Clutch of Constables ra-25

by Ngaio Marsh

  “You’re thinking of motive.”

  “We have to think of everything,” he sighed portentously. “Everything.”

  “I suppose,” Troy said, “you’ve looked in her suitcase.” She thought how preposterous it was that she should be asking the question and said to herself: “If it wasn’t for Rory, he’d have slapped me back long ago.”

  He said: “That would be routine procedure, wouldn’t it, Mrs Alleyn?”

  “You were alongside this cabin when you—when you—were in that boat. The porthole was open. I heard about the suitcase.”

  He glanced with something like irritation at the porthole.

  “There’s nothing of the nature of the object you describe in the suitcase,” he said and stood up with an air of finality. “I expect you’ll appreciate, Mrs Alleyn, that we’ll ask for signed statements from all the personnel in this craft.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ve suggested they assemble in the saloon upstairs for a preliminary interview. You’re feeling quite yourself again—?”

  “Quite, thank you.”

  “That’s fine. In about five minutes, then?”

  “Certainly.”

  When he had gone, softly closing the door behind him, Troy tidied herself up. The face that looked out of her glass was pretty white and her hand was not perfectly steady but she was all right. She straightened the red blanket and turned to the wash-basin. The tumbler had been half-filled with water and placed on the shelf. Beside it were two capsules.

  Trankwitones, no doubt.

  Persistent woman: Miss Hewson.

  Never in her life, Troy thought, had she felt lonelier. Never had she wished more heartily for her husband’s return.

  She believed she knew now for certain, what had happened to Hazel Rickerby-Carrick. She had been murdered and her murderer was aboard the Zodiac.

  “But,” she thought, “it may stop there. She told Miss Hewson about the jewel and Miss Hewson may well have told — who? Her brother almost certainly and perhaps Mr Pollock with whom they seem to be pretty thick. Or the Tretheways? For the matter of that, every man and woman of us may know about the thing and the ones like Dr Natouche and Caley Bard and me may simply have used discretion and held their tongues.

  “And then it might follow that some single one of us,” she thought, “tried to steal the jewel when she was asleep on deck and she woke and would have screamed and given him — or her — away and so she got her quietus. But after that—? Here’s a nightmarish sort of thing — after that how did poor Hazel get to Ramsdyke weir seven miles or more upstream?”

  She remembered that Miss Rickerby-Carrick had been presented with some of Miss Hewson’s Trankwitones and that Dr Natouche had said they were unknown to him.

  Now. Was there any reason to suppose that the base didn’t stop there but reached out all round itself like a spider to draw in Andropulos and behind Andropulos, the shadowy figure of Foljambe? The Jampot? The ultra-clever one?

  Was it too fantastic, now, to think the Jampot might be on board? And if he was? Well, Troy thought, she couldn’t for the life of her name her fancy. Figures, recalled by a professional memory, swam before her mind’s eye, each in its way outlandish — black patch, deaf ear, club foot and with a sort of mental giggle she thought: “If it’s Caley I’ve been kissed by a triple murderer and Rory can put that on his needles and knit it.”

  At this point Mrs Tretheway’s little bell that she rang for meal-times, tinkled incisively. Troy opened the door and heard Tillottson’s paddy voice and a general stir as of an arrival. While she listened, trying to interpret these sounds, the cabin door on her left opened and Mr Lazenby came out. He turned and stood on her threshold and they were face-to-face. Even as close to him as she was now Troy could make nothing of the eyes behind the dark glasses and this circumstance lent his face an obviously sinister look as if he were a character out of an early Hitchcock film.

  “You are better?” he asked. “I was about to inquire, I’m afraid you were very much upset and distressed. As indeed we all are. Oh, terribly distressed. Poor soul! Poor quaint, kindly soul! It’s hard to believe she’s gone.”

  “I don’t find it so,” Troy snapped.

  She saw his lips settle in a rather sharp line. There was a further subdued commotion somewhere on deck. Troy listened for a second. A new voice sounded and her heart began to thud against her ribs.

  “If a poor parson may make a suggestion, Mrs Alleyn,” Mr Lazenby said and seemed to peer at her. “I think perhaps you should leave the Zodiac. You have had a great shock. You look—” The bell rang again. He turned his head sharply and the spectacles moved. For a fraction of a second Troy caught a glimpse of the left eye-socket behind its dark window. There was no eye in it.

  And then she heard a very deep voice at the head of the companionway.

  Without thought or conscious effort she was past Mr Lazenby, out of the cabin, up the stairs and into her husband’s arms.

  -3-

  Of course it was an extraordinary situation. She could think: “how extraordinary” even while her delight in his return sang so loudly it was enough to deafen her to anything else.

  There had been some sort of explanation at large — introductions even — to whoever had been in the saloon followed by a retreat with Alleyn to her cabin. She remembered afterwards that they had encountered Mr Lazenby in the passage.

  Now they sat, side by side, on her bunk and she thought she could cope with Catastrophe itself.

  He put his arm round her and swore briefly but violently, asking her what the bloody hell she thought she was doing and giving her a number of hasty but well-planted embraces. This she found satisfactory. He then said they couldn’t sit down here on their bottoms all day and invited her to relate as quickly as possible anything she thought he ought to know.

  “I’ve heard your extraordinary spinster’s been found in the river and that you were the first to see her. Tillottson seems to think it’s a case of foul play. Otherwise I know nothing beyond what you wrote in your letters. Look at you. You’re as white as a sheet. Troy, my darling.”

  “It only happened a couple of hours ago, you might remember. Don’t fuss. Rory, there’s so much to tell and I’m meant to be upstairs being grilled with the others.”

  “To hell with that. No. Wait a bit. I think we must listen to Tillottson in action. I’ve thrown him into a fine old tizzy, anyway, by turning up. Tell me quickly, then: what’s happened since you posted your last letter at Tollardwark?”

  “All right. Listen.”

  She told him about the diary going overboard, the behaviour of Mr Lazenby, the disappearance of Hazel Rickerby-Carrick, her sense of growing tension and Miss Hewson’s discovery of the “Constable”.

  “There are a lot of other little things that seemed odd to me but those are the landmarks.”

  “We’ll have the whole saga in detail later on. You’ve put me far enough in the picture for the moment. Come on. Let’s give Tillottson a treat. I’ve arranged to sit in.”

  So they went upstairs. There were the other passengers in an uneasy row on the semi-circular bench at the end of the saloon: the Hewsons, Mr Pollock, Mr Lazenby, Caley Bard and, a little apart as always, Dr Natouche. The Tretheways were grouped together near the bar.

  Facing the passengers at a dining table were Superintendent Tillottson and a uniformed Sergeant.

  Troy sat by Dr Natouche who, with Caley Bard, rose at her approach. Alleyn stayed at the other end of the saloon. The Zodiac was tied up alongside the wapentake side of the river, below Ramsdyke Lock and the shapeless thunder of the weir could be distinctly heard. Scurries of detergent foam were blown past the open windows.

  It was easy to see that Mr Tillottson suffered from a deep embarrassment. He looked at Troy and cleared his throat, he turned and nodded portentously to Alleyn. His neck turned red and he pursed up his lips to show that the situation was child’s play to him.

  “Yerse, well now,”
Mr Tillottson said. “I think if you don’t mind, ladies and gentlemen, we’ll just have a wee re-cap. I’ll go over the information we have produced about this unfortunate lady and I’ll be obliged if you’ll correct me if I go wrong.”

  The Sergeant pushed his book across. Mr Tillottson put on a pair of spectacles and began to summarise, consulting the notes from time to time.

  It was very soon clear to Troy that he refreshed his memory, not only from the Sergeant’s notes on what the passengers had divulged but also from the information she had given him on her three visits to police stations. Particularly was this apparent when he outlined the circumstances of Hazel Rickerby-Carrick’s disappearance. Troy sensed her companions’ surprise at Mr Tillottson’s omniscience. How, they must surely be asking themselves, had he found time to make so many inquiries? Or would they merely put it all down to the expeditious methods of our county police?

  She glanced quickly at Alleyn and saw one eyebrow go up.

  Mr Tillottson himself evidently realised his mistake. His résumé became a trifle scrambled and ended abruptly.

  “Well now,” he said. “Ladies and gentlemen, since we are all agreed that as far as they go, these are the facts, I won’t trouble you any more just now except to say that I hope you will all complete your cruise as planned. The craft will proceed shortly to a mooring above Ramsdyke Lock where she will tie up for the night and she will return to Norminster at about eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to remain within reach for the inquest which will probably be held the following day. In Norminster. If there is any trouble about securing accommodation, my department will be glad to assist.”

  Upon this the Hewsons broke into vehement expostulation, complaining that they were on a tight schedule and were due next evening, to make a connection for Perth, Scotland.

  Caley Bard said that with any luck they might meet up with Mavis and everybody but Troy and Dr Natouche looked shocked. Miss Hewson said if that was a specimen of British humour she did not, for her part, appreciate it and Mr Hewson said he did not find himself in stitches either.

  Mr Lazenby asked if — since all their accounts of the affair agreed — it would not be acceptable for them to be represented at the inquest by (as it were) a spokesman and it was clear that he did not cast himself for this role. He had important appointments with ecclesiastical big-wigs in London and was loath to forgo them. He developed antipodean-type resentment and began to speak of the reactionary conduct of pom policemen. He said: “Good on you,” to the Hewsons and formed an alliance.

  Caley Bard said it was an unconscionable bore but one didn’t, after all, fish corpses out of the waterways every day of the week and he would resign himself to the ruling. He grew less popular with every word he uttered.

  Mr Pollock whined. He wanted to know why they couldn’t sign a joint statement, for God’s sake, and then bugger off if the ladies would excuse the expression.

  Everybody except Caley Bard, Troy and Alleyn looked scandalised and Mr Lazenby expostulated.

  Dr Natouche asked if, since his practice was within reasonable driving distance of Norminster, he might be summoned from thence. He realised, of course, that as he had made the preliminary examination he would be required to give evidence under that heading.

  Mr Tillottson glanced at Alleyn and then said he thought that would be quite in order.

  He now asked to see the passports of Mr Lazenby and the Hewsons and they were produced, Mr Lazenby taking the opportunity to complain about the treatment of Australian visitors at British Customs. Mr Tillottson said the passports would be returned and shifted his feet about as a preface to rising.

  It was now that Mr Lazenby suddenly said: “I’m puzzled.” And Troy thought “Here we go.”

  “I’d like to ask,” he said, and he seemed to be looking at her, “just how the police have come by some of their information. When did the Superintendent find the opportunity to make the necessary inquiries? To the best of my belief, from the time he got here until this present moment, the Superintendent has been on the river or here in this boat. If you don’t object, Superintendent, I think this calls for an explanation. Just to keep the record straight.”

  “Blimey, chum, you’re right!” Mr Pollock exclaimed and the Hewsons broke into a little paean of agreement. They all stared at Troy.

  Mr Tillottson made an almost instant recovery. He looked straight before him and said that he happened to receive information about Miss Rickerby-Carrick’s mode of departure and had thought it unusual enough to warrant a routine inquiry.

  And from whom, if the Superintendent didn’t mind, Mr Lazenby persisted, had he received this information.

  Troy heard herself, as if it were with somebody else’s voice, saying: “It was from me. I think you all know I called at the police station at Tollardwark. I happened in the course of conversation to say something about Miss Rickerby-Carrick’s unexpected departure.”

  “Quite so,” said Mr Tillottson. “That is correct.”

  “And I imagine,” Caley Bard said angrily, “you have no objections to that perfectly reasonable explanation, Mr Lazenby.”

  “Certainly not. By no means. One only wanted to know.”

  “And now one does know one may as well pipe down.”

  “There’s no call to take that tone,” Mr Pollock said. “We didn’t mean anything personal.”

  “Then what the hell did you mean?”

  “Gentlemen!” Mr Tillottson almost shouted and they subsided. “A statement,” he said, “will be typed on the lines of your information. You will be asked to look it over and if you find it correct, to sign it. I have only one other remark to make, ladies and gentlemen. As you have already been informed, we have Superintendent Alleyn, CID, with us. Mr Alleyn came, you might say, on unofficial business.” Here Mr Tillottson ducked his head at Troy, “but I don’t have to tell him we’ll be very glad of his advice in a matter which I’m sure everybody wants to see cleared up to the satisfaction of all concerned. Thank you.”

  Having wound himself into a cocoon of generalities Mr Tillottson added that as the afternoon was rather close he was sure they would all like a breath of air. Upon this hint the passengers retired above. Troy after a look from Alleyn went with them. She noticed that Dr Natouche remained below.

  It seemed to her that the Hewsons and Mr Lazenby and Mr Pollock were in two minds as to what attitude they would adopt towards her. After a short and uncomfortable silence, Mr Lazenby settled this problem by bearing down upon her with his widest smile.

  “Happy now, Mrs Alleyn?” he fluted. “I’ll bet! And I must say, without, I hope, being uncharitable, we all ought to congratulate ourselves on your husband’s arrival. Really,” Mr Lazenby said, looking—or seeming to look—about him, “it would almost seem that he was Sent.”

  It was from this moment, that Troy began to suspect Mr Lazenby, in spite of the Bishop of Norminster, of not being a clergyman.

  He had sparked off a popularity poll in favour of Troy. Miss Hewson said that maybe she wasn’t qualified to speak but she certainly did not know what was with this cop and for her money the sooner Alleyn set up a regular investigation the better she’d feel and Mr Pollock hurriedly agreed.

  Caley Bard watched this demonstration with a scarcely veiled expression of glee. He strolled over to Troy and said: “We don’t know yet, though, or do we, if the celebrated husband is going to act.”

  “I’m sure I don’t,” she said. “They have to be asked. They don’t just waltz in because they happen to be on the spot.”

  “I suppose you’re enchanted to see him.”

  “Of course I am.”

  “That monumental creature seemed to indicate a collaboration, didn’t you think?”

  “Well, yes. But it’d all be by arrangement with head office.”

  “Hallo,” he said, “we’re going through the lock.”

  “Thank God!” Troy ejaculated. It would be something—it would be a great dea
l—to get out of that region of polluted foam. Troy had been unable to look at The River since she came on deck.

  They slipped into the clear dark waters, the sluice-gates were shut, the paddles set, and the familiar slow ascent began. She moved to the after-end of the Zodiac and Caley Bard joined her there.

  “I don’t know if it has occurred to you,” he said, “that everybody is cutting dead, the obvious inference.”

  “Inference?”

  “Well — question if you prefer. Aren’t we all asking ourselves whether the ebullient Hay has been made away with?”

  After a pause, Troy said: “I suppose so.”

  “Well, of course we are. We’d be certifiable if we didn’t. Do you mind talking about it?”

  “I think it’s worse not to do so.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. Have you heard what they found?”

  “In The River?”

  “Yes.”

  “I did hear a good deal. In my cabin.”

  “I was on deck. I saw.”

  “How horrible,” said Troy.

  But she was not as deeply horrified as she might have been because her attention was riveted by a pair of large, neat and highly polished boots and decent iron-grey trousers on the rim of the lock above her. They looked familiar. She tilted her head back and was rewarded by a worm’s-eye view in violent perspective of the edge of a jacket, the modest swell of a stomach, the underneath of a massive chin, a pair of nostrils and the brim of a hat.

  As the Zodiac quietly rose in the lock, these items resolved themselves into an unmistakable whole.

  “Well,” Troy thought, “this settles it. It’s a case,” and when she found herself sufficiently elevated to do so without absurd contortion, she addressed herself to the person now revealed.

  “Hallo, Br’er Fox,” she said.

  -4-

  “What was said,” Fox explained, “was this. Tillottson’s asked for us to come in. He rang the Department on finding the body. The A.C. said that as you’ve been in on this Jampot thing from the time it came our way, the only sensible course is for you to follow it up. Regardless, as it were. And I’ve been shot up here by plane to act as your support and to let you know how things stand on my file. Which is a nice way of saying how big a bloody fool I’ve been made to look by this expert.”