by Ngaio Marsh
“It may turn out to be of no great matter after all. I wouldn’t get too up-tight about it, if I were you. This may simply be the outward and visible sign of some harmlessly potty little cult they all belong to.”
“Yes, but Chubb? And those dubious — those more than dubious Cockburn-Montforts and those frankly appalling Sanskrits. No, I don’t like it,” said Mr. Whipplestone. “I don’t like it at all.” His distracted gaze fell upon Lucy, who was posed tidily couchant with her paws tucked under her chest. “And the cat!” he remembered. “The cat, of whose reprehensible habits I say nothing, took fright at the very sight of that ghastly pair. She bolted. And the Pirellis at the Napoli think she belonged to the Sanskrit woman. And she had been ill-treated.”
“I don’t quite see…”
“Very well. Very well. Let it pass. Have some tea,” Mr. Whipplestone distractedly invited, “and tell me what you propose to do about that thing: that medallion, that — fish.”
Alleyn took it from his pocket and turned it over in his hand. A trademark like a wavy X had been fired into the reverse side.
“Roughish little job,” he said. “Lucky she didn’t break it. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go upstairs and return it to its owner. It gives me the entrée, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose so. Yes. Well. If you must.”
“It’ll save you a rather tricky confrontation, Sam.”
“Yes. Thank you. Very good. Yes.”
“I’ll nip up before she has time to return to her kitchen. Which is their sitting-room?”
“First door on the landing.”
“Right.”
He left Mr. Whipplestone moodily pouring tea, climbed the stairs, and tapped at the door.
After a pause it was opened by Mrs. Chubb, who stared at him with something like terror in her eyes. He asked her if he might come in for a moment, and for a split second wondered if she was going to say no and shut the door in his face. But she stood aside with her fingers at her lips and he went in.
He saw, at once, the photograph on the wall. A girl of about sixteen with a nice, round, fresh-looking face very like Mrs. Chubb’s. The black ribbons had been made into rosettes and fastened to the top corners of the frame. On the photograph itself, neatly written, was a legend: April 4, 1953-May 1, 1969.
Alleyn took the medallion from his pocket. Mrs. Chubb made a strange little falsetto noise in her throat.
He said: “I’m afraid Lucy has been up to her tricks again. Mr. Whipplestone tells me she’s done this sort of thing before. Extraordinary animals, cats, aren’t they? Once they get a notion into their heads, there’s no stopping them. It belongs here, doesn’t it?”
She made no move to take it. A drawing-pin lay on the table under the photograph. Alleyn pushed it back into its hole and looped the chain over it. “The cat must have pulled it out,” he said, and then: “Mrs. Chubb, you’re feeling poorly, aren’t you? I’m so sorry. Sit down, won’t you, and let me see if I can do something about it? Would you like a drink of water? No. Then, do sit down.”
He put his hand under her arm. She was standing in front of a chair and dropped into it as if she couldn’t help herself. She was as white as a sheet and trembling.
Alleyn drew up another chair for himself.
“Mr. Whipplestone told me you’d been very much upset by what happened last night and now I’m afraid I’ve gone and made matters worse,” he said.
Still she didn’t speak, and he went on: “I don’t expect you know who I am. It was I who interviewed your husband last night. I’m an old friend of Mr. Whipplestone’s and I know how greatly he values your service.”
Mrs. Chubb whispered: “The police?”
“Yes, but there’s no need to worry about that. Really.”
“He set on ’im,” she said. “That—” she shut her eyes for a second—“black man. Set on ’im.”
“I know. He told me.”
“It’s the truth.” And with startling force she repeated this, loudly. “It’s the truth. Sir. Do you believe that, sir? Do you believe it’s the truth?”
Alleyn thought: “ ‘Do I believe this, do I believe the other thing?’ Everybody asking what one believes. The word becomes meaningless. It’s what one knows that matters in this muddle.” He waited for a moment and then said. “A policeman may only believe what he finds out for himself, without any possible doubt, to be true. If your husband was attacked, as he says he was, we shall find out.”
“Thank Gawd,” she whispered. And then: “I’m sorry, I’m sure, to give way like this. I can’t think what’s come over me.”
“Never mind.”
He got up and moved towards the photograph. Mrs. Chubb blew her nose.
“That’s an attractive face,” Alleyn said. “Is it your daughter?”
“That’s right,” she said. “Was.”
“I’m sorry. Long ago?”
“Six years.”
“An illness?”
“An accident.” She made as if to speak, pressed her lips together and then shot out, as if defiantly: “She was the only one, our Glynis was.”
“I can see the likeness.”
“That’s right.”
“Was the medallion special to her, perhaps?”
She didn’t answer. He turned round and found her staring at the photograph and wetting her lips. Her hands were clasped.
“If it was,” he said, “of course you’d be very upset when you thought you’d lost it.”
“It wasn’t hers.”
“No?”
“I hadn’t noticed it wasn’t there. It gave me a turn, like. When you — you held it out.”
“I’m sorry,” Alleyn repeated.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Was it in London — the accident?”
“Yes,” she said, and shut her mouth like a trap.
Alleyn said lightly: “It’s a rather unusual-looking medallion, isn’t it? An order or a badge or something of that sort perhaps?”
She pulled her hands apart as if the gesture needed force to accomplish it.
“It’s my husband’s,” she said. “It’s Chubb’s.”
“A club badge, perhaps?
“You could call it that, I suppose.”
She had her back to the door. It opened and her husband stood on the threshold.
“I don’t know anything about it,” she said loudly. “It’s got nothing to do with anything. Nothing.”
Chubb said: “You’re wanted downstairs.”
She got up and left the room without a glance at Alleyn or at her husband.
“Were you wanting to see me, sir?” Chubb asked woodenly. “I’ve just come in.”
Alleyn explained about the cat and the medallion. Chubb listened impassively. “I was curious,” Alleyn ended, “about the medallion itself and wondered if it was a badge.”
He said at once and without hesitation, “That’s correct, sir. It’s a little social circle with an interest in E.S.P. and so forth. Survival and that.”
“Mr. and Miss Sanskrit are members, aren’t they?”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“And Mr. Sheridan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you?” Alleyn said lightly.
“They was kind enough to make me an honorary member, like. Seeing I go in and do the servicing for some of their meetings, sir. And seeing I was interested.”
“In survival after death, do you mean?”
“That kind of thing.”
“Your wife doesn’t share your interest?”
He said flatly: “She doesn’t come into it, does she? It’s kind of complimentary to my services, isn’t it? Like wearing a livery button used to be.”
“I see. You must find a different place for it, mustn’t you?” Alleyn said easily. “Out of reach of Lucy Lockett. Good afternoon to you, Chubb.”
Chubb mouthed rather than sounded his response to this, and Alleyn left him, almost as bleached as his wife had been five minutes
earlier.
Mr. Whipplestone was still sipping tea. Lucy was discussing a saucer of milk on the hearthrug.
“You must have some tea at once,” Mr. Whipplestone said, pouring it out “And some anchovy toast. I hope you like anchovy toast. It’s still quite eatable, I think.” He tipped back the lid of the hot-server and up floated the smell that of all others recalled Alleyn to his boyhood days with the Boomer. He took a piece of toast and his tea.
“I can’t stay long,” he said. “I oughtn’t to stay at all, in fact, but here goes.”
“About the Chubbs?” Mr. Whipplestone ventured. Alleyn gave him a concise account of his visit upstairs. On the whole it seemed to comfort him. “As you suggested,” he said, “the emblem of some insignificant little coterie, and Chubb has been made a sort of non-commissioned officer in recognition of his serving them sandwiches and drinks. Perhaps they think he’s psychic. That makes perfectly good sense. Well, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, of course. It’s not without interest — do you agree?” Alleyn asked—“that Sanskrit is on the police records for fraudulent practice as a fortune-teller? And he’s done time for the odd spot of drug trafficking.”
“I am not in the least surprised,” Mr. Whipplestone energetically declared. “In the realms of criminal deception he is, I feel sure, capable de tout. From that point of view, if from no other, I do of course deplore the Chubb connection.”
“And there’s Mrs. Cockburn-Montfort, who seems to be a likely candidate for the attempt-on-the-President stakes. Not a nice influence either, would you say?”
“Oh drat!” said Mr. Whipplestone. “Very well, my dear fellow. I’m a selfish, square old bachelor and I don’t want anything beastly to happen to my Chubbs because they make life pleasant for me.” His exasperated gaze fell upon his cat. “As for you,” he scolded, “if you’d be good enough to keep your paws to yourself this sort of thing wouldn’t happen. Mind that!”
Alleyn finished his tea and toast and stood up.
“Are you going, my dear chap?” Mr. Whipplestone asked rather wistfully.
“Needs must. Thank you for my lovely cuppa. Goodbye, my dear,” he said to Lucy Lockett. “Unlike your boss, I’m much obliged to you. I’m off.”
“To see Mrs. C.-M.?”
“On the contrary. To see Miss Sanskrit. She now takes precedence over the C.-M.”
Alleyn had not come face-to-face with the Sanskrits at the Embassy. Like all the guests who had not been in or near the pavilion, they had been asked for their names and addresses by Inspector Fox, ticked off on the guest list, and allowed to go home. He didn’t think, therefore, that Miss Sanskrit would recall his face or, if she did, would attach more importance to it than to any that she had seen among a hundred others at the reception.
He walked down Capricorn Mews, past the Napoli grocery shop, the flower shop and the garages. The late afternoon was warm, scents of coffee, provender, carnations and red roses drifted on the air, and for some reason the bells in the Basilica were ringing.
At the far end of the Mews, at its junction with the passageway into Baronsgate, was the coverted stable now devoted to the sale of pottery pigs. It faced up the Mews and was, therefore, in full view for their entire length. Alleyn, advancing towards it, entertained somewhere in the back of his thought a prospect of stamping and sweating horses, industrious stablemen, ammoniacal fumes and the rumble of Dickensian wheels. Pigeons, circling overhead and intermittently flapping down to the cobbled passage, lent a kind authenticity to his fancies.
But there, as he approached, was the window legend The Piggie Potterie and the nondescript sign-board: X. & K. Sanskrit. And there, deep in the interior in a sort of alcove at the far end, was a faint red glow indicating the presence of a kiln and, looming over it, the dim bulk of Miss Sanskrit.
He made as if to turn off into the passageway, checked, and stopped to peer through the window at the exhibits ranked on shelves nearest to it. A particularly malevolent pig with forget-me-nots on its flanks lowered at him rather in the manner of Miss Sanskrit herself, who had turned her head in the shadows and seemed to stare at him. He opened the door and walked in.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
She rose heavily and lumbered towards him, emerging from the alcove, he thought, like some dinosaur from its lair.
“I wonder,” Alleyn said, as if suddenly inspired, “if you can help me by any chance. I’m looking for someone who could make castings of a small ceramic emblem. It’s to be the badge for a newly formed club.”
“We don’t,” rumbled an astonishingly deep voice inside Miss Sanskrit, “accept commissions.”
“Oh. Pity. In that case,” Alleyn said, “I shall do what I came to do and buy one of your pigs. The doorstop kind. You don’t have pottery cats, I suppose? With or without flowers?”
“There’s one doorstop cat. Bottom shelf. I’ve discontinued the line.”
It was indeed the only cat: a baleful, lean, black, upright cat with blue eyes and buttercups on its haunches. Alleyn bought it. It was very heavy and cost five pounds.
“This is perfectly splendid!” he prattled while Miss Sanskrit busied her fat, pale hands in making a clumsy parcel. “Actually, it’s a present for a cat. She lives at No. 1, Capricorn Walk, and is positively the double of this one. Except that she’s got a white tip to her tail. I wonder what she’ll make of it.”
Miss Sanskrit had paused for a second in her wrapping. She said nothing.
He rambled chattily on. “She’s quite a character, this cat. Behaves more like a dog, really. Retrieves things. Not above indulging in the odd theft, either.”
She turned her back on him. The paper crackled. Alleyn waited. Presently she faced round with the parcel in her hands. Her embedded eyes beneath the preposterous beetroot-coloured fringe were fixed on him.
“Thank you,” she growled, and he took the parcel.
“I suppose,” he said apologetically, “you couldn’t recommend anybody for this casting job? It’s quite small. Just a white fish with its tail in its mouth. About that size.”
There was something in the way she looked at him that recalled, however grotesquely, the interview with Mrs. Chubb. It was a feral look, that of a creature suddenly alarmed and on guard, and he was very familiar with it. It would scarcely be too fanciful to imagine she had given out a self-defensive smell.
“I’m afraid,” she said, “I can’t help you. Good afternoon.” She had turned her back and begun to waddle away when he said:
“Miss Sanskrit.”
She stopped.
“I believe we were both at the same party last night. At the Ng’ombwana Embassy.”
“Oh,” she said, without turning.
“You were with your brother, I think. And I believe I saw your brother a few weeks ago when I was in Ng’ombwana.”
No reply.
“Quite a coincidence,” said Alleyn. “Good afternoon.”
As he walked away and turned the corner into Capricorn Place he thought: “Now, I wonder if that was a good idea. She’s undoubtedly rattled, as far as one can think of blubber rattling. She’ll tell Big Brother and what will they cook up between them? That I’m fishing after membership? In which case, will they get in touch with the other fish to see what they know? Or will she suspect the worst of me and start at once, on her own account, ringing round the circle to warn them all? In which case she’ll hear I’m a cop in as short a time as it takes Mrs. Cockburn-Montfort to throw a temperament. And in that case we’ll have to take damn’ good care she and Big Brother don’t shoot the moon. I don’t mind betting,” he thought as he approached No. 19, the Place, “that those dubious premises accommodate more than pottery pigs. Has Brother quite given up the drug connection? A nice point. Here we go again.”
No. 19, Capricorn Place, although larger, was built in much the same style as Mr. Whipplestone’s little house. The windowboxes, however, were more commonplace, being given over to geraniums. As Alleyn crossed the street he saw, beh
ind the geraniums, Mrs. Cockburn-Montfort’s bizarre face looking much the worse for wear and regarding him with an expression of horror. It dodged away.
He had to ring three times before the Colonel opened the door on a wave of gin. For a moment Alleyn thought, as he had with Chubb, that it might be slammed in his face. Inside the house someone was speaking on the telephone.
The Colonel said: “Yes?”
“If it’s not inconvenient I’d like to have two words with Mrs. Cockburn-Montfort,” Alleyn said.
“Out of the question, I’m ’fraid. She’s unwell. She’s in bed.”
“I’m sorry. In that case, with you, if you’ll be so good as to put up with me.”
“It doesn’t suit at the moment. I’m sorry. Any case we’ve nothing to add to what we said last night.”
“Perhaps, Colonel, you’d rather come down to the Yard. We won’t keep you long.”
He glared, red-eyed, at nothing in particular and then said: “Damn! All right. You’d better come in.”
“Thank you so much,” said Alleyn and did so, pretty smartly, passing the Colonel into a hall with a flight of stairs and two doors, the first of which stood ajar.
Inside the room a voice, hushed but unmistakably Mrs. Cockburn-Montfort’s, was speaking. “Xenny,” she was saying. “It’s true. Here! Now! I’m ringing off.”
“Not that door. The next,” shouted the Colonel, but Alleyn had already gone in.
She was dressed in a contemporary version of a garment that Alleyn had heard his mother refer to as a tea-gown: an elaborate confection worn, he rather thought, over pyjamas and held together by ribbons. Her hair had been arranged but insecurely, so that it almost looked more dishevelled than it would have if left to itself. The same appraisement might have been made of her face. She was smoking.
When she saw Alleyn she gestured with both hands rather as if something fluttered near her nose. She took a step backwards and saw her husband in the doorway.
“Why’ve you come down, Chrissy?” he said. “You’re meant to stay in bed.”
“I–I’d run out of cigarettes.” She pointed a shaky finger at Alleyn. “You again!” she said with a pretty awful attempt at playfulness.
