Hand in Glove ra-22

by Ngaio Marsh

  Now, here he was, C.I.D. in action, being friendly enough: considerate and impersonal, but she had to face it, quietly panic-striking. She began to see him in headline terms. “Superintendent Alleyn interviews Society Secretary.”

  “Don’t,” Alleyn’s voice said, “go fussing yourself with unnecessary complications. Be as objective as you can and it’ll all pass off very quietly. Where had we got to? Ah, yes. You’ve arrived. You’ve started on your job. You’re assisting at the pre-luncheon-drinks party. This consists of Mr. Cartell; his sister, Miss Constance Cartell; his former wife, the soi-disante Lady Bantling; her present husband, Mr. Bimbo Dodds; her son by her first marriage, Mr. Andrew Bantling; Miss Cartell’s adopted niece or what-not, what’s she called — Miss Mary or Moppett — what?”

  “Ralston, I think.”

  “That’s right. And the Moppett’s boyfriend, Mr. Leonard Leiss. And of course, Mr. Period. So we have the piquant situation of a lady with two husbands, a young man with two stepfathers, and a brother and sister with a courtesy niece. How did the party go?”

  “Not with a swing,” Nicola said.

  “Because of the muddled relationships, would you say?”

  “No. They seem to take those in their stride.”

  “Because of what, then?”

  “Well — Moppett and Leonard, principally. Leonard really is a monster.”

  “What sort? Beatnik? Smart-alec? Bounder? Straight-out cad? Or just plain nasty?”

  “All except the beatnik. He’s as clean as a whistle and smells dreadfully of lilies.”

  “Not Period’s cup of tea. Or, I should have thought, Cartell’s.”

  “Indeed not. He and Moppett were self-invited. Or rather, I think Moppett had bludgeoned poor Miss Cartell into getting them there.”

  “Why ‘poor’?”

  “Did I say ‘poor’?” Nicola exclaimed, surprised at herself. “I suppose because I sort of felt she was vulnerable.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well — she’s one of those clumsy women who sound arrogant but probably hoot and roar their way through life to cover up their shyness. I expect she’s tried to compensate for her loneliness by pouring all her affection into Moppett. What a hope, poor darling!”

  “O wise young judge,” Alleyn murmured and Nicola wondered how much he was laughing at her.

  “Can you remember,” he asked, “any of the conversation?”

  “At lunch it was about Pixie and Miss Cartell saying she was a mongrel and Mr. Cartell turning huffy and about a car Leonard had seen in the local garage — I don’t remember—”

  “We know about the car. What else?”

  “Well: about poor Mr. Period’s favourite thing: family grandeur and blue blood and noblesse oblige. I’m sure he didn’t mean to have digs at Leonard and Moppett, but it came over like that. And then Mr. Cartell told a story about someone who cooked a baptismal record to pretend he was blue-blooded when he wasn’t, and that didn’t exactly ring out like a peal of joybells, although Leonard seemed quite interested. And then there was the Pixie episode and then the cigarette-case thing.” She elaborated on these themes.

  “Plenty of incident throughout. What about the pre-luncheon party? Young Bantling, for instance? How did he fit in? Did he seem to get on quite well with his senior stepfather?”

  Nicola was aware of silence: the silence of Mr. Period’s drawing-room, which had been given over to Alleyn. There was the alleged Cotman water colour in its brown paper wrappings. There were the unexceptionable chairs and curtains. Outside the windows was the drive, down which Andrew had walked so angrily, swinging his hat. And upstairs, somewhere, was dead Mr. Cartell’s room, where Andrew’s voice had shouted yesterday morning.

  “What’s the matter?” Alleyn said.

  “Nothing. He didn’t stay for lunch. He lunched at Baynesholme.”

  “But he came here, with you, from the station, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “And stayed here until his mother and her husband called for him?”

  “Yes. At least—”

  “Yes?”

  “He went out for a bit. I saw him go down the drive.”

  “What did he do while he was here?”

  “I think he saw Mr. Cartell. Mr. Cartell’s his guardian and a trustee for his inheritance as well as his stepfather. And Mr. Period’s the other trustee.”

  “Did you gather that it was a business call?”

  “Something of the sort. He talked to both of them.”

  “About what, do you know?”

  Could Nicola hear or did she only feel, the thud of her heart?

  “Do you know?” Alleyn repeated.

  “Only roughly. He’d tell you himself.”

  “You think he would?”

  “Why not?”

  “He told you about it?”

  “A bit. But it was — it was sort of confidential. In a way.”

  “Why are you frightened, Nicola?” Alleyn asked gently.

  “I’m not. It’s just that…well, the whole thing’s rather a facer. What’s happened, I suppose I’ve got a bit of a delayed shock or something.”

  “Yes,” Alleyn said. “It might, of course, be that.”

  He rose and looked down at her from his immoderate height. “As my maiden aunt said to her cat: ‘I can accept the urge and I can deal with the outcome: what I cannot endure are these pointless preliminaries!’ She ought to have been in the C.I.D.”

  “What am I supposed to make of that?”

  “Don’t have kittens before they’re hatched. And for pity’s sake don’t hedge or shuffle: that never did anybody any good. Least of all your young man.”

  “He is not my young man. I only met him yesterday.”

  “Even so quickly may one catch the plague. Did you stay here last night?”

  “No. I was at Baynesholme for a party.”

  “Not Désirée Bantling’s party!” Alleyn ejaculated.

  “Yes, but it wasn’t the sort you mean. It was a lovely party,” said Nicola, looking mistily at him. She described it.

  “Any unforeseen incidents?”

  “Only Moppett and Leonard, who practically gatecrashed. And Pixie, of course.”

  “What? What about Pixie?”

  Nicola told him. “Pixie,” she added, “bit Bimbo. He had to go and have his hand bandaged.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Alleyn asked, “know what time it was when Pixie staged this show?”

  “Yes, I would,” Nicola said promptly and blushed. “It was a little after one o’clock.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We got back at half-past twelve from the treasure hunt. It was not much more than half an hour after that.”

  “We?”

  “Andrew and I. We hunted in pairs.”

  “I thought you said you all had to be in by midnight?”

  “All right. Yes, we were meant to. But Andrew thought the treasure hunt was pretty tiresome, so we talked instead. He told me about his painting and somehow we didn’t notice.”

  Nicola looked squarely at Alleyn. “It couldn’t matter less,” she said, “but I would like to mention that I did not have a casual affair with Andrew. We talked — and talked …”

  Her voice faded on an indeterminate note. She was back at the end of Mr. Period’s lane, in Andrew’s draughty car, tucked up in Andrew’s old duffel coat that smelt of paint. The tips of their cigarettes glowed and waned. Every now and then a treasure hunter’s car would go hooting past and they would see the occupants get out and poke about the drainpipes and heaps of spoil, flicking their torches and giggling. And Andrew talked — and didn’t initiate any of the usual driver’s seat techniques but was nevertheless very close to her. And the moon had gone down and the stars were bright and everything in the world seemed brand-new and shining. She gave Alleyn the factual details of this experience.

  “Do you remember,” he asked, “how many cars stopped by the drain or who any of the people were?”
/>
  “Not really. They were all new to me: lots of Nigels and Michaels and Sarahs and Davids and Gileses.”

  “You could see them fairly clearly?”

  “Fairly. There was a hurricane lantern shining on two planks across the ditch and they all had torches.”

  “Any of them walk across the planks?”

  “I think most of them. But the clue was under one of the drainpipes on the road side of the ditch. We’d see them find it and giggle over it and put it back and then go zooming off.”

  “Anyone touch the planks? Look under the ends for the clue?”

  “I don’t think so.” Nicola hesitated and then said: “I remember Leonard and Moppett. They were the last, and they hadn’t got a torch. He crossed the plank and stooped over as if he was looking in the ditch. I got the impression that they stared at us. There was something, I don’t know what, kind of furtive about him. I can see him now,” Nicola said, surprised at the vivid memory. “I think he had his hand inside his overcoat. The lamplight was on him. He turned his back to us. He stooped and straightened up. Then he recrossed the bridge and found the clue. They looked at it by the light of the lantern and he put it back and they drove away.”

  “Was he wearing gloves?”

  “Yes, he was. Light-coloured ones. Tight-fitting, wash leather, I should think: a bit too svelte — like everything else about Leonard.”

  “Anything more?”

  “No. At least — well, they didn’t sort of talk and laugh like the others. I don’t suppose any of this matters.”

  “Don’t you, indeed? And then, you good, observant child?”

  “Well, Andrew said: ‘Funny how ghastly they look even at this distance!’ And I said: ‘Like—’ No, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Like what?”

  “ ‘Like Grand Opera assassins’ was what I said, but it was a silly remark. Actually, they looked more like sneak thieves, but I can’t tell you why. It’s nothing.”

  “And then?”

  “Well, they were the last couple. You see, Andrew kept count, vaguely, because he thought it would be all right to continue our conversation as long as there were still hunters to come. But, before them, Lady Bantling and Mr. Period came past. She was driving him home. She stopped the car by the planks and I fancy she called out to a hunting couple that were just leaving. Mr. Period got out and said good night with his hat off, looking rather touching, poor sweet, and crossed the planks and went in by his side gate. And she turned the car.” Nicola stopped.

  “What is it?”

  “Well, you see, I–I don’t want—”

  “All right. Don’t bother to tell me. You’re afraid of putting ideas into my head. How can I persuade you, Nicola, that it’s only by a process of elimination that I can get anywhere with this case? Incidents that look as fishy as hell to you may well turn out to be the means of clearing the very character you’re fussing about.”

  “May they?”

  “Now, look here. An old boy of, as far as we know, exemplary character, has been brutally and cunningly murdered. You think you can’t bring yourself to say anything that might lead to an arrest and its possible consequences. I understand and sympathize. But, my poor girl, will you consider for a moment the possible consequences of withholding information? They can be disastrous. They have led to terrible miscarriages of justice. You see, Nicola, the beastly truth is that if you are involved, however accidentally, in a crime of this sort, you can’t avoid responsibility.”

  “I’m sorry. I suppose you’re right. But in this instance — about Lady Bantling, I mean — it’s nothing. It’ll sound disproportionate.”

  “So will lots of other things that turn out to be of no consequence. Come on. What happened? What did she do?”

  Nicola, it transpired, had a gift for reportage. She gave a clear account of what had happened. Alleyn could see the car turn in the lane and stop. After a pause the driver got out, her flaming hair haloed momentarily in the light of the lantern as she crossed the planks, walking carefully in her high heels. She had gone through Mr. Period’s garden gate and disappeared. There had been a light in an upper window. Andrew Bantling had said: “Hullo, what’s my incalculable mama up to?” They had heard quite distinctly the spatter of pebbles against the upper window. A figure in a dark gown had opened it, “Great grief!” Andrew had ejaculated. “That’s Harold! She’s doing a balcony scene in reverse! She must be tight.”

  And indeed, Lady Bantling had, surprisingly, quoted from the play. “What light,” she had shouted, “from yonder window breaks?” and Mr. Cartell had replied irritably, “Good God, Désirée, what are you doing down there?”

  Her next remark was in a lower tone and they had only caught the word “warpath,” to which he had rejoined: “Utter nonsense!”

  “And then,” Nicola told Alleyn, “another light popped up and another window opened and Mr. Period looked out. It was like a Punch-and-Judy show. He said something rather plaintive that sounded like: ‘Is anything the matter?’ and Lady Bantling shouted: ‘Not a thing, go to bed, darling,’ and he said: ‘Well, really! How odd!’ and pulled down his blind. And then Mr. Cartell said something inaudible and Lady Bantling quite yelled: ‘Ha! Ha! You jolly well watch your step!’ And then he pulled his blind down and we saw her come out, cross the ditch, and get into the car. She drove past us and leant out of the driving window and said: ‘That was a tuppeny one. Don’t be too late, darlings!’ and went on. And Andrew said he wished he knew what the hell she was up to and soon after that we went back to the party. Leonard and Moppett had arrived.”

  “Was Désirée Bantling, in fact, tight?”

  “It’s hard to say. She was perfectly in order afterwards and acted with the greatest expedition, I must say, in the Pixie affair. She’s obviously,” Nicola said, “a law unto herself.”

  “I believe you. You’ve drifted into rather exotic and dubious waters, haven’t you?”

  “It was all right,” Nicola said quickly. “And Andrew’s not a bit exotic or dubious. He’s a quiet character. Honestly. You’ll see.”

  “Yes,” Alleyn said. “I’ll see. Thank you, Nicola.” Upon which the door of Mr. Period’s drawing-room burst open and Andrew, scarlet in the face, stormed in.

  “Look here!” he shouted. “What the hell goes on? Are you grilling my girl?”

  Alleyn, with one eyebrow cocked at Nicola, was crisp with Andrew. Nicola herself, struggling between exasperation and a maddening tendency to giggle, invited Andrew not to be an ass and he calmed down and presently apologized.

  “I’m inclined to be quick-tempered,” he said with an air of self-discovery and an anxious glance at Nicola.

  She cast her eyes up and, on Alleyn’s suggestion, left Andrew with him and went to the study. There she found Mr. Period in a dreadful state of perturbation, writing a letter.

  “About poor old Hal,” he explained distractedly. “To his partner. One scarcely knows what to say.”

  He implored Nicola to stay, and as she still had a mass of unassembled notes to attend to, she set to work on them in a strange condition of emotional uncertainty.

  Alleyn had little difficulty with Andrew Bantling. He readily outlined his own problems, telling Alleyn about the Grantham Gallery and how Mr. Cartell had refused to let him anticipate his inheritance. He also confirmed Nicola’s account of their vigil in the car. “You don’t,” he said, “want to take any notice of my mama. She was probably a thought high. It would amuse her to bait Harold. She always does that sort of thing.”

  “She was annoyed with him, I take it?”

  “Well, of course she was. Livid. We both were.”

  “Mr. Bantling,” Alleyn said, “your stepfather has been murdered.”

  “So I feared,” Andrew rejoined. “Beastly, isn’t it? I can’t get used to the idea at all.”

  “A trap was laid for him and when, literally, he fell into it, his murderer lowered an eight-hundred-pound drainpipe on him. It crushed his skull and drove him, fa
ce down, into the mud.”

  The colour drained out of Andrew’s cheeks. “All right,” he said. “You needn’t go on. It’s loathsome. It’s too grotesque to think about.”

  “I’m afraid we have to think about it. That’s all for the moment. Thank you.”

  “Well, yes, All right, I see. Thank you.” Andrew fidgeted with his tie and then said: “Look: I daresay you think I’m being pretty callous about all this, but the fact is I just can’t assimilate it. It’s so unreal and beastly.”

  “Murder is beastly. Unfortunately, it’s not unreal.”

  “So it seems. Is it in order for me to go up to London? I’m meant to be on guard tomorrow. As a matter of fact I had thought of going up on business.”

  “Important business?”

  “Well — to me. I wanted to ask them to give me a few days’ grace over the Gallery.” He stared at Alleyn. “I suppose this will make a difference,” he said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “And now you have thought of it…?”

  “I don’t know,” Andrew said slowly. “It seems a bit low to think of it at all. I’d like to talk it over with Nicola. As a matter of fact—” He looked sideways at Alleyn. “I rather thought of coming back and then going up with her. After I’ve telephoned my mama, I suppose. I can’t imagine what she’ll make of all this, I must say.”

  “Where are you going to be on guard?”

  “The Tower,” Andrew said dismally.

  “All right. We’ll get in touch if we want you.”

  Leaving Andrew where he was, Alleyn had a discussion with Fox and Williams in Mr. Period’s garden, and checked the story of the cigarette case with Alfred. Then he crossed the Green to interview Miss Cartell.

  She received him in her den. He found it a depressing room. Everything seemed to be the colour of mud.…Faded snapshots of meets, of foxhounds and of other canines covered the walls. On the desk, which was a shambles, were several framed photographs of a cagey-looking girl whom he supposed to be Moppett. The room smelt of dog, damp tweed and raw liver, this last being explained by a dish labeled Fido in which a Pekingese was noisily snuffling. It broke off to bare its needlelike teeth at Alleyn and make the noise of a toy kettledrum.