Authors: Ngaio Marsh
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #det_classic, #Mystery & Detective, #Police Procedural, #Police, #Alleyn; Roderick (Fictitious character)
Overture to Death (23 page)
“You know the answer to that better than I do. Away you go.”
Nigel went, not without further bitter complaint. Alleyn and Fox moved to the supper-room.
“All this food can be thrown away to-morrow,” said Alleyn. “There’s something else I want to see down here, though. Look, there’s the tea-tray ready to be carried on in the play. Mrs. Ross’s silver, I dare say. It looks like her. Modern, expensive and streamlined.”
He lifted the lid of the teapot.
“It reeks of onion. Dear little Georgie.”
“I suppose someone spotted it and threw it out. You found it lying on the floor here, didn’t you, Mr. Alleyn?”
“In that box over there. Yes. Bailey has found Georgie’s and Miss P’s prints in the pot, so presumably Miss P. hawked out the onion.
He stooped down and looked under the table.
“You went all over here last night, didn’t you, Fox? Last night! This morning! ‘Little Fox, we’ve had a busy day.’ ”
“All over it, sir. You’ll find the onion peel down there. Young Biggins must have skinned it and then put it in the teapot.”
“Did you find any powder in here?”
“Powder? No. No, I didn’t. Why?”
“Or flour?”
“No. Oh, you’re thinking of the flour on the onion.”
“I’ll just get the onion.”
Alleyn fetched the onion. He had put it in one of his wide-necked specimen bottles.
“We haven’t had time to deal with this as yet,” he said. “Look at it, Fox, it’s pinkish. That’s powder, not flour.”
“Perhaps young Biggins fooled round with it in one of the dressing-rooms.”
“Let’s look at the dressing-rooms.”
They found that on each dressing-table there was a large box of theatrical powder. They were all new, and it looked as if Dinah had provided them. The men’s boxes contained a yellowish powder, the women’s a pinkish cream. Mrs. Ross, alone, had brought her own in an expensive-looking French box. In the dressing-room used by Miss Prentice and Miss Campanula, some of their powder had been spilled across the table. Alleyn stooped and sniffed at it.
“That’s it,” he said. “Reeks of onion.” He opened the box. “But this doesn’t. Fox, ring up Miss Copeland and ask when the powder was brought into these rooms. It’s an extension telephone. You just turn the handle.”
Fox plodded away. Alleyn, in a sort of trance, stared at the top of the dressing-table, shook his head thoughtfully and returned to the stage. He heard a motor-horn, and in a minute the door opened. Roper and Fife came in shepherding between them a pigmy of a man who looked as if he had been plunged in a water-butt.
Mr. Saul Tranter was an old man with a very bad face. His eyes were no bigger than a pig’s and they squinted, wickedly close together, on either side of his mean little nose. His mouth was loose and leered uncertainly, and his few teeth were objects of horror. He smelt very strongly indeed of dirty old man, dead birds and whisky. Roper thrust him forward as if he was some fabulous orchid, culled at great risk.
“Here he be, sir,” said Roper. “This is Saul Tranter, sure enough, with all his wickedness hot in his body, having been taken in the act with two of squire’s cock-pheasants and his gun smoking in his hands. Two years you’ve dodged us, haven’t you, Tranter, you old fox? I thought I’d come along with Fife, sir, seeing I’ve got the hang of this case, having brought my mind to bear on it.”
“Very good of you, Roper.”
“Now then, Tranter,” said Roper, “speak up to the chief inspector and let him have the truth — if so be it lies in you to tell it.”
“Heh, my sonnies!” said the poacher in a piping voice. “Be that the instrument that done the murder?”
And he pointed an unspeakably dirty hand at the piano.
“Never you mind that,” ordered Roper. “That’s not for your low attention.”
“What have you got to tell us, Tranter?” asked Alleyn. “Good Lord, man, you’re as wet as a water-rat!”
“Wuz up to Cloudyfold when they cotched me,” admitted Mr. Tranter. He drew a little closer to the heater and began stealthily to steam.
“Ay, they cotched me,” he said. “Reckon it do have to happen so soon or so late. Squire’ll sit on me at court and show what a mighty man he be, no doubt, seeing it’s his woods I done trapped and shot these twenty year. ’Od rabbit the man, he’d change his silly, puffed-up ways if he knew what I had up my sleeve for ’un.”
“That’s no way to talk,” said Roper severely, “you, with a month’s hard hanging round your neck.”
“Maybe. Maybe not, Charley Roper.” He squinted up at Alleyn. “Being I has my story to tell which will fix the guilt of this spring-gun on him as set it, I reckon the hand of the law did ought to be light on my ancient shoulders.”
“If your information is any use,” said Alleyn, “we might put in a word for you. I can’t promise. You never know. I’ll have to hear it first.”
“ ’Tain’t good enough, mister. Promise first, story afterwards, is my motter.”
“Then it’s not ours,” said Alleyn coolly. “It looks as though you’ve nothing to tell, Tranter.”
“Is threats nothing? Is blasting words nothing? Is a young chap caught red-handed same as me, with as pretty a bird as ever flewed into a trap, nothing?”
“Well?”
Fox came down into the hall, joined the group round the heater and stared with a practised eye at Tranter. Nigel arrived and took off his streaming mackintosh. Tranter turned his head restlessly and looked sideways from one face to another. A trickle of brown saliva appeared at the corner of his mouth.
“Well?” Alleyn repeated.
“Sour, tight-fisted men be the Jernighams,” said Tranter. “What’s a bird or two to them! I’m up against all damned misers, and so be all my side. Tyrants they be, and narrow as the grave, father and son.”
“You’d better take him back, Roper.”
“Nay, then, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you. And if you don’t give me my dues, dang it, if I don’t fling it in the faces of the J.P.s. Where be your pencils and papers, souls? This did oughter go down in writing.”
Letter to Troy
i
On Friday afternoon,” said Mr. Tranter, “I were up to Cloudyfold. Never mind way. I come down by my own ways, and proper foxy ways they be, so quiet as moonshine. I makes downhill to Top Lane. Never mind why.”
“I don’t in the least mind,” said Alleyn. “Do go on.”
Mr. Tranter shot a doubtful glance at him and sucked in his breath.
“A’most down to Top Lane, I wuz, when I heard voices. A feymell voice and a man’s voice, and raised in anger. ‘Ah,’ thinks I. ‘There’s somebody down there kicking up Bob’s-a-dying in the lane and, that being the case, the lane’s no place for me, with never-mind-what under my arm and, never-mind-what in my pockets, neither.’ So I worms my way closer, till at last I’m nigh on bank above lane. There’s a great ancient beech tree a-growing theer, and I lays down and creeps forward, so cunning as a serpent, till I looks down atwixt the green stuff into the lane. Yass. And what do I see?”
“What
do
you see?”
“Ah! I sees young Henry Jernigham, as proud as death and with the devil himself in his face, and rector’s wench in his arms.”
“That’s no way to talk,” admonished Roper. “Choose your words.”
“So I will, and mind your own business, Charley Roper. And who do I see standing down in lane a-facing of they two with her face so sickly as cheese and her eyes like raging fires and her limbs trimbling like a trapped rabbit. Who do I see?”
“Miss Eleanor Prentice,” said Alleyn.
Mr. Tranter, who was now steaming like a geyser and smelling like a polecat, choked and blinked his eyes.
“She’s never told ’ee?”
“No. Go on.”
“Trimbling as if to take a fit, she was, and screeching feeble, but uncommon venomous. Threating ’em with rector, she was, and threating ’em with squire. She says she caught ’em red-handed in vice and she’d see every decent critter in parish heard of their goings-on. And more besides. You’d never believe that old maiden had the knowledge of sinful youth in her, like she do seem to have. Nobbut what she don’t tipple.”
“Really?” Alleyn ejaculated.
“Aye. One of them hasty secret drinkers, she is. She’d sloshed her tipple down her bosom, as I clearly saw. No doubt that’s what’d inflamed the old wench and caused her to rage and storm at ’em. She give it ’em proper hot and sizzling, did Miss Prentice. And when she was at the full blast of her fury, what does t’ young spark do but round on ’er. Aye, t’ young toad! Grabs her by shoulders and hisses in ’er face. If she don’t let ’em be, ’e says, and if she tries to blacken young maid’s name in eyes of the world, he says, he’ll stop her wicked tongue for good an’ all. He were in a proper rage, more furious than her. Terrible. And rector’s maid, she says, ‘Doan’t, Henry, doan’t!’ But young Jernigham ’e take no heed of the wench, but hammer-and-tongs he goes to it, so white as a sheet and blazing like a furnace. Aye, they’ve all got murderous, wrathy, passionate tempers, they Jernighams, as is well known hereabouts; I’ve heard the manner of this bloody killing, and I reckon there’s little doubt he set his spring-gun for t’one old hen and catched t’other. Now!”
ii
“Damn!” said Alleyn, when Mr. Tranter had been removed. “What a
bloody
business this is.”
“Is it what you expected?” asked Nigel.
“Oh, I half expected it, yes. It was obvious that something pretty dramatic had happened on Friday afternoon. Miss Prentice and Henry Jernigham showed the whites of their eyes whenever it was mentioned, and the rector told me that he and the squire and Miss Prentice had all been opposed to this match. Why, the Lord alone knows. She seems a perfectly agreeable girl, rather a nice girl, blast it. And look at the way Master Henry responded to inquiry! Fox, did you ever know such a case? One cranky spinster is enough, heaven knows; and here we have two, each a sort of Freudian prize packet, and one a corpse on our hands.”
“The whole thing seems very unlikely sort of stuff to me, Mr. Alleyn, and yet there it is. She
was
murdered. If that kid had never read his comic paper, and if he hadn’t had his Twiddletoy outfit, it wouldn’t have happened.”
“I believe you’re right there, Brer Fox.”
“I suppose, sir, that was what Miss Prentice wanted to see the rector about on Friday evening. The meeting in Top Lane, I mean.”
“Yes, I dare say it was. Oh, hell, we’ll have to tackle Miss Prentice in the morning. What did Dinah Copeland say about the face-powder?”
“She brought it down with her last night. Georgie Biggins wasn’t behind the scenes at all last night. He made such a nuisance of himself that they gave him the sack. He was call-boy at the dress rehearsal, but the tables and dressing-rooms have all been scrubbed out since then. That powder must have been spilt after half-past six last evening. And another thing: Miss Dinah Copeland never heard about the onion — or says she didn’t.”
“That makes sense, anyway!”
“
Does it
?” said Nigel bitterly. “I don’t mind owning that I fail to see the faintest significance in anything you’ve been saying. Why this chat about an onion?”
“Why, indeed,” sighed Alleyn. “Come on. We’ll pack up and go home. Even a policeman must sleep.”
iii
But before Alleyn went to sleep that night he wrote to his love:
The Jernigham Arms,
November 29th.
My Darling Troy,
What a chancey sort of lover you’ve got. A fly-by-night who speaks to you at nine o’clock on Saturday evening, and soon after midnight is down in Dorset looking at lethal pianos. Shall you mind this sort of thing when we are married? You say not, and I suppose and hope not. You’ll turn that dark head of yours and find your husband gone from your side. “Off again, I see,” you’ll say, and fall to thinking of the picture you are to paint next day. My dear and my darling Troy, you shall disappear, too, when you choose, into the austerity of your work, and never, never, never shall I look sideways, or disagreeably, or in the manner of the martyred spouse. Not as easy a promise as you might think, but I make it.
This is a disagreeable and unlikely affair. You will see the papers before my letter reaches you, but in case you’d like to know the official version, I enclose a very short account written in Yard language, and kept as colourless as possible. Fox and I have come to a conclusion, but are hanging off and on, hoping for a bit more evidence to turn up before we make an arrest. You told me once that your only method in detection would be based on character: and a very sound method, too, as long as you’ve got a flair for it. Now, here are our seven characters for you. What do you make of them?
First, the squire, Jocelyn Jernigham of Pen Cuckoo, and Acting Chief Constable to make it more difficult. He’s a reddish, baldish man, with a look of perpetual surprise in his rather prominent light eyes. A bit pomposo. You would always know from the tone of his voice whether he spoke to a man or a woman. I think he would bore you and I think you would frighten him. The ladies, you see, should be gay and flirtatious and winsome. You are not at all winsome, darling, are you? They should make a man feel he’s a bit of a dog. He’s not altogether a fool, though, and, I should think, has a temper of his own. I think his cousin, Eleanor Prentice, frightens him, but he’s full of family pride, and probably considers that even half a Jernigham can’t be altogether wrong.
Miss Eleanor Prentice is half a Jernigham. She’s about forty-nine or fifty, and I think rather a horrid woman. She’s quite colourless and she’s got buck teeth. She disseminates an odour of sanctity. She smiles a great deal, but with an air of forbearance as if hardly anything was really quite nice. I think she’s a religious fanatic, heavily focused on the rector. This morning when I interviewed her she was thrown into a perfect fever by the sound of the church bells. She could scarcely listen to the simplest question, much less return a reasonable answer, so ardent and impatient was her longing to go to church. Now, in your true religious that’s understandable enough. If you believe in the God Christ preached, you must be overwhelmed by your faith, and in time of trouble turn, with a heart of grace, to prayer. But I don’t think Eleanor Prentice is that sort of religious. God knows I’m no psycho-analyst, but I imagine she’d be meat and drink to any one who was. Does one talk about a sex-fixation? Probably not. Anyway, she’s gone the way modern psychology seems to consider axiomatic with women of her age and condition. This opinion is based partly on the statements of Henry Jernigham and Dinah Copeland and partly on my own impression of the woman.
Henry Jernigham is a good-looking young man. He’s dark, with a jaw, grey eyes and an impressive head. He adopts the conversational manner of the moment, ironic and amusing, and gives the impression that he says whatever comes… into his head. But I don’t believe any one has ever done that. How deep are our layers of thought, Troy. So deep that the thought of thought is terrifying to most of us. After many years, or perhaps only a few years, you and I may sometimes guess at each other’s thoughts before they are spoken; and how strange that will seem to us. ‘A proof of our love!’ we shall cry.
This young Jernigham is in love with Dinah Copeland. Why didn’t we meet when I was his age and you were a solemn child? Should I have loved you when you were fourteen and I was twenty-three? In those days I seem to remember I had a passion for full-blown blondes. But, without doubt, I would have loved and you would have never noticed it. Well, Henry loves Dinah, who is a nice, intelligent child and vaguely on the stage, as almost all of them seem to be nowadays. I long to drivel on about the damage that magnificent chap Irvine did to his profession when he made it respectable. No art should be fashionable, Troy, should it? But Dinah is evidently a serious young actress and probably quite a good one. She adores Master Henry.
Dr. Templett, as you will see, looks very dubious. He could have taken the automatic, he could have fixed it in position, he has a motive, and he used all his authority to bring about the change of pianists. But he didn’t get down to the hall until the audience had arrived, and he was never alone from the time he arrived until the time of the murder. To meet, he’s a commonplace enough fellow. Under ordinary circumstances, I think he’d be tiresomely facetious. There is no doubt that he was infected with a passion for Mrs. Selia Ross, and woe betide the man who loves a thin straw-coloured woman with an eye to the main chance. If she doesn’t love him she’ll let him down, and if she does love him she’ll suck away his character like a leech. He’ll develop anæmia of the personality. Mrs. Ross, as you will have gathered,
is
a thin, straw-coloured woman, with the sort of sex appeal that changes men’s faces when they speak of her. Their eyes turn bright and at the same time guarded, and the muscle from the nostril to the corner of the mouth becomes accentuated. Do you think that a very humourless observation? It’s very true, my girl, and if you ever want to draw a sensualist, draw him like that. Trust a policeman: old Darwin found it out in spite of those whiskers. Mrs. Ross could have nipped out of the car and dodged through the french window into the squire’s study while Templett was handing his hat and coat to the butler. Had you thought of that? But she came down to the hall with Templett for the evening performance.
The rector, Walter Copeland, B.A. Oxon.: The first thing you think of is his head. He’s an amazingly fine-looking fellow. Everything the photographer or the producer ordered for a magnificent cleric. Silver hair, dark eyebrows, saintly profile. It’s like a head on a coin or a statue, and much too much like any magazine illustration of “A Handsome Man.” He seems to be less startling than his looks, and appears, in fact, to be a conscientious priest, rather disinclined for difficult jobs, but capable, suddenly, of digging in his toes. He is High Church, and I am sure very sincerely so. I should say that, if his belief came into question, he could be obstinate and even ruthless, but the general impression is of gentle vagueness.
The murdered woman seems to have been an arrogant, lonely, hysterical spinster. She and Miss Prentice might be taken as the positive and negative poles of parochial fanaticism with the rector as the needle. Not a true analogy. The general opinion is that she was a tartar.
It’s midnight. I didn’t get to bed last night, so I must leave you now. Troy, shall we have a holiday cottage in Dorset? A small house with a stern grey front, not too picturesque, but high up in the world so that you could paint the curves of the hills and the solemn changing cloud shadows that hurry over Dorset? Shall we have one? I’m going to marry you next April, and I love you with all my heart
Good-night,
R.
iv
Alleyn laid down his pen and stretched his cramped fingers.
He was, he supposed, the only waking being in the inn, and the silence of a country dwelling at night flowed in upon his mind. The wind had dropped again, and he realised that for some time there had been no sound of rain. The fire had fallen into a glow. The timbers of the inn cracked abruptly and startled him. He was suddenly weary. His body was a stranger to his mind and he looked at it in wonder. He stood as if in a trance, alarmed at meeting himself as a stranger, yet aware of this experience which was not new to him. As always, some part of his mind tried to step across the threshold of the unknown, but was unable to give purpose to his whole thought. He returned to himself and, rousing, lit his candle, turned out the lamp, and climbed the stairs to his room.
His window looked up the Vale. High above him he could see a light. “They are late at bed at Pen Cuckoo,” he thought, and opened the window. The sound of water dripping from the eaves came into the room and the smell of wet grass and earth. “Perhaps it will be fine to-morrow,” he thought, and went happily to bed.
