by Ngaio Marsh
‘Out of my own office, I’d have you remember. To kick my heels on the landing.’
Alleyn broke into laughter. ‘You have me there,’ he said. ‘Never mind. It’s better, believe me, than kicking them in a waiting-room at the Yard. But all right, we’ll have another go. What can you tell me, if your stomach is equal to it, of the background of the other members of your company?’ Alleyn raised a hand. ‘I know you have a loyalty to them and I’m not asking you to abuse it. I do remind you, Jay, that suspicion about this crime will fall inside your guild, your mystery, if I may put it like that, and that there’s going to be a great deal of talk and speculation. With the exception of yourself and Miss Dunne and Miss Meade, whose alibis seem to us to be satisfactory and possibly Harry Grove, there isn’t one of the company, and I’m including Winter Morris and Jeremy Jones, who absolutely could not have killed Jobbins and attacked the boy.’
‘I can’t see how you make it out. They were all, except Trevor, seen to leave. I saw them go. The doors were locked and bolted and barred.’
‘The stage-door was locked but not bolted and barred. Hawkins unlocked it with his own key. The small pass-door in the front was unlocked when Miss Bracey left and was not bolted and barred until after Morris and Knight left. They heard Jobbins drop the bar.’
‘That cuts them out, then, surely.’
‘Look,’ Alleyn said. ‘Put this situation to yourself and see how you like it. Jobbins is still alive. Somebody knocks on the pass-door in the front entrance. He goes down. A recognized voice asks him to open up – an actor has left his money in his dressing-room or some such story. Jobbins lets him in. The visitor goes backstage saying he’ll let himself out at the stage-door. Jobbins takes up his post. At midnight he does his routine telephoning and the sequel follows.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘God bless my soul, my dear chap, for a brilliant playwright you’ve a quaint approach to logic. I don’t know it. I merely advance it as a way in which your lock-up theory could be made to vanish. There is at least one other, even simpler solution which is probably the true one. The only point I’m trying to make is this. If you clamp down on telling me anything at all about any member of your company you may be very fastidious and loyal and you may be protecting the actual butcher but you’re not exactly helping to clear the other six – seven if you count Conducis.’
Peregrine thought it over. ‘I think,’ he said at last, ‘that’s probably a lot of sophistical hooey but I get your point. But I ought to warn you, you’ve picked a dud for the job. I’ve got a notoriously bad memory. There are things,’ Peregrine said slowly, ‘at the back of my mind that have been worrying me ever since this catastrophe fell upon us. Do you think I can fetch them up? Not I.’
‘What do you connect them with?’
‘With noises made by Trevor, I think. And then, with Conducis. With the morning when he showed me the treasure. But of course then I was drunk so I’m unreliable in any case. However: tell me what you want to know and I’ll see about answering.’
‘Too kind,’ said Alleyn dryly. ‘Start with – anyone you like. Marcus Knight. What’s his background apart from the Press handouts? I know all about his old man’s stationer’s shop in West Ham and how he rose to fame. Is it true he’s temperamental?’
Peregrine looked relieved. ‘If it’s only that sort of thing! He’s hell and well-known for it but he’s such a superb actor we all do our best to lump the temperament. He’s a jolly nice man really, I daresay, and collects stamps but he can’t take the lightest criticism without going up like a rocket. An unfavourable notice is death to him and he’s as vain as a peacock. But people say he’s a sweetie at bottom even if it’s a fair way to bottom.’
Alleyn had strolled over to a display of photographs on the far wall: all the members of the cast in character with their signatures appended. Marcus Knight had been treated to a montage with his own image startlingly echoed by the ‘Grafton Portrait’ and the Droushout engraving. Peregrine joined him.
‘Extraordinary,’ Alleyn said. ‘The likeness. What a piece of luck!’ He turned to Peregrine and found him staring, not at the picture but at the signature.
‘Bold!’ Alleyn said dryly.
‘Yes. But it’s not that. There’s something about it. Damn! I thought so before. Something I’ve forgotten.’
‘You may yet remember. Leave it. Tell me: is the sort of ribbing Knight got from Grove just now their usual form? All the King Dolphin nonsense?’
‘Pretty much. It goes on.’
‘If he’s as touchy as you say, why on earth hasn’t Knight shaken the Dolphin dust off his boots? Why does he stand it for one second?’
‘I think,’ Peregrine said with great simplicity, ‘he likes his part. I think that might be it.’
‘My dear Jay, I really do apologize: Of course he does. It’s no doubt the best role, outside Shakespeare, that he’ll ever play.’
‘Do you think so? Really?’
‘Indeed I do.’
Peregrine suddenly looked deeply happy. ‘Now, of course,’ he said, ‘I’m completely wooed.’
‘What can it matter what I think! You must know how good your play is.’
‘Yes, but I like to be told. From which,’ Peregrine said, ‘you may gather that I have a temperamental link with Marco Knight.’
‘Were he and Destiny Meade lovers?’
‘Oh yes. Going steady, it seemed, until Harry chucked poor Gertie and came rollicking in. We thought the casting was going to work out very cosily with Dessy and Marco as happy as Larry on the one hand and Gertie and Harry nicely fixed on the other. Maddening, this dodging round in a company. It always makes trouble. And with Marco’s capacity to cut up plug-ugly at the drop of a hat – anything might happen. We can only keep our fingers crossed.’
‘Miss Meade is – she’s – I imagine, not an intellectual type.’
‘She’s so stupid,’ Peregrine said thoughtfully. ‘But so, so stupid it’s a kind of miracle. Darling Dessy. And yet,’ he added, ‘there’s an element of cunning too. Certainly, there’s an element of cunning.’
‘What a problem for her director, in such a subtle role!’
‘Not really. You just say: “Darling, you’re sad. You’re heartbroken. You can’t bear it” and up come the welling tears. Or: “Darling, you’ve been clever, don’t you see, you’ve been one too many for them” and she turns as shrewd as a marmoset. Or, simplest of all: “Darling, you’re sending him in a big way,” and as she never does anything else it works like a charm. She does the things: the audience thinks them.’
‘Temperamental?’
‘Only for form’s sake when she fancies it’s about time she showed up. She’s quite good-natured.’
‘Did she slap Knight back smartly or gradually?’
‘Gradually. You could see it coming at rehearsals. In their love scenes. She began looking at her fingernails over his shoulder and pulling bits of mascara off her eyelashes: And then she took to saying could they just walk it because she was rethinking her approach. She talks like that but of course she never had an approach. Only an instinct backed up by superb techniques and great dollops of star quality.’
‘She divorced her second husband, I believe, and lives alone?’
‘Well – Yes. Officially.’
‘Anything else about her?’
‘She’s a terrific gambler, is Dessy. On the share-market, with the bookies and everything on the side that offers. That’s really what broke up the second marriage. He couldn’t do with all the rouletteparty and poker-dice carry-on.’
‘Is she a successful gambler?’
‘I daresay she herself scarcely knows, so vague are her ways.’
‘And Miss Bracey?’
‘That’s a very different story. I don’t know anything about Gertie’s background but she really does bear out the Woman Scorned crack. She’s – she’s not all that charitably disposed at any time, perhaps, and this thing’s stirred her up l
ike a wasp’s nest. She and Marco exhibit the heads-and-tails of despised love. Marco is a sort of walking example of outraged vanity and incredulous mortification. He can’t believe it and yet there it is. Rather touchingly, I think, he doesn’t until today seem to have taken against Dessy. But I’ve trembled lest he should suddenly rear back and have a wallop at Harry.’
‘Hit him?’
‘Yes. Bang-bang. Whereas, Gertie doesn’t vent all she’s got on her rival but hisses and stings away at the faithless one.’
‘And so Miss Meade is let off lightly at both ends and Grove is the object of a dual resentment?’
‘And that’s throwing roses at it,’ said Peregrine.
‘Knight and Miss Bracey have a real, solid hatred for him? Is that putting it too high?’
‘No, it’s not but – ‘Peregrine said quickly: ‘What is all this? What’s it matter how Marco and Gertie feel about Harry?’
‘Nothing at all, I daresay. What about Random? Any comment on character?’
‘Charlie? No trouble to anyone. Not, as you may have discerned, a hundred per cent he-man, but what of that? He doesn’t bring it into the theatre. It was quite all right to let him dress with the boy, for instance.’
‘Hobbies?’
‘Well, as you’ve heard: Ximenes-class crosswords. Ciphers. And old manuscripts. He’s quite an antiquarian, I’m told, is Charles. Jer says he’s one of those characters who possess an infallible nose for a rare item. He spends half his time among the sixpenny and shilling bins in Long Acre and the Charing Cross Road. Good, conscientious actor. Minor public school and drama academy.’
‘Did all the members of the company know each other before this production?’
‘Oh, yes. Except Emily. She’s at the beginning,’ Peregrine said tenderly, ‘and doesn’t know many people in the West End yet.’
‘Tell me, are you familiar with Harry Grove’s overcoats?’
‘I caught sight of him going away the other night wearing a contraption that screamed its way up the lane like a fire-engine and heard a lot of carry-on about it among the company.’
‘What was it?’
‘I wasn’t close enough to – ‘ Peregrine’s voice faded. He gaped at Alleyn. ‘Oh no!’ he said. ‘It can’t be. It’s not possible.’
‘What?’
‘On – on Henry Jobbins?’
‘Grove gave his overcoat to Jobbins on Friday evening. He said nobody seemed to like it. Didn’t you know?’
Peregrine shook his head.
‘I can’t imagine,’ he said slowly, ‘I simply can not imagine why I didn’t recognize it on poor Jobbins. I actually cracked a joke about it and he said it was a present.’
‘Perhaps the scarf made a difference.’
‘Scarf? I don’t think he had a scarf on?’
‘Did he not? A bright yellow scarf?’
‘Wait. Yes,’ said Peregrine, looking sick, ‘of course. I – I remember. Afterwards.’
‘But not before? When you spoke to him?’
‘I don’t remember it then. It wasn’t showing.’
‘Please say nothing about the overcoat, Jay. It’s of the first importance that you don’t. Not even,’ Alleyn said with a friendly air, ‘to your Emily.’
‘Very well. May I know why it matters so much?’ Alleyn told him.
‘Yes, I see. But it won’t really get you much further, will it?’
‘If nobody knows of the transfer – ’
‘Yes, of course. Stupid of me.’
‘And that really is all. I’m sorry to have kept you such an unconscionable time.’
Peregrine went to the door, hesitated and turned back.
‘I’ll do my best,’ he said, ‘to write down my Conduciae or should it be Conducii?’
‘Or Conduciosis? Never mind. I’m glad you’ve decided to help. Thank you. Could you let me have it as soon as it’s ready?’
‘Yes. All right. Where will you be?’
‘Here for another hour I should think. And then wherever developments send me. We’ll leave a PC on duty in the theatre. If I’ve gone he’ll take a message. Do you really mind doing this?’
‘No. Not if it’s remotely useful.’
‘There now!’ said Alleyn. ‘Goodbye for the moment, then. On your way out, would you ask Mr Knight to come in?’
‘Certainly. It’s half past twelve,’ Peregrine said. ‘He’ll have got a bit restive, I daresay.’
‘Will he indeed?’ said Alleyn. ‘Send him in.’
CHAPTER 9
Knight Rampant
Marcus Knight was not so much restive as portentous. He had the air of a man who is making enormous concessions. When Alleyn apologized for keeping him waiting so long, he waved his hand as if to say: ‘Think no more of it. Nevertheless – ’
‘One can’t tell,’ Alleyn said, ‘in our job, how long any given interview will last.’
‘It didn’t escape my notice,’ Knight said, ‘that you were honoured with an earlier visit.’
‘From Hartly Grove? Yes. He had,’ Alleyn said, ‘thought of something.’
‘He thinks of a number of things, most of them highly offensive.’
‘Really? This was quite harmless. I wonder if you’ve noticed his overcoat.’
Mr Knight had noticed Mr Grove’s overcoat and said so briefly and with immeasurable distaste. ‘One is not surprised however,’ he said. ‘One recognizes the form. It is entirely consistent. My God, what a garment! How he dares!’
It became evident that he did not know that the coat had been given to Jobbins.
Alleyn briefly re-checked Knight’s movements. He had driven his Jaguar from the theatre to his house in Montpelier Square where he was given supper as usual by the Italian couple who looked after him. He thought it was probably about ten past eleven when he got in. He did not go out again but could not absolutely prove it.
Extreme, wholly male beauty is not a commonplace phenomenon. Marcus Knight possessed it to a generous degree. His oval face, with its subtly turned planes, his delicate nose, slightly tilted eyes and glossy hair might have been dreamed up by an artist of the Renaissance or indeed by the unknown painter of that unknown man whom many observers call the Grafton Shakespeare. He had the bodily harmony that declares itself through its covering and he moved like a panther. How old was he? Middle thirties? Younger? Forty, perhaps? It didn’t matter.
Alleyn led him cautiously by way of his own exquisite performance to the work of his fellow players. He uncovered a completely egotistic but shrewd appreciation of the play and a raw patch of professional jealousy when the work of his associates, particularly of Harry Grove, came into question. Grove’s Mr W. H., it seemed, was not a true reading. It was showy. It was vulgar. It was even rather camp, said Marcus Knight.
Alleyn spoke of the theft of the glove and documents. Knight rejoiced that they had been recovered. He gazed with passionate concern at Alleyn. Was it certain they were uninjured? Was it quite, quite certain? Alleyn said it was and began to talk of their unequalled worth. Knight nodded several times very slowly in that larger-than life manner that Alleyn associated with persons of his profession. It was more like a series of bows.
‘Unique,’ he said, on two mellifluous notes. ‘U-nique!’
Alleyn wondered what he would say if he knew of Jeremy’s substitution.
‘Well,’ he said lightly. ‘At least Mr Conducis and the American purchaser can breathe again. I can’t help wondering who she may be.’
‘She?’
‘Now, why did I say “she”?’ Alleyn ejaculated. ‘I suppose I must have been thinking of Mrs Constantia Guzman?’
It was formidable to see how rapidly, with what virtuosity, Knight changed colour from deepest plum to parchment and back again. He drew his brows together. He retracted his upper lip. It crossed Alleyn’s mind that it was a pity the role of William Shakespeare didn’t offer an opportunity for a display of these physical demonstrations of fury.
‘What,’ he asked, rising
and looming over Alleyn, ‘has that person – Grove – said to you? I demand an answer. What has he said?’
‘About Mrs Constantia Guzman, do you mean? Nothing. Why?’
‘You lie!’
‘I don’t, you know,’ Alleyn said composedly. ‘Grove didn’t mention her to me. Really. She’s an extremely well-known collector. What’s the matter?’
Knight glowered at him in silence for some time. Fox cleared his throat.
‘Do you swear,’ Knight began in the lowest register of his voice, building up a crescendo as he went on. ‘Do you swear the name of Guzman has not – ah – has not been – ah – mentioned to you in connection with My Own. Here in this room. Today. Do you swear to this? Hah?’
‘No, I don’t do that, either. It has.’
‘All!’ he bellowed suddenly. ‘The whole pack of them! He’s lunched and bloody dined on it. Don’t attempt to contradict me. He’s betrayed a deeply, deeply regretted confidence. A moment of weakness. On my part. Before I knew him for what he is: a false, false man.’ He pointed at Alleyn. ‘Has he – has he told – her, Miss Meade? Destiny? You need not answer. I see it in your face. He has.’
‘I’ve not spoken with Miss Meade,’ Alleyn said.
‘They’ve laughed together,’ he roared. ‘At Me!’
‘Perfectly maddening for you if they have,’ Alleyn said, ‘but, if you’ll forgive me, it isn’t as far as I know, entirely relevant to the business under discussion.’
‘Yes, it is,’ Knight passionately contradicted, ‘by God it is and I’ll tell you why. I’ve put a restraint upon myself. I have not allowed myself to speak about this man. I have been scrupulous lest I should be thought biased. But now – now! I tell you this and I speak from absolute conviction: if as you hold, that appalling boy is not guilty and recovers his wits and if he was attacked by the man who killed Jobbins and if he remembers who attacked him, it will be at W. Hartly Grove he points his finger. Now!’
Alleyn, who had seen this pronouncement blowing up for the past five minutes, allowed himself as many seconds in which to be dumbfounded and then asked Marcus if he had any reasons, other, he hastily added, than those already adduced, for making this statement about Harry Grove. Nothing very specific emerged. There were dark and vague allusions to reputation and an ambiguous past. As his temper abated, and it did seem to abate gradually, Knight appeared to lose the fine edge of his argument. He talked of Trevor Vere and said he couldn’t understand why Alleyn dismissed the possibility of his having been caught out by Jobbins, overturned the dolphin and then run so fast down the circle aisle that he couldn’t prevent himself diving over the balustrade. Alleyn once again advanced the logical arguments against this theory.
