Tied Up in Tinsel (13 page)

“Look,” he said.

On the carpet, near Alleyn’s feet, he laid down a crumpled newspaper package.

Alleyn leant forward. Hilary pulled back the newspaper.

He disclosed a short steel poker with an ornate handle.

Alleyn looked at it for a moment. “Yes?” he said. “Where did you find it?”

“That’s what’s so — upsetting.” Hilary gave a sideways motion of his head towards the window. “Out there,” he said. “Where you were looking — I saw you — just now when I was on the telephone. In the tree.”

“The Christmas tree?”

“No, no, no. The growing tree. Inside it. Lying across the branches. Caught up, sort of, by the handle.”

“When did you find it?”

“This afternoon. I was in here wondering whether, after all, I should ring up Marchbanks or the police and hating the idea of ringing up anybody because of — you understand — the staff. And I walked over to the window and looked out.
Without
looking. You know? And then I saw something catching the light in the tree. I didn’t realize at once what it was. The tree’s quite close to the window — almost touching it. So I opened the window and looked more carefully and finally I stepped over the ledge and got it. I’m afraid I didn’t think of fingerprints at that juncture.”

Alleyn, sitting on the edge of his chair, still looked at the poker. “You recognize it?” he said. “Where it comes from?”

“Of course. I bought it. It’s part of a set. Late eighteenth century. Probably Welsh. There’s a Welsh press to go with it.”

“Where?”

“Uncle Flea’s dressing-room.”

“I see.”

“Yes, but do you? Did Troy tell you? About the Fleas’ tin box?”

“Mrs. Forrester says somebody had tried to force the lock?”

“Exactly! Precisely! With a poker. She actually said with a poker. Well:
as if
with a poker. And it wasn’t Moult because Moult, believe it or not, keeps the key. So why a poker for Moult?”

“Quite.”

“And — there are dark marks on it. At the end. If you look. Mightn’t they be stains of black japanning? It’s a japanned tin box. Actually, Uncle Flea’s old uniform case.”

“Have you by any chance got a lens?”

“Of course I’ve got a lens,” Hilary said querulously. “One constantly uses lenses in our business. Here. Wait a moment.”

He found one in his desk and gave it to Alleyn.

It was not very high-powered but it was good enough to show, at the business end of the poker, a dark smear hatched across by scratches: a slight glutinous deposit to which the needle from a conifer adhered. Alleyn stooped lower.

Hilary said, “Well? Anything?”

“Did you look closely at this?”

“No, I didn’t, I was expecting my aunt to come in. Aunt Bed is perpetually making entrances. She wanted to harry me and I didn’t want to add to her fury by letting her see this. So I wrapped it up and locked it away. Just in time, as it turned out. In she came with all her hackles up. If ladies have hackles.”

“But you did notice the marks then?”

“Yes. Just.”

“They’re not made by lacquer.”

“Oh?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Afraid? What do you mean — afraid?”

“See for yourself.”

Alleyn gave Hilary the glass. Hilary stared at him and then knelt by the crumpled paper with its trophy. Alleyn moved the desk lamp to throw a stronger light on the area. Hilary bent his body as if he performed some oriental obeisance before the poker.

“Do you see?” Alleyn said. “It’s not what you supposed, is it? Look carefully. The deposit is sticky, isn’t it? There’s a fir needle stuck to it. And underneath — I think Mr. Wrayburn would rather you didn’t touch it — underneath, but just showing one end, there’s a gold-coloured thread. Do you see it?”

“I — yes. Yes, I think — yes —”

“Tell me,” Alleyn asked. “What colour was the Druid’s wig?”

“Now, I tell you what,” Alleyn said to his wife. “This thing has all the signs of becoming a top-ranking nuisance, and I’m damned if I’ll have you involved in it. You know what happened that other time you got stuck into a nuisance.”

“If you’re thinking of bundling me off to a pub in Downlow, I’ll jib.”

“What I’m thinking of is a quick return by both of us to London.”

“Before the local force gets any ideas about you?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re a bit late for that, darling, aren’t you? Where’s Mr. Wrayburn?”

“In the study, I imagine. I left Bill-Tasman contemplating his poker and I told him it’d be better if he saw the Super alone. He didn’t much like the idea, but there it is.”

“Poor Hilary!”

“I daresay. It’s a bit of an earthquake under his ivory tower, isn’t it?”

“Do you like him, Rory?”

Alleyn said, “I don’t know. I’m cross with him because he’s being silly but — yes, I suppose if we’d met under normal conditions I’d have quite liked him. Why?”

“He’s a strange one. When I was painting him I kept thinking of such incongruous things.”

“Such as?”

“Oh — fauns and camels and things.”

“Which does his portrait favour?”

“At first, the camel. But the faun has sort of intervened — I mean the Pan job, you know, not the sweet little deer.”

“So I supposed. If he’s a Pan-job I’ll bet he’s met his match in his intended nymph.”

“She went in, boots and all, after you, didn’t she?”

“If only,” Alleyn said, “I could detect one pinch, one soupçon, of the green-eyed monster in you, my dish, I’d crow like a bloody rooster.”

“We’d better finish changing. Hilary will be expecting us. Drinks at seven. You’re to meet Mr. Smith and the Fleas.”

“I can wait.”

There was a tap at the door.

“You won’t have to,” said Troy. “Come in.”

It was Nigel, all downcast eyes, to present Mr. Bill-Tasman’s compliments to Mr. Alleyn and he would be very glad if Mr. Alleyn would join him in the study.

“In five minutes,” Alleyn said, and when Nigel had gone: “Which was that?”

“The one that killed a sinful lady. Nigel.”

“I thought as much. Here I go.”

He performed one of the lightning changes to which Troy was pretty well accustomed, gave her a kiss, and went downstairs.

Superintendent Wrayburn was a sandy man; big, of course, but on the bonier side. He was principally remarkable for his eyebrows, which resembled those of a Scotch terrier, and his complexion which, in midwinter, was still freckled like a plover’s egg.

Alleyn found him closeted with Hilary in the study. The poker, rewrapped, lay on the desk. Before Hilary was a glass of sherry and before Mr. Wrayburn, a pretty generous whisky and water, from which Alleyn deduced that he hadn’t definitely made up his mind what sort of job he seemed to be on. He was obviously glad to see Alleyn and said it was quite a coincidence, wasn’t it?

Hilary made some elaborate explanations about drinks being served for the houseparty in the drawing-room at seven but perhaps they could join the others a little later and in the meantime — surely now Alleyn would —?

“Yes, indeed. Thank you,” Alleyn said. “Since I’m not on duty,” he added lightly and Mr. Wrayburn blushed beyond his freckles.

“Well — nor am I,” he said quickly. “Yet. I hope. Not exactly.”

Superintendent Wrayburn, Hilary explained, had only just arrived, having been held up at the station. He’d had a cold drive. It was snowing again. He was more than pleased to have Alleyn with them. He, Hilary, was about to give Mr. Wrayburn a — Hilary boggled a little at the word — a statement about the “unfortunate mishap.”

Alleyn said “of course” and no more than that. Mr. Wrayburn produced his regulation notebook, and away Hilary went, not overcoherently and yet, Alleyn fancied, with a certain degree of artfulness. He began with Moult’s last-minute substitution at the Christmas tree, and continued with Vincent’s assurance that he had seen Moult (whom he thought to be the Colonel) after the performance, run from the courtyard into the entrance porch and thence to the dressing-room. “Actually,” Hilary explained, “it’s a cloakroom on one’s right as one comes into the house. It’s in the angle of the hall and the drawing-room which was so convenient. There’s a door from it into the hall itself and another one into the entrance porch. To save muddy boots, you know, from coming into the house.”

“Quite,” said Mr. Wrayburn. He gazed at his notes. “So the last that’s known of him, then, is —?”

“Is when, having taken off his robe and makeup with Miss Tottenham’s help, he presumably left the cloakroom with the avowed intention of going up to Colonel Forrester.”

“Did he leave the cloakroom by the door into the hall, sir?”

“Again — presumably. He would hardly go out into the porch and double back into the hall, would he?”

“You wouldn’t think so, sir, would you? And nobody saw him go upstairs?”

“No. But there’s nothing remarkable in that. The servants were getting the children’s supper ready. The only light, by my express orders, was from the candles on their table. As you’ve seen, there are two flights of stairs leading to a gallery. The flight opposite this cloakroom door is farthest away from the children’s supper table. The staff would be unlikely to notice Moult unless he drew attention to himself. Actually Moult was —” Hilary boggled slightly and then hurried on. “Actually,” he said, “Moult was supposed to help them but, of course, that was arranged before there was any thought of his substituting for Colonel Forrester.”

“Yes, sir. I appreciate the position. Are there,” Wrayburn asked, “coats and so forth in this cloakroom, sir? Mackintoshes and umbrellas and gum boots and so on?”

“Good for you, Jack,” thought Alleyn.

“Yes. Yes, there are. Are you wondering,” Hilary said quickly, “if, for some reason —?”

“We’ve got to consider everything, haven’t we, Mr. Bill-Tasman?”

“Of course. Of course. Of course.”

“You can’t think of any reason, sir, however farfetched, like, that would lead Mr. Moult to quit the premises and, if you’ll excuse the expression, do a bunk?”

“No. No. I can’t. And—” Hilary looked nervously at Alleyn. “Well — there’s a sequel. You’re yet to hear — ”

And now followed the story of the japanned uniform box, at which Mr. Wrayburn failed entirely to conceal his astonishment and, a stunning climax, the exhibition of the poker.

Alleyn had been waiting for this. He felt a certain amusement in Mr. Wrayburn’s change of manner, which was instant and sharp. He became formal. He looked quickly from Hilary to the object on the desk and upon that his regard became fixed. The lens lay near at hand. Mr. Wrayburn said, “May I?” and used it with great deliberation. He then stared at Alleyn.

‘I take it,“ he said, ”You’ve seen this?”

Alleyn nodded.

Hilary now repeated his account of the finding of the poker, and Mr. Wrayburn peered out of the window and asked his questions and made his notes. All through this procedure he seemed in some indefinable way to invite Alleyn to enter into the discussion and to be disappointed that he remained silent.

Hilary avoided looking at the object on his desk. He turned his back, bent over the fire, made as if to stir it and, apparently disliking the feel of the study poker, dropped it with a clatter in the hearth.

Wrayburn said, “Yes,” several times in a noncommittal voice and added that things had taken quite a little turn, hadn’t they, and he must see what they could do about it. He told Hilary he’d like to take care of the poker and was there perhaps a cardboard box? Hilary offered to ring for one, but Wrayburn said he wouldn’t bother the staff at this stage. After some rummaging in his bureau, Hilary found a long tubular carton with a number of maps in it. He took them out and Wrayburn slid the wrapped poker tenderly into it. He suggested that it might be as well not to publicize the poker and Hilary was in feverish agreement. Wrayburn thought he would like to have a wee chat with the Detective Chief-Superintendent about the turn this seemed to be taking. Hilary winced. Wrayburn then asked Alleyn if he would be kind enough to show him the cloakroom. Hilary began to say that he himself would do so, but stopped short and raised his shoulders.

“I see,” he said. “Very well.” Alleyn went to the door, followed by Wrayburn carrying the carton. “Mr. Wrayburn!” Hilary said loudly.

“Sir?”

“I am sure you are going to talk about my staff.”

“I was only,” Wrayburn said in a hurry, “going to ask, as a matter of routine, for the names of your guests and the staff. We — er — we have to make these inquiries, sir.”

“Possibly. Very well, you shall have them. But I must tell you, at once, that whatever theory you may form as to the disappearance of this man, there is no question, there can never be any question, no matter what emerges, that any one of my staff, in even the remotest fashion, is concerned in it. On that point,” said Hilary, “I am and I shall remain perfectly adamant.”

“Strong,” said Mr. Wrayburn.

“And meant to be,” said Hilary.

“It’s a very impressive residence, this,” Superintendent Wrayburn observed.

He and Alleyn paused in the hall, which was otherwise deserted. Great swags of evergreen still hung from the gallery. Fires blazed on the enormous hearths.

“What I mean,” Superintendent Wrayburn said, “it’s impressive,” and after a moment: “Take a look at this.”

A framed plan of Halberds hung near the entrance.

“Useful,” said Wrayburn. They studied it and then stood with their backs to the front doors getting, as Wrayburn put it, the hang of the place. Beyond that, the open courtyard, flanked east and west by the projecting wings. On their left was the east wing with a corridor opening off the hall serving library, breakfast-room, boudoir, study and, at the rear angle of the house, the chapel. On their right were the drawing-room, dining-room serveries and, at the northwest rear corner, the kitchen. Doors under the gallery, one of them the traditional green baize swinger, led from the back of the hall, between the twin flights of stairs; into a passage which gave on the servants’ quarters and various offices, including the flower-room.

Alleyn looked up at the gallery. It was dimly lit, but out of the shadows there glimmered a pale greenish shape of extreme elegance. One’s meant to look at that, he thought. It’s a treasure.

“So what about this cloakroom, then?” Wrayburn suggested. “Before I take any further action?”

“Why not? Here you are.”

It was in the angle between the entrance porch and the drawing-room and, as Hilary said, had a door to the hall and another to the porch. “The plan,” Alleyn pointed out, “shows a corresponding room on the east side. It’s a symmetrical house, isn’t it?”

“So when he came out,” Wrayburn mused, “he should have walked straight ahead to the right-hand flight of stairs and up them to the gallery?”

“And along the gallery to the east corridor in the visitors’ wing. Where he disappeared into thin air?”

“Alternatively — Here! Let’s look.”

They went into the cloakroom, shutting the door behind them and standing close together, just inside the threshold.

Alleyn was transported backstage. Here was that smell of face cream and spirit-gum. Here was the shelf with a towel laid over it and the looking-glass. Neatly spread out, fan-wise, on one side of this bench, was the Druid’s golden beard and moustache and, hooked over a table lamp in lieu of a wig-block, the golden wig itself, topped by a tall crown of mistletoe.

A pair of knitted woollen gloves lay nearby.

A collection of mackintoshes, gum boots, and shooting-sticks had been shoved aside to make room for the Druid’s golden robe. There was the door opening on the porch and beside it a small lavatorial compartment. The room was icy cold.

Under the makeup bench, neatly aligned, stood a pair of fur-lined boots. Their traces from the outside door to where they had been removed were still quite damp and so were they.

“We’d better keep clear of them,” Alleyn said, “hadn’t we?” From where he stood he reached over to the bench, moved the table lamp and, without touching the wig, turned its back towards them. It had been powdered, like the beard, with gold dust. But at the place where the long hair would have overhung the nape of the neck there was a darker patch.

“Wet?” Wrayburn said, pointing to it. “Snow, would that have been? He was out in the snow, wasn’t he? But the rest of the thing’s only—” he touched the mistletoe crown “—damp.”

Alleyn flicked a long finger at the cardboard carton which Wrayburn still carried. “Did you get a good look at it?” he asked.

“That’s right,” Wrayburn said, answering a question that Alleyn had not asked. “You’re dead right. This is getting altogether different. It looks to me,” he said, “as if we’d got a bit of a case on our hands.”

“I believe you have.”

“Well,” Wrayburn said, making small movements of his shoulders and lifting his chin. “There’ll have to be an adjustment, I mean to say in the approach, won’t there?” He laid the carton on the bench as if it was made of porcelain. “There’ll need to be an analysis, of course, and a comparison. I’d better — I’d better report it to our C.I.D. But — just let’s —”

He shot a glance at Alleyn, fished in his pockets, and produced a small steel rule. He introduced the end under the hair and raised it.

“Take a look,” he said. “It’s wet, of course, but d’you reckon there’s a stain?”

“Might be.”

“I’m going to damn’ well —” Without completing his sentence, Wrayburn lifted a strand and with a fingernail and thumb separated a single hair and gave it a tweak. The wig tipped sideways and the crown of mistletoe fell off. Wrayburn swore.

“They make these things pretty solidly, don’t they?” Alleyn said. He righted the wig and held it steady. Wrayburn wound the single hair round the rule and this time jerked it free. Alleyn produced an envelope and the hair was dropped into it. Wrayburn stowed it in his tunic pocket.

“Let’s have a look at the robe,” Alleyn said. He lifted it off on its coat hanger and turned it round. A slide fastener ran right down the back, separating the high-standing collar, which showed a wet patch and was frayed.

“Cripes,” said Wrayburn, and then: “We’ll have to get this room locked up.”

“Yes.”

“Look. What seems to come out of this? I mean it’s pretty obvious the hair on the poker matches this, and there’s not much doubt, is there, that the deposit on the poker is blood. And what about the wet patch on the wig? And the collar? That’s not blood. So what? They’ve been cleaned. What with? Water? Wiped clear or washed. Which? Where? When?”

“You’re going like a train, Jack.”

“Must have been here, after the young lady left him. Unless — well, unless she did it and left him cold, in which case who got rid of him?
She
didn’t. Well — did she?”

“Have you met the young lady?”

“No.”

“She’s not the body-carrying type. Except her own, which she carries like Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt.”

“Is that right?” Wrayburn mused. “Is that a fact? Now, about this wig and beard and all that carry-on. To begin with, this gear’s upstairs in a dressing-room. Moult supposedly puts it on, all except the whiskers, and comes down here, where the young lady meets him and fixes the whiskers. She goes to the drawing-room and he goes out by that door into the porch and then into the courtyard, where this Vincent liaises with him, then into the drawing-room, where he does a Daddy Christmas, or what passes for it, round the tree. Then he returns the same way as he came and Vincent sees him come in here by the same door and the young lady takes off his whiskers and leaves him here. And that’s the last anybody sees of him. Now. What say, somebody who knows he’s here comes in from outside
with
the poker from the upstairs dressing-room and lets him have it. Say he’s sitting there, nice and handy, still wearing his wig. Right. Then this character hauls him outside and dumps him, God knows where, but — Here!” Wrayburn ejaculated. “Wait a bit! What’s out there? There’s a sledge out there. And there’s this chap Vincent out there. Isn’t there?”

“There is, indeed.”

“Well!” Wrayburn said. “Tt’s a start, isn’t it? It may not do in the finish. And I’ve read your book. I know what you think about drawing quick conclusions.”

“It’s a start.”

“Following it up, then. This character, before he goes, sees the condition of the wig and cleans the stains off at the handbasin there and hitches it over the lamp like we found it with that blasted tiara on it. And he goes out and chucks the poker into the fir tree and disposes — God knows where — of the — if it’s homicide — of the body. How about it? Come on. Prove me a fool. Come on.”

“My dear chap, I think it’s a well-reasoned proposition.”

“You do?”

“There are difficulties, though.”

“There are?”

“The floor, for instance. The carpet. Clear traces of the returning wet boots but nothing else. No other boots. And nothing to suggest a body having been dragged to the door. O.K., suppose it was carried out? You’d still expect some interference with the original prints and a set of new ones pointing both ways, wouldn’t you?”

Wrayburn stared moodily at the string-coloured carpet with its clear damp incoming impressions. He picked up a boot and fitted it to the nearest print. “Tallies,” he said. “That’s something. And the boot’s still wet. No drying in here and it was only last night, after all. Well — what next? What’s left? Alternative — he did go upstairs and get clobbered.”

“Wearing his wig?”

“All right. Fair enough. Wearing his wig. God knows why, but wearing his wig. And goes up to the dressing-room. And gets clobbered with the dressing-room poker. And — here! Hold on! Hold on! And the clobberer throws the poker out of the window and it gets stuck in the tree?”

“It seems possible.”

“It does?”

“And the body? If he’s dead?” Alleyn asked.

“Through the window too? Hang on. Don’t rush me.”

“Not for the world. Is the body wearing the wig when it takes the high jump?”

Wrayburn swallowed. “The bloody wig,” he said. “Leave the wig for the time being. Now. I know this bunch of domestic villains are supposed to have searched the area. I know that. But what say someone — all right, one of that lot for the sake of argument — had already removed the body? In the night? Will you buy that?”

“I’ll take it on approval. Removed the body and to confuse the issue returned the unmentionable wig to the cloakroom?”

“I quite like it,” said Wrayburn with a slight attempt at modesty. “Well, anyway, it does sort of fit. It snowed up here, last night. We won’t get anything from the ground, worse luck.”

“Until it thaws.”

“That’s right. That’s dead right.” Wrayburn cleared his throat. “It’s going to be a big one,” he said and after a considerable pause: “Like I said, it’s for our C.I.D. I’ll have to ring the Detective Chief Super about this one and I reckon I know what he’ll say. He’ll say we set up a search. Look, I’ll get onto this right away. You wait here. Will you?”

“Well—”

“I’d be obliged.”

“All right.”

So Wrayburn went off to telephone his Detective Chief Superintendent and Alleyn, a prey to forebodings, was left to contemplate the cloakroom.

Wrayburn came back, full of business. “There you are!” he said. “Just as I thought: He’s going to talk to his senior ’tecs and in the meantime I’m to carry on here. As from now. I’m to lay on a search party and ask Major Marchbanks for dogs. You’ll hang on, won’t you?” Alleyn promised and did so. When Wrayburn had gone he reexamined the wig, plucked a hair for himself, touched the still-damp robe, and fell into an abstraction from which Mr. Wrayburn’s return aroused him.

“No joy,” grumbled Wrayburn. “Breaking and entering
with
violence and Lord knows what else at the D.C.S.’s. He is calling up as many chaps as he can and the Major’s sending us what
he
can spare. They should be here within the hour. In the meantime—” he broke off, glanced at Alleyn, and made a fresh start. “There’ll have to be confirmation of all this stuff — statements from the party. The lot.”

“Big thing for you.”

“Are you joking? While it lasts, which will be until the C.I.D. comes waltzing in. Then back down the road smartly for me, to the drunks-in-charge. Look!” he burst out. “I don’t reckon our lot can handle it. Not on their own. Like the man said: we’re understaffed and we’re busy. We’re fully extended. I don’t mind betting the D.C.S.’ll talk to the C.C. before the hour’s out.”

“He’ll be able to call on the county for extra men.”

“He’d do better to go straight to the Yard. Now!”

Alleyn was silent.

“You know what I’m getting at, don’t you?”

“I do, but I wish you wouldn’t. The situation’s altogether too freakish. My wife’s a guest here and so am I. I’m the last person to meddle. I’ve told Bill-Tasman as much. Let them call in the Yard if they like, but not me. Leave me out. Get a statement from my wife, of course. You’ll want to do that. And then, unless there’s any good reason against it, I’ll take her away and damn’ glad to do so. And that’s final. I’ll leave you to it. You’ll want to lock up this place and then you can get cracking. Are there keys? Yes. There you are.”

“But —”

“My dear man, no. Not another word. Please.”

Alleyn went out, quickly, into the hall.

He encountered Hilary standing about six feet away with an air strangely compounded of diffidence flavoured with defiance.

“I don’t know what you’ll think of me,” said Hilary. “I daresay you may be very cross. You see, I’ve been talking to our local pundit. The Detective Chief-Superintendent. And to your boss-person at the C.I.D.”

“— It’s just,” Hilary blandly explained, “that I do happen to know him. Soon after I was first settled with the staff here, he paid a visit to the Vale, and Marchbanks brought him over for tea. He was interested in my experiment. But we mustn’t keep him waiting, must we?”

“He’s still on the line?”

“Yes. He’d like to have a word with you. There’s a telephone over there. I
know
you’re going to forgive me,” Hilary said to Alleyn’s back.

“Then you know a damn’ sight more than’s good for you,” Alleyn thought. He gave himself a second or two to regain his temper and lifted the receiver. Hilary left him with ostentatious tact. Alleyn wondered if he was going to have a sly listen in from wherever he had established the call.

The Assistant Commissioner was plaintive and slightly facetious. “My dear Rory,” he said, “what very odd company you keep: no holiday like a busman’s, I see.”

“I assure you, sir, it’s none of my seeking.”

“So I supposed. Are you alone?”

“Ostensibly.”

“Quite. Well, now your local D.C. Super rang me before Bill-Tasman did. It seems there’s no joy down your way: big multiple stores robbery, with violence, and a near riot following some bloody sit-in. They’re sending a few chaps out but they’re fully extended and can’t really spare them. As far as I can gather this show of yours —”

“It’s not mine.”

“Wait a minute. This show of yours looks as if it might develop into something, doesn’t it?” This was the Assistant Commissioner’s stock phrase for suspected homicide.