Death in a White Tie (25 page)

“I hardly think so. How old are you?”

“Twenty-one in August. It’s not that I mind for myself. At least it would be pretty bloody, wouldn’t it? But I’ve said I’ll go through with it.”

“So you have. Don’t make too big a sainted martyr of yourself,” said Alleyn good-naturedly. Donald looked up at him and suddenly the ghost of Lord Robert’s twinkle came into his eyes.

“All right,” he said. “I won’t.”

Alleyn returned to Bridget and found her sitting on the hearth-rug. She looked very frightened.

“Does Bart know?”

“No, but your mother’s been very worried.”

“Well, that’s not all me. Bart’s nearly driving her dotty. I can’t tell you what he’s like. Honestly it would never astonish me if Bart had an apoplectic fit and went crazy.”

“Dear me,” said Alleyn.

“No, honestly. I don’t know what he told you when you interviewed him but I suppose you saw through the famous Carrados pose, didn’t you? Of course you did. But you may not have realized what a temper he’s got. I didn’t for a long time. I mean not until I was about fifteen.”

“Two years ago?” asked Alleyn with a smile. “Tell me about it.”

“It was simply frightful. Donna had been ill and she was sleeping very badly. Bart was asked if he’d mind going into his dressing-room. I didn’t realize then, but I do now, that that was what annoyed him. He always gets the huff when Donna’s ill. He takes it as a sort of personal insult and being a beastly old Victorian Turk the dressing-room idea absolutely put the tin cupola on it. Are you shocked?”

“I suppose not,” said Alleyn cautiously. “Anyway, go on.”

“Well, you’re not. And so he went into his dressing-room. And then Donna got really ill and I said we must have Sir Daniel because she
was
so ill and he’s an angel. And Bart rang him up. Well, I wanted to get hold of Sir Daniel first to tell him about Donna before Bart did. So I went downstairs into Bart’s study because I told the butler to show Sir Daniel in there. Bart was up with Donna telling her how ‘seedy’ he felt, and it didn’t matter, she wasn’t to notice. And then Sir Dan came in and was angelic and I told him about Donna. Did you notice in the study there’s a French escritoire thing on a table?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Sir Dan adores old things and he saw it and raved about it and said it was a beautiful piece and told me when it was made and how they used sometimes to put little secret drawers in them and you just touch a screw and they fly out. He said it was a museum piece and asked me if I didn’t think some of the vanished ladies might come back and open the secret drawer with ghostly fingers. So I thought I’d like to see, and when Sir Dan had gone up to Donna I tried prodding the screws with a pencil and at last a little drawer did fly out triangularly, sort of. There was a letter in it. I didn’t touch it, naturally, but while I was looking at the drawer, Bart must have come in. What did you say?”

“Nothing,” said Alleyn. “Go on.”

“I can’t
tell
you what he was like. He went absolutely stark
ravers
, honestly. He took hold of my arm and twisted it so much I screamed before I could stop myself. And then he turned as white as the washing and called me a little bastard. I believed he’d have actually hit me if Sir Dan hadn’t come down. I think Sir Dan had heard me yell and he must have guessed what had happened because he had one glance at my arm — I had short sleeves — and then he said in a lovely
dangerous
sort of voice: ‘Are you producing
another
patient for me, Carrados?’ Bart banged the little drawer shut, began to splutter and try to get up some sort of explanation. Sir Daniel just looked at him through his glasses — the ones with the black ribbon. Bart tried to pretend I’d slipped on the polished floor and he’d caught me by the arm. Sir Daniel said: ‘Very curious indeed,’ and went on looking at my arm. He gave me a prescription for some stuff to put on it and was frightfully nice to me, and didn’t ask questions, but just ignored Bart. It made me absolutely
crawl
with shame to hear Bart trying to do his simple-soldier stuff and sort of ingratiate himself with Sir Dan. And when he’d gone Bart apologized to me and said he was really terribly nervy and ill and had never recovered from the war, which was pretty good as he spent it in Tunbridge Wells. That was the worst of all, having to hear him apologize. He said there was a letter from his mother in the drawer and it was very sacred. Of course I felt simply
lousy
. He’s never forgiven me and I’ve never forgotten. My private belief is there was something about his miserable past in that drawer.”

Bridget’s voice at last stopped. Alleyn, who had sat in his chair, was silent for so long that at last she turned from the fire and looked into his face.

“It’s a queer story, isn’t it?” she said.

“Very queer, indeed,” said Alleyn. “Have you ever told anyone else about it?”

“No. Well, only Donald.” She wriggled across the hearthrug. “It’s funny,” she said. “I suppose I ought to be frightened of you, but I’m not. Why’s Donna coming?”

“She wants to collect you, and see me,” said Alleyn absently.

“Everybody wants to see you.” She clasped her hands over her knees. “Don’t they?” insisted Bridget.

“For no very flattering reason, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I think you’re really rather a lamb,” said Bridget.

“Tell me,” said Alleyn, “do you think anyone else knows the secret of that French writing-case?”

“I shouldn’t think so. You’d never know unless somebody showed you.”

“None of the servants?”

“I’m not sure. Bart slammed the drawer shut as soon as Sir Daniel came in.”

“Has Sir Daniel ever been alone in that room?”

“Sir Dan? Good heavens, you don’t think my angelic Sir Dan had anything to do with Bart’s beastly letter?”

“I simply want to clear things up.”

“Well, as a matter of fact I don’t think he’s been in the study before or since and he was never alone there that day. When Sir Dan comes, the servants always show him straight upstairs. Bart hates his room to be used for visitors.”

“Has Dimitri, the catering man, ever been alone in that room?”

“Why — I don’t know. Yes, now you come to mention it he
did
interview Donna there, about a month before our ball-dance. I went down first and he was alone in the room.”

“When was this? Can you remember the date?”

“Let me see. I’ll try. Yes. Yes, I can. It was on the tenth of May. We were going to Newmarket and Dimitri came early in the morning because of that.”

“Would you swear he was alone in the room?”

“Yes, yes, I would. But, please, what does it mean?”

“See here,” said Alleyn. “I want you to forget all about this. Don’t speak of it to anyone, not even to Donald. Understood?”

“Yes, but—”

“I want your promise.”

“All right, I promise.”

“Solemnly?”

“Solemnly.”

The front-door bell rang.

“Here’s your mother,” said Alleyn.

When Alleyn opened the door to Evelyn Carrados, he saw her as a dark still figure against the lighted street. Her face was completely shadowed and it was impossible for him to glean anything from it. So that when she walked into the sitting-room he was not prepared for her extraordinary pallor, her haunted eyes and the drawn nervousness of her mouth. He remembered that she had gone to her room before she missed Bridget, and he realized with compassion that she had removed her complexion and neglected to replace it. Perhaps Bridget felt something of the same compassion, for she uttered a little cry and ran to her mother. Lady Carrados, using that painful gesture of all distracted mothers, held Bridget in her arms. Her thin hands were extraordinarily expressive.

“Darling,” she murmured. With a sort of hurried intensity she kissed Bridget’s hair. “How could you frighten me like this, Bridgie, how
could
you?”

“I thought you wouldn’t know. Donna,
don’t
. It’s all right, really it is. It was only about Donald. I didn’t want to worry you. I’m so sorry,
dear
Donna.” Lady Carrados gently disengaged herself and turned to Alleyn.

“Come and sit down, Evelyn,” he said. “There’s nothing to worry about. I would have brought your daughter home, but she had some interesting news and I thought you would trust her with me for half an hour.”

“Yes, Roderick, of course. If only I had known. Where’s Donald? I thought he was here.”

“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 ask 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.