn’t it?”

  Georgie nodded.

  “When did you do it?”

  “Froiday.”

  “What time?”

  “Aafternoon. Two o’clock, about.”

  “How did you get into the hall?”

  “Was there with them girls and I stayed behind.”

  “Tell me about it. You must have been pretty smart for them not to see what you were up to.”

  Georgie, it seemed, had slipped into a dark corner as the Friendly Young People left at about a quarter-past two. His idea had been to shoot at them with his water-pistol as they passed; but at the last moment a more amusing notion occurred to him. He remembered the diverting tale of a piano booby-trap which he had read with the greatest enjoyment in the last number of Bingo Bink’s Weekly. He had some odds and ends of Twiddletoy in his pockets, and as soon as the front door slammed he got to work. First he silently examined the piano and made himself familiar with the action of the pedals. At this juncture his mother told Alleyn that Georgie was of a markedly mechanical turn of mind and had made many astonishing models from Twiddletoy, all of which could be made to revolve or even propel. Georgie had gone solidly to work. Stimulated by Alleyn’s ardent attention, he described his handiwork. When it was finished he played a triumphant stanza or two of chop-sticks, taking care to use the loud pedal only.

  “And nobody came?”

  The devilish child turned white again.

  “Nobody saw,” he muttered. “They never saw nuthun. Only banged at door and shouted.”

  “And you didn’t answe
r? I see. Know who it was?”

  “I never seen ’em.”

  “All right. How did you leave?”

  “By front door. I shut ’un behind me.”

  There was a brief silence. Georgie’s face suddenly twisted into a painful grimace, his lip trembled again, and he looked piteously at Alleyn.

  “I never meant no harm,” he said. “I never meant it to kill her.”

  “That’s all right,” said Alleyn. He reached out a hand and took the child by the shoulder.

  “It’s nothing to do with you, young Biggins,” said Alleyn.

  But over the boy’s head he saw the mother’s stricken face and knew he could not help her so easily.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  According to the Jernighams

  ALLEYN WENT ALONE to Pen Cuckoo. He left Fox to visit Miss Campanula’s servants, find out the name of her lawyers, and pick up any grain of information that might be the fruit of his well-known way with female domestics.

  The Biggins’s car chugged doggedly up the Vale Road in second gear. It was a stiff grade. The Vale rises steeply above Chipping, mounting past Winton to Pen Cuckoo Manor and turning into Cloudyfold Rise at the head of the valley. It is not an obviously picturesque valley, but it has a charm that transcends mere prettiness. The lower slopes of Cloudyfold make an agreeable pattern, the groups of trees are beautifully disposed about the flanks of the hills, and the scattered houses, being simple, seem to have grown out of the country, as indeed they have, since they are built of Dorset stone. It is not a tame landscape, either. The four winds meet on Cloudyfold, and in winter the small lake in Pen Cuckoo grounds holds its mask of ice for days together.

  Alleyn noticed that several lanes came down into the Vale Road. He could see that at least one of them led crookedly up to the Manor, and one seemed to be a sort of bridle path from the Manor down to the church. He drove on through the double gates, up the climbing avenue and out on the wide sweep before Pen Cuckoo house.

  A flood of thin sunshine had escaped the heavy clouds, and Pen Cuckoo looked its wintry best, an ancient and gracious house, not so very big, not at all forbidding, but tranquil. “A happy house,” thought Alleyn, “with a certain dignity.”