Surfeit of Lampreys

by Ngaio Marsh

  “No,” said Fox. And perhaps with some idea of softening this shortest of all rejoinders he added: “It’s not for the want of trying. Seeing the average person’s knowledge of the department is based on these tales I thought I’d have a go at them. I don’t say they’re not very smart. Something happening on every page to make you think different from what you thought the one before, and the routine got over in the gaps between the chapters. In two of the ones I tried, the investigating officers let the case run for a couple more murders and listened in to the fourth attempt in order to hear the murderer tell the victim how the first three were done. Then they walked in and copped him just before the cosh. Well, you don’t do that sort of thing in the department. There’d be questions asked. I don’t say it’s not clever but it’s fanciful.”

  “A little, perhaps.”

  “The truth is,” said Fox gravely, “homicidal cases are not what people would like them to be. How often do we get a murder with a row of suspects, each with motive and opportunity?”

  “Not often, thank the lord, but it has happened.”

  “Well, yes. But motives aren’t all of equal weight. You don’t have much trouble in getting at the prime motive.”

  “No.”

  “No. Mostly there’s one suspect and our problem is to nail the job on him.”

  “What about this case?”

  “Well, sir. I’ll give you there’s two motives. First, money. In which case either one of the family or one of the servants did the job. Second: insane hatred. In which case it’s her ladyship we’re after. That’s on the face of it; never mind what we’ve found out since we came in on the job. Something else may crop up but if so I’ll be surprised if it doesn’t fit in with one or the other motive. Do you know if he’s left anything to the servants, sir?”

  “I’ll try and get it out of Mr. Rattisbon. I don’t suppose he’ll object to telling me. None of them gives a tuppenny damn about the servants. Except Lady Wutherwood. She’d find Tinkerton hard to replace.”

  “Maybe,” said Fox, “she won’t be wanting a maid.”

  Mr. Rattisbon came mumbling in with his chin poked forward and his leather case under his arm. He was a family solicitor who reeked of his trade. A story was told of him that on emerging from his chambers one summer evening he was accosted by a famous film producer who walked halfway along the Strand with him, imploring him to play the part of a family solicitor in his new picture. Mr. Rattisbon’s refusals were so gloriously in character that each titupping, pernickety refusal stung the producer into making a fresh financial assault until, so the story said, Mr. Rattisbon threatened him shrilly with the Municipal Corporation Act of 1822 and looked about him for a constable.

  When he saw Alleyn he hurried across the room, shook hands, snatched his claw away, looked sharply from Alleyn to Fox, and finally took a chair. He then formed his mouth into a tight circle and vibrated the tip of his tongue rather as if he had taken a sip of scalding liquid.

  “We are very grateful to you for coming, sir,” said Alleyn.

  “Not at all, not at all,” gabbled Mr. Rattisbon. “Shocking affair. Dreadful.”

  “Appalling.”

  Mr. Rattisbon repeated the word with great emphasis: “A-PALL-ing” and waited for Alleyn to make the first move. Alleyn decided that his only hope lay in direct attack. He said: “I expect you know why we have asked to see you, sir.”

  “Frankly,” said Rattisbon, “no.”

  “For the usual reason, I’m afraid. We hope you will tell us something about the late Lord Wutherwood’s estate.” Mr. Rattisbon’s tongue vibrated rapidly in preparation for utterance and Alleyn hurried on. “We realize, of course, that you are in a—how shall I put it—a confidential position: a position that might become delicate if we began to press in certain definite directions. But in what we still trustfully call the interests of justice—”

  “In those interests, Chief Inspector,” Mr. Rattisbon cut in neatly, “I have a duty to my client.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I have, as you know, this morning had an interview with the present Lord Wutherwood. I may tell you that at the inquest I shall watch proceedings on his behalf. I think I may, with propriety, add that my client is naturally most anxious to give the police every assistance that lies in his power. He desires above all things that his brother’s assailant shall be brought to justice. You will appreciate, however, that as regards any information prejudicial to my client (should such information exist which I by no means suggest), my own attitude is—most clearly defined.”

  Alleyn had expected nothing better and he said: “And as Lady Wutherwood’s solicitor—”

  “The present Lady Wutherwood?”

  “The Dowager Lady Wutherwood, sir.”

  “Mm—a—a—ah,” said Rattisbon with a formidable and sheeplike cry. “I am not the Dowager Lady Wutherwood’s solicitor, Chief Inspector.”

  “No, sir?”

  “No. I understand that she has in the past consulted solicitors. I have this information from a reliable source. I think I may tell you that I understand her solicitors to be Messrs. Hungerford, Hungerford and Butterworth.”

  “Thank you,” said Alleyn, making a note of it. “Then, sir, our position is not so delicate as I supposed.” He paused, wishing heartily that Mr. Rattisbon’s conversational style was less infectious. “Perhaps,” he said, “you won’t mind telling me how Lord Wutherwood’s widow is affected by the will.”

  “I anticipated this question. I may say I have considered it closely and—in short, Chief Inspector, I have decided that there are certain details of the will with which I may acquaint you.” With his entire person Mr. Rattisbon effected a kind of burrowing movement which, in a less emaciated person, would have suggested he was settling down to a square meal. “The Dowager Lady Wutherwood,” he said rapidly, “by her marriage settlement becomes possessed of a very considerable fortune. Apart from this actual fortune she inherits a life interest in the Dower House of Deepacres St. Jude, Deepacres, Kent, and a Manor House near Bognor Regis.”

  “She will be a very wealthy woman, then?”

  “Very wealthy?” repeated Mr. Rattisbon as if the expression was altogether too loose and unprofessional. “Ah—you may say she will be possessed of a very considerable, I may say a very handsome, inheritance. Yes.”

  “Yes.” Alleyn knew very well that it was no good trying any approach to the Lamprey side of the picture. Better, he thought, to make what he could of Mr. Rattisbon’s “unprejudiced” information. He said: “I believe I may be quite frank about Lady Wutherwood. Her behaviour since the catastrophe has been, to put it mildly, eccentric. From what I’ve been able to learn from the others, one cannot put her eccentricity to shock. It’s an old story. You’ll understand, sir, that in the course of routine we are concerned with the relationship between Lord Wutherwood and his wife. Now, do you feel inclined to tell me anything about it?”

  Mr. Rattisbon executed several small snatching gestures which resulted in the appearance of a pair of pince-nez. These he waved at Alleyn. “Under less extraordinary circumstances…” he began, and Alleyn listened to an exposition of Mr. Rattisbon’s professional reticence under less extraordinary circumstances. Gradually, however, small flakes of information were wafted through the dry wind of his discourse. It appeared that Mr. Rattisbon knew a good deal about Lady Wutherwood. Alleyn learnt that she was the daughter of a Hungarian minor official and a Russian cabaret artiste, that her maiden name was Glapeera Zadody. He learnt that, from the beginning, the marriage had been disastrous and that at one time Lord Wutherwood had seriously considered the advantages of divorce. Mr. Rattisbon had been consulted. The question of insanity had been discussed. All this, though it was something, was not much, and Alleyn perceived that Mr. Rattisbon hovered on the brink of more daring disclosures. At last, after a series of sheeplike cries and strange grimaces, Mr. Rattisbon told his secret.

  “It occurs to me,” he said, for all the world a
s if he were some stray Dickensian character embarking on a tale within a tale, “It occurs to me that a certain incident, which, though I dismissed it as childish when I was made aware of it, should be brought to your attention. No longer ago than February last, the late Lord Wutherwood called upon me at my rooms. He appeared to be in an unusual state of agitation. I may say that I was quite startled by his manner which I can only describe as furtive and uneasy. It was some time before I got from him the object of his visit, but at last it appeared that he wished to know if he could take legal measures to protect himself from menaces to his person threatened by his wife. I pressed him for closer information and he gave it me. I may say that his story seemed to me ridiculous and, if it pointed to anything, merely furnished us with additional proof of his wife’s mental condition.”

  Mr. Rattisbon cleared his throat, darted an uncomfortable glance at Alleyn, waved his pince-nez and gabbled rapidly. “He informed me of a discovery. He had found in a drawer of Lady Wutherwood’s dressing-table—maa—a—ah—evidence, or so he assured me, of an attempt upon her part to—ah—to ah perform upon him by some supernatural agency.”

  Alleyn uttered a stifled ejaculation.

  “You may well say so,” said Mr. Rattisbon. “Fantastic! I questioned him rather closely, but he would give me no sort of evidence to support his story though he hinted at definite and concrete proof. He became quite hysterical and was utterly unlike himself. I—really I found myself at a loss how to deal with him. I pointed out that anything in the nature of legal protection was out of the question. He actually replied that the laws against witchcraft should not have been repealed. I suggested an alienist. He raised the extraordinary objection that if Lady Wutherwood were placed in confinement she would still find some means of harming him. I should add that while he was obviously in a state little removed from terror, he also professed to ridicule the idea of danger. His manner was extraordinary and illogical. He contradicted himself repeatedly and became more and more agitated. I could do little to reassure him. He displayed irritation and hostility. When he finally left me he turned in the doorway and—and—ah—”

  Mr. Rattisbon vibrated his tongue and sucked in his breath. “Lord Wutherwood,” he said, “made this final statement. He said: ‘You mark my words. If somebody doesn’t do something to stop her she’ll get me yet!’ ”

  “Oh, hell!” said Alleyn.

  “Well, now,” said Mr. Rattisbon after a long silence, “you may dismiss this incident, Chief Inspector, as absurd and irrelevant. I assure you that I deliberated at some length whether I should acquaint you with it.”

  “I’m very glad you decided to tell me about it. What did he do with this concrete proof of her activities, whatever it may have been?”

  “He locked it away in some hiding place of his own. It appeared that for some superstitious reason, which I don’t pretend to understand, he was unwilling to destroy it, though he refused to tell me what it was.”

  “Had he ever discussed the affair with his wife, do you know? Taxed her with it?”

  “Never. I asked the same question. Never.”

  “No. No, I suppose he wouldn’t. Well, it’s a strange story.”

  “Is it a significant story?”

  “It fits into the pattern, I think.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Rattisbon who knew Alleyn. “The pattern. Your pet theory, Chief Inspector.”

  “Yes, sir, my pet theory. I hope you may provide me with another lozenge in the pattern. Did he leave any large sums to his servants?”

  “He made the customary bequests of a man in his position. One hundred pounds to each servant who had been in his employment for five years or more. In the cases of old family servants the legacies were in some cases considerable.”

  “What about the two servants who were with them yesterday? William Giggle and Grace Tinkerton.”

  “William Stanley Giggle,” said Mr. Rattisbon, “is the son of Lord Wutherwood’s late coachman and the grandson of his father’s coachman. He receives a more substantial inheritance in the form of an invested sum that should produce three hundred pounds per annum together with a small freehold property—a cottage and some three acres of land on the outskirts of the village of Deepacres.”

  “Is this a recent bequest?”

  “No, no. Lord Wutherwood has made several wills and many alterations but this bequest appears in the earliest of them. I understand that it was done at the request of Lord Wutherwood’s father.”

  “And Tinkerton?”

  “Is that Lady Wutherwood’s personal maid?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing.”

  Alleyn grimaced and dropped his pencil on the desk before him.

  “Isn’t it strange under the circumstances that Lady Wutherwood receives so much?”

  “She would have received a great deal less,” said Mr. Rattisbon, “if the late Lord Wutherwood had lived until noon today.” And with some appearance of relishing the effect of this statement he added: “I was to wait upon the late Lord Wutherwood this morning with the purpose of obtaining his signature to a will. By that will Lady Wutherwood received the minimum which the law insists and not one penny-piece more.”

  Giggle’s arrival coincided with Mr. Rattisbon’s departure. He was brought in by Mr. Fox. The stolid indifference of the previous night had deserted him. He was very pale and seemed to make no attempt to conceal his obvious alarm. Evidently, thought Alleyn, his morning’s interview with Fox had shaken him. He stood to attention turning his chauffeur’s cap around in his hands, and staring with signs of the liveliest distrust at Mr. Fox.

  “Now then, Giggle,” Alleyn said, “there’s no need to worry, you know, if you’ve given us a straight-forward account of yourself.”

  “I have so, sir. I’ve told the truth, sir, so help me. I wasn’t there, sir, honest I wasn’t. Master Michael will bear me out, sir. He saw me go downstairs, and they say they heard his lordship sing out after I’d gone, sir.”

  “All right. We only want the facts, you know. If you’ve given us the facts you’ve nothing to worry about.”

  “If I might ask, sir, has Master Michael spoken for me?”

  “Yes, he has. He says he saw you go down.”

  Giggle wiped his hand across his mouth. “Thank God, I beg your pardon, sir, but young gentlemen of his age don’t always notice much, and I’ve been that worried.”

  “We’ve asked you to come here this morning,” Alleyn said, “to see if you can give us any further information.”

  “I will if I can, sir, but I don’t know a thing. I’ve got nothing to do with it. I never wished his lordship dead. His lordship always treated me fair enough.”

  “Even to the extent of leaving you a nice little property, I understand.”

  Giggle burst into a clumsy tirade of self-defence. It was not his doing, he cried, that his lordship had favoured him. “It was along of what my dad did for his lordship’s father. I never asked for anything nor never expected it. You can’t pin anything on me. It’s always the same. If it’s gentry and workingmen in trouble the police go for the workingmen every time. My Gawd, can’t you understand…” Alleyn let him talk himself to a standstill. At last he was silent and stood there sweating freely and showing the whites of his eyes like a startled horse.

  “Now you’ve got that off your chest,” said Alleyn, “perhaps you’ll listen to one or two questions. Sit down.”

  “I’d as soon stand.”

  “All right. You tell us you went downstairs to the car, and that the first thing you knew about the tragedy was when Miss Grey came for you. Very well. Now, as you went downstairs did the lift overtake you and go to the bottom?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It didn’t come down at all while you were on the stairs?”

  Giggle seemed to shy all over. “What’s this about the lift? It was up top. I never seen it after I went down.”

  “That’s all I wanted you to tell me,” said Alleyn.

  “
Oh cripes!” said Giggle under his breath.

  “Another point. How did his lordship get on with his servants?”

  “Good enough,” said Giggle cautiously.

  “Really?”

  “I’m not going to get myself trapped—”

  “Don’t talk silly,” said Inspector Fox austerely. “What’s the matter with you? The Chief Inspector asked you a plain question. Why can’t you answer it? You’re making yourself look awkward, that’s what you’re doing.”

  “Come along, now, Giggle,” said Alleyn. “Pipe up, there’s a good fellow.”

  “Well, sir, I’m sorry, but I’m all anyhow. His lordship got on good enough with his staff in a manner of speaking. There was some thought he was a bit on the near side and there was some didn’t like his sarcastic ways but I never minded. He treated me fair.”

  “Did some of the staff prefer her ladyship to his lordship?”

  “They might of.”

  “The maid for instance?”

  “She might of.”

  “Are you friendly with her maid?”

  “We get on all right,” said Giggle, eyeing Alleyn suspiciously.

  “Any attachment between you?”

  “What the hell’s that got to do with this business?” roared Giggle. “Who says there’s anything?”

  “Away you go again,” observed Alleyn wearily. “Will you answer the question or won’t you?”

  “There’s nothing between us, then. We might have been a bit friendly, like. What’s there in that? I don’t say we’re not friendly.”

  “Would you say that Tinkerton took Lady Wutherwood’s part against her husband? Sympathized with her?”