Death in Ecstasy

by Ngaio Marsh

  “No. I am sorry to bother you. I expect you have guessed what brought me?”

  “Brought you. Yes. Yes. This miserable business of Miss Cara Valerie Quayne. I have received word of it this morning. A most distressing affair, most.”

  “How did you hear of it, sir?”

  “Through the maid, the confidential maid. A Miss—ah—Miss Edith Laura Hebborn. Miss Hebborn felt I should be advised immediately and very properly rang me up. One of the old type of domestic servants. The old type. I suppose there’s no doubt about it being a case of homicide. Um? No.”

  “None, I’m afraid. It’s a bizarre case.”

  “Bizarre!” ejaculated Mr. Rattisbon with distaste. “Tch! Well, Chief Inspector, how can I assist you?”

  “By giving me any information you can about Miss Quayne and by letting me see the Will. The inquest is tomorrow. Perhaps it would save time if I told you what I have learned up to date.”

  Alleyn gave Mr. Rattisbon the gist of the information he had received from Nannie and from the Initiates. The little lawyer listened attentively.

  “Precisely,” he said when Alleyn had finished. “An excellent account and substantially correct. Accurate.”

  “Miss Quayne’s affairs have always been in your hands, sir?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes. Colonel Quayne—her father—old family clients. Charming fellow.”

  “You have seen Miss Quayne recently?”

  “Five weeks ago tomorrow.”

  “On that occasion did she wish to alter her Will?”

  “Um? You heard of that?”

  “From M. de Ravigne. I hope you will tell me anything that strikes you as being relevant.”

  “It is exceedingly distasteful to me to discuss my clients’ affairs, Chief Inspector. Of course I appreciate the extraordinary nature of the matter. Since you rang up I have considered the advisability of—of—speaking with complete frankness, and—I—in short have decided to lay the whole matter before you.”

  Mr. Rattisbon suddenly snatched his pince-nez from his nose and waved them at Alleyn.

  “As follows,” he said. “Five weeks ago I received a visit from Miss Cara Valerie Quayne. She had advised me first that she wished to make an extensive alteration in her Will, and then that she desired me to draw up a new Will. I therefore had the existing document in readiness for her visit. She arrived.” He rubbed his nose violently. “And I may say she astounded me.”

  Alleyn was silent. After contemplating him with severity for some seconds Mr. Rattisbon leant across the desk and continued:

  “She astounded me. The previous Will had been a very proper and sensible disposition of her considerable fortune. Several large sums to various worthy charities. Annuities to her servants. Various legacies. The residuary legatee was a third cousin in New Zealand. A boy whom she has never seen, but he bears her father’s name. And so on and so on and so on. Perfectly proper. She now informed me that she wished me completely to revise these terms and—in short to draw up a new document. On these lines: She wished the annuity of two hundred pounds per annum to Miss Edith Laura Hebborn to be increased to three hundred pounds per annum. The lease of her house, its contents, her pictures, jewels and so on to M. Raoul Honoré Christophe de Ravigne. A—a handsome legacy to Father Jasper Garnette. The rest of her very considerable fortune—every penny piece of it—she would leave to the House of the Sacred Flame, 89, Knocklatchers Row, Eaton Place, making Father Garnette the sole trustee.”

  “Gosh!” said Alleyn.

  “You may well say so. I—frankly, Chief Inspector—I was horrified. I had known Miss Quayne from her childhood. Her father was a personal friend as well as a client. In a sense I may say I had considered myself in loco parentis, since both guardians were deceased. When I first became aware of Miss Quayne’s increasing interest in Mr. Garnette’s sect I went so far as to make inquiries about him. What I discovered did not reassure me. On the contrary I became gravely suspicious. Then, to crown everything, she came to me with the request that I should draw up a Will on the lines I have indicated.”

  “Extraordinary.”

  “Most extraordinary. As a solicitor I have become accustomed to testamentary—ah—vagaries. I have become accustomed to them. But this caused me the greatest concern. I exceeded the strict limits of propriety by urging her again and again to reconsider. I represented to her that this Father Garnette might not be all that she thought him. I strongly urged her to allow me to make further inquiries. When all else failed I begged that she at least leave this very considerable sum to be administered by other trustees on behalf of the—the—religious body in which she had become so interested. Not a bit of it!”

  “She insisted on leaving Mr. Garnette as sole trustee?”

  “Precisely. She was in a most excitable frame of mind and, was impatient, I may say intolerant, of any suggestions. I put it to her that her father would have regarded the terms of the new Will with abhorrence. She would not listen. She—in short, she said that if I made any further difficulties she would get a Will form from—from a Smith’s bookstall and fill it in herself.”

  Mr. Rattisbon dropped his pince-nez delicately on his blotting-paper and by this moderate gesture conveyed a sense of overwhelming defeat.

  “I drew up the Will,” he said. “Three days’ afterwards, she came here and signed it.”

  “So that’s that,” grunted Alleyn. “By how much does the sect benefit?”

  “In round figures, twenty-one thousand pounds.”

  “And may I ask, sir, by how much Mr. Jasper Garnette is to be a richer man?”

  “Ten thousand pounds.”

  “Damn!” said Alleyn.

  Mr. Rattisbon shot a shrewd glance at him.

  “May I take it as your personal opinion that he will live to—to enjoy it?” he asked.

  “He’ll need it before I’m done with him.”

  “That is a cryptic answer, Chief Inspector.”

  “Yours was a leading question, sir.”

  Mr. Rattisbon suddenly sucked in his breath three or four times very rapidly and uttered a little whooping noise. He had laughed.

  “In any case,” Alleyn went on, “couldn’t the Will be contested? What about the young Quayne, down under? What about coercion? Or her mental condition? I’m entirely ignorant of the law, sir, but suppose—well, suppose he’d been giving her drugs?”

  Mr. Rattisbon stared at the inspector for some seconds.

  “If you find evidence of that,” he said at last, “I would be greatly obliged if you would call on me again.”

  “Certainly,” Alleyn stood up. “By the way, have you any idea why she increased the bequest to Miss Hebborn?”

  “I received an impression that—that it was in the nature of a—how shall I put it?—of a peace-offering. Miss Hebborn had, I believe, expressed herself somewhat warmly on the subject of this sect, which she regarded in a most unfavourable light. There had been a heated argument, hasty words amounting to a quarrel. Miss Quayne was greatly attached to her old nurse, who had given her devoted service. From certain remarks she let fall I gathered that she wished to—in a sense to make reparation.”

  “And the bequest to M. de Ravigne? It will amount to something pretty considerable, I imagine. The pictures alone are worth a great deal. There’s a very fine Van Gogh and I noticed a Famille Verte ‘ginger’ jar that wouldn’t be had for the asking.”

  “Precisely. M. de Ravigne is an old friend of the family and, I understand, a collector. I have not the pleasure of his acquaintance.”

  “He has an intriguing temperament. I must go. Goodbye, sir, and thank you a thousand times.”

  “Good-bye. Yes. Thank-yer. Thank-yer. Don’t mention it. Yes,” gabbled Mr. Rattisbon with extreme rapidity. He walked out first on to the landing and there leant forward and peered up into Alleyn’s face. “And I hope you’re going to—eh? By the heels? Eh? Always interested in your work. This time—natural anxiety. Well. Mind the steps.”

  “I hop
e so. Of course. Thank you,” said Alleyn.

  He had a short interview with his Assistant Commissioner, lunched in the Strand and went straight to Knocklatchers Row. Here he found Claude and Lionel and all the Initiates who had been rung up from the Yard grouped in a solid phalanx round Father Garnette’s sitting room under the eye of Detective-Sergeant Bailey. The priest, looking extremely cadaverous and yellow, was seated at the centre table. Nigel, who had hung about the entrance with Inspector Fox, followed the detectives into the room.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” said Alleyn cheerfully. “Forgive me if I’ve kept you waiting.”

  Janey Jenkins said: “You’re punctual. It’s just struck two.”

  Mr. Ogden stood up and said: “Well, well, well, look who’s here.”

  The rest of the ladies and gentlemen uttered self-conscious noises.

  “I shan’t keep you long,” Alleyn went on. “First of all, if you don’t mind, we would like to take your fingerprints. It’s the usual thing. I could get them on the sly by offering you shiny photos to identify as your third cousins, but there really isn’t time. Detective-Sergeant Bailey will fix you up.”

  Janey looked interested, Maurice disgusted, Ogden solemn and de Ravigne faintly amused, while Mrs. Candour and Miss Wade were obviously terrified. The acolytes turned pale and Father Garnette remained ghastly and rather remote. Bailey took their prints by getting them to roll the cushion of each finger on a little printer’s ink and then on a sheet of white paper. He thoughtfully offered them an oiled rag to clean up with. This ceremony ended, Alleyn invited them all to sit round the table.

  “First of all,” he began, “I should like you all to tell me as far as you can remember what are the contents of the safe. I understand that several of you had access to it.”

  There was a moment’s silence and then Mr. Ogden said bluntly:

  “We all know where the key was kept, Chief, but I guess none of us worried.”

  “Where was the key kept.”

  “On my desk,” said Father Garnette, “sometimes.”

  “In your pocket,” said Mr. Ogden. “It wasn’t just laying around all the time, Chief. Sometimes there’s quite a little bit of coin in that safe.”

  “How much is there at the moment?” asked Alleyn.

  “I—ah—I really forget,” said Father Garnette. “Let me see. There should be last Wednesday’s offertory. I really don’t remembah—”

  “It was £61 8s. 6d.,” announced M. de Ravigne.

  “You’ve got it pat!” said Maurice Pringle unpleasantly.

  “I am a Warden,” replied de Ravigne very placidly. “I counted it. Father Garnette and Mr. Ogden were here. It was, I repeat, £61 8s. 6d.”

  “And a cheque for twenty pounds,” said Mr. Ogden dryly. “You might remember that.”

  “Your own offering, Monsieur Ogden. I remember.”

  “What else?” asked Alleyn.

  “There is more importantly, M. l’Inspecteur, a parcel of bearer bonds of which I have told you. They are issued by the Kasternek Oil Company. These were given by Miss Quayne to this church to await the raising of the same amount for a building fund. They are in value five thousand pounds. Since they were here you have always kept the key on your person, is it not so, Father?”

  “Quite right, my dear Raoul. You advised me to take this precaution, if you remember.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Quite correct,” said Mr. Ogden emphatically. “We may all be O.K., but that doesn’t say we’ve got to act crazy.” He stopped short, turned bright red; and glanced uneasily at Father Garnette.

  “Anything else in the safe?” asked Alleyn.

  “The banking-book is there. That, I believe, is all,” murmured M. de Ravigne.

  “Right. Well, we’ll just check it over. I’ll ask Mr. Garnette to do that. It’s purely a matter of form. You will notice we sealed it last night. The usual procedure under the circumstances. Now, Mr. Garnette, if you please.”

  He produced the bunch of keys, gave them to Father Garnette and himself broke the police seal. Father Garnette rose, opened the safe and took out the contents one by one, laying them on the table. Nigel noticed that the parcel had been replaced. Bailey must have done that and put a fresh seal on the safe. The cash was counted by Fox who found it correct.

  “Have you looked at the parcel of bearer bonds?” asked Alleyn.

  Father Garnette glanced at him.

  “No,” he said. He sounded anxious and surprised. ‘No, I have not.”

  “Just open it,” suggested Alleyn, “and make sure there has been no theft. We’ve got to explore every possibility.”

  Father Garnette undid the red ribbon and pulled open the brown paper.

  A neat wad of newspaper lay revealed.

  One would have thought it impossible for Father Garnette’s face to look more unhealthy than it already was that morning, but it undoubtedly became a shade more livid when the contents of the parcel were displayed. It also became absolutely expressionless. For about three seconds he stood still. Then he raised his eyes and stared inimically at Alleyn. Nigel wondered if, for a moment, the priest had a mad idea that the police had played a practical joke on him. Alleyn returned his glance gravely. Suddenly Father Garnette seized the newspaper and with an ugly fumbling movement, clawed it apart, shook the leaves open, and then as abruptly, let them fall again. When he spoke it was in a curiously dead voice, as though his throat had closed.

  “Robbed!” he said, “I’ve been robbed—robbed.”

  They had watched Father Garnette and Father Garnette only, so that when Mr. Ogden produced his national classic expression of incredulity it made them all jump.

  Mr. Ogden placed both his hands on the table and leant towards his spiritual leader.

  “Oh, yeah?” said Mr. Ogden.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Mr. Ogden Puts His Trust

  in Policemen

  “IS THAT SO?” continued Mr. Ogden; and then, for all the world as though he was an anthology of Quaint American Sayings, he completed the trilogy by adding in a soft undertone:

  “Sez you?”

  They all turned to watch Mr. Ogden. His good-natured face had settled down into a definitely hard-boiled expression. His lower lip stuck out, his eyes were half-closed. He spoke out of one corner of his mouth. He leant easily on the table, but the very seams of his coat looked tense. He did not remove his gaze from Father Garnette, but he addressed the table at large.

  “Folks,” he said, “I guess we’re the Simps from Simpleton. Cable address Giggle-Giggle. No flowers by request.”

  “What the hell do you mean?” asked Maurice Pringle.

  De Ravigne swore very softly in French.

  “What do I mean?” replied Mr. Ogden, never taking his eyes off Garnette. “What do I mean? Aren’t you conscious yet? Who’s taken care of the keys ever since Cara parked those bonds in the safe? Didn’t we say, right now, Father Garnette had been wearing his keys for safety’s sake? Safety is right. I reckon those bonds are so darned safe we’ll never see them any more.”

  “What do you mean, Mr. Ogden?” asked Miss Wade. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow. Has this money been stolen?”

  “Nope,” answered Mr. Ogden. “It’s just kind of disguised itself as the Daily Mail.”

  “But I don’t understand—”

  “Cara’s bonds have been stolen, Miss Wade,” said Janey impatiently, “and newspaper substituted. You can see for yourself.”

  “Who has done this?” demanded Father Garnette suddenly. He had drawn himself up to his full height. The reasonance had come back to his voice, and something of the old dominance to his manner. He was wearing that dark green garment—a sort of cassock that covered his neck and hung heavily about his feet. In a raffish, theatrical kind of fashion he looked extremely impressive. He puzzled Nigel, who had expected him to crumple up when the theft of the bonds was revealed. He had watched Garnette, and the priest was either dumbfounded or
the best actor off the stage that Nigel had ever seen.

  “Who has done this?” repeated Garnette. He turned his head and stared round the circle of Initiates.

  “I swear I never touched the safe,” bleated Claude Wheatley in a hurry.

  “I suggest, Father, that you yourself are best situated to answer this question,” said de Ravigne softly. “It makes itself apparent. As we have said and you have also agreed—you have kept these keys about your person since our poor Cara made her gift.”

  “How dare you!” cried Mrs. Candour shrilly. “How dare you suggest such a thing, M. de Ravigne? Father!”

  “Quiet, my child,” said Father Garnette.

  Maurice Pringle burst out laughing. The others stared at him scandalised.

  “Look at him,” coughed Maurice, “look! To the pure all things are pure.”

  “Maurice!” cried Janey.

  “Just a minute, please,” said Alleyn.

  They had forgotten all about Alleyn, but now they listened to him.

  “Mr. Pringle,” he said, “will you be good enough to pull yourself together? You are behaving like a hysterical adolescent. That’s better. I gather from what you have all said that no one is prepared to volunteer information about the missing bonds.” Father Garnette began to speak, but Alleyn raised a finger. “Very well, I now wish to bring another exhibit to your notice. The book, if you please, Fox.”

  Inspector Fox loomed forward and put a book into Alleyn’s hand. Alleyn held it up. It was the copy of Abberley’s Curiosities of Chemistry.

  “Quis?” said Alleyn lightly.

  Garnette turned and looked calmly at it. Mrs. Candour gaped at it with her mouth open. Maurice stared at it as if it were an offensive relic, Janey looked blank, M. de Ravigne curious. Mr. Ogden still glared at Father Garnette. Miss Wade balanced her pince-nez across her nose and leant forward to peer at the book. Claude Wheatley said: “What’s that? I can’t see.”

  “It is Abberley’s Curiosities of Chemistry,” said Alleyn.

  “Hey?” exclaimed Mr. Ogden suddenly and wheeled around in his chair. He saw the book and his jaw dropped. “Why—” he said. “Why—”