Overture to Death

by Ngaio Marsh

  “And then you walked up Top Lane towards Pen Cuckoo?”

  “Yes,” said Dinah in surprise, and into her eyes came that same guarded look he had seen in Henry’s.

  “Was Georgie Biggins in the hall when you left at about two o’clock?”

  “Yes. Making life hideous with his masterly water-pistol. He is a naughty boy, Daddy,” said Dinah. “I really think you ought to exorcise Georgie. I’m sure he’s possessed of a devil.”

  “Then you haven’t heard about Georgie?” murmured Alleyn. “Roper has his points.”

  “What about Georgie?”

  Alleyn told them.

  “I want,” he said, “to make as little as possible of the obvious implication. There seems to be little doubt that Georgie, plus Twiddletoy, and his water-pistol made the bullets that the murderer subsequently fired. It’s an unpleasant responsibility to lay on a small boy’s shoulders, however bad he may be. I’m afraid it must come out in evidence, but as far as possible I think we ought to try and avoid village gossip.”

  “Certainly,” said the rector. “At the same time, he knew he was doing something wrong. The terrible consequences—”

  “Are disproportionately terrible, don’t you think.”

  “I do. I agree with you,” said Dinah.

  Alleyn, seeing priest’s logic in the rector’s eye, hurried on.

  “You will see,” he said, “that the substitution of the Colt for the water-pistol must have taken place after two o’clock on Friday when Georgie was flourishing his pistol. I know he stayed behind on Friday and rigged it up. He had admitted this. Miss Campanula’s chauffeur, at her request, looked through the open window at two-thirty and saw the piano with the top open. His story leads us to believe that at that time Georgie was hiding somewhere in the building. Georgie did not tell me that at all willingly, and I confess I am afraid the memory of Miss Campanula, banging at the doors and demanding admittance, is likely to become a childish nightmare. I don’t pretend to understand child psychology.”

  “The law,” said Dinah, “in the person of her officer, seems to be surprisingly merciful.”

  Alleyn disregarded this.

  “So that gives us two-thirty an Friday as, a starting-off point. You, Miss Copeland, walked up Top Lane and by chance encountered Mr. Henry Jernigham.”

  “What!” the rector ejaculated. “Dinah!”

  “It’s all right,” said Dinah in a high voice. “It was by accident, Daddy. I did meet Henry and we did behave as you might have expected. Our promise was almost up. It’s my fault. I couldn’t help it.”

  “Miss Prentice arrived some time later, I believe,” said Alleyn.

  “Has she told you that?”

  “Mr. Henry Jernigham told me and Miss Prentice agreed. Do you mind, Miss Copeland, describing what happened at this triple encounter?”

  “If they haven’t told you,” said Dinah, “I won’t.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Confession from a Priest

  “WON’T YOU?” SAID Alleyn mildly. “That’s a pity. We shall have to do the Peer Gynt business.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Go roundabout. Ask servants about the relationship between Miss Prentice and her young cousin. Tap the fabulous springs of village gossip—all that.”

  “I thought,” flashed Dinah, “that nowadays the C.I.D. was almost a gentleman’s job.”

  “Oh, no!” said Alleyn. “You couldn’t be more mistaken.”

  Her face was scarlet. “That was a pretty squalid remark of mine,” said Dinah.

  “It was inexcusable, my dear,” said her father. “I am ashamed that you have been capable of it.”

  “I find no offence it in at all,” Alleyn said cheerfully. “It was entirely apposite.”

  But Mr. Copeland’s face was pink with embarrassment, and Dinah’s still crimson with mortification. The rector addressed her as if she was at a children’s service. His voice became more markedly clerical, and in the movement of his head Alleyn recognised one of his pulpit mannerisms. He said, “You have broken a solemn promise, Dinah, and to this fault you add a deliberate evasion and an ill-bred and entirely unjustifiable impertinence. You force me to make Mr. Alleyn some sort of explanation.” He turned to Alleyn. “My daughter and Henry Jernigham,” he said, “have formed an attachment of which his father and I do not approve. Dinah suggested that they should give their word not to meet alone for three weeks. Friday was the final day of the three weeks. Miss Prentice was also of our mind in this matter. If she came upon them at a moment when, as Dinah has admitted, they had completely forgotten or ignored this promise, I am sure she was extremely disappointed and distressed.”

  “She wasn’t!” exclaimed Dinah, rallying a little. “She wasn’t a bit like that. She was absolutely livid with rage and beastliness.”

  “Dinah!”

  “Oh, Daddy, why do you shut your eyes? You must know what she’s like—you of all people!”

  “Dinah, I must insist—”

  “No!” cried Dinah. “No! First you say I’ve been underhand; and then, when I go all upperhand and open, you don’t like it any better. I’m sorry in a way that Henry and I didn’t stay the course; but we nearly did, and I won’t think there was anything very awful about Friday afternoon. I won’t have Henry and me made seem grubby. I’m sorry I was rude to Mr. Alleyn and I—well, I mean it’s quite obvious it wasn’t only rude, but silly. I mean, it’s obvious from the way he’s taken it—I mean—oh, hell! Oh, Daddy, I’m sorry.”

  Alleyn choked down a laugh.

  The rector said, “Dinah! Dinah!”

  “Yes, well, I am sorry. And now Mr. Alleyn will think heaven knows what about Friday afternoon. I may as well tell you, Mr. Alleyn, that in Henry’s and my opinion Miss Prentice is practically ravers. It’s a well-known phenomenon with old maids. She’s tried to sublimate her natural appetites and—and—work them off in religion. I can’t help it, Daddy, she has. And it’s been a failure. She’s only repressed and repressed, and when she sees two natural, healthy people making love to each other she goes off pop.”

  “It is I,” said the rector, looking hopelessly at his child, “who have been a failure.”

  “Don’t. You haven’t. It’s just that you don’t understand these women. You’re an angel, but you’re not a modern angel.”

  “I should be interested to know,” said Alleyn, “how an angel brings himself up to date. Stream-lined wings, I suppose.”

  Dinah grinned.

  “Well, you know what I mean,” she said. “And I’m right about these two. If you had heard Miss Prentice! It was simply too shaming and hideous. She actually shook all over and sort of gasped. And she said the most ghastly things to us. She threatened at once to tell you, Daddy, and the squire. She suggested—oh, she was beyond belief. What’s more, she dribbles and spits.”

  “Dinah, my dear!”

  “Well, Daddy, she does. I noticed the front of her beastly dress, and it was disgusting. She either dribbles and spits, or else she spills her tea. Honestly! And, anyway, she was perfectly septic, the things she said.”

  “Didn’t either of you try to stop her?” asked Alleyn.

  “Yes,” said Dinah. She turned rather white and added quickly: “In the end she just blundered past us and went on up the lane.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I went home.”

  “And Mr. Jernigham?”

  “He went up to Cloudyfold, I think.”

  “By the steep path? He didn’t walk down with you?”

  “No,” said Dinah. “He didn’t. There’s nothing in that.”

  “I cannot see,” said the rector, “that this unhappy story can have any bearing on the tragedy.”

  “I think I can promise,” said Alleyn, “that any information found to be irrelevant will be completely blotted out. We are, quite literally, not interested in any facts that cannot be brought into the pattern.”

  “Well, that can’t,” Dinah declared. She
threw up her chin and said loudly:

  “If you think, because Miss Prentice made us feel uncomfortable and embarrassed, it’s a motive for murder, you’re quite wrong. We’re not in the least afraid of Miss Prentice or anything she may say or do. It can’t make any difference to Henry and me.” Dinah’s lower lip trembled and she added: “We simply look at her from a detached analytical angle and are vaguely sorry for her. That’s all.” She uttered a dry sob.

  The rector said: “Oh, my darling child, what nonsense,” and Dinah walked over to the window.

  “Well,” said Alleyn mildly, “let’s go on being detached and analytical. What did you both do on Saturday afternoon? That’s yesterday.”

  “We were both in here,” said Dinah. “Daddy went to sleep. I went over my part.”

  “What time did you get to the hall last evening?”

  “We left here at half-past six,” answered Mr. Copeland, “and walked over by the path through our garden and wood.”

  “Was anybody there?”

  “Yes. Yes, Gladys Wright was there, wasn’t she, Dinah? She is one of our best workers and was in charge of the programmes. She was in the front of the hall. I think the other girls were either there, or came in soon after we did.”

  “Can you tell me exactly what you did up to the time of the catastrophe?”

  “I can, certainly,” rejoined the rector. “I saw that the copy of the play and the bicycle bell I had to ring were in their right places, and then I sat in an arm-chair on the stage to keep out of the way and see that nobody came in from the front of the hall. I was there until Dinah came for me to speak to Miss Prentice.”

  “Did you expect Miss Prentice would be unable to play?”

  “No, indeed. On the contrary, she told me her finger was much better. That was soon after she arrived.”

  “Had you much difficulty in persuading Miss Prentice not to play?”

  “Yes, indeed I had. She was most determined about it, but her finger was really very bad. It was quite impossible, and I told her I should be very displeased if she persisted.”

  “And apart from that time you never left the stage?”

  “Oh! Oh, yes, I did go to the telephone before that, when they were trying to get Mrs. Ross’s house. That was at half-past seven. The telephone is an extension of ours and our maid, Mary, is deaf and takes a long time to answer.”

  “We were all frantic,” said Dinah, from the window. “The squire and Henry and father and I were all standing round the telephone, with Miss Campanula roaring instructions, poor old thing. The squire hadn’t got any trousers on, only pink woollen underpants. Miss Prentice came along, and when she saw him she cackled like a hen and flew away. But no one else minded about the squire’s pants, not even Miss C. We were all in a flat spin about the others being late, you see. Father was just coming over to ring from here, when we got through.”

  “I returned to the stage then,” said the rector.

  “I can’t tell you exactly what I did,” said Dinah. “I was all over the place.” She peered through the window. “Here’s Henry now.”

  “Why not go and meet him?” suggested Alleyn. “Tell him how I’ve bullied you.”

  “You haven’t. But I will,” said Dinah.

  She opened the window and stepped over the low sill into the garden.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Alleyn, when the window had slammed.

  “She’s a good child, really,” said the rector sadly.

  “I’m sure she is. Mr. Copeland, you see what a strange position we are in, don’t you? If Miss Prentice was the intended victim we must trace her movements, her conversation—yes, and if we could, even her thoughts during these last days. We are in the extraordinary position of having, apparently, a living victim in a case of homicide. There is even the possibility that the murderer may make a second attempt.”

  “No! No! That’s too horrible.”

  “I am sure that, as your daughter says, you know a great deal about these two ladies—the actual and, as far as we know, the intended victim. Can you tell me anything, anything at all, that may throw a glint of light on this dark tangle of emotions?”

  The rector clasped his hands and stared into the fire.

  “I am very greatly troubled,” he said. “I cannot see my way.”

  “Do you mean that you have got their confidence, and that under ordinary circumstances you would never speak of your knowledge?”

  “Let me make myself clear. As no doubt you already know, I have heard the confessions of many of my parishioners. Under no condition will I break the seal of the confessional. That goes without saying. Moreover, it would serve no purpose if I did. I tell you this lest you should think I hold a key to the mystery.”

  “I recognise the position,” said Alleyn, “and I shall respect it.”

  “I’m glad of that. There are many people, I know, who regard the sacrament of confession in the Anglo-Catholic Church as an amateurish substitute for the Roman use. It is no such thing. The Romans say, ‘You must,’ the Protestant Nonconformists say, ‘You must not,’ the Catholic Church of England says, ‘You may.’ ”

  But Alleyn was not there for doctrinal argument, and wouldn’t have welcomed it under any circumstances.

  He said, “I realise that a priest who hears confession, no matter what faith he professes, must regard the confessional as inviolate. That, I take, is not what troubles you. Do you perhaps wonder if you should tell me something that you have heard from one of your penitents outside the confessional?”

  The rector gave him a startled glance. He clasped his hands more tightly and said:

  “It is not that I believe it would be any help. It’s only that I am burdened with the memory and with a terrible doubt. You say that this murderer may strike again. I don’t believe that is possible. I am sure it is not possible.”

  “Why?” asked Alleyn in astonishment.

  “Because I believe that the murderer is dead,” said the rector.

  Alleyn turned in his chair and regarded Mr. Copeland for some seconds before he answered.

  At last he said: “You think she did it herself?”

  “I am sure of it.”

  “Will you tell me why?”

  “I suppose I must. Mr. Alleyn, I am not, unfortunately, a man of strong character. All my life I have avoided unpleasantness. I know this very well and try to conquer my weakness. I have vacillated when I should have insisted; temporised when I should have taken definite action. Because of these veritable sins of omission I believe I am morally responsible, or at any rate in part responsible, for this terrible crime.”

  He paused, still looking at the fire. Alleyn waited.

  “On Friday night,” said Mr. Copeland, “the Reading Circle met in the rectory dining-room. It usually meets in St. Giles Hall; but because of the preparations for the play they all came here instead. It was Miss Campanula’s turn to preside. I went in for a short time. Dinah read a scene from Twelfth Night for them, and after that they went on with their book. It is G. K. Chesterton’s The Ball and the Cross, and Miss Campanula had borrowed my copy. When they had finished she came in here to return it. I was alone. It was about a quarter past ten.”

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Alleyn, it is very difficult and disagreeable for me to tell you of this incident. Really, I—I—don’t know quite how to begin. You may not be familiar with parochial affairs, but I think many clergy find that there is an unfortunately rather common type of church worker who is always a problem to her parish priest. I don’t know if you will understand me when I say that one finds this type among—dear me—among ladies who are not perhaps very young and who have no other interests.”

  The rector was now very pink.

  “I think I understand,” said Alleyn.

  “Do you? Well, I am sorry to say poor Miss Campanula was really an advanced—er—specimen of this type. Poor soul, she was lonely and she had a difficult temperament which I am sure she did her best to discipline, but
at times I could not help thinking that she needed a doctor as well as a priest to help her. I have even suggested as much.”

  “That was very wise advice, sir.”

  “She didn’t take it,” said the rector wistfully. “She stuck to me, you, see, and I’m afraid I failed her.”

  “About Friday night?” Alleyn reminded him gently.

  “Yes, I know. I’m coming to Friday night; but, really, it’s very difficult. There was a terrible scene. She—I think she had got it into her head that if Dinah married or went away again—Dinah is on the stage, you know—I should be as lonely as she was. She said as much. I was very much startled and alarmed and I was at a loss how to reply. I think she misunderstood my silence. I really can’t quite remember the order of events. It was rather like a bad dream, and still is. She was trembling dreadfully and looking at me with such a desperate expression in her eyes that I—I—I—”

  He shut his eyes tight and added in a great hurry: “I patted her hand.”

  “That was quite a natural thing to do, wasn’t it?”

  “You wouldn’t have said so if you’d seen the result.”

  “No?”

  “No, indeed. The next moment she was, to be frank, in my arms. It was without any exception the most awful thing that has ever happened to me. She was sobbing and laughing at the same time. I was in agony. I couldn’t release myself. We never draw our blinds in this room, and there was I in this appalling and even ludicrous situation. I was obliged actually to—to support her. And I was so sorry for her, too. It was so painfully evident that she had made a frightful mistake. I believe she was hysterically delighted. It makes me feel ashamed and, as we used to say when I was young, caddish to repeat all this.”

  “It’s beastly for you,” said Alleyn; “but I’m sure you should tell me.”

  “I would have preferred, before doing so, to take the advice of one of my brother clergy, but there is no one who—However, that is beside the point. You are being very patient.”

  “How did it end?”

  “Very badly,” said the rector, opening his eyes wide. “It couldn’t have ended worse. When she had quietened down a little—and it was a long time before she did—I hastened to release myself, and I am afraid the first thing I did was to draw the curtains. You see, some members of the Reading Circle might still have been about. Their young men come up to meet them. Worse than that, Miss Prentice rang up in the morning and said she wanted to speak to me that evening. While Miss Campanula was still with me she telephoned to say she was not coming. That was about 10.15. Dinah took the message and afterwards said she sounded upset. I—I’m afraid I had been obliged to be rather severe with her—I mean as her priest—that afternoon. I had given her certain instructions which would keep her at home, and in any case I think perhaps her finger was too painful. But at the time I expected her, and if she had seen, it would have been—well, really—”