by Ngaio Marsh
“What sort of thing?”
“Well — you know.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know.”
She watched him for a second or two: then, literally, she bared her teeth at him. It was exactly as if she had, at the same time, laid back her ears. “You’re lying,” she said. “I know. You’ve found them, and you’re sticking to them. I know the sort of things you do.”
“That statement,” Alleyn said mildly, “is utter nonsense, and you will create an extremely bad impression if you persist in it. You have reported the loss of the gloves and the loss has been noted. Is there anything else you would like to discuss?”
“My God, no!” she said and walked out of the Station. They heard her start up the car and go roaring off down the lane.
“Now, what do we make of that little lot?” Fox asked.
“What we have to do is find the damn’ gloves.”
“He’ll have got rid of them. Or tried to. Or else she really has lost them and he’s dead-scared we’ll pick them up. That’d be a good enough reason for him giving her the works.”
“Hold on, Br’er Fox. You’re getting yourself wedded to a bit of hearsay evidence.”
“Am I?”
“We’ve only her word that he’s giving her fits.”
“That’s right,” Fox agreed in his rather heavy way. “So we have.” He ruminated for a short time. “Opportunity?” he said.
“They collared a bottle of their host’s champagne and set themselves up in his study. He had to turf them out, I gather, at the tag end of the party. And, by the way, he handed Leiss his overcoat, so that bit was a lie. I imagine they could have nipped off and back again without much trouble. It may interest you to learn, Br’er Fox, that when they were discovered by Bimbo Dodds, Mr. Leiss was assuring his girl friend that Mr. Cartell was disposed of and she had no need to worry.”
“Good gracious.”
“Makes you fink, don’t it?”
“When was this?”
“Dodds thinks it was about two a.m. He, by the way, is the B. A. Dodds who was mixed up in the night club affair that later became the Hacienda case and Leonard Leiss is a member of the Hacienda.”
“Fancy!”
“Of course he may have invented the whole story. Or mistaken the implication.”
“Two a.m. About. The only firm time we’ve got out of the whole lot,” Fox grumbled, “is one a.m. According to everybody, the deceased always took the dog out at one. Mr. Belt and Mrs. Mitchell reckon he used to wait till he heard the church clock. The last car from the treasure hunt was back at Baynesholme by midnight. Yes,” Fox concluded sadly, “it was an open field all right.”
“Did either Alfred or Mrs. Mitchell hear anything?”
“Not a thing. They’re both easy sleepers. Alfred,” Fox sighed, “was thinking of turning in his job, and she was thinking of following suit.”
“Why?”
“He reckoned he couldn’t take the new setup. The bitch worried him. Not even clean, Mrs. Mitchell says. And the deceased seems to have suggested that Alfred might have had something to do with the missing cigarette case, which, Mrs. Mitchell says, Alfred took great exception to. They were both very upset, because they’ve been there so long and didn’t fancy a change at their time of life. Alfred went so far as to tell Mr. Period that it was either them or Mr. Cartell.”
“When did he do that, Fox?”
“Last evening. Mr. Period was horribly put out about it, Mrs. Mitchell says. He made out life wouldn’t be worth living without Alfred and her. And he practically undertook to terminate Mr. Cartell’s tenancy. They’d never known him to be in such a taking-on. Quite frantic, was the way she put it.”
“Indeed?…I think he cooked the baptismal register, all right, Fox, and I think Mr. Cartell rumbled it,” Alleyn said, and described his visit to Ribblethorpe.
“Now, isn’t that peculiar behaviour!” Fox exclaimed. “A gentleman going to those lengths to make out he’s something he is not. You’d hardly credit it.”
“You’d better, because I’ve a strong hunch that this case may well turn about Mr. Period’s obsession. And it is an obsession, Br’er Fox. He’s been living in a world of fantasy, and it’s in danger of exploding over his head.”
“Lor!” Fox remarked, comfortably.
“When you retire in fifty years’ time,” Alleyn said with an affectionate glance at his colleague, “you must write a monograph on Snobs I Have Known. It’s a fruitful field and it has yet to be exhausted. Shall I tell you what I think might be the Period story?”
“I’d be obliged,” said Fox.
“Well, then. A perfectly respectable upper-middle-class origin. A natural inclination for grandeur and a pathologically sensitive nose for class distinctions. Money, from whatever source, at an early enough age to provide the suitable setting. Employment that brings him in touch with the sort of people he wants, God save the mark, to cultivate. And all this, Br’er Fox, in, let us say, the twenties, when class distinctions were comparatively unjolted. It would be during this period — what a name he’s got, to be sure! — that a fantasy began to solidify. He became used to the sort of people he had admired, felt himself to be one of them, scarcely remembered his natural background and began to think of himself as one of the nobs. The need for justification nagged at him. He’s got this unusual name. Somebody said: ‘By the way, are you any relation to the Period who married one of the Ribblethorpe Pykes?’ and he let it be thought he was. So he began to look into the Ribblethorpe Pykes and Periods and found that both sides have died out. It would be about now that ‘Pyke’ was adopted as a second name — not hyphenated, but always used. He may have done it by deed poll. That, of course, can be checked. And — well, there you are. I daresay that by now he’d persuaded himself he was all he claimed to be and was happily established in his own fairy tale until Cartell, by some chance, was led to do a little private investigation and, being exasperated beyond measure, blew the gaff at yesterday’s luncheon party. And if that,” Alleyn concluded, “is not an excursion into the hateful realms of surmise and conjecture, I don’t know what it is.”
“Silly,” Fox said. “If true. But it makes you feel sorry for him.”
“Does it? Yes, I suppose it does.”
“Well, it does me,” Fox said uneasily. “What’s the next move, Mr. Alleyn?”
“We’ll have to try to find those blasted gloves.”
“Where do we start?”
“Ask yourself. We’re told by the unspeakable Moppett that she wore them when they drove from London to Little Codling. They might have been dropped at Miss Cartell’s, Mr. Period’s, or Baynesholme. They might be in the pocket of the Scorpion. They might have been burnt or buried. All we know is that it’s odds-on the planks were shifted, with homicidal intent, by someone who was probably wearing leather and string gloves, and that Leonard Leiss, according to his fancy-girl, is raising merry hell because he’s lost such a pair. So, press on, Br’er Fox. Press on.”
“Where do we begin?”
“The obvious place is Miss Cartell’s. The Moppett says she dumped their overcoats there, and that the gloves were in Leiss’s pocket. I don’t want Miss Cartell to think we’re hounding her treasured ward, because if she does think that, she perfectly capable of collaborating with Leiss or the Moppett herself or Lord knows who, out of pure protective hennery. She’s a fool of a woman, Lord help her. I tell you what, Fox. You do your well-known stuff with Trudi — and make it jolly careful. Then try your hand with the Period household, which evidently, as far as the staff is concerned, has been nicely softened-up by you.”
“They’re going out this evening,” Fox said. “Church Social. They’ll be in great demand, I daresay.”
“Damn. All right, we’d better let them go. And, if that fails, we’ll have to ask at Baynesholme. What’s the matter?”
Fox was looking puffy — a sure sign, in that officer, of embarrassment.
“Well, Mr. Alleyn,” he said, �
��I was just thinking.”
“Thinking what?”
“Well, there’s one aspect of the case which of course you’ve considered, so I’m sure there’s no need to mention it. But since you ask me, there’s the other young couple. Mr. Bantling and Miss Maitland-Mayne.”
“I know. They were canoodling in the lane until after the other couples went back to Baynesholme, and might therefore have done the job. So they might, Br’er Fox. So, indubitably, they might.”
“It’d be nice to clear them up.”
“Your ideas about what would be nice vary between a watertight capital charge and cold lamb with cucumber relish. But it would be nice, I agree.”
“You may say, you see, that as far as the young man is concerned, somebody else’s defending counsel, with his back to the wall, could talk about motive.”
“You may indeed.”
“Mind, as far as the young lady’s concerned, the idea’s ridiculous. I think you said they met for the first time yesterday morning.”
“I did. And apparently took to each other at first sight. But, I promise you, you’re right. As far as the young lady is concerned I really do believe the idea’s ridiculous. As for Master Andrew Bantling, he’s a conventionally dressed chap. I can’t think that his rig was topped off by a pair of string-backed hacking gloves. All right,” Alleyn said, raising a finger. “Could he, by some means, have got hold of Leiss’s gloves? When? At Baynesholme? There, or at Mr. Period’s? Very well! So he drove his newly acquired girlfriend to the lane, confided his troubles to her, put on Leiss’s gloves and asked her to wait a bit while he rearranged the planks.”
“Well, there you are!” Fox exclaimed. “Exactly. Ridiculous!” He nodded once or twice and then said: “Where is he? Not that it matters.”
Alleyn looked at his watch.
“I should think,” he said, “he’s on the main London highway with Nicola Maitland-Mayne. God bless my soul!” he ejaculated.
“What’s up, Mr. Alleyn?”
“Do you know, I believe she’s taking him to show one of his paintings to Troy. Tonight. She asked me if I thought Troy would mind. This was before the case had developed. I don’t mind betting she sticks to it.”
In this supposition he was entirely right.
“She’s not a Scorpion,” Andrew remarked as he negotiated a conservative overtake, “but she goes, bless her tiny little horsepower. It feels to me, Nicola, that we have been taking this trip together much more often than twice. Are you ever called ‘Nicky’?”
“Sometimes.”
“I don’t really take to abbreviations, but I shall think about it. Better than ‘Cola,’ which sounds like a commercial.”
“I am never called ‘Cola.’ ”
“That’s right. One must draw the line somewhere, must not one?”
Conscious of an immense and illogical wave of happiness, Nicola looked at him. Why should his not singularly distinguished profile be so pleasing to her? Was it the line of the jaw, about which she seemed to remember lady novelists make a great to-do? Or his mouth, which she supposed should be called generous? It was certainly amusing.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Nothing. Why?”
“You were looking at me,” Andrew said, keeping a steady eye on the road.
“Sorry.”
“Not at all. Dear Nicola.”
“Don’t go too fast.”
“I’m not. She won’t do more than fifty. Oh, I beg your pardon. I see what you mean. All right, I won’t. But my aim, as I thought I had indicated, is not an immediate, snappy little affair with no bones broken. Far from it.”
“I see.”
“Tell me, if you don’t mind, what you think of my people. No holds barred. It’s not an idle question.”
“I like your mama.”
“So do I, but of course one ought to point out her legend which I expect you’re familiar with, anyway. Most of it’s fairly true. She’s an outrageous woman really.”
“But kind. I set great store by kindness.”
“Well, yes. As long as she doesn’t get stuck into a feud with somebody. She’s generous and you can talk to her about anything. You may get a cockeyed reaction but it’ll be intelligent. I dote on her.”
“Are you like her?”
“1 expect so, but less eccentric in my habits. I’m of a retiring disposition, compared to her, and spend most of my spare time painting, which makes me unsociable. I know I don’t look like it, but I’m a serious painter.”
“Well, of course. Are you very modern? All intellect, paint droppings and rude shapes?”
“Not really. You’ll have to see.”
“By the way, the Cid says Troy would be delighted if we’d call. To show her your work.”
“The Cid?”
“Superintendent Alleyn, C.I.D. Just my girlish fun.”
“I can take it if he can,” Andrew said kindly. “But you know I doubt, really, if I dare show her anything. Suppose she should find it tedious and sterile?”
“She will certainly say so.”
“That’s what I feared. She takes pupils, doesn’t she? Very grand ones with genius dripping out of their beards?”
“That’s right. Would you like her to take you?”
“Lord, Lord!” Andrew said. “What a notion!”
“If it’s not a question in bad taste, will you be able to get the Grantham Gallery, now, as you hoped?”
“I wanted to talk to you about it. I think I might, you know. I don’t imagine P.P. will raise the same objections. I talked to him about it yesterday morning.”
Remembering what Mr. Period had said about these plans, Nicola asked Andrew if he didn’t think there would be some difficulty.
“Oh, I don’t, really. He talked a lot of guff about tradition and so on but I’m sure he’ll be reasonable. He’s different from Hal. He was just being bloody-minded because I wanted to leave the Brigade and because he was bloody-minded anyway, poor old Hal. All the same, I wish I hadn’t parted from him breathing hell-fury. Seeing what’s happened. He wasn’t such a bad old stinker,” Andrew reflected. “Better than Bimbo, anyway. What, by the way, did you think of Bimbo?”
“Well—”
“Come on. Honestly.”
“There wasn’t anything to think. Just a rather negative, fashionable, ambiguous sort of person.”
“I simply can’t imagine what persuaded my Mama to marry him. Well, I suppose I can, really.” Andrew hit his closed fist once upon the driving wheel. “Still, don’t let’s talk about that.”
He drove on for some minutes in silence while Nicola tried to sort out her desperate misgivings. “Andrew,” she said at last, and because he answered “What, dear?” so gently, and with such an old-fashioned air, found herself at a complete disadvantage.
“Look,” she said. “Have you thought — I know it’s fantastic — but have you…?”
“All right,” Andrew said. “I know. Have I thought that Hal’s death is a material advantage to me and that your Cid probably knows it? Yes, I have. Strangely enough, it doesn’t alarm me. Nicola, it’s not fair to wish all this business on you. Here I am, doing nothing but talk about me and setting myself up as an insufferable egoist, no doubt. Am I boring you very much?”
“No,” Nicola said truthfully. “You’re not doing that. You’re talking about yourself, which is the usual thing.”
“My God!” Andrew ejaculated. “How very chastening.”
“This time it’s a bit different.”
“Is it? How much?”
“No,” Nicola said. “Don’t let’s rush our fences. We only met yesterday morning. Everything’s being precipitated like one of those boring chemical experiments. Don’t let’s pay too much attention.”
“Just as you like,” he said huffily. “I was going to ask if you’d dine with me. Is that too precipitate?”
“I expect it is, really, but I’d like to. Thank you, Andrew. I have a motive.”
“
And what the hell is that?”
“I did mention it before. I’m going to visit Troy Alleyn this evening, and I wondered if you’d come with me and show her a picture. As I told you, the Cid says she’d be delighted.”
Andrew was silent for a moment and then burst out laughing. “Well, I must say!” he ejaculated. “As one of the suspects in a murder charge — yes, I am, Nicola. You can’t escape it — I’m being invited to pay a social call on the chief cop’s wife. How dotty can you get?”
“Well, why not?”
“Will he be there? No, I suppose not. He’ll be lying flat on his stomach in Green Lane looking for my boot-prints.”
“So it’s a date?”
“It’s a date.”
“Then, shall we collect your pictures? I live quite close to the Alleyns. Could you make do with an omelette in my flat?”
“Do you share it with two other nice girls?”
“No.”
“Then I’d love to.”
Nicola’s flat was a converted studio off the Brompton Road. It was large and airy and extremely uncluttered. The walls were white and the curtains and chairs yellow. A workmanlike desk stood against the north window and a pot of yellow tulips on the table. There was only one picture, hung above the fireplace. Andrew went straight to it.
“Gosh,” he said, “it’s a Troy. And it’s you.”
“It was for my twenty-first birthday, last year. Wasn’t it wonderful of her?”
There was a long silence. “Wonderful,” Andrew said. “Wonderful.” And she left him to look at it while she rang Troy Alleyn and then set to work in her kitchen.
They had cold soup, an omelette, white wine, cheese and salad, and their meal was extremely successful. They both behaved in an exemplary manner, and if their inclination to depart from this standard crackled in the air all round them, they contrived to disregard it. They talked and talked and were happy.
“It’s almost nine o’clock,” Nicola said. “We mustn’t be too late at Troy’s. She’ll be delighted to see you, by the way.”
“Will she?”
“Why did you leave your pictures in the car?”
“I don’t know. Well, yes I do, but it doesn’t matter. Wouldn’t it be nice to stay here?”