Tied Up in Tinsel ra-27

by Ngaio Marsh

  “Of course. I’d better have a word with this Super. What’s his name? Wrayburn? Turn him on, will you?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Thank you. Sorry. Good luck to you.”

  Alleyn went in search of his wife. She was not in their rooms, which gave evidence of her having bathed and changed. He spent a minute or two with his head through the open window, peering into the wreckage below, and then went downstairs. As he crossed the hall he encountered Blore with a tray of drinks and a face of stone.

  “The party is in the library, sir,” Blore said. “Mr. Bill-Tasman wished me to inform you. This way, if you please, sir.”

  They were all there including Troy, who made a quick face at him.

  Hilary was in full spate. “My dears,” he was saying, “what a relief it is.” He advanced upon Alleyn with outstretched hands, took him by the biceps and gently shook him. “My dear fellow!” Hilary gushed. “I was just saying — I can’t tell you how relieved we all are. Now do, do, do, do.” This seemed to be an invitation to drink, sit down, come to the fire, or be introduced to the Colonel and Mr. Smith.

  The Colonel had already advanced. He shook hands and said there was almost no need for an introduction because Troy had been “such a dear and so kind,” and added that he was “most awfully worried” about Moult. “You know how it is,” he said. “The feller’s been with one, well, more years than one cares to say. One feels quite lost. And he’s a nice feller. I — we —” he hesitated, glanced at his wife, and then said in a rush, “We’re very attached to him. Very. And, I do assure you, there’s no harm in him. No harm at all in Moult.”

  “Upsetting for you,” Alleyn said.

  “It’s so awful,” said the Colonel, “to think he may have got that thing, whatever it is. Be wandering about? Somewhere out there? The cold! I tell my nephew we ought to ring Marchbanks up and ask him to lay on his dogs. They must have dogs at that place. What do you say?”

  Alleyn said, and meant it, that it was a good idea. He found Mr. Smith bearing down upon him.

  “Met before,” said Mr. Smith, giving him a knuckle-breaking handshake. “I never caught on you was you, if you get me. When was it? Ten years ago? I gave evidence for your lot in the Blake forgery case. Remember me?”

  Alleyn said he remembered Mr. Smith very well.

  Cressida, in a green velvet trousered garment, split down the middle and strategically caught together by an impressive brooch, waggled her fingers at Alleyn and said, “Hi, there.”

  Hilary began offering Alleyn a drink and when he said he wouldn’t have one was almost comically nonplussed. “You won’t?” he exclaimed.

  “Not on duty, alas,” said Alleyn.

  “But — no, really! Surely under these conditions. I mean, it’s not as if you were — well, my dear man, you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I do,” Alleyn said. “But I think we must as far as possible reduce the rather bizarre circumstances to something resembling routine police procedure.”

  Hilary said, “I know, I know but—” and boggled. He appealed dumbly to Troy.

  “It would have been lovely to have come as a visitor,” Alleyn said politely, “but I turn out to be no such thing. I turn out to be a policeman on a job and I must try to behave accordingly.”

  A complete silence followed. Hilary broke it with a slight giggle.

  Mrs. Forrester said, “Very sensible,” and to her nephew: “You can’t have it both ways, Hilary, and you’d best make your mind up to it.”

  “Yes. All right,” Hilary said and gulped. “Well,” he asked Alleyn, “what’s the form then? What would you like us to do?”

  “For the moment — nothing. The first thing of course, is to set up an organized search for the missing man. Wrayburn is bringing in people to that end as soon as they can be assembled. They’ll be here within the hour. Later on I shall ask each of you for as detailed an account of the events leading up to the disappearance as you can give me. In the meantime I shall have a word with Mr. Wrayburn and then, if you please, I would like to look at Moult’s bedroom and at Colonel Forrester’s dressing-room. After that we’ll have a word with the staff. Perhaps you’d be very kind and tell them, would you?”

  “Oh, God,” said Hilary. “Yes. I suppose so. Yes, of course. But you will remember, won’t you, they are in a rather special position?”

  “You can say that again,” Mr. Smith remarked.

  “I think that’s all for the moment,” Alleyn said. “So if you’ll excuse me —?”

  “But you’ll join us for dinner, at least?” Hilary expostulated. “Of course you will!”

  “You’re very kind but I think we should press on.”

  “But that’s fantastic,” Cressida cried. “You can’t starve. Hilly, he can’t starve.” She appealed to Troy. “Well, can he? You know? Can he?”

  Before Troy could answer Hilary. began to talk rather wildly about Alleyn joining them when he could and then about game pie or at the very least, sandwiches. He rang and on the arrival of Blore seemed to collect himself.

  Blore stood inside the door with his gaze fixed on a distant point above all their heads.

  “Oh, Blore,” Hilary said. “Mr. Alleyn has very kindly agreed to help us. He’s going to take complete charge and we must all assist him as much as we possibly can. I know you and the staff will cooperate. Mr. Alleyn may not be dining. Please arrange a cold supper, will you? Something he can take when he’s free. In the dining-room.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “And Blore. Mr. Alleyn would like, later on, to have your account, and the others’, of what you’ve all told me. In case I’ve forgotten anything or got it wrong. You might just let them know, will you?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  When Blore had gone Cressida said: “Hilly, is it my imagination or does that man seem all uptight to you?”

  “I hope not, darling. I do hope not. Of course, naturally they’re a bit on edge,” Hilary pleaded. “But nobody’s going to draw any false conclusions, are they? Of course they’re not. Which is why,” he added, reaching for a graceful turn of phrase, “one is so thankful that you,” he turned to Alleyn, “have taken us under your wing. If you see what I mean.”

  “I don’t know,” Alleyn said pleasantly, “that you’ve quite defined the function of an investigating officer, but it’s nice of you to put it that way.”

  Hilary laughed extravagantly and then, with an air of elaborate and anxious solicitation, asked Alleyn if there was anything, anything at all, that anybody could do to help.

  “Not at the moment, I think,” he said. “Troy’s given me a pretty comprehensive idea of the situation. But there is one point, as you’re all here —”

  “Yes? Yes?” urged Hilary, all concern.

  “Nobody recognized Moult as the Druid, it seems. You did all see him, didn’t you? In action?”

  A general chorus of assent was followed by elaborations from which it emerged that the houseparty, with the exception of Colonel Forrester, had “mixed” with the other guests and the children in the library and had followed the children in procession to the drawing-room. They had stood together during the tree. When the grown-ups, joined by Cressida, opened their parcels, the houseparty again congealed, thanking each other and exclaiming over the gifts.

  Alleyn asked if anyone, apart from his employers, had seen or spoken to Moult during the day. They all looked blank and said they might have but didn’t really remember. If they had spoken it would only be to say “Merry Christmas.”

  “Right,” Alleyn said. “Thank you. And now, if I may be excused, I’ll talk to Wrayburn. By the way, may I borrow that lens of yours? It’ll make me feel less of a phony.”

  “Of course — I’ll—”

  “Don’t move. I’ll get it. It’s on your desk. One other thing — may I take a look at your quarters, Colonel?”

  “Certainly. Certainly. If
there’s anything you’d like me to show you,” said Colonel Forrester with obvious keenness, “I’ll be glad —”

  “No, Fred,” said his wife. “You don’t start that sort of nonsense. Rushing up and down stairs and looking for clues. I said rushing —”

  “I know you did, B. It doesn’t apply.”

  “If I need help,” Alleyn said, “I’ll come and ask for it. May I?”

  “You do that,” said the Colonel warmly and threw a bold look at his wife. “I’ll be delighted. By all means. You do that.”

  So Alleyn collected the lens, found Wrayburn and took him upstairs, and Troy, in an extraordinary state of semi-detachment, went in with the houseparty to dinner.

  Moult’s bedroom in the top story at Halberds gave evidence, in its appointments, of Hilary’s consideration for his staff. It exhibited, however, the pathological orderliness of an army barracks and had the same smell: a compound of boot-polish, leather, fag-ends, heavy cloth and an indefinable stale masculinity.

  Moult’s topcoat, outdoor suit and shoes, hat and gloves were all properly disposed. His empty suitcase was stowed at the back of his wardrobe. His blameless underwear lay impeccably folded in his clothespress. Even his borderline-pornographic reading was neatly stacked on his bedside table. On the dressing table was a pigskin case with his initials on it. Opened, it revealed two old-fashioned silver-backed brushes, a comb and a card. Alleyn showed the card to Wrayburn. “Lt. Col. F. Fleaton Forrester” on one side and on the other, in a sharply pointed hand, “A. Moult. On the twenty-fifth anniversary of a very happy association. F. F.”

  When they found Moult’s wallet in a drawer of his dressing table it too proved to be initialled and of pigskin. The card inside, Mrs. Fleaton Forrester’s, said abruptly, “Moult. 1946–1971. B. F.” It contained no money but a list of telephone numbers and three snapshots. The first showed the Colonel in uniform, mounted on a charger, and Sergeant Moult in uniform and on foot saluting him. A round-faced man with monkeylike cheeks heavily scarred. The second showed the Colonel and Mrs. Forrester gazing disconsolately at a tract of moorland and Moult gazing respectfully at them. The third was faded and altogether had the appearance of being much older. It was a snapshot of a younger Moult with one stripe up, holding by the hand an overdressed little girl of about four.

  “That’ll be the man himself in all three, will it?” Wrayburn speculated.

  “Yes. You notice the scarred face?”

  “Married? With a kid?”

  “Doesn’t follow as the night the day. It may be anybody’s infant-phenomenon.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “When my chaps get here,” Alleyn said, “we’ll take dabs. And when we lay the dogs on, we’ll show them one of his shoes. Did I tell you the Colonel also suggested dogs from the Vale? Hullo! Listen to this!”

  A hullabaloo of sorts had broken out in the chimney: a confusion of sound, thrown about and distorted, blown down and sucked back as if by some gigantic and inefficient flautist.

  “That’s the Nor’east Buster getting up,” Wrayburn said. “That’s bad. That’s a nuisance.”

  “Why?”

  “It means rain in these parts. Very heavy as a rule.”

  “Snow?”

  “More likely floods. Here she comes.”

  The window rattled violently and was suddenly hit by a great buffet of rain.

  “Lovely hunting weather,” Alleyn grunted. “Still — you never know. It may do us more good than harm. We’ll lock up here and penetrate the Forrester suite. Come on.”

  They went down to the next floor and walked along the heavily carpeted corridor serving the guest rooms. It was lit by only a third of its shaded wall lamps and very quiet. No rumour of the storm outside or of life within the house. Alleyn supposed the guests and Hilary were all in the dining-room and suddenly felt ravenous. He was about to say so but instead laid his hand on Wrayburn’s arm and motioned him to be quiet. He pointed ahead. From under one of the doors a sliver of light showed on the red carpet.

  Alleyn counted doors. Troy had told him which room belonged to which guest. They now approached his dressing-room, linked by a bathroom with Troy’s bedroom. Next came the Forresters’ bedroom, bathroom and dressing-room. Beyond these were Mr. Smith and, on the front corner of the east wing in a large room with its own bathroom, Cressida. Where Hilary himself slept — no doubt in some master apartment of great stateliness — Troy had had no idea.

  It was from under the Forresters’ bedroom door that the light showed.

  Alleyn listened for a moment and could hear nothing. He made a quick decision. He motioned Wrayburn to stay where he was and himself opened the door and walked straight in.

  He did so to the accompaniment of a loud crash.

  A man at the window turned to face him: a blond, pale man whom he had seen before, wearing dark trousers and an alpaca jacket.

  “Good evening again,” Alleyn said. “I’ve made a mistake. I thought this was my wife’s room.”

  “Next door,” the man barely articulated.

  “Stupid of me. You must be Nigel, I think.”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “I’ve been admiring your work in the courtyard. It really is quite something.”

  Nigel’s lips moved. He was saying, inaudibly, “Thank you very much.”

  The windowpane behind him streamed with driven rain. His head, face and the front of his jacket were wet.

  “You’ve been caught,” Alleyn said lightly.

  Nigel said: “It’s come down very sudden. I was — I was closing the window, sir. It’s very awkward, this window.”

  “It’ll ruin your snow sculpture, I’m afraid.”

  Nigel suddenly said, “It may be a judgment.”

  “A judgment? On whom? For what?”

  “There’s a lot of sin about,” Nigel said loudly. “One way and another. You never know.”

  “Such as?”

  “Heathen practices. Disguised as Christian. There’s hints of blasphemy there. Touches of it. If rightly looked at.”

  “You mean the Christmas tree?”

  “Heathen practices round graven images. Caperings. And see what’s happened to him.”

  “What has happened to him?” asked Alleyn and wondered if he’d struck some sort of lunatic bonanza.

  “He’s gone.”

  “Where?”

  “Ah! Where! That’s what sin does for you. I know. Nobody better. Seeing what I been myself.”

  Nigel’s face underwent an extraordinary change. His mouth hung open, his nostrils distended, his white eyelashes fluttered and then, like a microcosm of the deluge outside, he wept most copiously.

  “Now, look here —” Alleyn began but Nigel with an unconscionable roar fled from the room and went thudding down the corridor.

  Wrayburn appeared in the doorway. “What the hell’s all that in aid of?” he asked. “Which of them was it?”

  “That was Nigel, the second houseman, who once made effigies but became a religious maniac and killed a sinful lady. He is said to be cured.”

  “Cured!”

  “Although I believe Mr. Bill-Tasman has conceded that when Nigel remembers his crime he is inclined to weep. He remembered it just now.”

  “I overheard some of his remarks. The chap’s certifiable. Religious maniac.”

  “I wonder why he leaned out of the window.”

  “He did?”

  “I fancy so. He was too wet to match his story about just shutting it. And there’s a very little rain on the carpet. I don’t believe it was open until he opened it.”

  “Funny!”

  “It is, rather. Let’s have a look about, shall we?”

  They found nothing in the bedroom more remarkable than the Forresters’ green-lined tropical umbrella. Nigel had turned down their bed, laid out their Viyella nightclothes, and banked up their fire. The windows were shut.

  “Wouldn’t you think,” Mr. Wrayburn observed, “that they’d have heaters i
n these rooms? Look at the work involved! It must be dynamite.”

  “He’s trying to re-create the past.”

  “He’s lucky to have a lunatic to help him, then.”

  They went through the bathroom with its soap, mackintosh and hair lotion smells. Mr. Wrayburn continued to exclaim upon the appointments at Halberds: “Bathrooms! All over the shop like an eight-star-plus hotel. You wouldn’t credit it.” He was somewhat mollified to discover that in the Colonel’s dressing-room a radiator had been built into the grate. It had been switched on, presumably by Nigel. “Look at that!” said Mr. Wrayburn. “What about his electrical bill! No trouble!”

  “And here,” Alleyn pointed out, “are the Welsh fire irons. Minus the poker. Highly polished and, of course, never used. I think the relative positions of the fireplace, the bed, the window and the doors are worth noticing, Jack. If you come in from the bathroom, the window’s on your right, the door into the corridor on your left and the bed, projecting from the outside wall facing you, with the fireplace beyond it in the far wall. If I were to sit on the floor on the far side of the bed and you came through the bathroom door, you wouldn’t see me, would you?”

  “No?” said Mr. Wrayburn, expecting an elaboration but getting none. Alleyn had moved to the far side of the bed: a single high-standing Victorian four-poster unadorned with curtains. Its authentic patchwork quilt reached to the floor and showed a sharp bulge at one side. He turned it back and exposed Colonel Forrester’s uniform box black-japanned, white-lettered, and quite noticeably dented and scarred about the padlock area.

  “I do hate,” Alleyn said, sitting on his heels, “this going on a job minus my kit. It makes one feel such a damned, piddling amateur. However, Fox will bring it and in the meantime I’ve the Bill-Tasman lens. Look here, Jack. Talk of amateurism! This isn’t the handiwork of any master cracksman, is it?”

  Mr. Wrayburn squatted down beside him. “Very clumsy attempt,” he agreed. “What’s he think he’d achieve? Silly.”

  “Yes,” Alleyn said, using the lens, “a bit of hanky-panky with the padlock. Something twisted in the hoop.”