by Ngaio Marsh
“At the spring?”
“Yes. You’ll need an ambulance.”
“What is it?”
“Asphyxia following cranial injury.”
“Fatal?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Thank you.”
He hung up. The porter was agog. Alleyn produced a ten-shilling note. “Look here,” he said, “can you keep quiet about this? I don’t want people to collect. Be a good chap, will you, and get Sergeant Pender on the telephone. Ask him to come to the spring. Say the message is from Mr. Coombe. Will you do that? And don’t talk.”
He slid the note across the desk and left.
As he returned by the footpath, he saw a car drive along the foreshore to the causeway. A man with a black bag in his hand got out.
Coombe, waiting by the gate, was peering into the enclosure.
“I may have broken the slot machine,” Alleyn said. But it worked, and they went through.
He had dragged the body to the verge of the pool and masked it, as well as he could, by the open umbrella.
Coombe said: “Be damned, when I saw that brolly, if I didn’t think I’d misheard you and it was the other old — Miss Pride.”
“I know.”
“How long ago, d’you reckon?”
“I should have thought about an hour. We’ll see what the Doctor thinks. He’s on his way. Look at this, Coombe.”
The neck was rigid. He had to raise the body by the shoulders before exposing the back of the head.
“Well, well,” said Coombe. “Just fancy that, now. Knocked out, fell forward into the pool and drowned. That the story?”
“Looks like it, doesn’t it? And, see here.”
Alleyn lifted a fold of the dripping skirt. He exposed Miss Cost’s right hand, bleached and wrinkled. It was rigidly clenched about a long string of glittering beads.
“Cor!” said Coombe.
“The place is one solid water of footprints, but I think you can pick hers: leading up to the shelf. The girl dropped the beads yesterday from above, I remember. They dangled over this ledge, half in the pool. In the stampede, nobody rescued them.”
“And she came back? To fetch them?”
“It’s a possibility, wouldn’t you think? There’s her handbag on the shelf.”
Coombe opened it. “Prayerbook and purse,” he said.
“When’s the first service?”
“Seven, I think.”
“There’s another at nine. She was either going to church, or had been there. That puts it at somewhere before seven for the first service, or round about 8:15 if she had attended it, or was going to the later one. When did it stop raining? About 8:30, I think. If those are her prints, they’ve been rained into, and she’d got her umbrella open. Take a look at it.”
There was a ragged split in the wet cover, which was old and partly perished. Alleyn displayed the inside. It was stained round the split, and not with rain water. He pointed a long finger. “That’s one of her hairs,” he said. “There was a piece of rock in the pool. I fished it out and left it on the ledge. It looked as if it hadn’t been there long, and I think you’ll find it fits.”
He fetched it and put it down by the body. “Any visual traces have been washed away,” he said. “You’ll want to keep these exhibits intact, won’t you?”
“You bet I will,” said Coombe.
There was a sound of footsteps and a metallic rattle. They turned and saw Dr. Mayne letting himself in at the turnstile. Coombe went down to meet him.
“What’s it all about?” he asked. “ ’Morning, Coombe.”
“See for yourself, Doctor.”
They joined Alleyn, who was introduced. “Mr. Alleyn made the discovery,” said Coombe and added: “Rather a coincidence.”
Dr. Mayne, looking startled, said: “Very much so.”
Alleyn said: “I’m on a visit. Quite unofficial. Coombe’s your man.”
“I wondered if you’d been produced out of a hat,” said Dr. Mayne. He looked towards the spring. The umbrella, still open, masked the upper part of the body. “Good God!” he ejaculated. “So it has happened, after all!”
Coombe caught Alleyn’s eye and said nothing. He moved quickly to the body and exposed the face. Dr. Mayne stood stock-still. “Cost!” he said. “Old Cost! Never!”
“That’s right, Doctor.”
Dr. Mayne wasted no more words. He made his examination. Miss Cost’s eyes were half-open and so was her mouth. There were flecks of foam about the lips and the tongue was clenched between the teeth. Alleyn had never become completely accustomed to murder. This grotesque shell, seconds before its destruction, had been the proper and appropriate expression of a living woman. Whether here, singly, or multiplied to the monstrous litter of a battlefield, or strewn idiotically about the wake of a nuclear explosion or dangling with a white cap over a cyanosed, tongue-protruding mask — the destruction of one human being by another was the unique offense. It was the final outrage.
Dr. Mayne lowered the stiffened body on its back. He looked up at Alleyn. “Where was she?”
“Face down and half-submerged. I got her out in case there was a chance, but obviously there was none.”
“Any signs of rigour?”
“Yes.”
“It’s well on its way, now,” said Dr. Mayne.
“There’s the back of the head, Doctor,” said Coombe. “There’s that too.”
Dr. Mayne turned the body and looked closely at the head. “Where’s the instrument?” he asked. “Found it?”
Alleyn said: “I think so.”
Dr. Mayne glanced at him. “May I see it?”
Alleyn gave it to him. It was an irregular, jagged piece of rock about the size of a pineapple. Dr. Mayne turned it in his hands and stooped over the head. “Fits,” he said.
“What’s the verdict, then, Doctor?” Coombe asked.
“There’ll have to be a p.m., of course. On the face of it: Stunned and drowned.” He looked at Alleyn. “Or, as you would say, Asphyxia following cranial injury.”
“I was attempting to fox the hotel porter.”
“I see. Good idea.”
“And when would it have taken place?” Coombe insisted.
“Again, you’ll have to wait before you get a definite answer to that one. Not less than an hour ago, I’d have thought. Possibly, much longer.”
He stood up and wiped his hands on his handkerchief. “Do you know,” he said, “I saw her. I saw her — it must have been about seven o’clock. Outside the church, with Mrs. Carstairs. She was going in to early service. I’d got a confinement on the Island, and was walking down to the foreshore. Good Lord!” said Dr. Mayne. “I saw her!”
“That’s a help, Doctor,” said Coombe. “We were wondering about church. Now, that means she couldn’t have got over here until eight at the earliest, wouldn’t you say?”
“I should say so. Certainly. Rather later, if anything.”
“And Mr. Alleyn found her after nine. I suppose you didn’t notice anyone about the cottages or anything of the sort, Doctor?”
“Not a soul. It was pouring heavens-hard…Wait a moment, though.”
“Yes?”
He turned to Alleyn. “I’ve got my own launch and jetty, and there’s another jetty straight opposite on the foreshore by the cottages. I took the launch across. Well, the baby being duly delivered. I returned by the same means and I do remember that when I’d started up the engine and cast off I saw that fantastic kid — Wally Trehern — dodging about on the road up to the spring.”
“Did you watch him?” Coombe asked.
“Good Lord, no. I turned the launch and had my back to the Island.”
“When would that be, now, Doctor?”
“The child was born at 7:30. Soon after that.”
“Yes. Well. Thanks,” said Coombe, glancing rather selfconsciously at Alleyn. “Now: any ideas about how it happened?”
“On what’s before us, I’d say that if this
bit of rock is the instrument, it struck the head from above. Wait a minute.”
He climbed to the higher level above the shelf, and Coombe followed him.
Alleyn was keeping a tight rein on himself. It was Coombe’s case, and Alleyn was a sort of accident on the scene. He thought of Patrick Ferrier’s ironical remark: “Matter of protocol”—and silently watched the two men as they scrambled up through bracken to the top level.
Dr. Mayne said: “There are rocks lying about up here. And, yes… But this is your pigeon, Coombe. You’d better take a look.”
Coombe joined him.
“There’s where it came from,” said Mayne, “behind the boulder. You can see where it was prized up.”
Coombe at last said, “We’d better keep off the area, Doctor.” He looked down at Alleyn: “It’s clear enough.”
“Any prints?”
“A real mess. People from above must have swarmed all over it when the rain came. Pity.”
“Yes,” Alleyn said. “Pity.”
The other two men came down.
“Well,” Dr. Mayne said. “That’s that. The ambulance should be here by now. Glad you suggested it. We’ll have to get her across. How’s the tide?” He went through the exit gate and along the footpath to a point from where he could see the causeway.
Alleyn said to Coombe: “I asked the porter to get on the line to Pender, and say you’d want him. I hope that was in order.”
“Thanks very much.”
“I suppose you’ll need a statement from me, won’t you?”
Coombe scraped his jaw. “Sounds silly, doesn’t it?” he said. “Well, yes, I suppose I will.” He had been looking sideways at Alleyn, off and on, for some time.
“Look,” he said abruptly. “There’s one thing that’s pretty obvious about this affair, isn’t there? Here’s a case where a Yard man with a top reputation is first on the scene and, you might say, starts up the investigation. Look at it what way you like, it’d be pretty silly if I just said ‘Thanks, chum’ and let it go at that. Wouldn’t it now? I don’t mind admitting I felt it was silly, just now, with you standing by, tactful as you please and leaving it all to me.”
“Absolute rot,” Alleyn said. “Come off it.”
“No, I mean it. And, anyway,” Coombe added on a different note, “I haven’t got the staff.” It was a familiar plaint.
“My dear chap,” Alleyn said, “I’m meant to be on what’s laughingly called a holiday. Take a statement, for pity’s sake, and let me off. I’ll remove Miss Pride and leave you with a fair field. You’ll do well. ‘Coombe’s Big Case’ ”… He knew, of course, that this would be no good.
“You’ll remove Miss Pride, eh?” said Coombe. “And what say Miss Pride’s the key figure still? You know what I’m driving at. It’s sticking out a mile. Say I’m hiding up there behind that boulder. Say I hear someone directly below and take a look-see. Say I see the top of an open umbrella and a pair of female feet, which is what I’ve been waiting for. Who do I reckon’s under that umbrella? Not Miss Elspeth Cost. Not her. Oh, dear me no!” said Coombe in a sort of gloomy triumph. “I say: ‘That’s the job,’ and I bloody well let fly! But I bring down the wrong bird. I get—”
“All right, all right,” Alleyn said, exasperated by the long buildup. “And you say: ‘Absurd mistake. Silly old me! I thought you were Miss Emily Pride.’ ”
The upshot, as he very well knew it would be, was an understanding that Coombe would get in touch with his Chief Constable, and then with the Yard.
Coombe insisted on telling Dr. Mayne that he hoped Alleyn would take charge of the case. The ambulance men arrived with Pender, and for the second time in twenty-four hours Miss Cost went in procession along Wally’s Way.
Alleyn and Coombe stayed behind to look over the territory again. Coombe had a spring tape in his pocket and they took preliminary measurements and decided to get the area covered in case of rain. He showed Alleyn where the trip wire had been laid: through dense bracken on the way up to the shelf.
Pender had caught a glint of it in the sunshine and had been sharp enough to investigate.
They completed their arrangements. The handbag, the string of beads and the umbrella to be dropped at the police station by Pender, who was then to return with extra help if he could get it. The piece of rock would be sent with the body to the nearest mortuary at Dunlowman. Alleyn wanted a pathologist’s report on it as a possible weapon.
When they were outside the gates, Alleyn drew Coombe’s attention to the new notice, tied securely to the wire netting.
“Did you see this?”
It had been printed by a London firm.
Warning
Notice is given that the owner of this property wishes to disassociate herself from any claims that have been made, in any manner whatsoever, for the curative properties of the spring. She gives further notice that the present enclosure is to be removed. Any proceedings of any nature whatsoever that are designed to publicize the above claims will be discontinued. The property will be restored, as far as possible, to conditions that obtained two years ago, and steps will be taken to maintain it in a decent and orderly condition.
(Signed) Emily Pride
“When the hell was this put up?” Coombe ejaculated. “It wasn’t here yesterday; there’d have been no end of a taking-on.”
“Perhaps this morning. It’s been rained on. More than that — it’s muddied. As if it had lain face-downwards on the ground Look. Glove marks. No fingerprints, though.”
“P’raps she dropped it.”
“Perhaps,” Alleyn said. “There’s another on display in the hotel letter-rack. It wasn’t there last night”
“Put them there herself? Miss Pride?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“There you are!” Coombe said excitedly. “She came along the footpath. Somebody spotted her, streaked up Wally’s Way, got in ahead and hid behind the boulder. She hung up her notice and went back to the pub. Miss Cost arrives by the other route, goes in, picks up her beads and Bob’s your uncle.”
“Is he, though?” Alleyn muttered, more to himself than to Coombe. “She promised me she wouldn’t leave the pub. I’ll have to talk to Miss Emily.” He looked at Coombe. “This is going to be tricky,” he said. “If your theory’s the right one, and at this stage it looks healthy enough, do we assume that the stone chucker, wire stretcher, composite letter writer, dumper of Green Lady and telephonist are one and the same person, and that this person is also the murderer of Miss Cost?”
“That’s what I reckon. I know you oughtn’t to get stuck on a theory. I know that. But unless we find something that cuts dead across it…”
“You’ll find that, all right,” Alleyn said. “Miss Pride, you may remember, is convinced that the ringer-up was Miss Cost.”
Coombe thought this over and then said, Well, all right, he knew that, but Miss Pride might be mistaken.
Alleyn said Miss Pride had as sharp a perception for the human voice as was possible for the human ear. “She’s an expert,” he said. “If I wanted an expert witness in phonetics, I’d put Miss Pride in the box.”
“Well, all right, if you tell me so. So where does that get us? Does she reckon Miss Cost was behind all the attacks?”
“I think so.”
“Conspiracy, like?”
“Sort of.”
Coombe stared ahead of him for a moment or two. “So where does that get us?” he repeated.
“For my part,” Alleyn said, “it gets me, rather quicker than I fancy, to Wally Trehern and his papa.”
Coombe said with some satisfaction that this, at any rate, made sense. If Wally had been gingered up to make the attacks, who more likely than Wally to mistake Miss Cost for Miss Pride and drop the rock on the umbrella?
“Could Wally rig a trip wire? You said it was a workman-like job.”
“His old man could,” said Coombe.
“Which certainly makes sense. What about this padlocked cage over the s
lot-machine? Is it ever used?”
Coombe made an exasperated noise. “That was her doing,” he said. “She used to make a great to-do about courting couples. Very hot, she used to get: always lodging complaints and saying we ought to do something about it. Disgusting. Desecration… and all that. Well, what could I do? Put Pender on the job all day and half the night, dodging about the rocks? It couldn’t be avoided, and I told her so. We put this cage over to pacify her.”
“Is it never locked?”
“It’s supposed to be operated by the hotel at eight o’clock, morning and evening. In the summer, that is. But a lot of their customers like to stroll along to the spring of a summer’s evening. Accordingly, it is not kept up very consistently.”
“We’d better get the key. I’ll fix it now,” Alleyn said and snapped the padlock. It was on a short length of chain: not long enough, he noticed, to admit a hand into the cage.
On the way back to the hotel they planned out the rest of the day. Coombe would ring the Yard from the station. Alleyn, in the meantime, would start inquiries at the hotel. They would meet in an hour’s time. It was now half past ten.
They had rounded the first spur along the path and come up with an overhanging outcrop of rock when Alleyn stopped.
“Half a minute,” he said.
“What’s up?”
Alleyn moved to the edge of the path and stooped. He picked something up and walked gingerly round behind the rock. “Come over here,” he called. “Keep wide of those prints, though.”
Coombe looked down and then followed him.
“There’s a bit of shelter, here,” Alleyn said. “Look.”
The footprints were well defined on the soft ground and, in the lee of the outcrop, fairly dry. “Good, well-made boots,” he said. “And I don’t think the owner was here so very long ago. Here’s where he waited; and there, a little gift for the industrious officer, Coombe, is his cigar ash.” He opened his hand. A scarlet paper ring lay on the palm. “Very good make,” he said. “The Major smokes them. Sells them, too, no doubt, so what have you? Come on.”
They continued on their way.
As soon as Alleyn went into the Boy-and-Lobster he realized that wind of the catastrophe was abroad. People stood about in groups with a covert, anxious air. The porter saw him and came forward.
