by Ngaio Marsh
“Very awkward for you. What were they saying?”
Wilson suddenly cast off all parlourmaidenly restraint and launched herself into a verbatim account.
“Mrs. Candour said to Miss Quayne: ‘You know what I mean, quite well,’ sh’ said, ‘I’ve been watching you,’ sh’ said, ‘and I was disgusted,’ sh’ said. That was when they came out of the dining-room and they never noticed me standing there they was so carried away. And Miss Quayne looked at her and sh’ said: ‘I hope I don’t understand you, Dagmar,’ sh’ said. And the way she said it! ‘I hope I don’t understand you, Dagmar,’ sh’ said, ‘because I can’t believe you would let your soul come down to such an earth-plane,’ sh’ said, ‘as to think of Father Garnette and me in such a way,’ sh’ said. And Mrs. Candour laughed and she said: ‘Earth-plane!’ sh’ said. ‘If you’re not revelling on the earth-plane at this very moment I’d like to know who is? Don’t pretend, Cara,’ sh’ said. Then they went into the drawing-room and I waited and I didn’t like to go in and they never shut the door and Miss Quayne said very loud: ‘It’s pathetically clear,’ sh’ said, ‘what’s the matter with you. You’re devoured by jealousy.’ Mrs. Candour gave a kind of—well, a kind of screech, sir, but Miss Quayne said, sh’ said: ‘Because Father Garnette has chosen me to discover the hidden mysteries of the spirit and the body,’ sh’ said—or something like that it was, and then Mrs. Candour laughed. And the way she laughed! Well! And she said: ‘Cara,’ sh’ said, ‘don’t think you can take me in,’ sh’ said, ‘because I know.’ And she said: ‘I promise you, I’m not going to stand aside and see it,’ sh’ said. And then I was that upset I kind of quivered if you understand me, sir, and the cups rattled and Miss Quayne said: ‘S’ssh!’ sh’ said, ‘Wilson,’ sh’ said. So I walked in.”
“Extraordinarily dramatic!” exclaimed Alleyn. “A princely entrance. And did they drink their coffee?”
“Their hands shook that much they could hardly pour it out, sir.”
“And you withdrew?”
“Yes, sir, and closed the door,” said Wilson, righteous but regretful. A moment later she followed her own example and Alleyn and Nigel were left alone.
“Could you possibly keep up with all that?” asked Alleyn.
“I may have left out an occasional ‘sh’ said.’ Otherwise it’s all here. Do you think Mrs. Candour really talked like that?”
“Wouldn’t be surprised. She’s a very common woman. She’s a liar, what’s more. She said she’d only been twice to this house.”
“I wonder if she’s a murderess,” said Nigel.
“Too stupid, I’d have thought,” said Alleyn, “but you never know. There’s a certain kind of low cunning that comes out very strong on occasion. I wish I had it. I’m scared to death. I’ll make a fool of myself over this case. The boss-man is very excited about it. It ought to be easy—it’s so startling. Startling cases are generally easy. The difficult cases are the ones when one drunk heaves a brick at another drunk and leaves him lying in the road. Once they go in for fancy touches it’s usually kindergarten stuff. And this is so very fancy, so very extra, so specially Susie. Like to make one of your analyses, Bathgate?”
“What do you mean? My analyses?”
“On paper. All the people and their motives and opportunities with neat little sub-headings. Like a balance-sheet.”
“Do you really want me to?”
“Yes, if you will. I shall be able to cast a superior eye over it and then shatter it with a few facetiae. It will restore my self-respect. No, do make it. You will look at the show from a different point of view. It may easily suggest something. It will be a help. Really.”
“I shall be delighted,” said Nigel and set to work.
Alleyn returned to Cara Quayne’s desk and carried on with the job of sorting her papers. There was a long silence broken only by the rustling of paper, the snap and crackle of the fire, and the sound of Nigel’s pen. Presently he looked up and said:
“There. Finished.”
“Let me see,” said Alleyn.
With a smug but slightly anxious air, Nigel laid his paper before the inspector. This is what he had written:
Suspects
The Initiates, the priest, and the acolyte.
All of these had the opportunity to slip the cigarette-paper possibly containing cyanide into the cup.
Circumstances
Cara Quayne drank the wine while in a state of great nervous excitement. She seemed to me to be self-hypnotized and scarcely conscious of her actions. I was reminded of a dervish or a negro priestess.
“Have you ever seen one?” asked Alleyn.
“No. That didn’t prevent me from being reminded of one.” Alleyn read on:
The other Initiates were also in a highly emotional condition, and it is unlikely that they would notice any hanky-panky with the cup.
Garnette. Probably the only normal person there. He handled the cup twice. He started it off, took it back from Ogden and gave it to Cara Quayne. He had the greatest opportunity. Miss Wade said he covered the cup with one hand so he could have easily dropped the paper into the wine. Motive. Deceased had left £5,000 in bearer bonds in his safe. These have been pinched. She had made a “Terrible discovery” and may have told him of it. If he stole the bonds this might induce him to kill her. She may have left him a large sum in her Will. Note. A work on poisons was hidden behind his books. It fell open at a recipe for homemade cyanide. Garnette spoke like an American when tight.
Mrs. Candour. First Initiate to take cup. Jealous of Miss Quayne. Motive. Quarrelled with her over Garnette. Oversexed, unattractive, stupid, vindictive. The scrap of paper found in the grate seems to refer to her: “Sir, this is to warn—with M—s Can,” etc. Could this have been a warning against Mrs. Candour? If so, from whom?
M. de Ravigne. Second Initiate to handle cup. Miss Wade says he used handkerchief to wipe rim. Might have palmed poison with this. Motive. In love with Miss Quayne, who was evidently Garnette’s mistress. A very cool customer. Has known deceased longer than any of the others.
Miss Wade. Third Initiate to handle cup. Unlikely. Motive. None apparent. She seems unaware of the Quayne-Garnette situation.
Pringle. Fourth to handle cup. Neurotic. Takes drugs. Worships Garnette. Motive. He surprised Garnette and Miss Quayne. Possibly shock unhinged him and he determined to save G. Miss W. says he made a botch of handling cup.
Janey Jenkins. Fifth to handle cup. Engaged to Pringle. Very unlikely. Motive. None.
Ogden. Last. American. Met Garnette coming over to England. Very keen on the church. Seems straightforward, but you never know. Has given largely to church funds. Motive. Possibly he and Garnette were rogues together in States and are in this together. If so Ogden may have offered to do the killing. Garnette bore out Ogden’s statement when he (G.) was tight.
Claude Wheatley. Carried round flagon with wine. Could have dropped cyanide into cup. Horrible youth. Dotes on Garnette. Perhaps the Greeks had a word for him. Motive. Jealousy. Unlikely. Wouldn’t have the guts. Note. If sodium cyanide is found at autopsy it seems certain the book on chemistry is a definite clue. That points to Garnette. Garnette is the obvious man, I think. The chauffeur’s statement about Miss Quayne’s afternoon visit to the church seems to suggest that she found something there that upset her and caused her to write the note to Garnette which Fox found in the cigarette-box.
Here Nigel’s summary stopped abruptly. He had added a few words and scored them out.
“Excellent,” said Alleyn.
“It says nothing new, I’m afraid.”
“No, but it raises several disputable points, which is always helpful. By the way, the analyst rang up just before you came. He has found sodium cyanide in the cigarette-paper, but of course the autopsy will take some time yet.”
“Then the Curiosities of Chemistry is an important clue.”
“I don’t know,” said Alleyn slowly, “but I rather fancy it’s not important in quite the way you
fancy.”
“Whatever does that mean?”
“There were no prints on that book. Bailey has tried all the stock dodges of dactylography.”
“What may that be? Oh, wait a bit. Dactyl. Why not say ‘fingerprintery’?”
“As you please. He’s dabbed nitrate of silver solution on it and developed the pages. Nothing there. It’s a glossy paper, so someone must have dealt with the book. If Garnette got his big idea from it he must have wiped his fingerprints off and put it where he knew we would find it. A curious combination of forethought and stupidity, don’t you think?”
“Yes, but still—Oh, I don’t know. Go on with Garnette.”
“You note that Garnette was probably the only completely self-possessed person present. A very good point to make. Should you say this crime looks more like the work of a calculating, shrewd, unscrupulous individual, or a hysterical monomaniac with a streak of cunning?”
“The latter, I suppose,” said Nigel slowly, “which Garnette is not. All the same, he might have meant us to think that.”
“Ah,” said Alleyn, “that’s very subtle, Bathgate.”
“Garnette strikes me as being subtlish,” said Nigel. “What do you think about Garnette and Ogden being old partners in infamy?”
“Not a great deal. As I said last night, I think Garnette told the truth when he was tight. If you remember he advanced the colourful suggestion that Ogden looks upon him as the sand-fly’s garters. I’m not well up in Americanese, but I had the distinct impression that Mr. Garnette regards Mr. Ogden as fair and easy game.”
“Look here,” said Nigel suddenly, “let’s pretend it’s a detective novel. Where would we be by this time? About halfway through, I should think. Well, who’s your pick.”
“I am invariably gulled by detective novels. No herring so red but I raise my voice and give chase.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Nigel.
“Fact. You see in real detection herrings are so often out of season.”
“Well, never mind, who’s your pick?”
“It depends on the author. If it’s Agatha Christie, Miss Wade’s occulted guilt drips from every page. Dorothy Sayers’s Lord Peter would plump for Pringle; I fancy. Inspector French would go for Ogden. Of course Ogden, on the face of it, is the first suspect.”
“What are you saying! Ogden! Then you do think he’s a bad hat.”
“No! No! He seems a perfectly good hat. I merely say that for immediate circumstances—the actual situation at the time of the murder—point to Ogden.”
“Why?”
“My dear Bathgate, this is a sad falling-off. Think of his position.”
“I’m damned if I know what you are driving at. His position seems to be very comfortable. He’s a rich business man.”
Alleyn cast his eyes up but said nothing.
“Don’t make that maddening grimace, Alleyn, What are you getting at? Do you or do you not suspect Mr. Ogden?”
“I suspect the whole lot of them. Apart from the one point I have noted I don’t think he’s any likelier than the others.”
“Surely he’s likelier than Janey Jenkins and Miss Wade.”
There was a tap at the door and Inspector Fox came in. “Another report from Bailey, sir,” he said. “Good morning, Mr. Bathgate.”
“What’s Bailey say?” asked Alleyn.
“Nothing new. He’s got to work properly on the prints. Very smart chap, Bailey. He’s found Father Garnette’s prints on the parcel of newspaper, and he thinks there’s a trace of them on the top of the poison book. Nothing on the cyanide page, as you know. Miss Quayne’s on the page torn out of the notebook.”
“When did he get a pattern to compare them with?” asked Nigel.
“That would be from the body, sir.”
“Oh, of course.”
“There’s another print come out of the book,” Fox continued, “and he hasn’t been able to trace it. He’d like to get impressions from the rest of them.”
“He shall have them,” said Alleyn, “this afternoon. When’s the inquest? Tomorrow at eleven?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Well, we’d better call it a day here.”
“Have you found anything?” Nigel asked. “Any clues?”
“Nothing spectacular. De Ravigne’s love letters. A smug and guarded epistle from the Garnette.”
“May I see M. de Ravigne’s letters, sir?” asked Fox.
“There you are. The one on the top’s the most interesting.”
Fox seated himself at the table, adjusted a large pair of spectacles and spread out the first of the letters. Nigel strolled up behind him.
“What are you up to?” inquired Alleyn.
“Nothing,” said Nigel, reading frantically at long range. M. de Ravigne wrote a large flowing hand. It was dated Friday of last week.
MY ADORED CARA (the letter began), I distress myself intolerably on your behalf. It is not that you reject me, for that is the fortunes of love which are ever as hazardous as those of war. To accept defeat I can compose myself with dignity and remain, however wounded, your devoted friend. So far have I adopted, at all events outwardly, your English phlegm. It is as your friend I implore you to continue no longer in your design for the role of Chosen Vessel. It is a project fraught with danger to yourself. You are blinded with a false glamour. One may amuse oneself and interest oneself in a religion, but there should be a careful moderation in this as in all things. In becoming the Chosen Vessel you would cast away your moderation and abandon yourself to detestable extremities. I beg, I implore you to refuse this role, so injurious to your amour propre. You do not comprehend what you undertake. I repeat you are in danger to lose that which one most prizes. You are in a grave peril. I kiss your hand and entreat again that you take the advice of
Your devoted
RAOUL.
I beg that you destroy this as all other of my letters.
“And she didn’t,” said Nigel.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Father Garnette Explores
the Contents of a Mare’s Nest
“NO,” SAID ALLEYN, “she kept his letters. Women keep love letters for much the same reason as a servant keeps references. They help to preserve, as M. de Ravigne might say, the amour propre; and can always be produced upon occasion.”
“Angela never shows my letters to anyone,” said Nigel hotly. “Never.”
“Not to her bosomest friend? No? You are fortunate. Perhaps she hopes they may be found, smelling faintly of orris-root, if she predeceases you.”
“That is a remark in bad taste, I consider.”
“I agree and apologise. You don’t question the taste of reading Miss Quayne’s love letters over Fox’s shoulder, I notice,” said Alleyn mildly.
“That’s entirely different,” blustered Nigel. “Miss Quayne was murdered.”
“Which makes her fair game. I know, I know. Well, what do you think of M. de Ravigne’s effusion?”
“It looks monstrous fishy to me,” said Nigel. “What does he mean about her putting herself in a position that is fraught with danger? It looks remarkably like a threat. ‘Take on the Chosen Vessel job and your life will be in danger.’ ”
“He doesn’t actually say her life, Mr. Bathgate,” said Fox, glancing up from another of the letters.
“No,” agreed Alleyn. “He may be old-fashioned enough to think there is something a woman values more than her life.”
“Well,” said Nigel, “what do you think inspired the letter?”
“An interesting point, Bathgate. I don’t know. Jealousy perhaps or—yes—it might be fear. He was very agitated when he wrote it.”
“How do you make that out?”
“The phraseology betrays him. The English is much less certain than in the other letters. There are several mistakes.”
“I think the postscript looks very shady.”
“It does, doesn’t it? What do you say, Fox?”
“Well, sir, I�
��d say the gentleman knew something that he didn’t exactly like to mention in black and white. It might be he knew there’d be goings-on with the Reverend, and it might be something he was afraid she’d find out. That postscript looks to me as though he was scared.”
“You wise old bird. Well, I’ve finished here. We’ll leave your mates to do the tooth-combing, Fox. They are upstairs at the moment. I’ve a date with Mr. Rattisbon.”
“He was the solicitor in the O’Callaghan case, wasn’t he?” asked Nigel.
“He was. He’s everything that a lawyer ought to be. Desiccated, tittuppy, nice old fuss-pot. Gives one the idea that he is a good actor slightly overdoing his part. I must away, Fox. Meet you at the Garnette apartment, as Mr. Ogden would say.”
“Right-oh, sir.”
“Anyone else going?” Nigel inquired.
“No doubt you will appear. I expect the Initiates to turn up in full force. Two o’clock.”
“Certainly, I shall come,” said Nigel. “Au revoir.”
Nigel returned to his office and Alleyn went down the Strand to the little street where Mr. Rattisbon kept office.
It was one of those offices that look as if they were kept going as a memorial to Charles Dickens. A dingy entry smelt of cobwebs and old varnish. A dark staircase led to a landing, where a frosted-glass skylight let in enough light to show Mr. Rattisbon’s name on the door. Beyond the door Alleyn found Mr. Rattisbon himself in an atmosphere of dust, leather, varnish, dry sherry, and age. The room was not dusty, but it made one think of discreet dust. Mr. Rattisbon was not dressed in Victorian garments, but he conveyed an impression of being so dressed. He was a thin, eager old man with bluish hands and sharp eyes. He spoke rapidly with a sort of stuttering volubility, and had a trick of vibrating the tip of his long tongue between his lips. He dealt, as his father and grandfather had done before him, with the estates of the upper-middle class. He was a very shrewd old gentleman.
“I hope I’m not late, sir,” said Alleyn.
“No, no, Chief Inspector, not at all. Quite punctual, quite punctual. Pray sit down. Yes. Let me see. I don’t think we have met since that unfortunate affair—um?”
