by Ngaio Marsh
“Good Gad, woman,” shouted the squire. “Don’t talk such piffling drivel. We simply don’t want you to kill yourself.”
“It’s a pity,” said Miss Prentice stonily, “that I wasn’t killed. I realise that. It would have been a blessed release. They say poor Idris didn’t feel anything. It’s the living who suffer.”
“Cousin Eleanor,” said Henry, returning with a loaded plate, “have you ever read Our Mutual Friend?”
“No, Henry.”
“Because you’re giving a perfectly brilliant impersonation of Mrs. R. W.”
“Was she very irritating?”
“Very.”
“That’ll do, Henry,” said the squire. He darted an uncomfortable glance at Miss Prentice, who sat upright in her chair with her head bowed. At intervals she drew in her breath sharply and closed her eyes.
“Is your finger hurting you?” demanded Jocelyn after a particularly noticeable hiss from the sufferer. She opened her eyes and smiled palely.
“A little.”
“You’d better let Templett see it again.”
“I’m not very likely to do that, Jocelyn.”
“Why not?” asked Henry. “Do you think he’s the murderer?”
“Oh, Henry, Henry,” said Miss Prentice. “Some day you’ll be sorry you have grieved me so much.”
“Upon my word,” said Henry, “I can’t for the life of me see why that should grieve you. One of us is a murderer. I only asked if you thought it might be Templett.”
“You are fortunate to be able to speak so lightly of this terrible, terrible tragedy.”
“We’re as much worried as you are,” protested Jocelyn with an appealing glance at his son. “Aren’t we, boy?”
“Of course we are,” said Henry cheerfully.
“As a matter of fact, I’ve asked Copeland to come up here and talk the whole thing over.”
Miss Prentice clasped her hands and gave a little cry. A dull flush stained her cheeks and her eyes brightened.
“Is he coming? How wise of you, Jocelyn! He is so wonderful. He will help us all. It will all come out right. It will come out quite, quite all right.”
She laughed hysterically and clapped her hands. “When is he coming?”
Jocelyn looked at her with positive terror.
“This evening,” he said. “Eleanor, you’re not well.”
“And is dear Dinah coming, too?” asked Miss Prentice shrilly.
“Hullo!” said Henry. “Here’s a change.” And he glared fixedly at his cousin.
“Henry,” said Miss Prentice very rapidly, “Shall we forget our little differences? I have your happiness so much at heart, dear. If you had been more candid and straightforward with me—”
“Why should I?” asked Henry.
“—I think you would have found me quite understanding. Shall we let bygones be bygones? You see, dear, you have no mother to—”
“Will you excuse me, sir?” said Henry. “I feel slightly sick.” And he walked out of the room.
“I thought,” said Miss Prentice, “that I had been deeply enough injured already. So deeply, deeply injured. I am sorry I am rather excited, Jocelyn dear, but, you see, when someone is waiting down at St. Giles to shoot you—Jocelyn, is that somebody coming?”
“What the devil’s the matter, Eleanor?”
“It’s that woman! It was her car! I saw it through the window. Jocelyn, I won’t meet that woman. She’ll do me an injury. She’s wicked, wicked, wicked. A woman of Babylon. They’re all the same. All bad, horrible creatures.”
“Eleanor, be quiet.”
“You’re a man. You don’t understand. I will not meet her.”
Taylor came in.
“Mrs. Ross to see you, sir.”
“Damnation!” said the squire. “All right. Take her to the study.”
The squire was worried about Eleanor. She was really very odd indeed, far odder than even these uncomfortable circumstances warranted. There was no knowing what she’d say next. If he didn’t look out, she’d land him in a pretty tight corner with one of these extraordinary statements of hers. She’d got such a damned knowing look in her eye. When she thought he wasn’t noticing her, she’d sit in a corner watching him, with an expression which could only be described as a leer. If she was going mad! Well, there was one thing: mad people couldn’t give evidence. Perhaps the best thing would be to ask an alienist down for the weekend. He hoped to heaven she wouldn’t take it into her head to come raging into the study and go for poor little Mrs. Ross. His thoughts raced through his head as he crossed the hall, passed through the library and entered his study. Anyway, it’d be a relief to talk to an attractive woman.
She did look very attractive. Pale-ish, but that was understandable. She wore her clothes like a Frenchwoman. He’d always liked black. Damn’ good figure and legs. He took the little hand in its delicate glove and held it tightly.
“Well,” he said, “this is nice of you.”
“I simply had to see you. You’ll think me a most frightful bore, coming at this time.”
“Now you knew that wasn’t true before you said it.”
The little hand started in his.
“Have I hurt you?” asked the squire. “I am a clumsy brute.”
“No. Not really. Only you are rather strong, aren’t you? It’s just my ring.”
“I insist on investigating.”
He peeled back the soft glove and drew it down. “Look at that! A red mark on the inside of your finger. Now, what can be done about that?”
A subdued laugh. He separated the white fingers and kissed them.
“Ha-ha, my boy!” thought the squire, and led her to a chair.
“You’ve done me good already,” he said. “Do you realise that, madam?”
“Have I?”
“Don’t you think you’re rather an attractive little thing?”
“What am I supposed to say to that?”
“You know it damned well, so you needn’t say anything. Ha, ha, ha!”
“Well, I have heard something like it before.”
“How often?” purred the squire.
“Never you mind.”
“Why are you so attractive?”
“Just made that way.”
“Little devil,” he said and kissed the hand again. He felt quite excited. Everything was going like clockwork.
“Oh, dear,” whispered Mrs. Ross. “You’re going to be simply livid with me.”
“Simply furious?” he asked tenderly.
“Yes. Honestly. I don’t want to tell you; but I must!”
“Don’t look at me like that or I shall have to kiss you.”
“No, please. You must listen. Please.”
“If I listen I expect to be rewarded.”
“We’ll see about that,” she said.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“I’m listening,” said the squire, rather feverishly.
“It’s about this awful business. I want to tell you first of all, very, very sincerely that you’ve nothing to fear from me.”
“Nothing—?”
He still held her hand, but his fingers relaxed.
“No,” she said, “nothing. If you will just trust me—”
Her voice went on and on. Jocelyn heard her to the end, but when it was over he did not remind her of her promise.
When Alleyn left the assistant commissioner and returned to his own office, he found Bailey there. “Well, Bailey?”
“Well, sir, Thompson’s developed Mr. Bathgate’s film. He’s got a couple of shots of the lady.”
He laid the still wet prints on the desk.
There was Mrs. Ross in profile on the front step of the Jernigham Arms, and there she was again full face as she came up the path. Nigel must have taken his snapshots through the open window. Evidently she had not seen him. The pointed chin was set a little to one side, the under lip projected very slightly, and the thin month was drawn down at the co
rners. They were not flattering photographs.
“Any luck?” asked Alleyn.
With his normal air of mulish disapproval Bailey laid a card beside the prints. On it was mounted a double photograph. Sharp profile, thin mouth, pointed chin; and the front showed the colourless hair, drawn back in two immaculate shining wings, from the rather high forehead.
Alleyn muttered: “Sarah Rosen. Age 33. Height 5 ft. 5 ¼ ins. Eyes, light blue. Hair, pale blonde. Very well dressed, cultured speech, usually poses as widow. Detained with Claude Smith on blackmailing charge, 1931. Subsequently released—insufficient evidence. Claude got ten years, didn’t he?”
“That’s right, sir. They stayed at the Ritz as brother and sister.”
“I remember. What about the prints?”
“They’re good enough.”
“Blackmail,” said Alleyn thoughtfully.
“I’ve looked up the case. She was in the game all right, but they hadn’t a thing on her. She seems to have talked her way out.”
“She would. Thank you, Bailey. I wish I’d known this a little earlier. Oh, well, no matter, it fits in very prettily.”
“Anything else, Mr. Alleyn?”
“I’m going to my flat for half an hour. If Fox rings up before I’m back tell him I’m there. The car ought to leave now. I’ll fix that up. We’d better take a wardress, I suppose. All right, Bailey. Thank you.”
Henry wondered what the devil Mrs. Ross had to say to his father. He had watched, with extreme distaste, their growing intimacy. “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is,” he thought, “to have a prancing parent.” When Jocelyn spoke to Mrs. Ross his habit of loud inexplicable laughter, his manner of leaning backwards, of making a series of mysterious little bows, the curious gesture he employed, the inclination his eyes exhibited towards protuberance, and the naked imbecility of his conversation, all vexed and embarrassed his son to an almost insupportable degree. If Jocelyn should marry her! Henry had no particular objection to Mrs. Ross, but the thought of her as a stepmother struck dismay to his heart. His affection for his father was not weakened by Jocelyn’s absurdities. He loved him deeply, he realised, and now the thought that his father might be making a fool of himself in there with that woman was more than he could endure. Miss Prentice had, no doubt, gone to her room; Dinah was out; there was nothing to do.
He wandered restlessly into the library, half-hoping that the door to the study would be open. It was closed. He could hear the murmur of a woman’s voice. On and on. What the hell could she have to say? Then a baritone injection in which he read urgency and vehemence. Then a long pause.
“My God!” thought Henry. “If he has proposed to her!”
He whistled raucously, took an encylopaedia from the shelves, banged the glass door and slammed the book down on the table.
He heard his father exclaim. A chair castor squeaked and the voices grew more distant. They had moved to the far end of the room.
Henry flung himself into an arm-chair, and once again the conundrum of the murder beset him. Who did the police believe had tried to murder Eleanor Prentice? Which would they say had the greatest reason for wishing Eleanor dead? With the thud of fear that came upon him whenever he thought of this, he supposed that he himself had the most reason for wishing Eleanor out of the way. Was it possible that Alleyn suspected him? Whom did Alleyn suspect? Not Dinah, surely, not the rector, not his own father. Templett, then? Or—yes—Mrs. Ross? But, Alleyn would surely reason, if Templett was the murderer, it was a successful murder, since it was Templett who insisted that Eleanor shouldn’t play the piano. Alleyn would wonder if Templett had told Mrs. Ross he would not allow Eleanor to play. Did Dinah’s tirade against Mrs. Ross mean that Dinah suspected her? Had the police any idea who could have gone to the piano after there were people in the hall, and yet not been seen? Already the story of Gladys Wright had reached Pen Cuckoo. And as final conjecture, perhaps they would ask themselves if Eleanor Prentice in some way had faked her finger and set the trap for her bosom enemy. Or might they agree with the rector and call it a case of attempted murder and suicide?
He leapt to his feet. There was no longer a sound of voices in the study. They must have gone out by the french window.
Henry opened the door and walked in. No, they were still there. Mrs. Ross sat in the window with her back to the light. Jocelyn Jernigham faced the door. When Henry saw Jocelyn he cried out: “Father, what’s the matter?”
Jocelyn said, “Nothing’s the matter.”
Mrs. Ross said, “Hullo! Good-afternoon.”
“Good-afternoon,” said Henry. “Father, are you ill?”
“No. Don’t come bursting into the room asking people if they’re ill. It’s ridiculous.”
“But your face! It’s absolutely ashen.”
“I’ve got indigestion.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“I thought he looked pale,” said Mrs. Ross solicitously.
“He’s absolutely green.”
“I’m nothing of the sort,” said Jocelyn angrily. “Mrs. Ross and I are talking privately, Henry.”
“I’m sorry,” said Henry stubbornly, “but I know there’s something wrong here. What is it?”
“There’s nothing wrong, my dear boy,” she said lightly.
He stared at her.
“I’m afraid I still think there is.”
“Well, I very much hope you won’t still think there is when we tell you all about it. At the moment I’m afraid it’s a secret,” She looked at Jocelyn. “Isn’t it?”
“Yes. Of course. Go away, boy, you’re making a fool of yourself.”
“Are you sure,” Henry asked slowly, “that nobody is making a fool of you?”
Taylor came in. He looked slightly disgruntled. “Inspector Fox to see you, sir. I told him—”
“Good-afternoon, sir,” said a rumbling voice, and the bulk of Inspector Fox filled the doorway.
Henry saw the squire look quickly from the open window to Mrs. Ross. Taylor stood aside and Fox walked in.
“I hope you’ll excuse me coming straight in like this, sir,” said Fox. “Chief Inspector Alleyn asked me to call. I took the liberty of following your butler. Perhaps I ought to have waited.”
“No, no,” said Jocelyn. “Sit down, er—”
“Fox, sir. Thank you very much, sir.”
Fox placed his bowler on a near-by table. He turned to Henry.
“Good-afternoon, sir. We met last night, didn’t we?”
“This is Inspector Fox, Mrs. Ross,” said Henry.
“Good-afternoon, madam,” said Fox tranquilly.
Then he sat down. As Alleyn once remarked to Nigel, there was a certain dignity about Fox.
Mrs. Ross smiled charmingly.
“I must take myself off,” she said, “and not interrupt Mr. Fox. Don’t move, anybody, please.”
“If it’s not troubling you too much, Mrs. Ross,” said Fox, “I’d be obliged if you’d wait for a moment. There are one or two little routine questions for general inquiry, and it will save me taking up your time later on.”
“But I’m longing to stay, Mr. Fox.”
“Thank you, madam.”
Fox took out his spectacles and placed them on his nose. He then drew his note-book from an inside pocket, opened it and stared at it.
“Yes,” he said. “Now, the first item’s a small matter, really. Did anybody present find the onion in the teapot?”
“What!” Henry ejaculated.
Fox fixed his eyes on him.
“The onion in the teapot, sir.”
“Which onion in what teapot?” demanded Jocelyn. Fox turned to him.
“Young Biggins, sir, has admitted that he put a Spanish onion in the teapot used on the stage. We’d like to know who removed it.”
Mrs. Ross burst out laughing.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, “but it is rather funny.”
“It sounds rather a ridiculous sort of thing, doesn’t it, madam?” agre
ed Fox gravely. “Do you know anything about it?”
“I’m afraid not. I think Mr. Alleyn has already accused me of an onion.”
“Did you happen to hear anything of it, sir?”
“Good Lord, no,” said Jocelyn.
“And you, Mr. Henry?”
“Not I,” said Henry.
“The next matter,” said Fox, making a note, “is the window. I understand you found it open on Saturday afternoon, Mrs. Ross.”
“Yes. We shut it.”
“Yes. You’d already shut it once, hadn’t you? At midday?”
“Yes, I had.”
“Who opened it?” inquired Fox, and he looked first at Jocelyn and then at Henry. They both shook their heads.
“I should think it was probably Miss Prentice. My cousin,” said Henry. “She has a deep-rooted mania—” He checked himself. “She’s a fresh-air fiend of the worst variety and continually complained that the hall was stuffy.”
“I wonder if I might ask Miss Prentice?” said Fox. “Is she at home, sir?”
The squire looked extremely uncomfortable. “I think she’s—ah—she’s—ah—in. Yes.”
“Do you want me any longer, Mr. Fox?” asked Mrs. Ross.
“I think that will be all for the present, thank you, madam. The chief inspector would be much obliged if you could come down to the hall at about 9.15 this evening.”
“Oh? Yes, very well.”
“Thank you very much, madam.”
“I’ll see you out,” said the squire hurriedly.
They went out by the french window.
Henry offered Fox a cigarette.
“No. Thank you very much, all the same, sir.”
“Mr. Fox,” said Henry. “What do you think of the rector’s theory? I mean, the idea that Miss Campanula set the trap for my cousin, and that something happened to make her so miserable that when she was asked to play she thought: ‘Oh, well, this settles it. Here goes!’ ”
“Would you have said the deceased lady seemed very unhappy, sir?”
“Well, you know, I didn’t notice her very much. But I’ve been thinking it over, and—yes—she was rather odd. She was damned odd. For one thing, she’d evidently had a colossal row with my cousin. Or rather my cousin seemed friendly enough, but Miss C. wouldn’t say a word to her. She was a cranky old cup of tea, you know, and we none of us took much notice. Know what I mean?”