Death in Ecstasy

by Ngaio Marsh

  “At eleven o’clock, yes. It will, I imagine, be purely formal.”

  “One never knows with inquests, but I expect so. The terms of the Will may come out. You know them, I expect?’’

  “No, monsieur.”

  “No? Come along. Fox. Where are those books?”

  “You’ve got them under your arm, sir.”

  “Have I? So I have. Au ’voir, Monsieur de Ravigne. I am afraid we have been a great nuisance.”

  “Not at all, Monsieur l’Inspecteur. I am only too glad—though I am afraid I have been of little assistance—”

  “Tout au contraire, monsieur.”

  “Vraiment? Au ’voir, monsieur. Good afternoon, monsieur.’’

  “Ohreevor, monsieur,” said Fox very firmly.

  On their way down the liftman extolled the virtues of the flats, and Alleyn warmly agreed with him, but still insisted that he preferred the solace of an open fire. Inspector Fox listened gravely to this conversation, occasionally uttering a profound noise in his throat. As they got into the car his good-natured face wore the nearest approach to a sardonic smile of which it was capable.

  “The Yard,” said Alleyn to the driver. “You’ll be able to improve your French if we see much more of that gentleman,” he added with a smile at Fox.

  “It’s a rum thing,” said Inspector Fox, “that I can follow that radio bloke a fair treat, and yet when the monsieur gets under way it sounds like a collection of apostrophes. What do we do when we get back to the office?”

  “We send a cable to Australia.”

  “To Australia?”

  “Yes, Brer Fox.”

  “What’s that in aid of?”

  “You’ve never been to Australia?”

  “I have not.”

  “I have. Let me tell you about it.”

  Alleyn discoursed at some length about Australia, They got back to the Yard at five o’clock. The fingerprint people reported that they had been unable to find any of the Sacred Flame prints in the records. Mr. Rattisbon had sent a letter round for Alleyn. The report from Cara Quayne’s house together with the blotting-paper and crumpled sheet from the wastepaper basket awaited him in his room. He went there, accompanied by Fox, and tackled Mr. Rattisbon’s letter first.

  “Let’s smoke a pipe apiece,” he said. “I’m longing for one.”

  They lit up, and Fox watched him gravely while he opened the long envelope. Alleyn’s eyebrows rose as he read the enclosures. Without a word he handed them across to his subordinate. Mr. Rattisbon wrote to say that the morning mail had brought a new Will from Miss Quayne. She had evidently written it some time yesterday afternoon. It was witnessed by Ethel Parker and May Simes. As regards the bequests to de Ravigne and Laura Hebborn it was a repetition of the old Will. For the rest it was startingly changed. The entire residue was left to Mr. Jasper Garnette of Knocklatchers Row, Eaton Place. Miss Quayne had written to say she hoped that the new Will was in order, and that if it was not, would Mr. Rattisbon please draw up a fresh document to the same effect. The alteration was so straightforward that she believed this to be unnecessary. She had urgent reasons for making the alteration, reasons connected with a “terrible discovery.” She would call and explain. Her dear Father Garnette, she said, was the victim of an unholy plot. In his covering letter Mr. Rattisbon explained that at the time Alleyn called he had not looked at his morning post. He added that he found the whole affair extremely distressing; an unexpectedly human touch.

  “By gum!” said Fox, putting the papers down, “it looks as if you’re right, sir.”

  “Gratifying, isn’t it? But how the devil are we going to ram it home? And what about our Jasper? Oh, Garnette, my jewel, my gem above price, you will need your lovely legacy before we’ve done with you. Where’s the report on those cigarettes, Fox? Has it come in? Where’s my pad? Here we are. Yes. Oh excellent priest! Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee. All the top cigarettes as innocent as the wild woodbine, but underneath, in a vicious little mob, ten doped smokes. A fairly high percentage of heroin was found, from one-tenth to as much as one-seventh of a grain per cigarette. Is it possible that the cigarette tobacco has been treated with a solution of diamorphine? Oh, Jasper, my dear, my better half, have I caught my heavenly jewel?”

  “Come off it, sir,” said Fox with a grin.

  “How right you are, my Foxkin. Is there any reason why we should not prise the jewel from its setting?”

  “Do you mean you’d like to arrest Garnette?”

  “Would I like to? And how! as Mr. Ogden would say. And how, my old foxglove, my noxious weed. Has anyone ever written a poem to you, Fox?”

  “Never, sir.”

  “I wish I had the art”:

  Hercules or Hector? Ah, no!

  This is our Inspector Fox,

  Mens sana in corpore sano,

  Standing in the witness-box.

  “Very feeble, I’m afraid. What about the analyst? Autopsy on body of Miss Cara Quayne. Here we are: He’s been very quick about it. ‘External appearances: blue nails, fingers clenched, toes contracted, jaws firmly closed.’ We know all that. ‘Internally’—This is it. ‘On opening the stomach the odour of hydrocyanic acid was clearly distinguishable.’ How beastly for him. He found the venous system gorged with liquid blood, bright red and arterial in character. The stomach and intestines appeared to be in their natural state. The mucous membrane of the stomach—How he does run on, to be sure. Let’s see. The silver test was carried out. The precipitate gave the characteristic reactions—”

  Alleyn read on in silence. Then he dropped the report on his desk and leant back.

  “Yes,” he said flatly, “it’s sodium cyanide. I do well, don’t I, to sit here being funny-man, and not so damn’ funny either, while a beautiful woman turns into a cadaver, an analyst’s exercise, and her murderer—? Fox, in many ways ours is a degrading job-of-work. Custom makes monsters of us all. Do you ever feel like that about it, Fox? No, I don’t think you do. You are too nice-minded. You are always quite sane. And such a wise old bird, too. Damn you, Fox, do you think we’re on the right lay?”

  “I think so, sir. And I know how you feel about homicide cases. I’d put it down to your imagination. You’re a very imaginative man, I’d say. I’m not at all fanciful myself, but it does seem queer to me sometimes, how calm-like we get to work, grousing about the routine, pull out because our meals don’t come regular, and all the time there’s a trap and a rope and a broken neck at the end if we do our job properly. Well, there it is. It’s got to be done.”

  “With which comfortable reflection,” said Alleyn, “let us consult Mr. Abberley on the subject of sodium cyanide.”

  He picked the book out of his bag which had been brought back from the church, and once again it opened at the discourse on sodium cyanide.

  “You see, Fox, it’s quite an elaborate business. List, list, oh list. You take equal weights of wool and dried washing-soda and iron filings. Sounds like Mrs. Beaton gone homicidal. Cook at red heat for three or four hours. Allow to cool. Add water and boil for several more hours. Tedious! Pour off clear solution and evaporate same to small volume. When cool, yellow crystals separate out. And are these sodium cyanide? They are not. To the crystals add a third of their weight of dried washing-soda. Heat as before for an hour or two. While still hot, pour off molten substance from black residue. It will solidify, on cooling to a white cake. Alley Houp! Sodium cyanide as ordered. Serve a la Garnette with Invalid Port to taste. Loud cheers and much laughter. This man is clever.”

  He re-read the passage and then shut the book.

  “As far as one can see this could all be done without the aid of laboratory apparatus. That makes it more difficult, of course. A house-to-house campaign is indicated, and then we may not get much further. Still it will have to be done. I think this is an occasion for Mr. Bathgate, Fox. You tell me he went off with Pringle and Miss Jenkins.”

  “That’s right. I saw them walk down Knocklatchers Row and go
into his flat in Chester Terrace.”

  “I wonder if I’d be justified—He can’t get into trouble over this. It’s so much better than going ourselves. He’s an observant youth, and if they’ve got all matey—What d’you think, Fox?”

  “What are you driving at, sir?”

  “Wait and see.”

  He thought for a moment and then reached for his telephone. He dialled a number and waited, staring abstractedly at Fox. A small tinny quack came from the telephone. Alleyn spoke quietly.

  “Is that you, Bathgate? Don’t say my name. Say ‘Hullo, darling.’ That’s right. Now just answer yes and no in a loving voice if your guests are still with you. Are they? Good. It’s Angela speaking.”

  “Hullo, darling,” quacked the little voice.

  “Is your telephone the sort that shouts or whispers? Does it shout?”

  “No, my sweet. It’s too marvellous to hear your voice,” said Nigel in Chester Terrace. Without covering the receiver he addressed somebody in the room: “It’s Angela—my—I’m engaged to her. Excuse the raptures.”

  “Are you sure it’s all right for me to talk?” continued Alleyn.

  “Angela, darling. I can hardly hear you. This telephone is almost dumb.”

  “That’s all right then. Now attend to me. Have you got very friendly?”

  “Of course I have,” said Nigel rapturously.

  “Well. Get yourself invited to either or both of their flats. Can you do that?”

  “But Angel, I did all that ages ago. When am I going to see you?”

  “Do you mean you have already been to their flats?”

  “No, no. Of course not. How are you?”

  “Getting bloody irritable. What do you mean?”

  “Well, at the moment I am sitting looking at your photograph. As a matter of fact I’ve been showing it to somebody else.”

  “Blast your eyes.”

  “No, my sweet, nobody you know. I hope you will soon. They’re engaged like us. We’re all going to a show. Angela, where are you?”

  “At the Yard.”

  “Darling, how expensive! Yarborough! A toll call. Never mind. When are you coming to London? Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Yes, there is. If you’re going to a show, can you engineer a round trip to their flats afterwards?”

  “Rather! As a matter of fact I’d thought of doing that. Darling—”

  “Shut up. Listen carefully now.”

  “At Harrods? Must it be pink, my sweet?”

  “Now don’t you be too clever. Miss Angela would cast you off for ever if you mooed at her like that. Pay attention. When you are there I want you to observe certain things.”

  “All right, darling, I was only being facetious. Let me know the worst.”

  “I will. This is what I want you to look for—” Alleyn talked on. Fox listened solemnly. Nigel, over in Chester Terrace, blew kisses into the receiver and smiled apologetically at Janey Jenkins and Maurice Pringle.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Fools Step In

  “IT ANNOYS ANGELA beyond endurance if I hold modern conversations with her on the telephone,” said Nigel hanging up the receiver on a final oath from Alleyn.

  “If that was a sample, I’m not surprised,” said Janey Jenkins. “I absolutely forbid Maurice to call me his sweet. Don’t I, Blot?”

  “Yes,” said Maurice unresponsively. He got up and moved restlessly about the room, fetching up at the window where he stood and stared out into the street, biting his finger.

  “What is your Angela’s other name?” asked Janey.

  “North. She’s darkish with a big mouth and thin.”

  “When are you going to be married?”

  “In April. When are you?”

  Janey looked at Maurice’s back. “It’s not settled yet.”

  “I’d better do something about getting seats for a show,” said Nigel. “Where shall we go? It’s such fun your coming here like this. We must make it a proper party. Have you seen ‘Fools Step In’ at the Palace?”

  “No. We’d love to, but look here, we’re not dressed for a party.”

  “Oh. No, you’re not, are you? Wait a moment. Let’s make it a real gala. I’ll change now and then we’ll take a taxi and go to your flat and then to Pringle’s. We’ll have a drink here first. Pringle, would you make drinks while I change? The things are all in that cupboard there. It’s only half-past five. I’ll have a quick bath—won’t be ten minutes. Do you mind? Will it amuse you? Not my bath, but everything else?”

  “Of course it will,” said Janey.

  Maurice swung around from the window and faced Nigel.

  “Look here,” he said, “aren’t you rather rash to rush into parties with people that are suspected of murder?”

  “Don’t, Maurice!” whispered Janey.

  “My good ass,” said Nigel, “you embarrass me. You may of course be a homicidal maniac, but personally I imagine Alleyn had definitely ruled you out.”

  “I suppose he’s told you to say that. You seem to be very thick with him.”

  “Maurice, please!”

  “My dear Jane, it’s not impossible.”

  “No,” said Nigel calmly, “of course it’s not. Alleyn is by way of being my friend. I think your suspicions are perfectly reasonable, Pringle.”

  “Oh, God, you are a little gentleman. I suppose you think I’m bloody unpleasant.”

  “As a matter of fact I do, at the moment, but you’ll be better when you’ve had a cocktail. Get to work, there’s a good chap. And you might ring up the Palace for seats.”

  “Look here, I’m damned sorry. I’m not myself. My nerves are all to hell. Janey, tell him I’m not entirely bogus. I can’t be if you say so.”

  Janey went to him and held him firmly by one ear.

  “Not entirely bogus,” she told Nigel.

  “That’s all right then,” said Nigel hurriedly. “Look after yourselves.”

  As he bathed he thought carefully about his instructions. In effect Alleyn had told him to cultivate these two with a view to spying on them. Nigel winced. Stated baldly it sounded unpleasant. He had had this sort of thing out with Alleyn on former occasions. The Chief Inspector had told him roundly that his scruples had merely pointed to a wish to have the ha’pence without the kicks, to follow round with the police, write special articles from first-hand experience, and turn squeamish when it came to taking a hand. Alleyn was right of course. If Maurice and Janey were innocent he would help to prove it. If they were guilty—But Nigel was quite sure neither Janey nor Maurice, for all his peculiar behaviour, was guilty of Cara Quayne’s death. He dressed hurriedly and went out into the little hall to get his overcoat. He dived into the cupboard. It was built in to the drawing room wall and the partition was thin. He heard Janey Jenkins’ voice, muffled and flat but distinct:

  “But why can’t you tell me? I know quite well there’s something. Maurice, this can’t go on.”

  “What do you mean? Are you going to turn me down? I don’t blame you.”

  “You know I won’t turn you down. But why can’t you trust me?”

  “I do trust you. I trust you to stick to what we’ve said.”

  “About yesterday afternoon—?”

  “Sst!”

  “Maurice, is it anything to do with—with your cigarettes? You’re smoking one of them now, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake don’t start nagging.”

  “But—”

  “When this is over I’ll give it up.”

  “‘When.’ ‘When.’ It’s always ‘when.’”

  “Will you shut up, Jane! I tell you I can’t stand it.”

  “Ssh! He’ll hear you.”

  Silence. Nigel stole out and back to his bedroom. In three minutes he rejoined them in the drawing room. Maurice had mixed their drinks, and Janey had turned on the radio. With an effort Nigel managed to sustain his role of cheerful host. Maurice suddenly became more friendly, mixed a seco
nd cocktail and began to talk loudly of modern novelists. It appeared that he was himself engaged on a first novel. Nigel was not surprised to learn that it was to be a satire on the upper middle classes. At six o’clock they took a taxi to Janey’s studio flat in Yeoman’s Row, and while she changed Maurice made more cocktails. Janey, it seemed, was at the Slade. Nigel found the studio very cold though they had put a match to the gas-heater. Shouting at them from the curtained-off recess that served as bedroom Janey explained that she meant to seek warmer quarters. Even the kitchenette-bathroom was cold, she said. She did her cooking over a gas-ring, and you couldn’t warm yourself at a bath-geyser. Some of her drawings were pinned up on the walls. She used an austere and wiry line, defined everything with uncompromising boundaries, and went in extensively for simplified form. The drawings had quality. Nigel wandered round the studio and into the kitchenette. Everything was very tidy, and rather like Janey herself.

  “What are you doing?” called Janey. “You’re both very silent.”

  “I’m looking at your bathkitchery,” said Nigel. “You haven’t got nearly enough saucepans.”

  “I only have breakfast here. There’s a restaurant down below. One of ye olde brasse potte kind—all orange curtain and nut salads. Yes,” said Janey emerging in evening dress, “I must leave this place. The problem is, where to go.”

  “Come to Chester Terrace and be neighbours. Angela and I are going to take a bigger flat in my building. It’s rather nice. You could have mine.”

  “Your Angela might hate me at first sight.”

  “Not she. Are we ready?”

  “Yes. Come on, Blot.”

  “I’m finishing my drink,” said Maurice. “You’re right, Jane, this is an appalling place. I should go mad here. Come on.”

  “We should have gone to you first,” said Janey. “He is in Lower Sloane Street, Mr. Bathgate. How silly! Maurice, why didn’t we go to you first?”

  “You can drop me there now. I don’t think I’ll join the party.”

  “Maurice! Why ever not?”

  “I’m hopelessly inadequate,” he muttered. He looked childishly obstinate, staring straight in front of him and smiling sardonically. Nigel could have kicked him.