Dead Water ra-23

by Ngaio Marsh

  “Ah, no!” She leaned forward and tapped his hand. “You should not have come, my friend. I am perfectly able to look after myself. It was kind but it was not necessary.”

  “What were you going to say to that crowd if you hadn’t been cut off by a cloudburst? No, don’t tell me. I know. You must be mad, Miss Emily.”

  “On the contrary, I assure you. And why have you come, Rodrigue? As you see, I have taken no harm.”

  “I want to know, among other matters, the full story of that object over there. The obscene woman with the label.”

  Miss Emily gave him a lively account of it

  “And where, precisely, was it planted?”

  “Behind one of the London telephone directories, which had been placed on its edge, supported by the others.”

  “And you knocked the book over while you were speaking to me?”

  “That is correct. Revealing the figurine.”

  He was silent for some time. “And you were frightened,” Alleyn said at last.

  “It was a shock. I may have been disconcerted. It was too childish a trick to alarm me for more than a moment.”

  “Do you mind if I take possession of this object?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Has anybody but you touched it, do you know?”

  “I think not. Excepting of course, the culprit.”

  He wrapped it carefully, first in a sheet of writing-paper from the desk and then in his handkerchief. He put it in his pocket.

  “Well,” he said. “Let’s see what we can make of all this nonsense.”

  He took her through the events of the last five days and found her account tallied with Superintendent Coombe’s.

  When she had finished he got up and stood over her.

  “Now look,” he said. “None of these events can be dismissed as childish. The stones might have caused a serious injury. The trip wire almost certainly would have done so. The first threats that you got in London have been followed up. You’ve had two other warnings — the figurine and the telephone call. They will be followed up, too. Coombe tells me you suspect Miss Cost. Why?”

  “I recognized her voice. You know my ear for the speaking voice, I think.”

  “Yes.”

  “On Monday, I interviewed her in her shop. She was in an extremity of anger. This brought on an attack of asthma and that in its turn added to her chagrin.”

  Alleyn asked her if she thought Miss Cost had dogged her to the steps, stormed up the hill and thrown stones at her, asthma notwithstanding.

  “No,” said Miss Emily coolly. “I think that unfortunate child threw the stones. I encountered him after I had left the shop and again outside the hotel. I have no doubt he did it — possibly at his father’s instigation, who was incited in the first instance, I daresay, by that ass Cost. The woman is a fool and a fanatic. She is also, I think, a little mad. You saw how she comported herself after that fiasco.”

  “Yes, I did. All right. Now, I want your solemn promise that on no condition will you leave your rooms again this evening. You are to dine and breakfast up here. I shall call for you at ten o’clock and I shall drive you back to London or, if you prefer it, put you on the train. There are no two ways about it, Miss Emily. That is what you will do.”

  “I will not be cowed by these threats. I will not.”

  “Then I shall be obliged to take you into protective custody and you won’t much fancy that, I promise you,” Alleyn said and hoped it sounded convincing.

  Miss Emily’s eyes filled with angry tears.

  “Rodrigue — to me? To your old institutrice?”

  “Yes, Miss Emily.” He bent down and gave her a kiss: the first he had ever ventured upon. “To my old institutrice,” he said. “I shall set a great strapping policewoman over you, and if that doesn’t answer, I shall lock you up, Miss Emily.”

  Miss Emily dabbed her eyes.

  “Very well,” she said. “I don’t believe you, of course, but very well.”

  Alleyn put on his shoes.

  “Where are you staying?” she asked.

  “Coombe’s giving me a bed. The pubs are full. I must go. It’s seven o’clock.”

  “You will dine with me, perhaps?”

  “I don’t think—” He stopped. “On second thoughts,” he said, “I should be delighted. Thank you very much.”

  “Are you going to ‘taste’ my wine?” she asked, ironically.

  “And I might do that, too,” he said.

  He left her at nine.

  She had settled for the eleven o’clock train from Dunlowman in the morning. He had arranged to book a seat for her and drive her to the station. He had also telephoned her bonne-à-tout-faire, as she called the pugnacious cockney who, in spite of Miss Emily’s newly acquired riches, served her still. He saw that the outside doors to her apartment could be locked, and made certain that, on his departure, she would lock them. He bade her good night and went downstairs, wondering how big a fuss he might be making over nothing in particular.

  Major Barrimore was in the office, smelling very strongly of whisky, smoking a large cigar and poring uncertainly over a copy of the Racing Supplement. Alleyn approached him.

  “Major Barrimore? Miss Pride has asked me to tell you she will be leaving at ten in the morning and would like coffee and toast in her room at eight o’clock.”

  “Would she, by God!” said the Major thickly and appeared to pull himself together. “Sorry,” he said. “Yes, of course. I’ll lay it on.”

  “Thank you.”

  Alleyn had turned away when the Major, slurring his words a little but evidently under a tight rein, said: “Afraid the lady hasn’t altogether enjoyed her visit.”

  “No?”

  “No. Afraid not. But if she’s been…” He swayed very slightly and leaned on the desk. “Hope she hasn’t been giving us a bad chit,” he said. “Dunno who I’m talking to, a’course. Have the advantage of me, there.”

  “I’m a police officer,” Alleyn said. “Superintendent Alleyn, C.I.D.”

  “Good God! She’s called in the Yard!”

  “No. I’m an old friend of Miss Pride’s. The visit was unofficial.”

  Major Barrimore leaned across the desk with an uncertain leer. “I say,” he said, “what is all this? You’re no damned copper, old boy. You can’t gemme t’ b’lieve that. I know my drill. ’F you ask me — more like a bloody guardee. What?”

  Patrick and Jenny came into the hall from the old house.

  “I think I’ll just run up, first, and see how Miss Pride is,” Jenny was saying.

  “Must you?”

  “She’s all right,” Major Barrimore said loudly. “She’s under police protection. Ask this man. M’ I introduce Miss Jenny Williams and my stepson? Superintendent — or so he tells me — Sorry, I forget your name, sir.”

  “Alleyn.”

  They murmured at each other. Patrick said to his stepfather: “I’ll take the office if you’d like to knock off.”

  “The clerk fellah’s on in ten minutes. What d’you mean? I’m all right.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Alleyn said to Jenny: “Miss Pride was thinking about a bath and bed when I left her.”

  “She’s going. In the morning,” said the Major, and laughed.

  “Going!” Jenny and Patrick exclaimed together. “Miss Pride?”

  “Yes,” Alleyn said. “It seems a sensible move…I wonder if you can tell me whether the causeway’s negotiable, and if not, whether there’ll be a ferryman on tap.”

  “It’ll be negotiable,” Patrick said, “but not very pleasant. Jenny and I are going down. We’ll row you across, sir. It won’t take ten minutes.”

  “That’s very civil of you. Are you sure?”

  “Perfectly. We’d thought of taking the boat out anyway.”

  “Then in that case—” Alleyn turned to Major Barrimore. “Good night, sir.”

  “G’night,” he said. When they had moved away he called after Alleyn:
“If you put her up to it, you’ve done us a damn’ good turn. Have a drink on it, won’t you?”

  “Thank you very much, but I really must be off. Good night.”

  They went out of doors. The sky had cleared and was alive with stars. The air was rain-washed and fresh.

  As they walked down the steps Patrick said abruptly: “I’m afraid my stepfather was not exactly in his best form.”

  “No doubt he’s been rather highly tried.”

  “No doubt,” said Patrick shortly.

  “You were at the Festival, weren’t you?” Jenny asked. “With Mr. Coombe?”

  “I was, yes.”

  “You don’t have to be polite about it,” Patrick said. “The burning question is whether it was as funny as it was embarrassing. I can’t really make up my mind.”

  “I suppose it depends upon how far one’s sympathies were engaged.”

  They had reached the halfway bench. Alleyn halted for a moment and glanced up the dark slope above it.

  “Yes,” Jenny said. “That was where she was.”

  “You arrived on the scene, I think, didn’t you? Miss Emily said you were a great help. What did happen exactly?”

  Jenny told him how she had come down the steps, heard the patter of stones, Miss Emily’s cry, and a high-pitched laugh. She described how she found Miss Emily with the cut on her neck. “Very much shaken,” said Jenny, “but full of fight.”

  “A high-pitched laugh?” Alleyn repeated.

  “Well, really more of a sort of squawk, like—” Jenny stopped short. “Just an odd sort of noise,” she said.

  “Like Wally Trehern, for instance?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He gave a sort of squawk this afternoon when that regrettable Green Lady appeared.”

  “Did he?”

  “You taught him at school, didn’t you?”

  “How very well informed you are, Mr. Alleyn,” said Patrick airily.

  “Coombe happened to mention it.”

  “Look,” Jenny said, “your visit isn’t really unofficial, is it?”

  “To tell you the truth,” Alleyn said, “I’m damned if I know…Shall we move on?”

  On the way across, Jenny said she supposed Alleyn must be worried on Miss Pride’s account and he rejoined cheerfully that he was worried to hell. After all, he said, one didn’t exactly relish one’s favourite old girl being used as a cockshy. Patrick, involuntarily it seemed, said that she really had rather turned herself into one, hadn’t she? “Sitting on her ledge under that umbrella, you know, and admonishing the pilgrims. It made every one feel so shy.”

  “Did she admonish them?”

  “Well, I understand she said she hoped they’d enjoy a recovery but they oughtn’t to build on it. They found it very off-putting.”

  Jenny said: “Will an effort be made to discover who’s behind all these tricks?”

  “That’s entirely up to Superintendent Coombe.”

  “Matter of protocol?” Patrick suggested.

  “Exactly.”

  The dinghy slid into deep shadow and bumped softly against the jetty. “Well,” Alleyn said. “I’m very much obliged to you both. Good night.”

  “I can’t imagine why it should be so,” Jenny said, “but Miss Pride’s rather turned into my favorite old girl, too.”

  “Isn’t it extraordinary? She doesn’t present any of the classic features. She is not faded or pretty; nor, as far as I’ve noticed, does she smell of lavender. She’s by no means gentle or sweet, and yet she doesn’t exude salty common sense. She is, without a shadow of doubt, a pigheaded, arrogant old thing.” Alleyn rose and steadied himself by the jetty steps. “Do you subscribe to the Wally-gingered-up-by-Miss Cost theory?” he asked.

  “It’s as good as any other,” Patrick said. “I suppose.”

  “There’s only one thing against it,” Jenny said. “I don’t believe Wally would ever deliberately hurt anyone. And he’s a very bad shot.”

  Alleyn stepped ashore.

  “I expect,” said Patrick’s voice quietly from the shadowed boat, “you’ll be relieved to get her away.”

  “Yes,” Alleyn said. “I shall. Good night.”

  As he walked down the jetty he heard the dip of Patrick’s oars and the diminishing murmur of their voices.

  He found Superintendent Coombe’s cottage and his host waiting for him. They had a glass of beer and a talk, and turned in. Alleyn thought he would telephone his wife in the morning — and went fast to sleep.

  He was wakened at seven by a downpour of rain. He got up, bathed and found breakfast in preparation. Mr. Coombe, a widower, did for himself.

  “Bit of a storm again,” he said, “but it’s clearing. You’ll have a pleasant run.”

  He went into his kitchen, whence, presently, the splendid smell of pan-frying bacon arose. Alleyn stood at the parlour window and looked down on a deserted front: gleaming mud flats and the exposed spine of the causeway.

  “Nobody about,” he said.

  “It’s clearing,” Coombe’s voice said later above the sizzle of bacon. “The local people think the weather’s apt to change at low tide. Nothing in it.”

  “It’s flat out, now.”

  “Yes,” Coombe said. “Dead water.”

  And by the time breakfast was over, so was the rain. Alleyn rang up his wife and said he’d be back for dinner. He put his suitcase in his car and, as it was still too early to collect Miss Emily, decided, it being low tide, to walk over the causeway, up Wally’s Way to the spring and thence by footpath back to the hotel. He had an inclination to visit the spring again. Coombe, who intended to fish, said he’d come as far as the Portcarrow village jetty. Alleyn drove there and left him with the car. The return trip, with Miss Emily and her luggage, would be by water.

  When he reached the Island, the bell for nine o’clock service was ringing in Mr. Carstairs’s church, back on the mainland.

  Wally’s Way was littered with evidence of yesterday’s crowds: ice cream wrappers, cigarette cartons, and an occasional bottle. Alleyn wondered whose job it was to clear up.

  It was a steep pull, but he took it at a fair clip and the bell was still ringing when he reached the top.

  He walked towards the enclosure and looked through the netting at the spring.

  On the shelf above it, open, and lying on its side, was a large black umbrella.

  It was one of those moments without time that strike at body and mind together with a single blow. He looked at the welling pool below the shelf. A black shape, half-inflated, pulsed and moved with the action of the spring. Its wet surface glittered in the sun.

  The bell had stopped and a lark sang furiously overhead.

  He had to get through the turnstile.

  The slot machine was enclosed in a wire cage, with a padlock which was open. He had no disk.

  For a second or two, he thought of using a rock, if he could find one, or hurling his weight against the netted door, but he looked at the slot mechanism and, with fingers that might have been handling ice, searched his pockets. A half-crown? No. A florin? As he pushed it down, he saw a printed notice that had been tied to the netting. Warning, it was headed, and it was signed Emily Pride. The florin jammed. He picked up a stone, hit it home and wrenched at the handle. There was a click and he was through and running to the spring.

  She was lying face-down in in the pool, only a few inches below the water, her head almost at the lip of the waterfall.

  Her sparse hair, swept forward, rippled and eddied in the stream. The gash in her scalp had stopped bleeding and gaped flaccidly.

  Before he had moved the body over on its back he knew whose face would be upturned towards his own. It was Elspeth Cost’s.

  V

  Holiday Task

  When he had made certain, beyond all shadow of a doubt, that there was nothing to be done, he ran out of the enclosure and a few yards along the footpath. Down below, by the causeway, he saw Coombe, in bis shirt sleeves, with h
is pipe in his mouth, standing on the end of the village jetty. He looked up, saw Alleyn, waved and then straightened. Alleyn beckoned urgently and signaled that they would meet at the top of the hotel steps. Coombe, seeing him run, himself broke into a lope, back down the jetty and across the causeway. He was breathing hard when he got to the top of the steps. When Alleyn had told him, he swore incredulously.

  “I’ll go into the hotel and get one of those bloody disks,” Alleyn said. “I had to lock the gate, of course. And I’ll have to get a message to Miss Pride. I’ll catch you up. Who’s your Div. Surgeon?”

  “Mayne.”

  “Right.”

  There was no one in the office. He went in, tried the drawers, found the right one, and helped himself to half a dozen disks. He looked at the switchboard, plugged in the connection and lifted the receiver. He noticed, with a kind astonishment, that his hand was unsteady. It seemed an eternity before Miss Emily answered.

  He said: “Miss Emily? Roderick. I’m terribly sorry but there’s been an accident and I’m wanted here. It’s serious. Will it be a great bore if we delay your leaving? I’ll come back later and explain.”

  “By all means,” Miss Emily’s voice said crisply. “I shall adjust. Don’t disarrange yourself on my account!”

  “You admirable woman,” he said and hung up.

  He had just got back on the lawful side of the desk when the hall porter appeared, wiping his mouth. Alleyn said: “Can you get Dr. Mayne quickly? There’s been an accident. D’you know his number?”

  The porter consulted a list and, staring at Alleyn, dialled it.

  “What is it, then?” he asked. “Accident? Dearrr, dearr!”

  While he waited for the call to come through, Alleyn saw that a notice, similar to the one that had been tied to the enclosure, was now displayed in the letter rack. Warning. And signed Emily Pride. He had started to read it when the telephone quacked. The porter established the connection and handed him the receiver.

  Alleyn said: “Dr. Mayne? Speaking? This is a police call. I’m ringing for Superintendent Coombe. Superintendent Alleyn. There’s been a serious accident at the spring. Can you come at once?”