Died in the Wool ra-13

by Ngaio Marsh

  “With Cliff?”

  “That’s right. There’s been a lot of rubbish talked about the interest she took in my boy. People are funny like that. Jealous.” She passed her roughened hand over her face with a movement that suggested the wiping away of a cobweb. “I don’t say I wasn’t a bit jealous myself,” she said grudgingly. “I don’t say I didn’t think it might make him discontented like with his own home. But I saw what a big thing it was for my boy and I wouldn’t stand in his light. But there it is. I won’t say I didn’t feel it.”

  She said all this with the same air of antagonism, but Alleyn felt a sudden respect for her. He said: “But this feeling didn’t persist?”

  “Persist? Not when he grew older. He grew away from her, if you can understand. Nobody knows a boy like his mother and I know you can’t drive Cliff. She tried to drive him and in the finish she set him against her. He’s a good boy,” said Mrs. Johns coldly, “though I say it, but he’s very unusual. And sensitive.”

  “Did you regret taking her offer to send him to school?”

  “Regret it?” she repeated, examining the word. “Seeing what’s happened, and the cruel way it’s changed him—” She pressed her lips together and her hands jerked stiffly in her lap. “I wish she’d never seen my boy,” she said with extraordinary vehemence and then caught her breath and looked frightened. “It’s none of his doing or of hers, poor lady. They were devoted to each other. When it happened there was nobody felt it more than Cliff. Don’t let anyone tell you different. It’s wicked, the way an innocent boy’s been made to suffer. Wicked.”

  Her eyes were still fixed on the wall, beyond Alleyn and above his head. They were met, but so wooden was her face that her tears seemed to be accidental and quite inexpressive of sorrow. She ended each of her speeches with such an air of finality that he felt surprised when she embarked on a new one.

  “Mrs. Johns,” he said, “what do you make of this story about the whisky?”

  “Anybody who says my boy’s a thief is a liar,” she said. “That’s what I make of it. Lies! He never touched a drop in his life.”

  “Then what do you think he was doing?”

  At last she looked full at him. “You ask the station cook what he was doing. Ask Albert Black. Cliff won’t tell you anything, and he won’t tell me. It’s my idea and he’d never forgive me if he knew I’d spoken of it.” She got up and walked to the door, staring out into the sunshine. “Ask them,” she said. “That’s all.”

  “Thank you,” said Alleyn looking thoughtfully at her. “I believe I shall.”

  Alleyn’s first view of the station cook was dramatic and incredible. It took place that evening, the second of his stay at Mount Moon. After their early dinner, a silent meal at which the members of the household seemed to be suffering from a carry-over from last night’s confidences, Fabian suggested that he and Alleyn should walk up to the men’s quarters. They did so but, before they left, Alleyn asked Ursula to lend him the diamond clip that Florence Rubrick had lost on the night she was murdered. He and Fabian walked down the lavender path as the evening light faded and the mountains began their nightly pageant of violet and gold. The lavender stalks were grey sticks, now, and the zinnias behind them isolated mummies crowned with friable heads. “Were they much the same then,” Alleyn asked, “as far as visibility goes?”

  “The lavender was green and bushy,” Fabian replied, “but the thing was under one of the zinnias and had no better cover than there would be now. They don’t flourish up here and were spindly-looking apologies even when they did their stuff.”

  Alleyn dropped the clip, first in one place and then in another. It glittered like a monstrously artificial flower on the dry earth. “Oh, well,” he said, “let’s go and see Cookie.”

  They passed through the gate that Florence had used that night and, like her, turned up the main track that led to the men’s quarters.

  Long before they came within sight of their objective, they heard a high-pitched, raucous voice raised in the unmistakable periods of oratory. They passed the wool-shed and came within full view of the bunk-house and annex.

  A group of a dozen men, some squatting on their heels, others leaning, relaxed, against the wall of the building, listened in silence to an empurpled man, dressed in dirty white, who stood on an overturned box and loudly exhorted them.

  “I howled unto the Lord,” the orator bawled angrily. “That’s what I done. I howled unto the Lord.”

  “That’s Cookie,” Fabian murmured, “in the penultimate stage of his cups. The third and last stage is delirium tremens. It’s a regular progression.”

  “…and the Lord said unto me: ‘What’s biting you, Perce?’ And I answered and said: ‘Me sins lie bitter in me belly,’ I says. ‘I’ve backslid,’ I says, ‘and the grade’s too hot for me.’ And the Lord said: ‘Give it another pop, Perce.’ And I give it another pop and the Lord backed me up and I’m saved.”

  Here the cook paused and, with extreme difficulty, executed a peculiar gesture, as if writing on the air. “The judgement’s writ clear on the wall,” he shouted, “for them as aren’t too shickered to read it. It’s writ clear as it might be on that bloody bunk-’ouse be’ind yer. And what does it say? It says in letters of flame: ‘Give it another pop.’ Hallelujah.”

  “Hallelujah,” echoed a small man who sat in an attitude of profound dejection on the annex step. This was Albie Black, the roustabout.

  “A couple more brands to be snatched from the burning,” the cook continued, catching sight of Alleyn and Fabian, and gesturing wildly towards them. “A couple more sheep to be cut out from the mob and baled up in the pens of salvation. A couple more dirty two-tooths for the Lord to shear. Shall we gather at the river?” He and the roustabout broke into a hymn, the melody of which was taken up by an accordion player inside the bunk-house. Fabian indicated to the men that he and Alleyn would like to be left alone with the cook and Albie Black. Ben Wilson, who was quietly smoking his pipe and looking at the cook with an air of detached disapproval, jerked his head at him and said: “He’s fixed all right.” He led the way into the bunk-house, the accordion stopped abruptly, and Alleyn was left face to face with the cook, who was still singing, but half-heartedly and in a melancholy key.

  “Pretty hopeless, isn’t it?” Alleyn muttered, eyeing him dubiously.

  “It’s now or never,” Fabian rejoined. “He’ll be dead to the world to-morrow and we’re supposed to ship him down-country the next day. Unless, of course, you exercise your authority and keep him here. Perce!” he said loudly, placing himself in front of the cook. “Come down off that. Here’s somebody wants to speak to you.”

  The cook stepped incontinently off his box into midair and was caught like an unwieldy ballerina by Alleyn. “Open up your bowels of compassion,” he said mildly and allowed them to seat him on the box.

  “Shall I leave you?” asked Fabian.

  “You stay where you are,” said Alleyn. “I want a witness.”

  The cook was a large man with pale eyes, an unctuous mouth and bad teeth. “Bare your bosom,” he invited Alleyn. “Though it’s as black as pitch it shall be as white as snow. What’s your trouble?”

  “Whisky,” said Alleyn.

  The cook laid hold of his coat lapels and peered very earnestly into his face. “You’re a pal,” he said. “I don’t mind if I do.”

  “But I haven’t got any,” Alleyn said. “Have you?”

  The cook shook his head mournfully and, having begun to shake it, seemed unable to leave off. His eyes filled with tears. His breath smelt of beer and of something that at the moment Alleyn was unable to place.

  “It’s not so easily come by these days, is it?” Alleyn said.

  “I ain’t seen a drop,” the cook whispered, “not since—” he wiped his mouth and gave Alleyn a look of extraordinary cunning—“not since you-know-when.”

  “When was that?”

  “Ah,” said the cook profoundly, “that’s telling.” He look
ed out of the corners of his eyes at Fabian, leered, and, with a ridiculously Victorian gesture, laid his finger alongside his nose. Albie Black burst into loud meaningless laughter. “Oh, dear!” he said and buried his head in his arms. Fabian moved behind the cook and pointed suggestively in the direction of the house.

  “Haven’t they got some of the right stuff down there?” Alleyn suggested.

  “Ah,” said the cook.

  “How about it?”

  The cook began to shake his head again.

  Alleyn took a deep breath and fired point-blank. “How about young Cliff?” he suggested. “Any good?”

  “Him!” said the cook and, with startling precision, uttered a stream of obscenities.

  “What’s the matter with Cliff?” Alleyn asked.

  “Ask him,” the cook said and looked indignantly at Albie Black. “They’re cobbers, them two — s.”

  “You shut your face,” said Albie Black, suddenly furious. He broke into a storm of abuse to which the cook listened sadly. “You shut your face, or I’ll knock your bloody block off. Didn’t I tell you to forget it? Haven’t you got any sense?” He pointed a shaking finger at Alleyn. “Don’t you pick what he is? D’you want to land us both in the cooler?”

  The cook sighed heavily. “I thought you said you’d got the fine work in with young Cliff,” he said. “You know. What you seen that night. I thought you’d fixed him. You know.”

  “You come away,” said Albie in great alarm, “I’m not as sozzled as what you are and I’m telling you. You come away.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Alleyn, but the cook had taken fright. “Change and decay in all around I see,” he said, and, rising with some difficulty, flung one arm about the neck of his friend. “See the hosts of Midian,” he shouted, waving the other arm at Alleyn. “How they prowl around. It’s a lousy life. Let’s have a little wee drink, Albie.”

  “No, you don’t!” Alleyn began, but the cook turned until his face was pressed into the bosom of his friend and, by slow degrees, slid to the ground.

  “Now see what you done,” said Albie Black.

  CHAPTER IX

  ATTACK

  The cook being insensible and, according to Fabian, certain to remain so for many hours, Alleyn suffered him to be removed and concentrated on Albert Black.

  There had been a certain speciousness about the cook but Albert, he decided, was an abominable specimen. He disseminated meanness and low cunning. He was drunk enough to be truculent and sober enough to look after himself. The only method, Alleyn decided, was that of intimidation. He and Fabian withdrew with Albert into the annex.

  “Have you ever been mixed up in a murder charge before?” Alleyn began with the nearest approach to police-station truculence of which he was capable.

  “I’m not mixed up in one now,” said Albert, showing the whites of his eyes. “Choose your words.”

  “You’re withholding information in a homicidal investigation, aren’t you? D’you know what that means?”

  “Here!” said Albert. “You can’t swing that across me.”

  “You’ll be lucky if you don’t get a pair of bracelets swung across you. Haven’t you been in trouble before?” Albert looked at him indignantly. “Come on, now,” Alleyn persisted. “How about a charge of theft?”

  “Me?” said Albert. “Me, with a clean sheet all the years I bin ’ere! Accusing me of stealing! ’Ow dare yer?”

  “What about Mr. Rubrick’s whisky? Come on, Black, you’d better make a clean breast of it.”

  Albert looked at the piano. His dirty fingers pulled at his underlip. He moved closer to Alleyn and peered into his face. “It’s methylated spirits they stink of,” Alleyn thought.

  “Got a fag on yer?” Albert said ingratiatingly and grasped him by the coat.

  Alleyn freed himself, took out his case and offered it, open, to Albert.

  “You’re a pal,” said Albert and took the case. He helped himself fumblingly to six cigarettes and put them in his pocket. He looked closely at the case. “Posh,” he said. “Not gold though, d’you reckon, Mr. Losse?”

  Fabian took it away from him.

  “Well,” Alleyn said. “How about this whisky?”

  Albert jerked his head at the piano. “So he got chatty after all, did he?” he said. “The little bastard. O.K. That lets me out.” He again grasped Alleyn by the coat with one hand and with the other pointed behind him at the piano. “What a Pal,” he said. “Comes the holy Jo over a drop of Johnny Walker and the next night he’s fixing the big job.”

  “What the hell are you talking about!” Fabian said violently.

  “Can — you — tell — me,” Albert said, swaying and clinging to Alleyn, “how a little bastard like that can be playing the ruddy piano and at the same time run into me round the corner of the wool-shed? There’s a mystery for you if you like.”

  Fabian took a step forward. “Be quiet, Losse,” said Alleyn.

  “It’s a very funny thing,” Albert continued, “how a nindividual can be in two places at oncet. And he knew he oughtn’t to be there, the ruddy little twister. Because all the time I sees him by the wool-shed he keeps on thumping that blasted pianna. Now then!”

  “Very strange,” said Alleyn.

  “Isn’t it? I knew you’d say that.”

  “Why haven’t you talked about this before?”

  Albert freed himself, spat, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Bargain’s a bargain, isn’t it? Fair dos. Wait till I get me hands on the little twister. Put me away, has he? Good-oh! And what does he get? Anywhere else he’d swing for it.”

  “Did you hear Mrs. Rubrick speaking in the wool-shed?”

  “How could she speak when he’d fixed her? That was earlier: ‘Ladies and Gentlemen.’ Gawd, what a go!”

  “Where was he?”

  “Alleyn, for God’s sake—” Fabian began and Alleyn turned to him. “If you can’t be quiet, Losse, you’ll have to clear out. Now Black, where was Cliff?”

  “Aren’t I telling you? Coming out of the shed.”

  Alleyn looked through the annex window. He saw a rough track running downhill, past the yards, past a side road to the wool-shed, down to a narrow water race above the gate that Florence Rubrick came through when she left the lavender path and struck uphill to the wool-shed.

  “Was it then that you asked him to say nothing about the previous night when he caught you stealing the whisky?” Alleyn held his breath. It was a long shot and almost in the dark.

  “Not then,” said Albert.

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “Not then.”

  “Had you already spoken about the whisky?”

  “I’m not saying anything about that. I’m telling you what he done.”

  “And I’m telling you what you did. That was the bargain, wasn’t it? He found you making away with the bottles. He ordered you off and was caught trying to put them back. He didn’t give you away. Later, when the murder came out and the police investigation started, you struck your bargain. If Cliff said nothing about the whisky, you’d say nothing about seeing him come out of the shed?”

  Albert was considerably sobered. He looked furtively from Alleyn to Fabian. “I got to protect myself,” he said. “Asking a bloke to put himself away.”

  “Very good. You’d rather I tell him you’ve blown the gaff and get the whole story from him. The police will be interested to know you’ve withheld important information.”

  “All right, all right,” said Albert shrilly. “Have it your own way, you blasted cow,” and burst into tears.

  Fabian and Alleyn groped their way down the hill in silence. They turned off to the wool-shed where Alleyn paused and looked at the sacking-covered door. Fabian watched him miserably.

  “It must have been in about this light,” Alleyn said. “Just after dark.”

  “You can’t do it!” Fabian said. “You can’t believe a drunken sneak thief’s story. I know young Cliff. He’s a good chap. You
’ve talked to him. You can’t believe it.”

  “A year ago,” Alleyn said, “he was an over-emotionalized, slightly hysterical and extremely unhappy adolescent.”

  “I don’t give a damn! Oh God!” Fabian muttered. “Why the hell did I start this?”

  “I did warn you,” Alleyn said with something like compassion in his voice.

  “It’s impossible, I swear — I formally swear to you that the piano never stopped for more than a few seconds. You know what it’s like on a still night. The cessation of a noise like that hits your ears. Albie was probably half tight. Good Lord, he said himself that the piano went on all the time. Of course it wasn’t Cliff that he saw. I’m amazed that you pay the smallest attention to his meanderings.” Fabian paused. “If he saw anyone,” he added, and his voice changed, “I admit that it was probably the murderer. It wasn’t Cliff. You yourself pointed out that it was almost dark.”

  “Then why did Cliff refuse to talk about the whisky?”

  “Schoolboy honour. He’d struck up a friendship with the wretched creature.”

  “Yes,” said Alleyn. “That’s tenable.”

  “Then why don’t you accept it?”

  “My dear chap, I’ll accept it if it fits. See here. I want you to do two things for me. The first is easy. When you go indoors, help me to get a toll call through in privacy. Will you?”

  “Of course.”

  “The second is troublesome. You know the pens inside the shearing shed? With the slatted floor where the unshorn sheep are huddled together?”

  “Well?”

  “You’ve finished crutching to-day, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m afraid I want to take that slatted floor up.”

  Fabian stared at him. “Why on earth?”

  “There may be something underneath.”

  “There are the sheep droppings of thirty years underneath.”

  “So I feared. Those of the last year are all that concern me. I’ll want a sieve and a spade and if you can lay your hands on a pair of rejected overalls, I’d be grateful.”