Death in Ecstasy (7 page)

After Maurice had been searched and sent home Nigel approached Alleyn with a certain air of imbecile fractiousness that he assumed whenever he wished to annoy the inspector.

“Will somebody,” asked Nigel plaintively, “be good enough to explain that young man’s behaviour to me?”

“What?” asked Alleyn absently.

“I want to know your explanation for Pringleism. Why did Pringle ask you to look at him? Why
did
you look at him? What did you say to Pringle? And why did Pringle cry?”

“Fox,” said Alleyn, “will you take Form One for this evening?”

“Very good,” said Fox, returning from his god. “What is it you were inquiring about, Mr. Bathgate?”

“Pringleism.”

“Meaning the young gentleman’s behaviour, sir? Well, it was rather unusual I must say. My idea is he takes something that isn’t good for him.”

“What do you mean, Inspector Fox? Something dietetically antagonistic? Oysters and whisky?”

“Heroin and hot air,” snapped Alleyn. “Oh, Mr. Garnette, Mr. Garnette, it shall go hard if I do not catch you bending.”

“I say!” said Nigel. “Do you think
Garnette
—”

“Let us have the French gentleman, please, Bailey,” interrupted Alleyn.

Monsieur de Ravigne emerged with an air of sardonic aloofness. He was a good-looking man, tall for a Frenchman and extremely well groomed. He saw Alleyn and walked quickly down towards him.

“You wish to speak to me, Inspector Alleyn?”

“If you please, M. de Ravigne. Will you sit down?”

“After you, monsieur.”

“No, no, monsieur, please.”

They murmured and skirmished while Fox gazed at them in mild enchantment. At last they both sat down. M. de Ravigne crossed his legs and displayed an elegant foot.

“And now, sir?” he inquired.

“You are very obliging, monsieur. It is the merest formality. A few questions that we are obliged to ask in our official capacity. I am sure you understand.”

“Perfectly. Let us discharge this business.”

“Immediately. First, were you aware of any unusual or peculiar odour during the ceremony of the cup?”

“You allude, of course, to the odour of prussic acid,” said M. de Ravigne.

“Certainly. May I ask how you realise the poison used was a cyanide?”

“I believe you yourself mentioned it, monsieur. If you did not it is no matter. I understood immediately that Cara was poisoned by cyanide. No other poison is so swift, and after she fell—” he broke off, became a little paler and then went on composedly “—after she fell, I bent over her and then — and then — I smelt it.”

“I see. But not until then?”

“Not until then — no. The odour of the incense — sweet almond the acolyte tells me — was overpowering and, strangley enough, similar.”

De Ravigne turned stiffly towards Alleyn.

“My Cara was murdered. That I know well. It is possible, Mr. Inspector, that this similarity is a little too strange?”

“It is a point I shall remember, monsieur. You have used the expression ‘My Cara.’ Am I to understand that between you and Miss Quayne—”

“But yes. I adored her. I asked her many times to do me the honour of becoming my wife. She was, unhappily, indifferent to me. She was devout, you understand, altogether dedicated to the religious life. I see you look fixedly at me, monsieur. You are thinking perhaps that I am too calm. You have the idea of the excitable Frenchman. I should wave my hands and weep and roll about my eyes and even have a hysteric, like that little animal of a Claude.”

“No, Monsieur de Ravigne. Those were not my thoughts.”

“
N’importe
,” murmured de Ravigne.

“
On n’est pas dupe de son caeur
—” began Alleyn.

“I see I misjudged you, M. l’Inspecteur. You have not the conventional idea of my countrymen. Also you speak with a charming and correct accent.”

“You are too kind, monsieur. Has the possibility of suicide occurred to you?”

“Why should she wish to die? She was beautiful and — loved.”

“And not poor?”

“I believe, not poor.”

“Did you notice her movements when she held the cup?”

“No. I did not watch,” said de Ravigne.

“You are religious yourself, of course, or you would not be here?” remarked Alleyn after a pause.

M. de Ravigne delicately moved his shoulders: “I am intrigued with this church and its ceremonial. Also the idea of one godhead embracing all gods appeals to my temperament. One must have a faith, I find. It is not in my temperament to be an atheist.”

“When did you first attend the services?”

“It must be — yes, I think about two years ago.”

“And you became an Initiate — when?”

“Three months ago, perhaps.”

“Are you a subscriber to the organisation? We must ask these questions, as I am sure you understand.”

“Certainly, monsieur, one must do one’s job. I subscribe a little, yes. Five shillings in the offertory always and at special times a pound. Fifty pounds when I first came. This temple was then recently established. I presented the goblet — an old one in my own family.”

“A beautiful piece. Baroque at its best,” said Alleyn.

“Yes. It has its history, that cup. Also I gave a statuette. In the shrine on your right, monsieur.”

Alleyn looked at the wall and found M. de Ravigne’s statuette. It was cast in bronze with a curious plucked technique and represented a nebulous nude figure wearing a winged helmet from which there emerged other and still more nebulous forms.

“Ah yes,” said Alleyn, “most interesting. Who is the artist?”

“Myself in ecstasy, monsieur,” replied M. de Ravigne coolly.

Alleyn glanced at his shrewd, dark face and murmured politely.

“My temperament,” continued M. de Ravigne, “is artistic. I am, I fear, a dilettante. I model a little,
comme ci, comme ça
, I write a little, trifles of elegance. I collect. I am not rich, M. l’Inspecteur, but I amuse myself.”

“A delightful existence. I envy you, monsieur. But we must get back to business.”

A dim bass rumble from the rear seemed to suggest that Inspector Fox had essayed: “
Revenons a nos moutons
,” and had got lost on the way.

“I understand,” said Alleyn, “that Miss Quayne has no relations in England. There must be
someone
surely?”

“On the contrary. She has told me that there are none. Cara was an only child and an orphan. She was educated abroad at a convent. Her guardians are both dead.”

“You met her abroad perhaps?”

“Yes. In France years ago at the house of a friend.”

“Did Miss Quayne introduce you to this hall?”

“No, monsieur. Alas, it was I who introduced her to the ceremonies.”

“Returning to her connections, monsieur. Is there no one with whom we should get in touch?”

“Her notary — her solicitor.”

“Of course. Do you know who that is?”

“I have heard. One moment. It is
tiens
! a name like Rats. No. Rattingtown. No.”

“Not Rattisbon by any chance?”

“That is it. You know him?”

“Slightly. Where will the money go, Monsieur de Ravigne?” M. de Ravigne hitched up his shoulders, elevated his brows, protruded his eyes and pursed his lips.

“I see,” said Alleyn.

“This I do know,” conceded M. de Ravigne. “Much will go to this church. Five thousand pounds are reposed in the safe here in bearer bonds to await a further subscription. But there will be more for this church. Once Cara told me she had altered her Will for the purpose. It was then I heard the name of this Mr. Rats.”

“Oh, yes,” said Alleyn politely. “To go to another aspect of the case, do you know anything of the procedure for preparing the cup?”

“Nothing, monsieur. I am not interested in such affairs. To know the machinery of the service would damage my spiritual poise. Such is my temperament.”

“You do not choose to look behind the scenes?”

“Precisely. There must be certain arrangements. A flame does not make itself from nothing, one realises, but I do not wish to inquire into these matters. I enjoy the results.”

“Quite so,” said Alleyn. “I think that will be all, monsieur. Thank you a thousand times for your courtesy.”

“Not at all, monsieur! It is you who have displayed courtesy. If I can be of further use — it is perhaps a matter of some delicacy, but I assure you that anything I can do to help you — I shall not rest content until this animal is trapped. If there should be a question of expense — you understand?”

“You are very good—”

“
Tout au contraire, monsieur.
”

“—but it is for information we ask. Do you object to our searching you, monsieur?”

“I object very much, monsieur, but I submit.” Fox searched him and found nothing but money, a chequebook and a photograph.

“
Mon Dieu
!” said de Ravigne. “Must you paw it over in your large hands? Give it to me.”

“Pardon, monsoor,” said Fox hastily, and gave it to him.

“It is Cara Quayne,” said de Ravigne to Alleyn. “I am sorry if I was too hasty.”

“I am sure Inspector Fox understands. Good night, M. de Ravigne.”

“Good night, M. l’Inspecteur.”

“Well,” said Fox when the Frenchman was gone. “Well, that was a fair treat, sir. As soon as you spoke to the gentleman in his own tongue he came along like a lamb. There’s the advantage of languages. It puts you on an equal footing, so to speak. I wonder you didn’t carry on the rest of the interview in French.”

“Fox!” said Alleyn with the oddest look at him. “You make me feel a bloody fool sometimes.”

“Me?” exclaimed Fox, looking blandly astonished.

“Yes, you. Tell me, have you any comments to make on the Frenchman?”

Fox wiped his enormous paw slowly down his face.

“Well, no,” he said slowly, “except he seemed — well, sir, it’s a rum thing two of the gentlemen should offer money for the police investigations. An unheard-of idea. But of course they were both foreigners. As far as Mr. Ogden is concerned, well, we have heard of the word ‘racket,’ haven’t we?”

“Exactly,” agreed Alleyn dryly. “I imagine his proposal is not unusual in the States.”

“Ogden’s too good to be true,” interrupted Nigel. “You mark my words,” he added darkly, “he was trying to bribe you.”

“Bribe us to do what, my dear Bathgate? To catch a murderer?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Nigel loftily.

“And was M. de Ravigne also attempting to undermine the honour of the force?”

“Oh,” said Nigel, “de Ravigne’s a Frenchman. He is no doubt over-emotionalised and — and — oh, go to the devil.”

“It seems to me,” rumbled Fox, “that we ought to have a look at that little bottle in the cupboard — the one Mr. Wheatley talked about.”

“I agree. We’ll move into Mr. Garnette’s ‘little dwelling.’ By the way, where is Mr. Garnette? Is he still in the vestry being searched?”

As if in answer to Alleyn’s inquiry, the vestry door opened and the priest came out. He was now dressed in a long garment made of some heavy, dark-green material. The plain-clothes man who had escorted him into the vestry came to the door and stared after the priest with an air of disgusted bewilderment.

“Ah, Inspector!” cried Father Garnette with holy cheeriness. “Still hard at work! Still hard at work!”

“I’m most frightfully sorry,” said Alleyn. “There was no need for you to wait in there. You could have returned to your rooms.”

“Have I been long? I was engaged in an ecstatic meditation and had passed into the third portal where there is no time.”

“You were fortunate.”

Bailey came out of Father Garnette’s room and approached the inspector.

“That Miss Wade, sir,” he said, “is getting kind of resigned. I think she’s dropped off to sleep.”

Alleyn gazed at Fox and Fox at Alleyn.

“Cripes!” said Inspector Fox.

“Lummie!” said Inspector Alleyn, “I must be in ecstasy myself. I’d quite forgotten her. Lord, I am sorry! Show the lady down, Bailey.”

“Right oh, sir.”

Father Garnette showed an inclination to hover, but was most firmly removed to his own rooms. He and Miss Wade met on the chancel steps.

“Ah, you poor soul!” intoned Father Garnette. “Very weary? Very sad?”

Miss Wade looked from Bailey to the priest.

“Father!” she whispered. “They are not — they don’t suspect—”

“Courage, dear lady!” interposed Father Garnette very quickly and loudly. “Courage! We are all in good hands. I shall pray for you.”

He hurried past and made for his door, followed by Bailey. Miss Wade looked after him for a moment and then turned towards the steps. She peered short-sightedly into the hall. Alleyn went up to her.

“I cannot apologise enough for keeping you so long.”

Miss Wade examined him doubtfully. “I am sure you were doing your duty, officer,” she said.

“You are very kind, madam. Won’t you sit down?”

“Thank you.” She sat, very erect, on the edge of one of the chairs.

“There are certain questions that I must ask,” began Alleyn, “as a matter of official routine.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“Thank you. It will be nice to get home,” said Miss Wade plaintively. “I am distressed by the thought that I have perhaps left my electric heater turned on. I can remember
perfectly
that I
said
to myself: ‘Now I must not forget to turn it off,’ but—”

Here Miss Wade stopped short and gazed pensively into space for at least seven seconds.

“I recollect,” she said at last. “I
did
turn it off. Shall we commence? You were saying?”

“That I should like, if I may, to ask you one or two questions.”

“Certainly. I shall be glad to be of any assistance. I am not at all familiar with the methods of the police, although I have a very dear brother who was an officer in the Cape Mounted Police during the Boer War. He suffered great privations and discomforts and his digestion has never quite recovered.”

Alleyn stooped abruptly and fastened his shoe.

‘The questions, Miss Wade, are these,“ he began when he had straightened up again. ”First: did you notice any unusual smell when you received the cup from M. de Ravigne?”

“Let me think. Any odour? Yes,” said Miss Wade triumphantly, “I did. Decidedly. Yes.”

“Can you describe it?”

“Indeed I can. Peppermint.”

“Peppermint!” ejaculated Alleyn.

“Yes. And onion. You see Claude, the lad who acted as cup-bearer, was bending over me and — and it was rather overwhelming. I have noticed it before and wondered if I should speak to Father about it. Evidently, the lad is passionately fond of these things, and I don’t, I really
don’t
think it is quite reverent.”

“I agree,” said Alleyn hurriedly. “Miss Wade, you have said once before this evening that Miss Quayne was not very happy and not very popular. Can you tell me a little more about her? Why was she unpopular?”

“But you were not here when I said that, officer. I am positive of that because when we were in there waiting — no. I’m not telling the truth — that’s a fib. It was
before
you came, and it was before that young man went to the telephone and” — Miss Wade again stared fixedly at the inspector for some seconds — “and Father Garnette said to me: ‘I implore you not to speak like that to the police,’ so you see I know you were not here, so how did you know?”

“Mr. Bathgate remembered and told me. Why was Miss Quayne unhappy!”

“
Because
she was unpopular,” said Miss Wade triumphantly.

“And why was she unpopular, do you think?”

“Poor thing! I think there was a certain amount of jealousy. I’m afraid that there was, although perhaps I should not say so. Father Garnette seemed to think I should not say so.”

“I am sure you want to help us.”

“Oh, yes of
course
I do. At least — Would you be good enough to tell me if poor Cara was murdered?”

“I believe so. It looks like it.”

“Then if I say that
somebody
was jealous of her you may grow suspicious and begin to think all sorts of things, and I don’t believe in capital punishment.”

“Jealousy is not invariably followed by homicide.”

“Isn’t that
precisely
what I was saying! So you see!”

“Mrs. Candour,” said Alleyn thoughtfully, “tells me that Miss Quayne was not a particularly striking personality.”

“Now that’s really naughty of Dagmar. She should try to conquer her feelings. It is not as though Father gave them any encouragement. I am afraid she wilfully misunderstood. He is too noble and too pure even to guess—”

“Guess what, Miss Wade?”

Miss Wade compressed her faded lips and looked acutely uncomfortable.

“Come!” said Alleyn. “I shall jump to some terrible conclusion if you are so mysterious.”

“I don’t believe what they say,” cried Miss Wade. Her voice shook and her thin hands trembled in her lap. “It is wicked — wicked. His thoughts are as pure as a saint’s. Cara was a child to him. Dagmar is a wicked woman to speak as she does. Cara was excitable and impulsive, we know that, and generous — generous. Rich people are not always to be envied.” Alleyn was silent for a moment.

“Tell me,” he began at last, “were your eyes closed during the ceremony of the cup?”

“Oh, yes. We all must keep our eyes closed, except, of course, when we pour out the wine. One has to open them then.”

“You did not notice any of the other Initiates when they poured out the wine?”

“Of course not,” said Miss Wade uncomfortably. She became very pink and pursed up her lips.

“I should have thought,” pursued Alleyn gently, “that when you took the cup from M. de Ravigne—”

“Oh,
then
of course I had to peep,” admitted Miss Wade.

“And when you passed it on to Mr. Pringle?”

“Well, of course. Especially with Mr. Pringle, he has such very tremulous hands. Exceedingly tremulous. It’s smoking too many cigarettes. I told him so. I said frankly to him: ‘Mr. Pringle, you will undermine your health with this excessive indulgence in nicotine.’ My dear brother is also a very prolific smoker, so I
know
.”

“Mr. Pringle did not spill any wine, I suppose?”

“No. No, he didn’t. But more by good fortune than good management. He took the cup by the stem in one hand and it quivered and, if I may say so reverently, jigged about so much that he was obliged to grasp it by the rim with the other. Then, of course, he had great difficulty in taking the wine-vessel— the silver jug, you know — from Claude, and in pouring out the wine. It wasn’t at all nice. Not reverent.”

“No. M. de Ravigne?”

“Ah. There,
quite
a different story. Everything very nice and respectful,” said Miss Wade. “Dagmar had left a little trickle on the rim and he drew out a
spotless
handkerchief and wiped it. Nothing could be nicer. He might almost be an Englishman.”

“In your anxiety — your very natural anxiety about Mr. Pringle — perhaps you just looked to see—”

“When he passed it to dear Janey? Yes, Inspector, I did. Janey must have felt as nervous as I did for she reached out her hands and
took
it as soon as Mr. Pringle had poured in the wine. Well, I say ‘poured,’ but it is my impression that although he made an attempt he did not actually succeed in doing so. Mr. Ogden is always quite the gentleman, of course,” added Wade with one of her magnificent
non sequiturs
. “He receives the cup in
both
hands by the bowl and grasps the vessel firmly by the neck. That sounds a little as though he had three hands, but of course the mere idea is ludicrous.”

“And then gives the cup to Mr. Garnette.”

“To Father Garnette. Yes. Of course when Father Garnette took it, I did raise my eyes. He does it so beautifully, it is quite uplifting.
One
hand on the stem,” described Miss Wade holding up genteel little claws, “and the
other
laid over the cup. Like a benison.”

“I suppose you all watch the Chosen Vessel?”

“Oh, yes. As soon as poor Cara took it we all raised our eyes. You see she was speaking in ecstasy. It was a wonderful experience. I thought she was going to dance.”

“To dance!” ejaculated the inspector.

“Even,” chanted Miss Wade in a pious falsetto, “even as the priests danced before the Stone of Odin. It has happened before. A lady who has since passed through the last portal.”

“You mean she has died?”

“Yes.”

“What did this lady die of?” asked Alleyn.

“They
called
it epilepsy,” replied Miss Wade doubtfully.

“Well, Miss Wade,” said Alleyn after a pause, “it has been perfectly charming of you to be so patient with me. I am most grateful. There’s only one other thing.”

“And that is?” asked Miss Wade with a perky air of being exceedingly businesslike.

“Will you allow the wardress to search you?”

“To
search
me! Oh dear. I–I—must confess. It is such a very cold evening and I did not anticipate—”

“You would not have to — remove anything,” said Alleyn hurriedly. “Or rather,” — he looked helplessly at Miss Wade’s dejected little fur tippet and drab raincoat and, since the raincoat was unbuttoned, at layers of purple and black cardigans — “or rather only your outer things.”

“I have no desire,” said Miss Wade, “to obstruct the police in the execution of their duty. Where is this woman?”

“In the porch outside.”

“But that is very public.”

“If you would prefer the vestry.”

“I don’t think the robing-chamber would be quite nice. Let it be the porch, officer.”

“Thank you, madam.”

Detective-Sergeant Bailey came down from the chancel and whispered to Inspector Fox. Inspector Fox moved to a strategic position behind Miss Wade and proceeded to raise his eyebrows, wink with extreme deliberation, contort his features into an expression of cunning profundity and finally to hold up a small fragment of paper.

“Eh?” said Alleyn. “Oh! Do you know, Miss Wade, I don’t think I need bother you with this business. Just let the wardress see your bag and your pockets if you have any. And your gloves. That will be quite enough.”

“More than sufficient,” said Miss Wade. “Thank you. Good evening, officer.”

“Good evening, madam.”

“Have you been through the Police College?”

“Not precisely, madam.”

“Indeed?” said Miss Wade, squinting curiously at him. “But you speak nicely.”

“You are very kind.”

“A superior school perhaps? The advantages—”

“My parents gave me all the advantages they could afford.” agreed Alleyn solemnly.

“Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, ma’am,” began Fox with surprising emphasis, “was—”

“Fox,” interrupted Alleyn, “don’t be a snob. Get Miss Wade a taxi.”

“Oh, thank you, I have my overshoes on.”

“My superiors would wish it, madam.”

“Then in that case — my grandfather kept his carriage at Dulwich — thank you, I will take a taxi.”