by Ngaio Marsh
He had a pocket diary on him and produced it. He made quite a business of opening it and flattening it on the table. He wrote in it, almost under her nose.
“Maria. Time of S’s arrival in bedroom. No answer.”
When he looked up he found that Maria was glaring at his notebook. He pushed it nearer and turned it toward her. “Can you see?” he asked politely.
She undamped her mouth.
“Twenty past nine. By her clock,” she said.
“Splendid. And now, Maria — by the way, I haven’t got your surname, have I? Your cognome.”
“Bennini.”
“Thank you.” He added it to his note. “I see you wear a wedding ring,” he said. “What was your maiden name, please?”
“Why do you ask me such questions? You are impertinent.”
“You prefer not to answer?” Alleyn inquired politely.
Silence.
“Ah well,” he said. “When you are more composed and I hope a little recovered from the terrible shock you have sustained, you will tell me exactly what happened after she arrived with Signor Reece?”
And astonishingly, with no further ado, this creature of surprises, who a few seconds ago had called him “filth” and spat at him, embarked upon a coherent and lucid account. Maria had gone straight upstairs as soon as the curtain fell on the opera. She had performed her usual duties, putting out the glass of water and the tranquilizer that the Sommita always took after an opening night, folding her negligé over the back of a chair, and turning down the crimson counterpane. The Sommita arrived with Signor Reece. She was much displeased, Maria said, which Alleyn thought was probably the understatement of the year, and ordered Maria to leave the room. This, he gathered was a not unusual occurrence. She also ordered Mr. Reece to leave, which was. He tried to soothe her, but she became enraged.
“About what?” Alleyn asked.
About something that happened after the opera. Maria had already left the audience. The Signor Bartholomew, she gathered, had insulted the diva. Signor Reece tried to calm her, Maria herself offered to massage her shoulders but was flung off. In the upshot he and Maria left and went downstairs together, Mr. Reece suggesting that Maria give the diva time to calm down and then take her a hot drink, which had been known on similar occasions to produce a favorable reaction.
Maria had followed this advice.
How long between the time when they had left the room and Maria returned to it?
About an hour, she thought.
Where was she during that time?
In the servants’ quarters, where she made the hot drink. Mrs. Bacon and Bert the chaffeur were there most of the time, and others of the staff came to and fro from their duties in the dining room, where the guests were now at table. Mr. Reece had joined them. Maria sat and waited for her mistress to compose herself, as Mr. Reece had suggested, and then made the hot drink. Then she returned to the bedroom, found her mistress murdered, and raised the alarm.
“When Madame Sommita dismissed you, did she lock the door after you?”
Yes, it appeared. Maria heard the lock click. She had her own key and used it on her return.
Had anybody else a key to the room?
For the first time she boggled. Her mouth worked but she did not speak.
“Signor Reece, for instance?” Alleyn prompted.
She made the Italian negative sign with her finger.
“Who, then?”
A sly look appeared. Her eyes slid around in the direction of the passage to the right of the landing. Her hand moved to her breast.
“Do you mean Signor Bartholomew?” Alleyn asked.
“Perhaps,” she said, and he saw that, very furtively, she crossed herself.
He made a note about keys in his book.
She watched him avidly.
“Maria,” he said when he had finished writing, “how long have you been with Madame Sommita?”
Five years, it appeared. She had come to Australia as wardrobe mistress with an Italian opera company, and had stayed on as sewing maid at the Italian Embassy. The Signora’s personal maid had displeased her and been dismissed and Signor Reece had inquired of an aide-de-camp who was a friend of his if they could tell him of anyone suitable. The Ambassador had come to the end of his term and the household staff was to be reorganized. Maria had been engaged as personal dresser and lady’s maid to Isabella Sommita.
“Who do you think committed this crime?” Alleyn asked suddenly.
“The young man,” she answered venomously and at once as if that was a foolish question. And then with another of her abrupt changes of key she urged, begged, demanded that she go back into the room and perform the last services for her mistress — lay her out with decency and close her eyes and pray it would not be held in wrath against her that she had died in a state of sin. “I must go. I insist,” said Maria.
“That is still impossible,” said Alleyn. “I’m sorry.”
He saw that she was on the edge of another outburst and hoped that if she was again moved to spit at him her aim would not have improved.
“You must pull yourself together,” he said. “Otherwise I shall be obliged to ask Mr. Reece to have you locked up in your own room. Be a good girl, Maria. Grieve for her. Pray for her soul but do not make scenes. They won’t get you anywhere, you know.”
Dr. Carmichael, who had contemplated Maria dubiously throughout, now said with professional authority: “Come along like a sensible woman. You’ll make yourself unwell if you go on like this. I’ll take you down and we’ll see if we can find the housekeeper. Mrs. Bacon, isn’t it? You’d much better go to bed, you know. Take an aspirin.”
“And a hot drink?” Alleyn mildly suggested.
She looked furies at him but with the abruptness that was no longer unexpected stood up, crossed the landing, and walked quickly downstairs.
“Shall I see if I can find Mrs. Bacon and hand her over?” Dr. Carmichael offered.
“Do, like a good chap,” said Alleyn. “And if Mrs. B. has vanished, take her to bed yourself.”
“Choose your words,” said Dr. Carmichael and set off in pursuit.
Alleyn caught him at the head of the stairs. “I’m going back in there,” he said. “I may be a little time. Join me if you will when you’ve brought home the Bacon. Actually I hope they’re all tucked up for the night, but I’d like to know.”
Dr. Carmichael ran nimbly downstairs and Alleyn returned, once more, to the bedroom.
iii
He began a search. The bedroom was much more ornate than the rest of the house. No doubt, Alleyn thought, this reflected the Sommita’s taste more than that of the clever young architect. The wardrobe doors, for instance were carved with elegant festoons and swags of flowers in deep relief, each depending from the central motif of a conventionalized sunflower with a sunken black center, the whole concoction being rather loudly painted and reminiscent of art nouveau.
Alleyn made a thorough search of the surfaces under the bed, of the top of her dressing table, of an escritoire, on which he found the Sommita’s jewel box. This was unlocked and the contents were startling in their magnificence. The bedside table. The crimson coverlet. Nothing. Could it be under the body? Possible, he supposed, but he must not move the body.
The bathroom: all along the glass shelves, the floor, everywhere.
And yet Maria, if she was to be believed, had heard the key turned in the lock after she and Mr. Reece were kicked out. And when she returned she had used her own key. He tried to picture the Sommita, at the height, it seemed, of one of her rages, turning the key in the lock, withdrawing it, and then putting it — where? Hiding it? But why? There was no accommodation for it in the bosom of her Hebraic gown, which was now slashed down in ribbons. He uncovered the horror that was the Sommita, and with infinite caution, scarcely touching it, examined the surface of the counterpane round the body. He even slid his hand under the body. Nothing. He re-covered the body.
“When all likely p
laces have been fruitlessly explored, begin on the unlikely and carry on into the preposterous.” This was the standard practice. He attacked the drawers of the dressing table. They were kept, by Maria, no doubt, in perfect order. He patted, lifted and replaced lacy undergarments, stockings, gloves. Finally, in the bottom drawer on the left he arrived at the Sommita’s collection of handbags. On the top was a gold mesh, bejeweled affair that he remembered her carrying on the evening of their arrival.
Using his handkerchief he gingerly opened it and found her key to the room lying on top of an unused handkerchief.
The bag would have to be fingerprinted, but for the moment it would be best to leave it undisturbed.
So what was to be concluded? If she had taken her bag downstairs and left it in her dressing room, then she must have taken it back to the bedroom. Mr. Reece was with her. There would have been no call for the key, for Maria was already in the room, waiting for her. She was, it must never be forgotten, in a passion, and the Sommita’s passions, he would have thought, did not admit of methodical tidying away of handbags into drawers. She would have been more likely to chuck the bag at Mr. Reece’s or Maria’s head, but Maria had made no mention of any such gesture. She had merely repeated that when they beat their retreat they heard the key turn in the lock and that when she came back with the hot drink she used her own key.
Was it then to be supposed that, having locked herself in, the Sommita stopped raging and methodically replaced her key in the bag and the bag in the drawer? Unlikely, because she must have used the key to admit her killer and was not likely to replace it. Being, presumably, dead.
Unless, of course, Maria was her killer. This conjured up a strange picture. The fanatically devoted Maria, hot drink in hand, reenters the bedroom, places the brimming cup in its saucer on the bedside table, and chloroforms her tigerish mistress, who offers no resistance, and she then produces the dagger and photograph and, having completed the job, sets up her own brand of hullabaloo and rushes downstairs proclaiming the murder? No.
Back to the Sommita, then. What had she done after she had locked herself in? She had not undressed. She had not taken her pill. How had she spent her last minutes before she was murdered?
And what, oh what about Rupert Bartholomew?
At this point there was a tap on the door and Dr. Carmichael returned.
“‘Safely stowed,’ ” he said. “At least, I hope so. Mrs. Bacon was still up and ready to cope. We escorted that tiresome woman to her room, she offering no resistance. I waited outside. Mrs. B. saw her undressed, be-nightied and in bed. She gave her a couple of aspirins, made sure she took them, and came out. We didn’t lock her up, by the way.”
“We’ve really no authority to do that,” said Alleyn. “I was making an idle threat.”
“It seemed to work.”
“I really am very grateful indeed for your help, Carmichael. I don’t know how I’d manage without you.”
“To tell you the truth, in a macabre sort of way, I’m enjoying myself. It’s a change from general practice. What now?” asked Dr. Carmichael.
“Look here. This is important. When you went backstage to succor the wretched Bartholomew, the Sommita was still on deck, wasn’t she?”
“She was indeed. Trying to manhandle the boy.”
“Still in her Old Testament gear, of course?”
“Of course.”
“When they persuaded her to go upstairs — Reece and Lattienzo, wasn’t it? — did she take a gold handbag with her? Or did Reece take it?”
“I can’t remember. I don’t think so.”
“It would have looked pretty silly,” Alleyn said. “It wouldn’t exactly team up with the white samite number. I’d have thought you’d have noticed it.” He opened the drawer and showed Dr. Carmichael the bag.
“She was threshing about with her arms quite a bit,” the doctor said. “No, I’m sure she hadn’t got that thing in her hand. Why?” Alleyn explained.
Dr. Carmichael closed his eyes for some seconds. “No,” he said at last, “I can’t reconcile the available data with any plausible theory. Unless—”
“Well?”
“Well, it’s a most unpleasant thought but — unless the young man—”
“There is that, of course.”
“Maria is already making strong suggestions along those lines.”
“Is she, by George,” said Alleyn and after a pause, “but it’s the Sommita’s behavior and her bloody key that won’t fit in. Did you see anything of our host downstairs?”
“There’s a light under what I believe is his study door and voices beyond.”
“Come on then. It’s high time I reported. He may be able to clear things up a bit.”
“I suppose so.”
“Either confirm or refute la bella Maria, at least,” said Alleyn. “Would you rather go to bed?”
Dr. Carmichael looked at his watch. “Good Lord,” he exclaimed, “it’s a quarter to twelve.”
“As Iago said, ‘Pleasure and action make the hours seem short.’ ”
“Who? Oh. Oh, yes. No, I don’t want to go to bed.”
“Come on then.”
Again they turned off the lights and left the room. Alleyn locked the door.
Bert was on the landing.
“Was you still wanting a watch kept up,” he said, “I’ll take it on if you like. Only a suggestion.”
“You are a good chap,” Alleyn said. “But—”
“I appreciate you got to be careful. The way things are. But seeing you suggested it yourself before and seeing I never set eyes on one of this mob until I took the job on, I don’t look much like a suspect. Please yourself.”
“I accept with very many thanks. But—”
“If you was thinking I might drop off, I’d thought of that. I might, too. I could put a couple of them chairs in front of the door and doss down for the night. Just an idea,” said Bert.
“It’s the answer,” Alleyn said warmly. “Thank you, Bert.”
And he and Dr. Carmichael went downstairs to the study.
Here they found not only Mr. Reece but Signor Lattienzo, Ben Ruby, and Hanley, the secretary.
Mr. Reece, perhaps a trifle paler than usual, but he was always rather wan, sat at his trendy desk — his swivel chair turned toward the room as if he had interrupted his work to give an interview. Hanley drooped by the window curtains and had probably been looking out at the night. The other two men sat by the fire and seemed to be relieved at Alleyn’s appearance. Signor Lattienzo did, in fact, exclaim: “Ecco! At last!” Hanley, reverting to his customary solicitude, pushed chairs forward.
“I am very glad to see you, Mr. Alleyn,” said Mr. Reece in his pallid way. “Doctor!” he added with an inclination of his head toward Carmichael.
“I’m afraid we’ve little to report,” Alleyn said. “Doctor Carmichael is very kindly helping me, but so far we haven’t got beyond the preliminary stages. I’m hoping that you, sir, will be able to put us right on some points, particularly in respect of the order of events from the time Rupert Bartholomew fainted until Maria raised the alarm.”
He had hoped for some differences: something that could give him a hint of a pattern or explain the seeming discrepancies in Maria’s narrative. Particularly, something about keys. But no, on all points the account corresponded with Maria’s.
Alleyn asked if the Sommita made much use of her bedroom key.
“Yes; I think she did, I recommended it. She has — had— there was always — a considerable amount of jewelry in her bedroom. You may say very valuable pieces. I tried to persuade her to keep it in my safe in this room but she wouldn’t do that. It was the same thing in hotels. After all, we have got a considerable staff here and it would be a temptation.”
“Her jewel case in the escritoire — unlocked.”
Mr. Reece clicked his tongue. “She’s — she was incorrigible. The artistic temperament, I am told, though I never, I’m afraid, have known precisely what that me
ans.”
“One is never quite sure of its manifestations,” said Alleyn, surprised by this unexpected turn in the conversation. Mr. Reece seemed actually to have offered something remotely suggesting a rueful twinkle.
“Well,” he said, “you, no doubt, have had firsthand experience,” and with a return to his elaborately cumbersome social manner. “Delightful, in your case, may I hasten to say.”
“Thank you. While I think of it,” Alleyn said, “do you, by any chance remember if Madame Sommita carried a gold-meshed handbag when you took her up to her room?”
“No,” said Mr. Reece, after considering it. “No, I’m sure she didn’t.”
“Right. About these jewels. No doubt the police will ask you later to check the contents of the box.”
“Certainly. But I am not familiar with all her jewels.”
Only, Alleyn thought, with the ones he gave her, I daresay.
“They are insured,” Mr. Reece offered. “And Maria would be able to check them.”
“Is Maria completely to be trusted?”
“Oh, certainly. Completely. Like many of her class and origin she has an uncertain temper and she can be rather a nuisance, but she was devoted to her mistress, you might say fanatically so. She has been upset,” Mr. Reece added with one of his own essays in understatement.
“Oh, my dear Monty,” Signor Lattienzo murmured. “Upset! So have we all been upset. ‘Shattered’ would be a more appropriate word.” He made an uncertain gesture and took out his cigarette case.
And indeed he looked quite unlike himself, being white and, as Alleyn noticed, tremulous. “Monty, my dear,” he said. “I should like a little more of your superb cognac. Is it permitted?”
“Of course, Beppo. Mr. Alleyn? Doctor? Ben?”
The secretary, with a sort of ghostly reminder of his customary readiness, hurried into action. Dr. Carmichael had a large whiskey-and-soda and Alleyn nothing.
Ben Ruby, whose face was puffed and blotched and his eyes bloodshot, hurriedly knocked back his cognac and pushed his glass forward. “What say it’s one of that mob?” he demanded insecurely. “Eh? What say one of those buggers stayed behind?”