by Ngaio Marsh
‘Did you not believe that poor woman when she accounted for the half-hour?’
‘Not for a second. If he had been with her she would have said so when I first interviewed her. He has a patient in the hotel and she could have quite easily given that as a reason and would have wanted to provide him with an alibi. Did you notice his look of astonishment when she cut in? Did you notice how she stopped him before he could say anything? No, I didn’t believe her and I think he knew I didn’t.’
‘And that, you consider, was why he ran away?’
‘Partly that, perhaps. He may have felt,’ Alleyn said, ‘quite suddenly, that he couldn’t take it. He may have had his moment of truth. Imagine it, Miss Emily. The blinding realization that must come to a killer: the thing that forces so many of them to give themselves up or to bolt or to commit suicide. Suppose we had believed her and they had gone away together. For the rest of his life he would have been tied to the woman he loved by the most appalling obligation it’s possible to imagine.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He was a proud man, I think. You are right. Pray go on.’
‘Maine had spoken to Miss Cost outside the church. She was telling Mrs Carstairs she would go to the Spring after the service and collect the necklace that had been left on the shelf. She ran after Maine and Mrs Carstairs went into church. We don’t know what passed between them but I think she may, poor creature, have made some final advance and been rebuffed. She must have armed herself with her horrid little snapshot and list of dates and been carrying them about in her bag, planning to call on him, precipitate a final scene and then confront him with her evidence. In any case she forced them on him and very likely told him she was going to give the whole story to the Press.’
‘Did she – ?’
‘Yes. It was in the mailbag.’
‘You said, I think, that you did not normally intercept Her Majesty’s mail.’
‘I believe I did,’ said Alleyn blandly. ‘Nor do we. Normally.’
‘Go on.’
‘He knew she was going to the Spring. He was no doubt on the look-out as he washed his hands at the sink in the Trethaways’ cottage. He saw Wally. He probably saw you pin up your notice. He saw Barrimore tear it down and go away. He went up and let himself in. He had admittance discs and used one when we sent for him. He hid behind the boulder and waited for Miss Cost. He knew of course that there were loose rocks up there. He was extremely familiar with the terrain.’
‘Ah, yes.’
‘When it was over he scraped away his footprints. Later on, when we were there, he was very quick to get up to the higher level and walk over it. Any prints that might be left would thus appear to be innocuous. Then he went back in his launch at ten minutes past eight and waited to be sent for to examine the body.’
‘It gives me an unpleasant frisson when I remember that he also examined mine,’ said Miss Emily. ‘A cool, resourceful man. I rather liked him.’
‘So did I,’ Alleyn said. ‘I liked him. He intended us, of course, to follow up the idea of mistaken identity but he was too clever to push it overmuch. If we hadn’t discovered that you visited the Spring, he would have said he’d seen you. As it was he let us find out for ourselves. He hoped Wally would be thought to have done it and would have given evidence of his irresponsibility and seen him bestowed in a suitable institution, which, as he very truly observed, might be the best thing for him, after all.’
‘I shall do something about that boy,’ said Miss Emily. ‘There must be special schools. I shall attend to it.’ She looked curiously at Alleyn. ‘What would you have done if the lights had not failed, or if you had caught up with him?’
‘Routine procedure, Miss Emily. Asked him to come to Coombe’s office and make a statement. I doubt if we had a case against him. Too much conjecture. I hoped, by laying so much of the case open, to induce a confession. Once the Wally theory was dismissed, I think Maine would have not allowed Barrimore or anyone else, to be arrested. But I’m glad it turned out as it did.’
Fox came through the gate into Coombe’s garden.
‘Bon jour, Mademoiselle,’ he said laboriously. ‘J’espère que vous êtes en bonne santé ce matin.’
Miss Emily winced. ‘Mr Fox,’ she said in slow but exquisite French. ‘You are, I am sure, a very busy man, but if you can spare an hour twice a week, I think I might be able to give you some assistance with your conversation. I should be delighted to do so.’
Fox asked her if she would be good enough to repeat her statement and as she did so, blushed to the roots of his hair.
‘Mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘c’est bonne, no blast – pardon – bien aimable de vous – I mean – de votre part. Would you really? I can’t think of anything I’d like better.’
‘Alors, c’est entendu,’ said Miss Emily.
IV
Patrick and Jenny sat in his car down by the waterfront. Miss Emily’s luggage and Jenny’s and Patrick’s suitcases were roped into the open boot. Miss Emily had settled to spend a few days at the Manor Park Hotel and had invited them both to be her guests. Patrick felt he should stay with his mother but she was urgent for him to go.
‘It made me feel terribly inadequate,’ he said. ‘As if somehow I must have failed her. And yet, you know, I thought we got on awfully well together, always. I’m fond of my mama.’
‘Of course you are. And she adores you. I expect it’s just that she wants to be by herself until – well, until the first ghastly shock’s over.’
‘By herself? With him there?’
‘He’s not behaving badly, Patrick. Is he?’
‘No. Oddly enough, no.’ He looked thoughtfully at Jenny. ‘I knew about Bob Maine,’ he said. ‘Of course I did. I’ve never been able to make out why I didn’t like it. Not for conventional reasons. If you say Œdipus Complex I shall be furious.’
‘I won’t say it then.’
‘The thing is, I suppose, one doesn’t like one’s mama being a femme fatale. And she is, a bit, you know. I’m so sorry for her,’ he said violently, ‘that it makes me angry. Why should that be? I really don’t understand it at all.’
‘Do you know, I think it’s impossible for us to take the idea of older people being in love. It’s all wrong, I expect, and I daresay it’s the arrogance of youth or something.’
‘You may be right. Jenny, I do love you with all my heart. Could we get married, do you think?’
‘I don’t see anything against it,’ said Jenny.
After a longish interval, Jenny said: ‘Miss Emily’s taking her time, isn’t she? Shall we walk up to the cottage and say goodbye to that remarkable man?’
‘Well – if you like.’
‘Come on.’
They strolled along the seafront, holding hands. A boy was sitting on the edge of the terrace, idly throwing pebbles into the channel.
It was Wally.
As they came up he turned and, when he saw them, held out his hands.
‘All gone,’ he said.
By The Same Author
A Man Lay Dead
Enter a Murderer
The Nursing Home Murder
Death in Ecstasy
Vintage Murder
Artists in Crime
Death in a White Tie
Overture to Death
Death at the Bar
Surfeit of Lampreys
Death and the Dancing Footman
Colour Scheme
Died in the Wool
Final Curtain
Swing, Brother, Swing
Opening Night
Spinsters in Jeopardy
Scales of Justice
Off With His Head
Singing in the Shrouds
False Scent
Hand in Glove
Dead Water
Death at the Dolphin
Clutch of Constables
When in Rome
Tied up in Tinsel
Black As He’s Painted
Last Ditch
Grave Mis
take
Photo-Finish
Light Thickens
Black Beech and Honeydew (autobiography)
Copyright
HARPER
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Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2009
FIRST EDITION
Ngaio Marsh asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of these works
Copyright © Ngaio Marsh Ltd 1963
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EPub Edition © DECEMBER 2009 ISBN: 978-0-007-34479-6
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