Death in a White Tie ra-7

by Ngaio Marsh

  “He’s in the next room. Shall we send Bridget to join him for a minute or two?”

  “Please.”

  “Don’t interrupt him,” said Alleyn as Bridget went out.

  “All right.”

  The door closed behind her.

  Alleyn said: “Do you ever drink brandy, Evelyn?”

  “Never, why?”

  “You’re going to do so now. You’re quite done up. Warm your hands at my fire while I get it for you.”

  He actually persuaded her to drink a little brandy, and laughed at her convulsive shudder.

  “Now then,” he said, “there’s no need for you to fuss about Bridget. She’s been, on the whole, a very sensible young person and her only fault is in giving a commonplace visit the air of a secret elopement.”

  “My nerves have gone, I think. I began to imagine all sorts of horrible things. I even wondered if she suspected Donald of this crime.”

  “She is, on the contrary, absolutely assured of Donald’s innocence.”

  “Then why did she do this?”

  “I’d better tell you the whole story. The truth is, Evelyn, they were longing for each other’s bright eyes. Bridget wanted to convince me of Donald’s innocence. She also wanted him to tell me this and that about a third person who doesn’t matter at the moment. They met, most reprehensibly, at the Matador.”

  “The Matador! Roderick, how naughty of them! It just simply isn’t done by débutantes. No, really that was very naughty.”

  Alleyn was both relieved and surprised to find that this departure from débutantes’ etiquette took momentary precedence over Lady Carrados’s other troubles.

  “They had only just arrived, I imagine, when I ran into them there. The place was only half-full, Evelyn. It was too early for the smart people. I shouldn’t think anyone else saw them. I brought them on here.”

  “I’m very glad you did,” she said doubtfully.

  “Was that all that worried you?”

  “No. It’s Herbert. He’s been so extraordinary, Roderick, since this tragedy. He’s stayed indoors all day and he never takes his eyes off me. I was afraid he would give up this dinner tonight, but, thank Heaven, he didn’t. It is followed by the annual regimental dance and he has to present trophies or something so it will keep him quite late. I should have gone too, but I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t face another hour with him. He keeps making curious hints as if he — Roderick, almost as if he suspected me of something.”

  “Tell me what he says.”

  She leant back in her chair and relaxed. He saw that, not for the first time, he was to play the part of confidant. “An odd rôle for a CID man,” he thought, “and a damn useful one.” He settled himself to listen.

  “It began soon after you left. While we were at tea. We had tea in my boudoir. I asked my secretary, Miss Harris, to join us, because I thought if she was there it might be a little easier. Naturally enough, but most unfortunately, poor Miss Harris began to speak to Bridget about Bunchy. She said she’d been reading a book on famous trials and somehow or other the word ‘blackmail’ cropped up. I–I’m afraid I was startled and showed it. The very word was enough as you may imagine. I looked up to find Herbert’s eyes fixed on me with an expression of — how can I describe it? — of knowing terror. He didn’t go with the others after tea but hung about the room watching me. Suddenly he said: “You were very friendly with Robert Gospell, weren’t you?” I said: “Of course I was.” Then he asked me to show him my bank-book. It sounded perfectly insane, right on top of his other question. Almost funny — as if he suspected I’d been keeping poor Bunchy. But it wasn’t very funny. It terrified me. He never worries about my money as a rule. He generally makes rather a point of not doing so, because, apart from the allowance he gives me, I’ve got my own, and what Paddy left me. I knew if he saw my bank-book it would show that I had been drawing large sums — five hundred pounds, to meet the demands of — to—”

  “The five hundred that went into that big bag of yours last night. How did you draw it out, Evelyn?”

  “I drew some myself. I cashed a cheque for five hundred. I can’t think that Herbert knew, or that he could have suspected the truth, if he did know. It’s all so terribly disturbing. I put him off by saying I couldn’t find the book, that I thought I had sent it back to the bank. He hardly seemed to listen. Suddenly he asked me if Bunchy had ever called when I was out? It seemed a perfectly inane question. I said I didn’t know. He sat glaring at me till I could have screamed, and then he said: ‘Did he know anything about old furniture?’ ”

  Alleyn glanced up quickly: “Old furniture?”

  “I know! It sounds demented, doesn’t it? I repeated it like you, and Herbert said: ‘Well antiques. Pieces like the escritoire in my study.’ And then he leaned forward and said: ‘Do you think he knew anything about that?’ I said: ‘Herbert, what are you talking about?’ and he said: ‘I suppose I’m going to pieces. I feel I have been surrounded by treachery all my life!’ It sounds just silly, but it frightened me. I rather lost my head, and asked him how he could talk like that. I began to say that Bridget was always loyal, when he burst out laughing. ‘Your daughter,’ he said, ‘loyal! How far do you suppose her loyalty would take her? Would you care to put it to the test?’ ”

  Lady Carrados pressed her hands together.

  “He’s always disliked Bridgie. He’s always been jealous of her. I remember once, it must be two years ago now, they had some sort of quarrel, and Herbert actually hurt her. He hurt her arm. I should never have found out if I hadn’t gone to her room and seen the marks. I think he sees some reflection of Paddy in her. Roderick, do you think Herbert can know about Paddy and me? Is there the smallest possibility that the blackmailer has written to him?”

  “It is possible, of course,” said Alleyn slowly, “but I don’t think it quite fits in. You say this extraordinary change in Carrados began after Miss Harris and Bridget talked of blackmail, and you showed you were startled?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think your obvious dismay could have suggested to him that you yourself were the victim of blackmail?”

  “I don’t know. It certainly suggested something pretty ominous,” said Lady Carrados, with the ghost of a smile. “He’s in the most extraordinary state of mind, it terrifies me.

  “When did you marry him, Evelyn?”

  “When? Two years after Paddy died. He had wanted me to marry him before. Herbert was a very old friend of my family’s. He had always been rather attached to me.”

  “He’s never given any sign of this sort of behaviour before?”

  “Not this sort. Of course, he’s rather difficult sometimes. He’s very touchy. He’s eighteen years older than I am, and he hates to be reminded of it. One has to be rather tactful. I suppose he’s vain. Bridgie thinks so, I know.”

  The gentle voice, with its tranquil, level note, faltered for a moment, and then went on steadily. “I suppose you wonder why I married him, don’t you?”

  “A little, yes. Perhaps you felt that you needed security. You had had your great adventure.”

  “It was exactly that. But it wasn’t right, I see that now. It wasn’t fair. Although Herbert knew quite well that he was not my great love, and was very chivalrous and humble about it, he couldn’t really resign himself to the knowledge, and he grew more and more inclined to be rather a martyr. It’s pathetically childish sometimes. He tries to draw my attention to his little ailments. He gets a sort of patient look. It irritates Bridgie dreadfully, which is such a pity. And yet, although Herbert seems simple, he’s not. He’s a mass of repressions, and queer twisted thoughts. Do you know, I think he is still intensely jealous of Paddy’s memory.”

  “Did you see much of him before Paddy died?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid, poor Herbert, that he rather saw himself as the faithful, chivalrous friend who continued to adore me quite honourably after I was — married. You see, I still think of myself as Paddy’s wife. We used to a
sk Herbert to dine quite often. He bored Paddy dreadfully but — well, I’m afraid Paddy rather gloried in some of Herbert’s peculiarities. He almost dined out on them. It was very naughty of him, but he was so gay always and so charming that he was forgiven everything. Everything.”

  “I know.”

  “Herbert rather emphasized the sacrificial note in his friendship, and of course Paddy saw that, and used to tease me about him. But I was very attached to him. No, he wasn’t quite so touchy in those days, poor fellow. He was always very kind indeed. I’m afraid both Paddy and I rather got into the way of making use of him.”

  “You are sure he suspected nothing?”

  “Absolutely. In a way he was our greatest friend. I told you that I was staying with my mother when Paddy was hurt. She rang Herbert up when the news came through. Almost instinctively we turned to him. He was with us in a few minutes. Why, I suppose in a way I owe it to Herbert that I was in time to see Paddy before he died.”

  Alleyn opened his mouth, and shut it again. Lady Carrados was staring into the fire, and gave no sign that she realized the significance of this last statement. At last Alleyn said: “How did that come about?”

  “Didn’t I tell you this afternoon? It was Herbert who drove me down to the Vicarage at Falconbridge on the day Paddy died.”

  It was one o’clock in the morning when Alleyn saw Lady Carrados, Bridget and Donald into a taxi, thankfully shut his door and went to bed. Less than twenty-four hours had passed since Robert Gospell met with his death, yet in that short time all the threads but one of the most complicated homicide cases he had ever dealt with had been put into his hands. As he waited for sleep, so long delayed, he saw the protagonists as a company of dancers moving in a figure so elaborate that the pattern of their message was almost lost in the confusion of individual gestures. Now it was Donald and Bridget who met and advanced through the centre of the maze; now Withers, marching on the outskirts of the dance, who turned to encounter Mrs Halcut-Hackett. Evelyn Carrados and her husband danced back to back into the very heart of the measure. Sir Daniel Davidson, like a sort of village master of ceremonies, with a gigantic rosette streaming from his buttonhole, gyrated slowly across and across. Dimitri slipped like a thief into the dance, offering a glass of champagne to each protagonist. Miss Harris skipped in a decorous fashion round the inner figure, but old General Halcut-Hackett, peering anxiously into every face, seemed to search for his partner. To and fro the figures swam more and more dizzily, faster and faster, until the confusion was intolerable. And then, with terrifying abruptness, they were stricken into immobility, and before he sank into oblivion, Alleyn, in a single flash, saw the pattern of the dance.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Benefit of Clergy

  The inquest on Lord Robert Gospell was held at eleven o’clock the next morning. It was chiefly remarkable for the circumstance that more people were turned away from it than had ever been turned away from any previous inquest in the same building. The coroner was a cross-grained man with the poorest possible opinion of society with a small “s” and a perfectly venomous hatred of Society with a large one. He suffered from chronic dyspepsia and an indeterminate but savage conviction that somebody was trying to get the better of him. The proceedings were coloured by his efforts to belittle the whole affair when he thought of the fashionable spectators, and to make the very most of it when he reflected that this sort of thing was the direct outcome of the behaviour of those sorts of people. However, apart from this personal idiosyncrasy, he was a good coroner. He called Donald, who, very white-faced, gave formal evidence of identification. He then heard the evidence of the taxi-driver, was particular about time, place and route, and called Alleyn.

  Alleyn described his first view and examination of the body. In formal phrases he gave a precise account of the injuries he had found on the body of his friend. Dr Curtis followed with his report on the post-mortem. One of Dimitri’s men gave evidence on the time Lord Robert left Marsdon House. The coroner with a vindictive glance at the audience said he saw no reason to call further evidence, addressed the jury in words that left them in no possible doubt as to the verdict they should return and when they had duly returned it, ordered an adjournment. He then fixed a baleful blue eye on the farthest wall and pronounced an expression of sympathy with the relatives. The whole proceedings had lasted twenty minutes.

  “Swish!” said Fox when he met Alleyn in the street outside. “That’s old ‘Slap-Bang, Here-we-are-again.’ You can’t beat him for speed, can you, sir?”

  “Mercifully, you can’t. Fox, we’re off to Barbicon-Bramley. I’ve borrowed my mother’s car and I’ve a hell of a lot to tell you, and I rather think the spell is wound up.”

  “Sir?”

  “You are quite right, Fox. Never quote, and if you do certainly not from Macbeth.”

  Lady Alleyn’s car was parked in a side street. Fox and Alleyn got into it and headed for the Uxbridge Road. On the way Alleyn related Bridget’s and Donald’s and Lady Carrados’s stories. When he had finished Fox grunted and they were both silent for ten minutes.

  “Well,” said Fox at last, “it all points to the same thing doesn’t it, Mr Alleyn?”

  “Yes, Fox. In a dubious sort of way it does.”

  “Still, I don’t see how we can exclude the others.”

  “Nor do I unless we get something definite from these people. If necessary we’ll have to go on to Falconbridge and visit the hospital, but I’m in hopes that Miss Harris’s uncle will come out of his retirement and go back to his gay young rectorish days seventeen years ago.”

  “What a hope!” said Fox.

  “As you indicate, the chances are thin.”

  “If they couldn’t find this chap O’Brien’s letter on the premises then how can we expect to trace it now, seventeen years later?”

  “Well urged, Brer Fox, well urged. But I fancy we know something now that they didn’t know then.”

  “Oh, well,” conceded Fox. “Maybe. But all the same I wouldn’t give you a tuppenny damn for our chances and that’s flat.”

  “I’m a little more sanguine than that. Well, if we fail here we’ll have to peg away somewhere else.”

  “There’s the missing cloak and hat.”

  “Yes. Any report come in this morning from the postal people?”

  “No. I’ve followed your suggestion and asked them to try to check yesterday’s overseas parcels post. Our chaps have gone into the rubbish-bin game and there’s nothing there. The Chelsea and Belgrave bins were emptied this morning and there’s no cloaks or hats in any of them. Of course something may come in from farther afield.”

  “I don’t fancy the rubbish-bins, Fox. Too risky. For some reason he wanted those things to be lost completely. Hair oil, perhaps. Yes, it might be hair oil. I’m afraid, you know, that we shall have to ask all these people if we may search their houses.”

  “Carrados is sure to object, sir, and you don’t want to have to get search warrants yet, do you?”

  “I think we can scare him by saying that Dimitri, Withers, Davidson, Halcut-Hackett and Lady Potter are all going to be asked to allow a search of their houses. He’ll look a bit silly if he refuses on top of that.”

  “Do you think the cloak and hat may still be hidden away in — well, in the guilty party’s house?”

  “No, blast it. I think he got rid of them yesterday before we had covered the first phase of investigation.”

  “By post?”

  “Well, can you think of a better method? In London? We’ve decided the river’s barred because of the tide. We’ve advertised the damn thing well enough — they haven’t been shoved down anyone’s area. We’ve searched all the way along the Embankment. The men are still at it but I don’t think they’ll find them. The murderer wouldn’t have time to do anything very elaborate in the way of hiding them and anyway, if we’re right, it’s off his beat.”

  “Where would he send them?” ruminated Fox.

  “Put yourse
lf in his place. What address would you put on an incriminating parcel?”

  “Care of Private Hoo Flung Dung, forty-second battalion, Chop Suey, Mah Jongg, Manchuria, to wait till called for,” suggested Fox irritably.

  “Something like that,” said Alleyn. “Something very like that, Brer Fox.”

  They drove in silence for the rest of the way to Barbicon-Bramley.

  Miss Harris’s natal village proved to be small and rather self-consciously picturesque. There was a preponderance of ye olde-ness about the few shops and a good deal of pseudo-Tudor half-timbering on the outlying houses. They stopped at the post office and Alleyn asked to be directed to the Reverend Mr Walter Harris’s house.

  “I understand he is not the rector but his brother.”

  “Oo, yes,” agreed the post office lady rattling her basket cuffs and flashing a smile. “That will be the old gentleman. Quayte an aydentity in the district. First to the left into Oakapple Lane and straight on to the end. ‘The Thatch.’ It’s ever so unmistakable. The last residence on the left, standing back in its own grounds.”

  “Thank you so much,” said Alleyn.

  They found ‘The Thatch’ as she had predicted, without any difficulty. The grounds of its own in which it stood back were an eighth of an acre of charming cottage garden. Alleyn and Fox had only got half-way up the cobbled path when they came upon two rumps up-ended behind a tall border of rosemary and lavender. The first was clad in patched trousers of clerical grey, the second in the navy blue decency of a serge skirt. Fragrant herbs hid the rest of these two gardeners from view.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” said Alleyn, removing his hat.

  With a slow upheaving movement, the Reverend and Mrs Walter Harris became wholly vertical and turned about.

  “Oh!” they said gently. “Good afternoon.”

  They were very old indeed and had the strange marital likeness that so often comes upon a man and woman who have worked together all their lives. Their faces, though they differed in conformation, echoed each other in expression. They both had mild grey eyes surrounded by a network of kindly lines; they were both weather-beaten, and each of their mouths in repose, curved into a doubtful smile. Upon Mrs Harris’s hair rather than her head was a wide garden hat with quite a large rent in the crown through which straggled a straight grey lock or two. Her husband also wore well over his nose a garden hat, an ancient panama with a faded green ribbon. His long crêpey neck was encircled by a low clerical collar, but instead of the usual grey jacket an incredibly faded All Souls blazer hung from his sharp shoulder-blades. He now tilted his head backwards in order to look at Alleyn under his hat-brim and through his glasses which were clipped half-way down his nose.