Last Ditch ra-29

by Ngaio Marsh

  “Like it or lump it, he’ll have to take it off. Ring him up, Plank.”

  When Mr. Blacker arrived he seemed to be, if anything, rather stimulated to find police on the spot. He didn’t even attempt to hide his curiosity and darted avid little glances from one to the other.

  “Something funny in the wind, is there?” he said, “or what?”

  Alleyn asked if he could see the injury to the mare’s leg. Blacker demurred, but more as a matter of form, Alleyn thought, than with any real concern. He went to the mare’s loose-box and was received with that air of complete acceptance and noninterest that animals seem to reserve for veterinary surgeons.

  “How’s the girl, then?” asked Mr. Blacker.

  She was wearing a halter. He moved her about the loose-box and then walked her around the yard and back.

  “Nothing much the matter there, is there?” Plank ventured.

  The mare stretched out her neck toward Alleyn and quivered her nostrils at him.

  “Like to take hold of her?” the vet asked.

  Alleyn did. She butted him uncomfortably, drooled slightly, and paid no attention to the removal of the bandage.

  “There we are,” said Mr. Blacker. “Coming along nicely.”

  Hair was growing in where it had been shaved off around the cut, which ran horizontally across the front of the foreleg about three inches above the hoof. It had healed, as Mr. Blacker said, good and pretty and they’d have to get those two stitches out, wouldn’t they? This was effected with a certain display of agitation on the part of the patient.

  Alleyn said: “What caused it?”

  “Bit of a puzzle, really. There were scratches from the blackthorn, which you’ll have seen was knocked about, and bruises and one or two superficial grazes, but she came down in soft ground. I couldn’t find anything to account for this cut. It went deep, you know. Almost to the bone. There wasn’t anything of the sort in the hedge but, my God, you’d have said it was wire.”

  “Would you indeed?” Alleyn put his hand in his pocket and produced the few inches of wire he had cut from the coil in the coach house. He held it alongside the scar.

  “Would that fit?” he asked.

  “By God,” said Mr. Blacker, “it certainly would.”

  Alleyn said, “I’m very much obliged to you, Blacker.”

  “Glad to be of any help. Er — yes — er,” said Mr. Blacker, “I suppose, er, I mean, er—”

  “You’re wondering why we’re here? On departmental police business, but your Super finding himself out of action suggested we might take a look at the scene of the accident.”

  They were in the stable yard. The Leathers string of horses had moved to the brow of the hill. “Which,” Alleyn asked, “is Mungo, the wall-eyed bay?”

  “That thing!” said Blacker. “We put it down a week ago. Cuth always meant to, you know, it was a wrong ’un. He’d taken a scunner on it after it kicked him. Way he talked about it, you’d have thought it was possessed of a devil. It was a real villain, I must say. Dulce fancied it, though. Thought she’d make a show jumper of it. Fantastic! Well, I’ll be on my way. Morning to you.”

  When he had gone Alleyn said: “Shall we take a look at the barn? If open.”

  It was a stone building standing some way beyond the stables and seemed to bear witness to the vanished farmstead, said by Plank to have predated Leathers. There were signs of a thatched roof having been replaced by galvanized iron. They found a key above the door, which carried the legend “Welcome to all” in amateurish capitals.

  “That lets us in,” said Fox, drily.

  The interior was well lit from uncurtained windows. There was no ceiling to hide the iron roof and birds could be heard scruffling about outside. The hall wore that air of inert expectancy characteristic of places of assembly caught, as it were, by surprise. A group of about a hundred seats, benches of various kinds, and a harmonium faced a platform approached by steps, on which stood a table, a large chair, and six smaller ones. The table carried a book prop and an iron object that appeared to symbolize fire, flanked by a cross and a sword.

  “That’ll be Chris Beale, the smith’s, work,” said Plank, spotting it. “He’s one of them.”

  The platform, set off by curtains, was backed by a whitewashed wall with a central door. This was unlocked and opened into a room fitted with a gas boiler, a sink, and cupboards with crockery. “ ‘Ladies a basket’ we must remember,” Alleyn muttered and returned to the platform. Above the door and occupying half of the width of the wall hung an enormous placard, scarlet and lettered in white. “THE WAGES OF SIN,” it alarmingly proclaimed, “ARE DEATH.”

  The side walls, also, were garnished with dogmatic injunctions including quotations from the twenty-seventh chapter of Deuteronomy. One of these notices attracted Mr. Fox’s attention. “Watch,” it said, “For ye know not at what Hour the Master Cometh.”

  “Do they reckon they do?” Fox asked Plank.

  “Do what, Mr. Fox?”

  “Know,” Fox said. “When.”

  As if as in answer to his inquiry the front door opened to reveal Mr. Harkness. He stood there, against the light, swaying a little and making preliminary noises. Alleyn moved toward him.

  “I hope,” he began, “you don’t mind our coming in. It does say on the door—”

  A voice from within Mr. Harkness said, “Come one, come all. All are called. Few are chosen. See you Sunday.” He suddenly charged down the hall and up the steps, most precariously, to the door on the platform. Here he turned and roared in his more familiar manner. “It will be an unexamplimented experience. Thank you.”

  He gave a military salute and plunged out of sight.

  “I’ll think we’ll have it at that,” said Alleyn.

  6: Morning at the Cove

  i

  At half-past nine on that same morning, Ricky chucked his pen on his manuscript, ran his fingers through his hair, and plummeted into the nadir of doubt and depression that from time to time so punctually attends upon dealers in words. “I’m no good,” he thought, “it’s all a splurge of pretension and incompetence. I write about one thing and something entirely different is trying to emerge. Or is there quite simply nothing there to emerge? Over and out.”

  He stared through the window at a choppy and comfortless harbor and his thoughts floated as inconsequently as driftwood among the events of the past weeks. He wallowed again between ship and jetty at Saint Pierre-des-Roches. He thought of Julia Pharamond and that teasing face was suddenly replaced by the frightful caved-in mask of dead Dulcie. Ferrant returned to make a fool of him and he asked himself for the hundredth time if it had been Ferrant or Syd Jones who tried to drown him. And for the hundredth time he found it a preposterous notion that anybody should try to drown him. And yet knew very well that it had been so and that his father believed him when he said as much.

  So now he thought of his father and of Br’er Fox, who was his godfather. He wondered how exactly they behaved when they worked together on a case and if at that moment they were up at Leathers. Detecting. And then, with a certainty that quite astonished him, Ricky tumbled to it that the reason why he couldn’t write that morning was not because the events of the day before had distracted him or because he was bruised and sore and looked a sight or because the horror of Dulcie Harkness had been revived but simply because he wanted very badly indeed to be up there with his father, finding out about things.

  “Oh no!” he thought. “I won’t take that. That’s not my scene. I’ve other things to do. Or have I?” He was very disturbed.

  He hadn’t seen any of the Pharamonds since the day of the postponed inquest. Jasper had rung up and asked him to dinner but Ricky had said he was in a bad patch with his work and had promised himself there would be no more junkets until he had got over it. He could hear Julia in the background shouting instructions.

  “Tell him to bring his book and we’ll all write it for him.”

  Jasper had explained that Julia w
as in the bath and she, in the background, screamed that umbrage would be taken if Ricky didn’t come. It had emerged that the next day the Pharamonds were flying over to London to see the ballet and meant to stay on for a week or so if anything amusing offered. Ricky had stuck to his guns and not dined at L’Espérance and had wasted a good deal of the evening regretting it.

  He wondered if they were still in London. Did they always hunt in a pack? Were they as rich as they seemed to be? Julia had said that Jasper had inherited a fortune from his Brazilian grandfather. And had Louis also inherited a fortune? Louis didn’t seem to do work of any description. Jasper was at least writing a book about the binomial theorem but Louis — Ricky wouldn’t be surprised if Louis was a bit hot: speculated rashly, perhaps, or launched slightly dubious companies. But then he didn’t care for Louis and his bedroom eyes. Louis was the sort of man that women, God knew why, seemed to fall for. Even his cousin Julia when they danced together.

  Julia. It would perhaps be just as well, bearing in mind his father’s strictures upon talkativeness, if Julia were still in London. If she were at L’Espérance she would wish to know why his father was here; she would ask them both to dinner and say — he could see her magnolia face and her impertinent eyes — that they were slyboots, both of them. Perhaps his father would not go, but sooner or later he, Ricky, would, and once under the spell, could he trust himself not to blurt something out? No, it would be much better if the Pharamonds had decided to prolong their London visit. Much better.

  And having settled that question he felt braced and took up his pen.

  He heard the telephone ring and Mrs. Ferrant come out of the kitchen, releasing televisual voices from within.

  He knew it was going to be for him and he knew it would be Julia.

  Mrs. Ferrant shouted from the foot of the stairs and returned to the box.

  As usual Ricky felt as if he had sunk much too rapidly in a fast lift. The telephone was in the passage and before he picked up the receiver he could hear it gabbling. Julia was admonishing her daughter. “All I can say, Selina, is this. Putting mud in Nanny’s reticule is the unfunniest thing you could possibly do and just so boring that I can’t be bothered talking about it. Please go away.”

  “I’ve only just come,” Ricky said.

  “Ricky?”

  “None other.”

  “You sound peculiar.”

  “I’m merely breathless.”

  “Have you been running?”

  “No,” said Ricky crossly. He took a plunge. “You have that effect on me,” he said.

  “Smashing! I must tell Jasper.”

  “When did you come back?”

  “Just this moment. The ballet was out of this world. And there were some fantastic parties. Lots of jolly chums.”

  Ricky was stabbed by jealousy. “How lovely,” he said.

  “I’ve rung up to know if it can possibly be true that your superb papa is among us.”

  “Here we go,” Ricky thought. He said. “How did you know?”

  “Louis caught sight of him in the hotel last night.”

  “But — I thought you said you’d only just got back.”

  “Louis didn’t come to London. He doesn’t like the ballet. He stayed at the Hotel Montjoy to escape from Selina and Julietta. Has Troy come too?”

  “No, she’s busily painting a tree in London.”

  “Louis says your papa seemed to be hobnobbing with an elderly policeman.”

  “There’s meant to be some sort of reorganization going on in the force.”

  “Are they going to raise Sergeant Plank to dizzy heights? I’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Very much.”

  “You’re huffy, aren’t you?”

  “No!” Ricky cried. “I’m not. Never less.”

  “Nevertheless what?”

  “I didn’t say ‘nevertheless.’ I said I was never less huffy.”

  “Well then, you’re being slyboots as usual and not divulging some dynamic bit of gossip.” A pause and then the voice said, “Ricky, dear. I don’t know why I tease you.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Promise? Very well, then, is it in order for us to ring up your father and ask him to dine? Or lunch?”

  “Yes — well — yes, of course. He’d adore it. Only thing: he is very much occupied it seems.”

  “Does it? Well, one can but try,” she said coolly. Ricky felt inclined to say, “Who’s being huffy now?” but he only made vague noises and felt wretched.

  “Of course you’d be invited too,” she threw out.

  “Thank you, Julia.”

  “You still sound odd.”

  “I fell in the sea at Saint Pierre.”

  “How too extraordinary! What were you doing in Saint Pierre? Or in the sea if it comes to that? Never mind. You should have said so at once and we wouldn’t have been at cross-purposes like funny men on the box. Ricky?”

  “Yes, Julia.”

  “Has the inquest been reopened?”

  “No.”

  “I see. I feel we shall never get rid of Miss Harness.”

  “Harkness.”

  “I don’t do it on purpose. To me she is Harness.”

  “I know.”

  “I hoped in my shallow way that the ballet and fun things would put her out of my head. But they haven’t.” She added hurriedly, furtively almost, “I dream about it. Seeing her. Isn’t that awful?”

  “I’m so terribly sorry. So do I, if it’s any comfort.”

  “You do? Not fair to say I’m glad. Ricky — don’t answer if you musn’t — but Ricky — was she murdered?”

  “I don’t know. Honestly. How could I?”

  “Your father.”

  “Julia — please don’t.”

  “I’m sorry. How’s your book going?”

  “Not very fast.”

  “How’s Mr. Jones? At least I can ask you how Mr. Jones is.”

  “Oh God!” Ricky said under his breath, and aloud: “He’s away. Over at Saint Pierre-des-Roches.”

  “I see. I think I must find out what Selina is doing. It’s Nanny’s evening off and there’s an ominous silence. Goodbye.”

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about all of you.”

  “Have you?”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye.”

  Ricky was cast down by this exchange. It had been miserably unsatisfactory. He felt that the relationship so elegantly achieved with Julia had been lost in a matter of minutes and there he was floundering about among evasions and excuses while she got more and more remote. She hadn’t spluttered. Not once.

  Mrs. Ferrant opened the kitchen door, releasing the honeyed cajolements of a commercial jingle and the subtle aroma of a béarnaise sauce.

  “I didn’t think to ask,” she said, “did you happen to see him over in Saint Pierre?”

  “Yes,” said Ricky. “We ran into each other.”

  “Any message?”

  “No. Nothing particular.”

  She said: “That black eye of yours is a proper masterpiece, isn’t it?”

  Ricky returned to his room.

  ii

  Alleyn had finished outdoors at Leathers. He went inside to ask Mr. Harkness if he might look at his niece’s bedroom and found him snoring hideously in his office chair. He could not be roused to a sensible condition. Alleyn, in Fox’s presence, formally put his request and took the snort that followed it as a sign of consent.

  They all went upstairs to Dulcie’s room.

  It was exactly what might have been expected. The walls were covered in horsey photographs, the drawers and wardrobe were stuffed with equestrian gear. Riding boots stood along the floor. The bed was dragged together rather than made. On a table beside it were three battered pornographic paperbacks. A tube of contraceptive pills was in the drawer: half empty.

  “Must have been careless,” Fox said. They began a systematic search.

  After an unproductive minute or two Plank sa
id: “You don’t suppose she thought taking that dirty great jump might do the trick, do you, sir?”

  “Who can tell? On what we’ve got it sounds more as if the jump was the climax of a blazing row with her uncle. Did they blast off at each other as a regular practice do you know, Plank?”

  “Only after he took up with this funny religion, or so they reckon in the Cove. Before that they was thought to be on very pleasant terms. He taught her to ride and was uncommon proud of the way she shaped up.”

  Fox threw his head back in order to contemplate from under his spectacles an item of Miss Harkness’s underwear. “Free in her ways,” he mused, “by all accounts. By your account if it comes to that, Sarge.”

  Sergeant Plank reddened. “According to the talk,” he said, “that was the trouble between them. After he took queer with his Inner Brethren he cut up rough over Dulcie’s life-style. The general opinion is, he tried to hammer it out of her but what a hope. I daresay her being in the family way put the lid on it.” He entered the wardrobe and was enveloped in overcoats.

  “When the Pharamonds and my son went to pick up their horses they interrupted a ding-dong go during which she roared out that she was pregnant and he called her a Whore of Babylon.”

  “I never knew that,” said Plank’s voice, stuffy with clothes. “Is that a fact.”

  “You wouldn’t get round to wondering,” Fox suggested, “if his attitude could have led to anything serious?”

  Plank, still red-faced, emerged from the wardrobe, “No, Mr. Fox,” he said loudly. “Not to him rigging wire in the gap. Not Cuth Harkness. Not a chap like him, given over to horses and their management. And that mare the apple of his eye! It’s not in the man to do it, drunk or sober, dotty or sane.” He appealed to Alleyn. “I’ve known the man for four years and it’s not on, sir, it’s not bloody on. Excuse me. Like you was saying yourself, sir, about this being an affair of character. Well, there’s no part of this crime, if it is a crime, in Cuth Harkness’s character and I’d stake my promotion on it.”

  Alleyn said: “It’s a point well taken. You might just remember something else they tell us.”

  “What’s that, sir?”