by Ngaio Marsh
‘That’s right, your Excellency,’ said Gibson tonelessly. ‘Here we go again. Excuse me.’
He went out into the street, leaving the door open.
‘I look forward to the next sitting,’ said The Boomer, rubbing his hands. ‘Immeasurably, I shall see you then, old boy. In the morning? Shan’t I?’
‘Not very likely, I’m afraid.’
‘No?’
‘I’m rather busy on a case,’ Alleyn said politely. ‘Troy will do the honours for both of us, if you’ll forgive me.’
‘Good, good, good!’ he said genially. Alleyn escorted him to the car. The mlinzi opened the door with his left hand. The police car started up its engine and Gibson got into it. The Special Branch men moved. At the open end of the cul-de-sac a body of police kept back a sizeable crowd. Groups of residents had collected in the little street.
A dark, pale and completely bald man, well-dressed in formal clothes, who had been reading a paper at a table outside the little pub, put on his hat and strolled away. Several people crossed the street. The policeman on duty asked them to stand back.
‘What is all this?’ asked The Boomer.
‘Perhaps it has escaped your notice that the media has not been idle. There’s a front page spread with banner headlines in the evening papers.’
‘I would have thought they had something better to do with the space.’ He slapped Alleyn on the back. ‘Bless you,’ he roared. He got into the car, shouted, ‘I’ll be back at half past nine in the morning. Do try to be at home,’ and was driven off. ‘Bless you,’ Alleyn muttered to the gracious salutes The Boomer had begun to turn on for the benefit of the bystanders. ‘God knows you need it.’
The police car led the way, turning off into a side exit which would bring them eventually into the main street. The Ng’ombwanan car followed it. There were frustrated manifestations from the crowd at the far end which gradually dispersed. Alleyn, full of misgivings, went back to the house. He mixed two drinks and took them to the studio, where he found Troy still in her painting smock, stretched out in an armchair scowling at her canvas. On such occasions she always made him think of a small boy. A short lock of hair overhung her forehead, her hands were painty and her expression brooding. She got up, abruptly, returned to her easel and swept down a black line behind the head that started up from its tawny surroundings. She then backed away towards him. He moved aside and she saw him.
‘How about it?’ she asked.
‘I’ve never known you so quick. It’s staggering.’
‘Too quick to be right?’
‘How can you say such a thing? It’s witchcraft.’
She leant against him. ‘He’s wonderful,’ she said. ‘Like a symbol of blackness. And there’s something – almost desperate. Tragic? Lonely? I don’t know. I hope it happens on that thing over there.’
‘It’s begun to happen. So we forget the comic element?’
‘Oh that! Yes, of course, he is terribly funny. Victorian music-hall, almost. But I feel it’s just a kind of trimming. Not important. Is that my drink?’
‘Troy, my darling, I’m going to ask you something irritating.’
She had taken her drink to the easel and was glowering over the top of her glass at the canvas. ‘Are you?’ she said vaguely. ‘What?’
‘He’s sitting for you again in the morning. Between now and then I want you not to let anybody or anything you don’t know come into the house. No gas-meter inspectors or window-cleaners, no parcels addressed in strange hands. No local body representatives. Nothing and nobody that you can’t account for.’
Troy, still absently, said, ‘All right,’ and then suddenly aware: ‘Are you talking about bombs?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Good Lord!’
‘It’s not a silly notion, you know. Well, is it?’
‘It’s a jolly boring one, though.’
‘Promise.’
‘All right,’ Troy said, and squeezed out a dollop of cadmium red on her palette. She put down her drink and took up a brush.
Alleyn wondered how the hell one kept one’s priorities straight. He watched her nervous, paint-stained hand poise the brush and then use it with the authority of a fiddler. What she’s up to, he thought, and what I am supposed to be up to are a stellar journey apart and yet ours, miraculously, is a happy marriage. Why?
Troy turned round and looked at him. ‘I was listening,’ she said, ‘I do promise.’
‘Well – thank you, my love,’ he said.
II
That evening, at about the same time as The Boomer dined royally at Buckingham Palace, Alleyn, with Fox in attendance, set out to keep observation upon Mr Sheridan in his basement flat at No. la, Capricorn Walk. They drove there in a ‘nondescript’ equipped with a multichannel radio set. Alleyn remembered that there had been some talk of Mr Whipplestone dining with his sister who had come up to London for the night, so there was no question of attracting his attention.
They had been advised by a panda on Unit Beat that the occupant of the basement flat was at home but his window curtains must be very heavy because they completely excluded the light. Alleyn and Fox approached from Capricorn Square and parked in the shadow of the plane trees. The evening was sultry and overcast and the precincts were given over to their customary quietude. From the Sun in Splendour, further back in the Square, came the sound of voices, not very loud.
‘Hold on a bit. I’m in two minds about this one, Fox.’ Alleyn said, ‘It’s a question of whether the coterie as a whole is concerned in last night’s abortive attempt if that’s what it was, or whether Mrs C-M and the Colonel acted quite independently under their own alcoholic steam. Which seems unlikely. If it was a concerted affair they may very well have called a meeting to review the situation. Quite possibly to cook up another attempt.’
‘Or to fall out among themselves,’ said Fox.
‘Indeed. Or to fall out.’
‘Suppose, for instance,’ Fox said in his plain way, ‘Chubb did the job, thinking it was the President: they won’t be best pleased with him. And you tell me he seems to be nervous.’
‘Very nervous.’
‘What’s in your mind, then? For now?’
‘I thought we might lurk here for a bit to see if Mr Sheridan has any callers or if, alternatively, he himself steps out to take the air.’
‘Do you know what he looks like?’
‘Sam Whipplestone says he’s dark, bald, middle height, well-dressed and speaks with a lisp. I’ve never seen him to my knowledge.’ A pause. ‘He’s peeping,’ said Alleyn.
A vertical sliver of light had appeared in the basement windows of No. la. After a second or two it was shut off.
‘I wouldn’t have thought,’ Fox said, ‘they’d fancy those premises for a meeting. Under the circs. With Mr Whipplestone living up above and all.’
‘Nor would I.’
Fox grunted comfortably and settled down in his seat. Several cars passed down Capricorn Walk towards Baronsgate, the last being a taxi which stopped at No. 1. A further half-dozen cars followed by a delivery van passed between the watchers and the taxi and were held up, presumably by a block in Baronsgate itself. It was one of those sudden and rare incursions of traffic into the quiet of the Capricorns at night. When it had cleared a figure was revealed coming through the gate at the top of the basement steps at No. 1: a man in a dark suit and scarf wearing a ‘City’ hat. He set off down the Walk in the direction of Baronsgate. Alleyn waited for a little and then drove forward, he turned the corner, passed No. 1 and parked three houses further along.
‘He’s going into the Mews,’ he said. And, sure enough, Mr Sheridan crossed the street, turned right and disappeared.
‘What price he’s making a call on the pottery pigs?’ Alleyn asked. ‘Or do you fancy the gallant Colonel and his lady? Hold on, Fox.’
He left Fox in the car, crossed the street and walked rapidly past the Mews for some twenty yards. He then stopped and returned to a small house-d
ecorator’s shop on the corner where he was able to look through the double windows down the Mews past the Napoli and the opening into Capricorn Place, where the Cockburn-Montforts lived, to the pottery at the far end. Mr Sheridan kept straight on, in and out of the rather sparse lighting until he reached the pottery. Here he stopped at a side-door, looked about him and raised his hand to the bell. The door was opened on a dim interior by an unmistakable vast shape. Mr Sheridan entered and the door was shut.
Alleyn returned to the car.
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘The piggery it is. Away we go. We’ve got to play this carefully. He’s on the alert, is Mr S.’
At the garage where Mr Whipplestone first met Lucy Lockett there was a very dark alley leading into a yard. Alleyn backed the car into it, stopped the engine and put out the lights. He and Fox opened the doors, broke into drunken laughter, shouted indistinguishably, banged the doors and settled down in their seats.
They had not long to wait before Colonel and Mrs Cockburn-Montfort turned out of Capricorn Place and passed them on the far side of the Mews, she teetering on preposterous heels, he marching with the preternatural accuracy of the seasoned toper.
They were admitted into the same door by the same vast shape.
‘One to come,’ Alleyn said, ‘unless he’s there already.’
But he was not there already. Nobody else passed up or down the Mews for perhaps a minute. The clock in the Basilica struck nine and the last note was followed by approaching footsteps on their side of the street. Alleyn and Fox slid down in their seats. The steps, making the customary rather theatrical, rather disturbing effect of footfalls in dark streets, approached at a brisk pace and Chubb passed by on his way to the pottery.
When he had been admitted Alleyn said: ‘We don’t, by the way, know if there are any more members, do we? Some unknown quantity?’
‘What about it?’
‘Wait and see, I suppose. It’s very tempting, you know, Br’er Fox, to let them warm up a bit and then make an official call and politely scare the pants off them. It would stop any further attempts from that quarter on The Boomer unless, of course, there’s a fanatic among them and I wouldn’t put that past Chubb for one.’
‘Do we try it, then?’
‘Regretfully, we don’t. We haven’t got enough on any of them to make an arrest and we’d lose all chances of finally roping them in. Pity! Pity!’
‘So what’s the form?’
‘Well, I think we wait until they break up and then, however late the hour, we might even call upon Mr Sheridan. Somebody coming,’ Alleyn said.
‘Your unknown quantity?’
‘I wonder.’
It was a light footstep this time and approached rapidly on the far side of the Mews. There was a street lamp at the corner of Capricorn Place. The newcomer walked into its ambit and crossed the road coming straight towards them.
It was Samuel Whipplestone.
III
‘Well, of course,’ Alleyn thought. ‘He’s going for his evening constitutional, but why did he tell me he was dining with his sister?’
Fox sat quiet at his side. They waited in the dark for Mr Whipplestone to turn and continue his walk.
But he stopped and peered directly into the alleyway. For a moment Alleyn had the uncanny impression that they looked straight into each other’s eyes and then Mr Whipplestone, slipping past the bonnet of the car, tapped discreetly on the driver’s window.
Alleyn let it down.
‘May I get in?’ asked Mr Whipplestone. ‘I think it may be important.’
‘All right. But keep quiet if anybody comes. Don’t bang the door, will you? What’s up?’
Mr Whipplestone began to talk very rapidly and precisely in a breathy undertone, leaning forward so that his head was almost between the heads of his listeners.
‘I came home early,’ he said. ‘My sister Edith had a migraine. I arrived by taxi and had just let myself in when I heard the basement door close and someone came up the steps. I dare say I’ve become hypersensitive to any occurrences down there. I went into the drawing-room and without turning on the lights watched Sheridan open the area gate and look about him. He was wearing a hat but for a moment or two his face was lit by the headlamps of one of some half-dozen cars that had been halted. I saw him very clearly. Very, very clearly. He was scowling. I think I mentioned to you that I’ve been nagged by the impression that I had seen him before, I’ll return to that in a moment.’
‘So,’ said Alleyn.
‘I was still there, at my window, when this car pulled out of the square from the shadow of the trees, turned right and parked a few doors away from me. I noticed the number.’
‘Ah!’ said Alleyn.
‘This was just as Sheridan disappeared up the Mews. The driver got out of the car and – but I need not elaborate.’
‘I was rumbled.’
‘Well – yes. If you like to put it that way. I saw you station yourself at the corner and then return to this car. And I saw you drive into the Mews. Of course, I was intrigued but believe me, Alleyn, I had no thought of interfering or indulging in any – ah – ah –’
‘Counter-espionage?’
‘Oh, my dear fellow! Well. I turned away from my window and was about to put on the lights when I heard Chubb coming down the stairs. I heard him walk along the hall and stop by the drawing-room door. Only for a moment. I was in two minds whether to put on the lights and say, “Oh, Chubb, I’m in,” or something of that sort, or to let him go. So uncomfortable has the atmosphere been that I decided on the latter course. He went out, doublelocked the door and walked off in the same direction as Sheridan. And you. Into the Mews.’
Mr Whipplestone paused, whether for dramatic effect or in search of the precise mode of expression, he being invisible, it was impossible to determine.
‘It was then,’ he said, ‘that I remembered. Why, at that particular moment the penny should drop, I have no notion. But drop it did.’
‘You remembered?’
‘About Sheridan.’
‘Ah.’
‘I remembered where I had seen him. Twenty-odd years ago. In Ng’ombwana.’ Fox suddenly let out a vast sigh. ‘Go on,’ said Alleyn.
‘It was a court of law. British law, of course, at that period. And Sheridan was in the dock.’
‘Was he indeed!’
‘He had another name in those days. He was reputed to come from Portuguese East and he was called Manuel Gomez. He owned extensive coffee plantations. He was found guilty of manslaughter. One of his workers – it was a revolting business – had been chained to a tree and beaten and had died of gangrene.’
Fox clicked his tongue several times.
‘And that is not all. My dear Alleyn, for the prosecution there was a young Ng’ombwanan barrister who had qualified in London – the first, I believe, to do so.’
‘The Boomer, by God.’
‘Precisely. I seem to recollect that he pressed with great tenacity for a sentence of murder and the death penalty.’
‘What was the sentence?’
‘I don’t remember – something like fifteen years, I fancy. The plantation is now in the hands of the present government, of course, but I remember Gomez was said to have salted away a fortune. In Portugal, I think. It may have been London. I am not certain of these details.’
‘You are certain of the man?’
‘Absolutely. And of the barrister. I attended the trial, I have a diary that I kept at that time and a pretty extensive scrapbook. We can verify. But I am certain. He was scowling in the light from the car. The whole thing flashed up most vividly, those one or two minutes later.’
‘That’s what actors call a double-take.’
‘Do they?’ Mr Whipplestone said absently, and then: ‘He made a scene when he was sentenced. I’d never seen anything like it. It left an extraordinary impression.’
‘Violent?’
‘Oh yes, indeed. Screaming. Threatening. He had to be handcuffed
and even then – It was like an animal,’ said Mr Whipplestone.
‘Fair enough,’ Fox rumbled, pursuing some inward cogitation.
‘You don’t ask me,’ Mr Whipplestone murmured, ‘why I took the action I did. Following you here.’
‘Why did you?’
‘I felt sure you had followed Sheridan because you thought, as I did, that probably there was to be a meeting of these people. Whether at the Cockburn-Montforts’ or at the Sanskrits’ flat. And I felt most unhappily sure that Chubb was going to join them. I had and have no idea whether you actually intended to break in upon the assembly but I thought it might well be that this intelligence would be of importance. I saw Chubb being admitted to that place. I followed, expecting you would be somewhere in the Mews and I made out your car. So here I am, you see,’ said Mr Whipplestone.
‘Here you are and the man without motive is now supplied with what might even turn out to be the prime motive.’
‘That,’ said Mr Whipplestone, ‘is what I rather thought.’
‘You may say,’ Fox ruminated, ‘that, as far as motives go, it’s now one apiece. Chubb: the daughter. The Sanskrits: losing their business. Sheridan – well, ask yourself. And the Colonel and Mrs C-M – what about them?’
‘The Boomer tells me the Colonel was livid at getting the sack. He’d seen himself rigged out as a Field Marshal or as near as dammit. Instead of which he went into retirement and the bottle.’
‘Would these motives apply,’ Fox asked, ‘equally to the Ambassador and the President? As victims, I mean.’
‘Not in Sheridan’s case, it would appear.’
‘No,’ Mr Whipplestone agreed. ‘Not in this case.’
They were silent for a space. At last Alleyn said: ‘I think this is what we do. We leave you here, Br’er Fox, keeping what I’m afraid may prove to be utterly fruitless observation. We don’t know what decision they’ll come to in the piggery-flat or indeed what exactly they’re there to decide. Another go at The Boomer? The liquidation of the Ku-Klux-Fish or whatever it is? It’s anybody’s guess. But it’s just possible you may pick up something. And, Sam, if you can stand up to another late night, I’d very much like to look at those records of yours.’
