by Ngaio Marsh
Troy’s voice faded on a note of uncertainty. Alleyn saw her hands move nervously together. She caught his eye and turned away. ‘Let’s not talk about the poor Ancreds,’ she said.
‘What are you munching over in the back of your mind?’ he asked uneasily.
‘It’s nothing,’ she said quickly. He waited, and after a moment she came to him. ‘It’s only that I’d like you to tell me: Suppose you’d heard from somebody else, or read, about the Ancreds and all the unaccountable odds and ends—what would you think? I mean—’ Troy frowned and looked at her clasped hands. ‘Doesn’t it sound rather horribly like the beginning of a chapter in Famous Trials?’
‘Are you really worried about this?’ he said after a pause.
‘Oddly enough,’ said Troy, ‘I am.’
Alleyn got up and stood with his back turned to her. When he spoke again his voice had changed.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’d better tackle it, then.’
‘What’s the matter?’ he heard Troy saying doubtfully. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Something quite ridiculous and we’ll get rid of it. A fetish I nurse. I’ve never fancied coming home and having a nice cosy chat about the current homicide with my wife. I’ve never talked about such cases when they did crop up.’
‘I wouldn’t have minded, Rory.’
‘It’s a kind of fastidiousness. No, that’s praising it. It’s illogical and indefensible. If my job’s not fit for you, it shouldn’t be my job.’
‘You’re being too fancy. I’ve got over my squeamishness.’
‘I didn’t want you to get over it,’ he said. ‘I tell you I’m a fool about this.’
She said the phrase he had hoped to hear. ‘Then do you think there’s something in it—about the Ancreds?’
‘Blast the Ancreds! Here, this won’t do. Come on, let’s tackle the thing and scotch it. You’re thinking like this, aren’t you? There’s a book about embalming in their ghastly drawing-room. It stresses the use of arsenic. Old Ancred went about bragging that he was going to have himself mummified. Any one might have read the book. Sonia Orrincourt was seen doing so. Arsenic, used for rat poison, disappeared in the house. Old Ancred died immediately after altering his Will in the Orrincourt’s favour. There wasn’t an autopsy. If one were made now, the presence of arsenic would be accounted for by the embalming. That’s the thing, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Troy, ‘that’s it.’
‘And you’ve been wondering whether the practical jokes and all the rest of the fun and games can be fitted in?’
‘It sounds less possible as you say it.’
‘Good!’ he said quickly turning to her. ‘That’s better. Come on, then. You’ve wondered if the practical jokes were organized by the Orrincourt to put the old man off his favourite grandchild?’
‘Yes. Or by Cedric, with the same motive. You see, Panty was hot favourite before the Raspberry and Flying Cow Period set in.’
‘Yes. So, in short, you’re wondering if one of the Ancreds, particularly Cedric, or Miss Orrincourt, murdered old Ancred, having previously, in effect, hamstrung the favourite.’
‘This is like talking about a nightmare. It leaves off being horrid and turns silly.’
‘All the better,’ he said vigorously. ‘All right. Now, if the lost arsenic was the lethal weapon, the murder was planned long before the party. You understood Millamant to say it had been missing for some time?’
‘Yes. Unless—’
‘Unless Millamant herself is a murderess and was doing an elaborate cover-up.’
‘Because I said one didn’t know what Millamant thought about it, it doesn’t follow that she thought about murder.’
‘Of course it doesn’t, bless your heart. Now, if any one of the Ancreds murdered Sir Henry, it was on the strength of the announcement made at the dinner-party and without any knowledge of the effective Will he made that night. If he made it that night.’
‘Unless one of the legatees thought they’d been cheated and did it out of pure fury.’
‘Or Fenella and Paul, who got nothing? Yes. There’s that.’
‘Fenella and Paul,’ said Troy firmly, ‘are not like that.’
‘And if Desdemona or Thomas or Jenetta—’
‘Jenetta and Thomas are out of the question—’
‘—did it, the practical jokes don’t fit in, because they weren’t there for the earlier ones.’
‘Which leaves the Orrincourt, Cedric, Millamant and Pauline.’
‘I can see it’s the Orrincourt and Cedric who are really bothering you.’
‘More particularly,’ said Troy unhappily, ‘the Orrincourt.’
‘Well, darling, what’s she like? Has she got the brains to think it up? Would she work out the idea from reading the book on embalming that arsenic would be found in the body anyway?’
‘I shouldn’t have thought,’ said Troy cheerfully, ‘that she’d make head or tail of the book. It was printed in very dim italics with the long “s” like an “f”. She’s not at all the type to pore over literary curiosa unless she thought they were curious in the specialized sense.’
‘Feeling better?’ he asked.
‘Yes, thank you. I’m thinking of other things for myself. Arsenic takes effect pretty quickly, doesn’t it? And tastes beastly? He couldn’t have had it at dinner, because, apart from being in a foul rage, he was still all right when he left the little theatre. And—if Sonia Orrincourt had put it in his Ovaltine, or whatever he has in his bedside Thermos, could he have sipped down enough to kill him without noticing the taste?’
‘Unlikely,’ Alleyn said. Another silence fell between them. Alleyn thought: ‘I’ve never been able to make up my mind about telepathy. Think of something else. Is she listening to my thoughts?’
‘Rory,’ said Troy. ‘It is all right, isn’t it?’
The telephone rang and he was glad to answer it. Inspector Fox was speaking from the Yard.
‘Where have you been, you old devil?’ said Alleyn, and his voice held that cordiality with which we greet a rescuer.
‘Good evening, Mr Alleyn,’ said Fox. ‘I was wondering if it would inconvenience you and Mrs Alleyn very much if—’
‘Come along!’ Alleyn interrupted. ‘Of course it won’t. Troy will be delighted; won’t you, darling? It’s Fox.’
‘Of course I shall,’ said Troy loudly. ‘Tell him to come.’
‘Very kind, I’m sure,’ Fox was saying in his deliberate way. ‘Perhaps I ought to explain though. It’s Yard business. You might say very unusual circumstances, really. Quite a contretemps.’
‘The accent’s improving, Fox.’
‘I don’t get the practice. About this business, though. In a manner of speaking, sir, I fancy you’ll want to consult Mrs Alleyn. She’s with you, evidently.’
‘What is it?’ Troy asked quickly. ‘I can hear him. What is it?’
‘Well, Fox,’ said Alleyn after a pause, ‘what is it?’
‘Concerning the late Sir Henry Ancred, sir. I’ll explain when I see you. There’s been an Anonymous Letter.’
‘Coincidence,’ said Fox, putting on his spectacles and flattening out a sheet of paper on his knee, ‘is one of the things you get accustomed to in our line of business, as I think you’ll agree, sir. Look at the way one of our chaps asked for a lift in the Gutteridge case. Look at the Thompson-Bywaters case—’
‘For the love of heaven!’ Alleyn cried, ‘let us admit coincidence without further parley. It’s staring us in the face. It’s a bloody quaint coincidence that my wife should have been staying in this wretched dump, and there’s an end of it.’
He glanced at Fox’s respectable, grave, and attentive face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s no good expecting me to be reasonable over this business. Troy’s had one bad enough experience of the nastiest end of our job. She’ll never altogether forget it, and—well, there you are. One doesn’t welcome anything like a reminder.’
‘I’m sure it’s very u
psetting, Mr Alleyn. If I could have—’
‘I know, I know.’ And looking at Fox, Alleyn felt a spasm of self-distaste.
‘Fox,’ he said suddenly, ‘I’m up against a silly complexity in my own attitude to my job. I’ve tried to shut it off from my private life. I’ve adopted what I suppose the Russians would call an unrealistic approach: Troy in one compartment, the detection of crime in another. And now, by way of dotting me one on the wind, the fates have handed Troy this little affair on a platter. If there’s anything in it she’ll be a witness.’
‘There may not be anything in it, Mr Alleyn.’
‘True enough. That’s precisely the remark I’ve been making to her for the last hour or so.’
Fox opened his eyes very wide. ‘Oh, yes,’ said Alleyn, ‘she’s already thought there was something off-colour about the festivities at Ancreton.’
‘Is that so?’ Fox said slowly. ‘Is that the case?’
‘It is indeed. She’s left us alone to talk it over. I can give you the story when you want it and so can she. But I’d better have your end first. What’s that paper you’ve got there?’
Fox handed it to him. ‘It came in to us yesterday, went through the usual channels, and finally the Chief got on to it and sent for me this evening. You’d gone by then, sir, but he asked me to have a word with you about it. White envelope to match, addressed in block capitals “CID, Scotland Yard, London.” Postmark, Victoria.’
Alleyn took the paper. It appeared to be a sheet from a block of faintly ruled notepaper. The lines were, unusually, a pale yellow, and a margin was ruled down the side. The message it contained was flatly explicit:
THE WRITER HAS REASON TO BELIEVE THAT SIR HENRY ANCRED’S DEATH WAS BROUGHT ABOUT BY THE PERSON WHO HAS RECEIVED THE MOST BENEFIT FROM IT.
‘Water-mark, “Crescent Script”. People write these things,’ said Fox. ‘You know yourself there may be nothing in it. But we’ve got to take the usual notice. Talk to the super at the local station, I suppose. And the doctor who attended the old gentleman. He may be able to put the matter beyond doubt. There’s an end of it.’
‘He will if he can,’ said Alleyn grimly. ‘You may depend upon that.’
‘In the meantime, the AC suggested I should report to you and see about a chat with Mrs Alleyn. He remembered Mrs Alleyn had been at Ancreton before you came back.’
‘Report to me? If anything comes of this, does he want me to take over?’
‘Well, sir, I fancy he will. He mentioned, jokingly-like, that it’d be quite unusual if the investigating officer got his first statement on a case from his wife.’
‘Facetious ass!’ said Alleyn with improper emphasis.
Fox looked demurely down his nose.
‘Oh, well,’ said Alleyn, ‘let’s find Troy and we’ll hag over the whole blasted set up. She’s in the studio. Come on.’
Troy received Fox cheerfully. ‘I know what it’s all about, Mr Fox,’ she said, shaking hands with him.
‘I’m sure I’m very sorry—’ Fox began.
‘But you needn’t be,’ Troy said quickly, linking her arm through Alleyn’s. ‘Why on earth should you be? If I’m wanted, here I am. What happens?’
‘We sit down,’ Alleyn said, ‘and I go over the whole story as you’ve told it to me. When I go wrong, you stop me, and when you think of anything extra, you put it in. That’s all, so far. The whole thing may be a complete washout, darling. Anonymous letter writers have the same affection for the Yard that elderly naturalists have for The Times. Now then. Here, Fox, to the best of my ability, is the Ancred saga.’
He went methodically through Troy’s account, correlating the events, tracing the several threads in and out of the texture of the narrative and gathering them together at the end.
‘How’s that?’ he asked her when he had finished. He was surprised to find her staring at him as if he had brought off a feat of sleight of hand.
‘Amazingly complete and tidy,’ she said.
‘Well, Fox? What’s it amount to?’
Fox wiped his hand over his jaw. ‘I’ve been asking myself, sir,’ he said, ‘whether you mightn’t find quite a lot of circumstances behind quite a lot of sudden demises that might sound funny if you strung them together. What I mean to say, a lot of big houses keep rat-bane on the premises, and a lot of people can’t lay their hands on it when they want it. Things get mislaid.’
‘Very true, Foxkin.’
‘And as far as this old-fashioned book on embalming goes, Mr Alleyn, I ask myself if perhaps somebody mightn’t have picked it up since the funeral and got round to wondering about it like Mrs Alleyn has. You say these good people weren’t very keen on Miss Sonia Orrincourt and are probably feeling rather sore about the late old gentleman’s Will. They seem to be a highly-strung, excitable lot.’
‘But I don’t think I’m a particularly highly-strung, excitable lot, Mr Fox,’ said Troy. ‘And I got the idea too.’
‘There!’ said Fox, clicking his tongue. ‘Putting my foot in it as usual, aren’t I, sir?’
‘Tell us what else you ask yourself,’ said Alleyn.
‘Why, whether one of these disappointed angry people hasn’t let his imagination, or more likely hers, get the upper hand, and written this letter on the spur of the moment.’
‘But what about the practical jokes, Mr Fox?’ said Troy.
‘Very silly, mischievous behaviour. Committing a nuisance. If the little girl didn’t do them, and it looks as if she couldn’t have done them at all, then somebody’s brought off an unpleasant trick. Spiteful,’ Fox added severely. ‘Trying to prejudice the old gentleman against her, as you suggest, I dare say. But that doesn’t necessarily mean murder. Why should it?’
‘Why, indeed!’ said Alleyn, taking him by the arm. ‘You’re exactly what we needed in this house, Br’er Fox. Let’s all have a drink.’ He took his wife on his other arm, and together they returned to the sitting-room. The telephone rang as Troy entered and she answered it. Alleyn held Fox back and they stared at each other.
‘Very convincing performance, Fox. Thank you.’
‘Rum go, sir, all the same, don’t you reckon?’
‘Too bloody rum by half. Come on.’
When they went into the room Troy put her hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone and turned to them. Her face was white.
‘Rory,’ she said, ‘it’s Thomas Ancred. He wants to come and see you. He says they’ve all had letters. He says he’s made a discovery. He wants to come. What shall I say?’
‘I’ll speak to him,’ said Alleyn. ‘He can see me at the Yard in the morning, damn him.’
CHAPTER TEN
Bombshell from Thomas
THOMAS ANCRED ARRIVED punctually at nine o’clock, the hour Alleyn had appointed. Fox was present at the interview, which took place in Alleyn’s room.
Troy had the painter’s trick of accurate description, and she had been particularly good on Thomas. Alleyn felt he was already familiar with that crest of fine hair, those eyes wide open and palely astonished, that rather tight, small mouth, and the mild meandering voice.
‘Thank you very much,’ said Thomas, ‘for letting me come. I didn’t much want to, of course, but it’s nice of you to have me. It was knowing Mrs Alleyn that put it into their heads.’
‘Whose heads?’ asked Alleyn.
‘Well, Pauline’s and Dessy’s, principally. Paul and Fenella were quite keen too. I suppose Mrs Alleyn has told you about my people?’
‘I think,’ said Alleyn, ‘that it might be best if we adopt the idea that I know nothing about anybody.’
‘Oh, dear!’ said Thomas, sighing. ‘That means a lot of talking, doesn’t it?’
‘What about these letters?’
‘Yes, to be sure,’ said Thomas, beginning to pat himself all over. ‘The letters. I’ve got them somewhere. Anonymous, you know. Of course I’ve had them before in the theatre from disappointed patrons and angry actresses, but this is different—really. Now, where?�
� He picked up one corner of his jacket, looked suspiciously at a bulging pocket, and finally pulled out a number of papers, two pencils and a box of matches. Thomas beamed at Alleyn. ‘And there, after all, they are,’ he said. In mild triumph he laid them out on the desk—eight copies of the letter Alleyn had already seen, all printed with the same type of pen on the same type of paper.
‘What about the envelopes?’ Alleyn asked.
‘Oh,’ said Thomas, ‘we didn’t keep them. I wasn’t going to say anything about mine,’ Thomas continued after a pause, ‘and nor were Jenetta and Milly, but of course everybody noticed everybody else had the same sort of letter, and Pauline (my sister, Pauline Kentish) made a great hallabaloo over hers, and there we were, you know.’
‘Eight,’ said Alleyn. ‘And there are nine in the party at Ancreton?’
‘Sonia didn’t get one, so everybody says she’s the person meant.’
‘Do you take that view, Mr Ancred?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Thomas, opening his eyes very wide. ‘It seems obvious, doesn’t it? With the Will and everything. Sonia’s meant, of course, but for my part,’ said Thomas with a diffident cough, ‘I don’t fancy she murdered Papa.’
He gave Alleyn a rather anxious smile. ‘It would be such a beastly thing to do, you know,’ he said. ‘Somehow one can’t quite—however. Pauline actually almost leapt at the idea. Dessy, in a way, too. They’re both dreadfully upset. Pauline fainted at the funeral anyway, and then with those letters on top of it all she’s in a great state of emotional upheaval. You can’t imagine what it’s like at Ancreton.’
‘It was Mrs Kentish, wasn’t it, who suggested you should come to the Yard?’
‘And Dessy. My unmarried sister, Desdemona. We all opened our letters yesterday morning at breakfast. Can you imagine? I got down first and really—such a shock! I was going to throw it on the fire, but just then Fenella came in, so I folded it up very small under the table. You can see which is mine by the creases. Paul’s is the one that looks as if it had been chewed. He crunched it up, don’t you know, in his agitation. Well, then I noticed that there were the same kind of envelopes in front of everybody’s plate. Sonia has breakfast in her room, but I asked Barker if there were any letters for her. Fenella was by that time looking rather odd, having opened hers. Pauline said: “What an extraordinary looking letter I’ve got. Written by a child, I should think,” and Milly said: “Panty again, perhaps,” and there was a row, because Pauline and Milly don’t see eye to eye over Panty. And then everybody said: “I’ve got one too,” and then you know they opened them. Well, Pauline swooned away, of course, and Dessy said: “O, my prophetic soul,” and began to get very excitable, and Milly said: “I think people who write anonymous letters are the end,” and Jenetta (my sister-in-law), Fenella’s mother (who is married to my brother Claude), said: “I agree, Milly.” Then the next thing was, let me see—the next thing was everybody suspecting everybody else of writing the letter, until Paul got the idea—you must excuse me—that perhaps Mrs Alleyn being married to—’
