by Ngaio Marsh
“It must be quite a sight — the Lake and the mountains?” Alleyn said lightly.
“Very impressive, sir.”
“Your mysterious photographer should be there again with his camera.”
A little muscle jumped under Marco’s olive cheek.
“It is certain he has gone, sir. But, of course you are joking.”
“Do you know exactly how Madame Sommita was murdered, Marco? The details?”
“Maria is talking last night but she is excitable. When she is excitable she is not reasonable. Or possible to understand. It is all,” said Marco, “very dreadful, sir.”
“They forgot to take the mailbag to the launch last night. Had you noticed?”
Marco knocked over the marmalade pot on Troy’s tray.
“I am very sorry, madame,” he said. “I am very clumsy.”
“It’s all right,” Troy said. “It hasn’t spilt.”
“Do you know what I think, Marco?” said Alleyn. “I think there never was a strange photographer on the Island.”
“Do you, sir? Thank you, sir. Will that be all?”
“Do you have a key to the postbag?”
“It is kept in the study, sir.”
“And is the bag unlocked during the time it is in the house?”
“There is a posting box in the entrance, sir. Mr. Hanley empties it into the bag when it is time for the launch man to take it.”
“Too bad he overlooked it last night.”
Marco, sheet-white, bowed and left the room.
“And I suppose,” Troy ventured, “I pretend I didn’t notice you’ve terrified the pants off that poor little man.”
“Not such a poor little man.”
“Not?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Rory,” said his wife. “Under ordinary circumstances I never, never ask about cases. Admit.”
“My darling, you are perfection in that as in all other respects. You never do.”
“Very well. These circumstances are not ordinary and if you wish me to give my customary imitation of a violet by a mossy stone half-hidden from the view, you must also be prepared for me to spontaneously combust.”
“Upon my word, love, I can’t remember how much you do or do not know of our continuing soap opera. Let us eat our breakfasts and you ask questions the while. When, by the way, did we last meet? Not counting bed?”
“When I gave you the powder and brush in the studio. Remember?”
“Ah yes. Oh, and thank you for the dispatch case. Just what I wanted, like a Christmas present. You don’t know how she was killed, do you?”
“Signor Lattienzo told me. Remember?”
“Ah yes. He came up to the studio, didn’t he?”
“Yes. To see if I was all right. It was kind of him, really.”
“Very,” said Alleyn dryly.
“Don’t you like him?”
“Did he tell you in detail?”
“Just that she was stabbed. At first it seemed unreal. Like more bad opera. You know his flowery way of saying things. And then, of course, when it got real — quite appalling. It’s rather awful to be wallowing between silken sheets, crunching toast while we talk about it,” said Troy, “but I happen to be hungry.”
“You wouldn’t help matters if you suddenly decided to diet.”
“True.”
“I think I’d better tell you the events of the night in order of occurrence. Or, no,” said Alleyn. “You can read my file. While you’re doing that I’ll get up and see if Bert is still on duty, poor chap.”
“Bert? The chauffeur?”
“That’s right. I won’t be long.”
He gave her the file, put on his dressing gown and slippers, and went out to the landing. Bert was up and slightly disheveled. The chairs still barricaded the door.
“Gidday,” he said. “Glad to see you.”
“I’m sorry I’ve left it so late. Did you have a beastly night of it?”
“Naow. She was good. Wee bit drafty, but we mustn’t grumble.”
“Anything to report?”
“Maria. At four-twenty. I’m right out to it but I reckon she must of touched me because I open my eyes and there she bloody is, hanging over me with a key in her hand looking as if she’s trying to nut it out how to get the door open. Brainless. I say: ‘What’s the big idea?’ and she lets out a screech and drops the key. On me. Plonk. No trouble.”
“And did you—?”
“Grab it. Kind of reflex action, really.”
“You didn’t give it back to her, Bert?”
Bert assumed a patient, quizzical expression and produced the key from his trouser pocket.
“Good on you, boy,” said Alleyn, displaying what he hoped was the correct idiom and the proper show of enthusiasm. He clapped Bert on the shoulder. “What was her reaction?” he asked and wondered if he, too, ought to adopt the present tense.
“She’s moanin’,” said Bert.
“Moaning?”
“This is right. Complainin’. Reckonin’ she’ll put my pot on with the boss. Clawin’ at me to get it back. Reckonin’ she wants to lay out the deceased and say prayers and that lot. But never raising her voice, mind. Never once. When she sees it’s no dice and when I tell her I’ll hand the key over to you she spits in my face, no trouble, and beats it downstairs.”
“That seems to be the Maria form. I’ll take the key, Bert, and thank you very much indeed. Do you happen to know how many keys there are to the room? Four, is it?”
“That’s right. To all the rooms. Weird idea.”
Alleyn thought: This one, which was Rupert Bartholomew’s. The ones already in my pocket, and the Sommita’s in her evening bag at the bottom of her dressing-table drawer.
He said: “While I think of it. On the way over here you said something about a vet putting down Madame Sommita’s dog. You said he chloroformed it before giving it the injection.”
“That’s correct,” said Bert, looking surprised.
“Do you remember, by any chance, what happened to the bottle?”
Bert stared at him. “That’s a hairy one,” he said. “What happened to the bottle, eh?” He scratched his head and pulled a face. “Hold on,” he said. “Yeah! That’s right. He put it on a shelf in the hangar and forgot to take it away.”
“And would you,” said Alleyn, “know what became of it? Is it still there?”
“No, it is not. Maria come out to see if it was all O.K. about the dog. She’d been sent by the Lady. She seen the bottle. It was, you know, labeled. She reckoned it wasn’t safe having it lying around. She took it off.”
“Did she indeed?” said Alleyn. “Thank you, Bert.”
“Be my guest.”
Alleyn said: “Well, you’d better get something to eat, hadn’t you?”
“I don’t mind if I do,” said Bert. “Seeing you,” and went, in a leisurely manner, downstairs.
Alleyn returned to their bedroom. Troy was deep in the file and continued to read it while he shaved, bathed, and dressed. Occasionally she shouted an inquiry or a comment. She had just finished it and was about to get up when there was a tap on the door. Alleyn opened it and there was Mrs. Bacon, trim and competent: the very epitome of the five-star housekeeper.
“Good morning, Mr. Alleyn,” said Mrs. Bacon. “I’ve just come up to see if Mrs. Alleyn has everything she wants. I’m afraid, in all this disturbance, she may have been neglected, and we can’t have that, can we?”
Alleyn said we couldn’t and Troy called out for her to come in.
When she had been assured of Troy’s well-being, Mrs. Bacon told Alleyn she was glad of the opportunity to have a word with him. “There are difficulties. It’s very inconvenient,” she said as if the plumbing had failed them.
“I’m sure it is,” he said. “If there’s anything I can do—”
“It’s Maria.”
“Is she still cutting up rough?”
“Indeed she is.” Mrs. Bacon turned to Troy. �
�This is all so unpleasant, Mrs. Alleyn,” she apologized. “I’m sorry to bring it up!”
The Alleyns made appropriate noises.
“Of course she is upset,” Mrs. Bacon conceded. “We understand that, don’t we? But really!”
“What form is it taking now?” Alleyn asked.
“She wants to go — in there.”
“Still on that lay, is she. Well, she can’t.”
“She — being a Catholic, of course, one should make allowances,” Mrs. Bacon herself astonishingly allowed. “I hope you’re not—?” she hurriedly added, turning pink. “And, of course, being a foreigner should be taken into consideration. But it’s getting more than a joke. She wants to lay Madame out. I was wondering if — just to satisfy her?”
“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Bacon,” Alleyn said. “The body must be left as it is until the police have seen it.”
“That’s what they always say in the thrillers, of course. I know that, but I thought it might be an exaggeration.”
“Not in this instance, at any rate.”
“She’s worrying Mr. Reece about it. He’s spoken to me. He’s very much shocked, you can sense that, although he doesn’t allow himself to show it. He told me everything must be referred to you. I think he would like to see you.”
“Where is he?”
“In the study. That Italian gentleman, Mr. Lattienzo, and Mr. Ruby are with him. And then,” Mrs. Bacon went on, “there are the two ladies, the singers, who stayed last night, I must say what I can to them. They’ll be wondering. Really, it’s almost more than one can be expected to cope with.”
“Maddening for you,” said Troy.
“Well, it is. And the staff! The two housemaids are talking themselves into hysterics and refusing to come up to this landing, and the men are not much better. I thought I could depend on Marco, but he’s suddenly gone peculiar and doesn’t seem to hear when he’s spoken to. Upon my word,” said Mrs. Bacon, “I’ll be glad to see the police on the premises and I never thought I say that in my occupation.”
“Can’t Hanley help out?” asked Alleyn.
“Not really. They all giggle at him or did when they had a giggle left in them. I told them they were making a mistake. It’s obvious what he is, of course, but that doesn’t mean he’s not competent. Far from it. He’s very shrewd and very capable and he and I get on quite well. I really don’t know,” Mrs. Bacon exclaimed, “why I’m boring you like this! I must be going off at the deep end myself.”
“Small wonder if you did,” said Troy. “Look, don’t worry about the rooms. How about you and me whipping round when they’re all out of them?”
“Oh!” cried Mrs. Bacon, “I couldn’t dream of it.”
“Yes, you could. Or, I tell you what. I’ll talk to Miss Dancy and Miss Parry and see how they feel about a bit of bedmaking. Do us all good instead of sitting round giving each other the jimjams. Wouldn’t it, Rory?”
“Certainly,” said Alleyn and put his arm round her.
“Are they in their rooms? I’ll ring them up,” Troy offered.
“If you don’t mind my saying so, Mrs. Alleyn, you’re a darling. Their breakfasts went up at 8:30. They’ll still be in bed, eating it.”
“One of them isn’t,” said Alleyn, who had gone to the window. “Look.”
Mrs. Bacon joined him.
The prospect from their windows commanded the swimming pool on the extreme left and the hangar on the right. In the center, Lake Waihoe swept turbulently away into nothing. The mountains that rose from its far shore had been shut off by a curtain of ashen cloud. The fringes of trees that ran out into the Lake were intermittently wind-whipped. The waters tumbled about the shore, washed over the patio, and reared and collapsed into the brimming pool, which still overflowed its borders.
And down below on the bricked terrace, just clear of the water, stood Rupert and a figure in a heavy mackintosh and sou’wester so much too big that it was difficult to identify it as Miss Sylvia Parry.
Mrs. Bacon joined Alleyn at the window. “Well,” she said after a pause. “If that’s what it seems to be, it’s a pity it didn’t develop when he was going away for days at a time for all those rehearsals.”
“Where was that?”
“On the other side — at a Canterbury seaside resort. The chopper used to take him over and he stayed the night. Mr. Reece had them all put at the Carisbrooke. Luxury. Seven-star,” said Mrs. Bacon. “They rehearsed in a local hall and gave concerts.”
Down below, Rupert was speaking. The girl touched his arm and he took her hand in his. They remained like that for some moments. It had begun fitfully to rain again. He led her out of sight, presumably into the house.
“Nice girl,” said Mrs. Bacon crisply. “Pity. Oh, well, you never know, do you?”
She made for the door.
Alleyn said: “Wait a second, Mrs. Bacon. Listen. Troy, listen.”
They listened. As always when an imposed silence takes over, the background of household sounds that had passed unnoticed and the voice of the wind outside to which they had grown inattentive, declared themselves. Behind them, very distant but thinly clear, was the sound of a bell.
“Les, by Heaven!” said Alleyn. “Here. Mrs. Bacon. Have you got a bell in the house? A big bell.”
“No,” she said, startled.
“A gong?”
“Yes. We don’t often use it.”
“Bring it out on the terrace, please. Or get the men to bring it. And field glasses. I saw a pair in the hall, didn’t I? But quick.”
He pulled the slips off two of their pillows and ran down to the hall and out on the terrace to a point from which the jetty and boathouse could be seen across the Lake. Out here the sound of the bell was louder and echoed in the unseen hills.
It was ringing irregularly: long-spaced notes mixed with quick short-spaced ones.
“Bless his heart, he’s signaling again,” said Alleyn. He got out his notebook and pen and set himself to read the code. It was a shortish sequence confused by its echo and repeated after a considerable pause. The second time around, he got it. “Police informed,” Les signaled.
Alleyn, hoping he was a fairly conspicuous figure from the boat shed, had begun a laborious attempt at semaphoring with pillowcases when Bert and Marco, piloted by Mrs. Bacon, staggered out of the house bearing an enormous Burmese gong on a carved stand. They set it up on the terrace. Alleyn discarded his pillowcase and whacked out a booming acknowledgment. This too set up an echo.
“Received and understood thanks.”
It struck him that he had created a picture worthy of Salvador Dali — a Burmese gong on an island in New Zealand, a figure beating it — pillowslips on a wet shore and on the far shore another figure, waving. And in the foreground a string of unrelated persons strung out at intervals. For, in addition to trim Mrs. Bacon, Dr. Carmichael, Hanley, Ben Ruby, Signor Lattienzo, and Mr. Reece, in that order, had come out of the house.
Mrs. Bacon gave Alleyn the binoculars. He focused them and Les, the launch man, jumped up before him. He was wearing a red woollen cap and oilskins. He wiped his nose with a mittened hand and pointed in the direction of the rustic belfry. He was going to signal again. He gesticulated, as much as to say “Hold on,” and went into the belfry.
“Doyng!” said the bell, “ ’oyng, ’oyng, ’oyng,” said the echo.
This time Alleyn got it first try. “Launch engine crook,” it read and was repeated. “Launch engine crook.”
“Hell!” said Alleyn and took it out on the gong.
Mr. Reece, wearing an American sporting raincoat and pigskin gloves, was at his elbow. “What’s the message?” he asked.
“Shut up,” said Alleyn. “Sorry. He’s at it again.”
Les signaled: “Hope temporary.”
“Bang!” Alleyn acknowledged, “ ’ang, ’ang, ’ang,” said the echo.
“Over and out,” signaled Les.
“Bang.”
Alleyn followed Les through the bin
oculars down to the jetty, which was swept at intervals by waves. He saw Les dodge the waves, board the launch, jouncing at its moorings, and disappear into the engine room.
He gave Mr. Reece a full account of the exchange.
“I must apologize for my incivility,” he said.
Mr. Reece waved it aside. “So if the Lake becomes navigable,” he said, “we are still cut off.”
“He did say he hopes the trouble’s temporary. And by the time he’s fixed it, surely the wind will have dropped and the helicopter will become a possibility.”
“The helicopter is in Canterbury. It took the piano tuner back yesterday afternoon and remained on the other side.”
“Nobody loves us,” said Alleyn. “Could I have a word with you, indoors?”
“Certainly. Alone?”
“It might be as well, I think.”
When they went indoors Alleyn was given an illustration of Mr. Reece’s gift of authority. Signor Lattienzo and Ben Ruby clearly expected to return with him to the study. Hanley hovered. Without saying a word to any of them but with something in his manner that was perfectly explicit, Mr. Reece gave them to understand that this was not to be.
Signor Lattienzo, who was rigged out in a shepherd’s cape and a Tyrolese hat, said: “My dear Ben, it is not raining. Should we perhaps, for the good of our digestions, venture a modest step or two abroad? To the landing and back? What do you say?”
Mr. Ruby agreed without enthusiasm.
Mr. Reece said to Hanley: “I think the ladies have come down. Find out if there is anything we can do for them, will you? I shan’t need you at present.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Hanley.
Dr. Carmichael returned from outside. Alleyn suggested to their host that perhaps he might join them in the study.
When they were once more seated in the huge soft leather chairs of that singularly negative apartment, Alleyn said he thought that Mr. Reece would probably like to know about the events of the previous night.
He went over them in some detail, making very little of Rupert’s bonfire and quite a lot of Maria’s ongoings and Bert’s vigil. Mr. Reece listened with his habitual passivity. Alleyn thought it quite possible that he had gone his own rounds during the night and wondered if it was he who had looked down from the landing. It would, somehow, be in character for Mr. Reece not to mention his prowl but to allow Alleyn to give his own account of the bonfire without interruption.