Artists in Crime (12 page)

“I don’t think we need. I shall ask you later on to sign a statement of your own movements from Friday to Sunday.”

“Will the Sonia business have to come out, sir?”

“I can promise nothing about that. If it is irrelevant it will not be used. I think it advisable that you should tell Miss Seacliff, but that, of course, is entirely a matter of your own judgment.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Possibly not. There’s one other question. Did you return to the studio on Friday before you left for Boxover?”

“No. I packed my suit-case after lunch. Young Hatchett came in and talked to me while I was at it. Then I called Valmai and we set off in the car.”

“I see. Thank you. I won’t keep you any longer, Mr. Pilgrim.”

“Very well, sir. Thank you.”

Fox showed Pilgrim out and returned to the fire. He looked dubious. Nigel reappeared and sat on the wide fender.

“Well, Fox,” said Alleyn, raising an eyebrow, “what did you think of that?”

“His ideas on the subject of his young lady seem a bit high-flown from what we’ve seen of her,” said Fox.

“What’s she like?” asked Nigel.

“She’s extremely beautiful,” Alleyn said. “Beautiful enough to launch a thousand crimes, perhaps. But I should not have thought the Sonia episode would have caused her to so much as bat an eyelid. She has completely wiped the floor with all the other females, and that, I imagine, is all that matters to Miss Seacliff.”

“Of course, the poor fool’s besotted on her. You can see that with half an eye,” said Nigel. He glanced at his shorthand notes. “What about his alibi?”

“If this place Boxover is only twelve miles away,” grunted Fox, “his alibi isn’t of much account. Is it, Mr. Alleyn? They went to bed early on Friday night. He could slip out, run over here, rig the knife and get back to Boxover almost within the hour.”

“You must remember that Garcia slept in the studio.”

“Yes, that’s so. But he may not have been there on Friday night. He may have packed up by then and gone off on his tour.”

“Pilgrim must have known that, Fox, if he planned to come to the studio.”

“Yes. That’s so. Mind, I still think Garcia’s our man. This Mr. Pilgrim doesn’t strike me as the chap for a job of this sort.”

“He’s a bit too obviously the clean young Englishman, though, isn’t he?” said Nigel.

“Hullo,” remarked Alleyn, “didn’t Pilgrim come up to your high expectations, Bathgate?”

“Well, you were remarkably cold and snorty with him, yourself.”

“Because throughout our conversation he so repeatedly shifted ground. That sort of behaviour is always exceedingly tedious. It was only because I was round with him that we got the blackmail story at all.”

“He seemed quite an honest-to-God sort of fellow, really,” pronounced Nigel. “I think it was that stuff about being ashamed of his affair with the model that put me off him. It sounded spurious. Anyway, it’s the sort of thing one doesn’t talk about to people one has just met.”

“Under rather unusual conditions,” Alleyn pointed out.

“Certainly. All the same he talks too much.”

“The remark about bounding journalists and miserable gup was perhaps gratuitous.”

“I didn’t mean that,” said Nigel in a hurry.

“I’m inclined to agree with you. Let us see Miss Valmai Seacliff, Brer Fox.”

“I wish you wouldn’t make me coil up in that chair,” complained Nigel when Fox had gone. “It’s plaguilly uncomfortable and right in a draught. Can’t I just be here, openly? I’d like to have a look at this lovely.”

“Very well. I suppose you’ll do no harm. The concealment was your own suggestion, if you remember. You may sit at the desk and make an attempt to look like the Yard.”

“You don’t look much like it yourself in your smart gent’s dinner jacket. Tell me, Alleyn, have you fallen in love with Miss Troy?”

“Don’t be a fool, Bathgate,” said Alleyn, with such unusual warmth that Nigel’s eyebrows went up.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Merely a pleasantry. No offence and so on.”

“I’m sorry, too. You must forgive me. I’m bothered about this case.”

“There, there,” said Nigel. “Coom, coom, coom, it’s early days yet.”

“True enough. But suppose Garcia walks in with a happy smile in answer to our broadcast? That bit of clay in the drape. Acid marks and no acid to make ’em. This legendary warehouse. Clay models of comedy and tragedy melted into the night. Damn, I’ve got the mumbles.”

The door was thrown open, and in came Valmai Seacliff followed by Fox. Miss Seacliff managed to convey by her entrance that she never moved anywhere without a masculine satellite. That Inspector Fox in his double-breasted blue serge was not precisely in the right manner did nothing to unsettle her poise. She was dressed in a silk trousered garment. Her hair was swept off her forehead into a knot on the nape of her neck. Moving her hips voluptuously, she walked rather like a mannequin. When she reached the chair Alleyn had pushed forward, she turned, paused, and then sank into it with the glorious certainty of a well-trained show-girl. She stared languidly at Nigel whose hand had gone automatically to his tie.

“Well, Mr. Alleyn?” said Miss Seacliff.

The three men sat down. Alleyn turned a page of his tiny note-book, appeared to deliberate, and embarked upon the familiar opening.

“Miss Seacliff, my chief concern at the moment is to get a clear account of everybody’s movements during the weekend. Mr. Pilgrim has told us of your motor trip with him to Boxover, and then to Ankerton Manor. I should like you to corroborate his statement if you will. Did you return to the studio before you left?”

“No, I was packing. The housemaid helped me and carried my things down to the car.”

“You arrived at Captain and Mrs. Pascoe’s house in Boxover on Friday afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“And spent the afternoon together?”

“Yes. The Pascoes talked about tennis but I didn’t feel inclined to play. I rather loathe tennis. So we talked.

Alleyn noticed again her curious little stutter, and the trick she had of letting her voice die and then catching it up on an intake of breath.

“How did you spend the evening?”

“We played bridge for a bit. I had a frightful headache and went to bed early. I felt quite sick with it.”

“That was bad luck. Do you often have these headaches?”

“Never until lately. They started about a month ago. It’s rather tiresome.”

“You should consult an oculist.”

“My eyes are perfectly all right. As a matter of fact a rather distinguished oculist once told me that intensely blue eyes like mine usually give no trouble. He said my eyes were the most vivid blue he had ever seen.”

“Indeed!” said Alleyn, without looking at them. “How do you explain the headaches, then?”

“I’m perfectly certain the one on Friday night was due to champagne and port. The Pascoes had champagne at dinner to celebrate my engagement, and there was brandy afterwards. I loathe brandy, so Basil made me have a glass of port. I told him it would upset me but he went on and on. The coffee was filthy, too. Bitter and beastly. Sybil Pascoe is one of those plain women whom one expects to be good housekeepers, but I must say she doesn’t appear to take the smallest trouble over the coffee. Basil says his was abominable, too.”

“When did you give up the bridge?”

“I’ve no idea, I’m afraid. I simply couldn’t go on. Basil got me three aspirin and I went to bed. The others came up soon afterwards, I fancy. I heard Basil go into his room.”

“It was next to yours.”

“Yes.”

“Did you sleep?”

“Like the dead. I didn’t wake till they brought my tea at nine o’clock.”

“And the headache had cleared up?”

“Yes, quite. I still felt a little unpleasant. It was a sort of carry-over from that damned port, I imagine.”

“Were your host and hostess anywhere near you upstairs?”

“Sybil and Ken? Not very. There was Basil and then me, and then I think two spare rooms and a bathroom. Then their room. Why?”

“It sounds rather absurd, I know,” said Alleyn, “but you see we’ve got to find out as closely as possible what everyone did that night.”

“Basil didn’t come into my room, if that’s what you’re hinting at,” said Miss Seacliff without heat. “It wasn’t that sort of party. Anyway, I’m not given to that kind of thing even when I haven’t got a headache. I don’t believe in it. Sooner or later you lose your glamour. Look at Sonia.”

“Quite so. Then as far as you know the household slept without stirring from Friday night to Saturday morning?”

“Yes,” said Miss Seacliff, looking at him as if he was slightly demented.

“And on Saturday you went on to Ankerton Manor. When did you start?”

“We had a glass of sherry at about ten, and then pushed off. Basil was in a great state lest we should be late for lunch, and wanted to get away earlier, but I saw no reason why we should go rushing about the countryside before it was necessary. We had plenty of time.”

“Why was he so anxious?”

“He kept saying that he was sure Sybil Pascoe wanted to get away. She was going up to London for a week and leaving Ken to look after himself. I pointed out that was no reason why we should bolt off. Then Basil said we mustn’t be late at Ankerton. The truth was, the poor lamb wanted me to make a good impression on his extraordinary old father. I told him he needn’t worry. Old men always go quite crazy about me. But Basil was absurdly nervous about the meeting and kept fidgeting me to start. We got there early as it was, and by luncheon-time the old person was talking about the family jewels. He’s given me some emeralds that I’m going to have reset. They’re rather spectacular.”

“You left Ankerton yesterday after luncheon, I suppose?”

“Yes. Basil was rather keen to stay on till Monday, but I’d had enough. The old person made me hack round the ancestral acres on a beastly little animal that nearly pulled my arms out. I saw you looking at my hand.”

With a slow and beautiful movement she extended her left arm, opened her hand, and held it close to Alleyn’s face. It was warmly scented and the palm was rouged. At the base of the little finger were two or three scarlet marks.

“My hands are terribly soft, of course,” said Miss Seacliff, advancing it a little closer to his face.

“Yes,” said Alleyn. “You are evidently not an experienced horsewoman.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, you know, these marks have not been made by a rein. I should say, Miss Seacliff, that your pony’s mane had been called into service.”

She pulled her hand away and turned rather pink.

“I don’t pretend to be a horsey woman, thank God! I simply loathe the brutes. I must say I got very bored with the old person. And besides, I didn’t want to miss the pose this morning. I’d got a good deal to do to my thing of Sonia. I suppose I’ll never get it done now.”

Fox coughed and Nigel glanced up at Valmai Seacliff in astonishment.

“I suppose not,” agreed Alleyn. “Now, Miss Seacliff, we come to this morning’s tragedy. Will you describe to us exactly what happened, please?”

“Have you got a cigarette?”

Alleyn sprang up and offered her his case.

“What are they? Oh, I see. Thank you.”

She took one and he lit it for her. She looked into his eyes deliberately but calmly, as if she followed a familiar routine. Alleyn returned her glance gravely and sat down again.

“This morning?” she said. “You mean when Sonia was killed? It was rather ghastly. I felt wretched after it was all over. Ill. I suppose it was shock. I do think it was rather cruel that I should be the one to — to do it — to set the pose. They all knew I always pushed her shoulders down.” She caught her breath, and for the first time showed some signs of genuine distress. “I believe Garcia deliberately planned it like that. He loathed the sight of Sonia, and at the same time he wanted to revenge himself on me because I didn’t fall for him. It was just like Garcia to do that. He’s a spiteful little beast. It was cruel. I–I can’t get rid of the remembrance. I’ll never be able to get rid of it.”

“I’m sorry that I am obliged to ask you to go over it again, but I’m sure you will understand— ”

“Oh, yes. And the psycho people say one shouldn’t repress things of this sort. I don’t want to get nervy and lose my poise. After all, I didn’t do it really. I keep telling myself that.”

“When did you go down to the studio?”

“Just before class time. Basil and I walked down together. Katti Bostock was there and — let me see — yes, the appalling Hatchett youth, Lee and Ormerin and Malmsley came down afterwards, I think.”

“Together?”

“I don’t remember. They were not there when I got down.”

“I see. Will you go on, Miss Seacliff?”

“Well, we all put up our easels and set our palettes and so on. Sonia came in last and Katti said we’d begin. Sonia went into the junk-room and undressed. She came out in her white kimono and hung about trying to get the men to talk to her. Katti told her to go on to the throne. She got down into the chalkmarks. She always fitted her right thigh into its trace first, with the drape behind her. I don’t know if you understand?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

And indeed Alleyn suddenly had a very vivid impression of what must have taken place. He saw the model, wrapped in the thin white garment, her warm and vital beauty shining through it. He saw her speak to the men, look at them perhaps with a pathetic attempt to draw their attention to herself.

Then the white wrapper would slide to the floor and the nude figure sink gingerly into a half-recumbent posture on the throne.

“She grumbled as usual about the pose and said she was sick of it. I remember now that she asked us if we knew where Garcia had gone on his hiking trip. I suppose he wouldn’t tell her. Then she lay down on her side. The drape was still stretched taut behind her. There is generally a sort of key position among the different canvases. When we set the pose we always look at that particular canvas to get it right. My painting was in this position so it was always left to me to push her down into the right position. She could have done it all herself but she always made such a scene. I’d got into the way of taking her shoulders and pressing them over. She wouldn’t do it otherwise. So I leant over and gripped them. They felt smooth and alive. She began to make a fuss. She said ‘Don’t,’ and I said ‘Don’t be such a fool.’ Katti said: ‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Sonia!’ Something like that. Sonia said: ‘Your hands are cold, you’re hurting me.’ Then she let herself go and I pushed down.” Valmai Seacliff raised her hands and pressed them against her face.