A Wreath for Rivera ra-15

by Ngaio Marsh

  “And now,” Alleyn said, “Mr. Rivera has broken away from the other groups. Where has he gone? Mr. Manx is in the dining-room, his lordship and Mr. Bellairs in the study, the ladies in the drawing-room, and where is Mr. Rivera?”

  He looked round the group of faces with their guarded unwilling expressions until he saw William, and in William’s eye he caught a zealous glint. William, he thought, with any luck read detective magazines and spent his day-dreams sleuthing. “Got an idea?” he asked.

  “Well, sir,” William said, glancing at Spence, “if you’ll excuse me, I think his lordship and Mr. Bellairs have parted company where you’ve got to. I was tidying the hall, sir, and I heard the other gentleman, Mr. Bellairs, come out of the study. I glanced up at the landing, like. And I heard his lordship call out he’d join him in a minute and I saw the gentleman go into the ballroom. I went and got the coffee tray from the drawing-room, sir. The ladies were all there. I put it down on the landing and was going to set the study to rights, when I heard the typewriter in there. His lordship doesn’t like being disturbed when he’s typing, sir, so I took the tray by the staff stairs to the kitchen and after a few minutes came back. And his lordship must have gone into the ballroom while I was downstairs because I could hear him talking very loud to Mr. Bellairs, sir.”

  “What about, do you remember?”

  William glanced again at Spence and said: “Well, sir, it was something about his lordship telling somebody something if Mr. Bellairs didn’t want to. And then there was a terrible loud noise. Drums. And a report like a gun. They all heard it down here in the hall, sir.”

  Alleyn looked at the listening staff. Miss Parker said coldly that his lordship was no doubt practising, as if Lord Pastern were in the habit of loosing firearms indoors and there were nothing at all remarkable in the circumstances. Alleyn felt that both she and Spence were on the edge of giving William a piece of their minds and he hurried on.

  “What did you do next?” he asked William.

  He had been, it appeared, somewhat shattered by the report, but had remembered his duties. “I crossed the landing, sir, thinking I’d get on with the study, but Miss de Suze came out of the drawing-room, And then — well, the murdered gentleman, he came from the dining-room and they met and she said she wanted to speak to him alone and they went into the study.”

  “Sure of that?”

  Yes, it appeared that William was perfectly certain. He had lingered, evidently, at the end of the landing. He even remembered that Miss de Suze had something in her hand. He wasn’t sure what it was. Something bright, it might have been, he said doubtfully. After she and the gentleman had gone into the study and shut the door, Miss Henderson had come out of the drawing-room and gone upstairs.

  Alleyn said: “Now, that’s a great help. You see it corresponds exactly so far with his lordship’s time-table. I’ll just check it over, Fox, if you…”

  Fox took the tip neatly and while Alleyn affected to study Lord Pastern’s notes continued what he liked to call the painless extraction method with William. It must, he said, have been awkward for William. You couldn’t go barging in on a tête-à-tête, could you, and yet a chap liked to get his job done. Life, said Fox, was funny when you came to think of it. Here was this poor young lady happily engaged in conversation with — well, he supposed he wasn’t giving any secrets away if he said with her fiancé, and little did she think that in a couple of hours or so he would be lying dead. Miss Parker and the maids were visibly moved by this. William turned extremely red in the face and shuffled his feet. “She’ll treasure every word of that last talk, I’ll be bound,” said Fox. “Every word of it.” He looked inquiringly at William, who, after a longish pause, blurted out very loudly: “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, Mr. Fox.”

  “That’ll do, Will,” said Spence quietly but Fox’s voice overrode him. “Is that so?” Fox inquired blandly. “You wouldn’t? Why not?”

  “Because,” William announced boldly, “they was at it hammer-and-tongs.”

  “Will!”

  William turned on his superior. “I ought to tell the truth, didn’t I, Mr. Spence? To the police?”

  “You ought to mind your own business,” said Miss Parker with some emphasis and Spence murmured his agreement.

  “All right then,” William said, huffily. “I’m sure I don’t want to push myself in where I’m not welcome.”

  Fox was extremely genial and complimented William on his natural powers of observation and Miss Parker and Spence upon their loyalty and discretion. He suggested, without exactly stating as much and keeping well on the safe side of police procedure, that any statements anybody offered would, by some mysterious alchemy, free all concerned of any breath of suspicion. In a minute or two he had discovered that sharp-eared William, still hovering on the landing, had seen Rivera go into the ballroom and had overheard most of his quarrel with Breezy Bellairs. To this account Spence and Miss Parker raised no objections and it was tolerably obvious that they had already heard it. It became clear that Mademoiselle Hortense was stifling with repressed information. But she had her eye on Alleyn and it was to him that she addressed herself. She had that particular knack, that peculiar talent commanded by so many of her country-women, of making evident, without the slightest emphasis, her awareness of her own attractions and those of the man to whom she was speaking. Alleyn, she seemed to assume, would understand perfectly that she was the confidante of Mademoiselle. Monsieur Dupont, who had remained aloof, now assumed an air of gloomy acquiescence. It was understood, he said, that the relationship between a personal maid and her mistress was one of delicacy and confidence.

  “About l’affaire Rivera…” suggested Fox, doggedly Gallic.

  Hortense lifted her shoulders and rocked her head slightly. She addressed herself to Alleyn. Undoubtedly this Monsieur Rivera had been passionately attached. That was evident. And Mademoiselle had responded, being extremely impressionable. But an engagement? Not precisely. He had urged it. There had been scenes. Reconciliations. Further scenes. But last night! She suddenly executed a complicated and vivid gesture with her right hand as if she wrote something off on the air. And against the unuttered but almost tangible disapproval of the English servants, Hortense, with a darting incisiveness, said: “Last night everything was ended. But irrevocably ended.”

  It appeared that at twenty to ten Hortense was summoned to Lady Pastern’s bedroom, where she prepared her for the road, putting her into a cloak, and adding, Alleyn supposed, some kind of super-gloss to that already immaculate surface. Hortense kept an eye on the time as the car was ordered for ten-thirty and Lady Pastern liked to have leisure. About ten minutes later Miss Henderson had come in with the news that Félicité was extremely excited and wished to make an elaborate change in her toilette. She herself was sent to Félicité’s room.

  “And conceive the scene, Monsieur!” said Hortense, breaking into her native tongue. “The room in complete disarray and Mademoiselle in déshabillé. There must be a completely new toilette, you understand. Everything, from the foundation, is it not? And while I dress her she relates the whole story. With Monsieur Rivera it is as if it had never been. There has been a formidable quarrel. She had dismissed him forever and in the meantime a letter has arrived in romantic circumstances. It is a letter from a journalistic gentleman she has never seen but with whom she has corresponded frequently. He is about to reveal himself. He declares his passionate attachment. Yet secrecy must be observed. And for myself,” Hortense added with conscious rectitude “I would never, never have allowed myself to repeat one syllable of this matter if it had not become my duty to assure Monsieur that as far as Mademoiselle is concerned, she had no further interest in Monsieur Rivera and was happily released from him and that this is not therefore a crime passionel.”

  “I see,” Alleyn said. “Yes, perfectly. It is understood.”

  Hortense gave him a soubrettish glance and a hard smile.

  “And do you know,” he said, “who
this person was? The letter-writer?”

  Félicité, it appeared, had shown her the letter. And as the party was leaving for the Metronome, Hortense had run downstairs with Lady Pastern’s vinaigrette and had seen (with what emotion!) Monsieur Edward Manx wearing a white flower in his coat. All was revealed! And how great, Hortense had reflected as Spence closed the front door on their departure, how overwhelming would be the joy of her ladyship, who had always desired this union! Hortense had been quite unable to conceal her own gratification and had sung for pure joy as she rejoined her colleagues in the servants’ hall. Her colleagues, with the exception of Monsieur Dupont, now cast black glances at her and refrained from comment.

  Alleyn checked over the events related by Hortense and found that they corresponded as nearly as necessary with the group movements suggested by Lord Pastern’s notes. From the nucleus of persons, further individuals had broken away. Manx had been alone in the drawing-room. Lady Pastern had been alone in her room until Hortense arrived. Hortense herself, and William, had cruised about the house and so had Spence. Alleyn was about to lay down his pencil when he remembered Miss Henderson. She had gone to her room earlyish in the evening and had presumably stayed there until after being visited by Félicité she herself reported this incident to Lady Pastern. It was odd, he thought, that he should have forgotten Miss Henderson.

  But there were still a good many threads to be caught up and introduced into the texture. He referred again to Lord Pastern’s notes. At 9:26, the notes declared specifically, Lord Pastern, then in the ballroom, had suddenly recollected the sombrero which he desired to wear in his own number. He had glanced at his watch, perhaps, and taken alarm. The note merely said: “9:26. Self. Ballroom. Sombrero. Search for. All over house. William. Spence. Etc.”

  Questioned on this matter the servants willingly recalled the characteristic hullabaloo that had been raised in this search. It set in immediately after the last event related by William. Félicité and Rivera were in the study, Miss Henderson was on her way upstairs and William himself was hovering on the landing, when Lord Pastern shot out of the ballroom, shouting: “Where’s my sombrero?” In no time the hunt was in full cry. Spence, William and Lord Pastern scattered in various directions. The sombrero was finally discovered by Miss Henderson (she was no doubt the “etc.” of the notes) in a cupboard on the top landing. Lord Pastern appeared with the thing on his head and re-entered the ballroom in triumph. During this uproar, Spence, questing in the hall, had found a letter on the table addressed to Miss de Suze.

  Here the narrative was interrupted by a dignified passage-of-arms between Spence, William and the parlour-maid, Mary. Mr. Spence, William said resentfully, had torn a strip off him for not taking the letter in to Miss Félicité as soon as it came. William had denied knowledge of the letter and had not opened the door to any district messenger. Nor had Mary. Nor had anyone else. Spence obviously considered that someone was lying. Alleyn asked if any of them had seen the envelope. Hortense, needlessly dramatic, cried out that she had tidied an envelope up from the floor of Mademoiselle’s bedroom. Fox held a smothered colloquy about rubbish bins with William, who made an excited exit and returned, flushed with modest triumph, to lay a crushed and stained envelope on the table before Alleyn. Alleyn recognized the eccentricities of Lord Pastern’s typewriter and pocketed the envelope.

  “It’s my belief, Mr. Spence,” William announced boldly, “that there never was a district messenger.”

  Leaving them no time to digest this theory, Alleyn continued with the business of checking Lord Pastern’s time-table. Spence, still very anxious, said that having discovered the letter on the hall table he had come upstairs and taken it into the drawing-room, where he found only his mistress, Miss Wayne, and Mr. Manx, who, he thought, had not long arrived there from the dining-room. On returning to the landing Spence encountered Miss de Suze, coming out of the study, and gave her the letter. Sounds of the sombrero hunt reached him from upstairs. He was about to join it when a cry of triumph from Lord Pastern reassured him, and he returned to the servants’ quarters. He had noticed the time: 9:45.

  “And at that time,” Alleyn said, “Lady Pastern and Miss Wayne are about to leave Mr. Manx alone in the drawing-room and go upstairs. Miss de Suze and Miss Henderson are already in their rooms and Lord Pastern is about to descend, wearing his sombrero. Mr. Bellairs and Mr. Rivera are in the ballroom. We have forty-five minutes to go before the party leaves for the Metronome. What happens next?”

  But he had struck a blank. Apart from Hortense’s previous account of her visits to the ladies upstairs there was little to be learned from the servants. They had kept to their own quarters until, a few minutes before the departure for the Metronome, Spence and William had gone into the hall, assisted the gentlemen into their overcoats, given them their hats and gloves and seen them into their cars.

  “Who,” Alleyn asked, “helped Mr. Rivera into his coat?”

  William had done this.

  “Did you notice anything about him? Anything at all out of the ordinary, however slight?”

  William said sharply: “The gentleman had a — well, a funny ear, sir. Red and bleeding a bit. A cauliflower ear, as you might say.”

  “Had you noticed this earlier in the evening? When you leant over his chair, serving him, at dinner, for instance?”

  “No, sir. It was all right then, sir.”

  “Sure?”

  “Swear to it,” said William crisply.

  “You think carefully, Will, before you make statements,” Spence said uneasily.

  “I know I’m right, Mr. Spence.”

  “How do you imagine he came by this injury?” Alleyn asked. William grinned, pure Cockney. “Well, sir, if you’ll excuse the expression, I’d say somebody had handed the gentleman a fourpenny one.”

  “Who, at a guess?”

  William rejoined promptly: “Seeing he was holding his right hand, tender-like, in his left and seeing the way the murdered gentleman looked at him so fierce, I’d say it was Mr. Edward Manx, sir.”

  Hortense broke into a spate of excited and gratified comment. Monsieur Dupont made a wide, conclusive gesture and exclaimed: “Perfectly! It explains itself!” Mary and Myrtle ejaculated incoherently while Spence and Miss Parker, on a single impulse, rose and shouted awfully: “That WILL DO, William.”

  Alleyn and Fox left them, still greatly excited, and retraced their steps to the downstairs hall.

  “What have we got out of that little party,” Alleyn grunted, “beyond confirmation of old Pastern’s time-table up to half an hour before they all left the house?”

  “Damn all, sir. And what does that teach us?” Fox grumbled. “Only that every man Jack of them was alone at some time or other and might have got hold of the parasol handle, taken it to the study, fixed this silly little stiletto affair in the end with plastic wood and then done Gawd-knows-what. Every man Jack of ’em.”

  “And every woman Jill?”

  “I suppose so. Wait a bit, though.”

  Alleyn gave him the time-table and his own notes. They had moved into the entrance lobby, closing the inner glass doors behind them. “Mull it over in the car,” Alleyn said, “I think there’s a bit more to be got out of it, Fox. Come on.”

  But as Alleyn was about to open the front door Fox gave a sort of grunt and he turned back to see Félicité de Suze on the stairs. She was dressed for the day and in the dim light of the hall looked pale and exhausted. For a moment they stared at each other through the glass panel and then tentatively, uncertainly, she made an incomplete gesture with one hand. Alleyn swore under his breath and re-entered the hall.

  “Do you want to speak to me?” he said. “You’re up very early.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said formally.

  “I think I do want to speak to you.”

  Alleyn nodded to Fox, who re-entered the hall.

  “Alone,” said Félicité.

  “Inspector
Fox is acting with me in this case.”

  She glanced discontentedly at Fox. “All the same…” she said, and then as Alleyn made no answer: “Oh, well!”

  She was on the third step from the foot of the stairs, standing there boldly, aware of the picture she made. “Lisle told me,” she said, “about you and the letter. Getting it from her, I mean. I suppose you take rather a dim view of my sending Lisle to do my dirty work, don’t you?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I was all bouleversée. I know it was rather awful letting her go, but I think in a way she quite enjoyed it.” He noticed that her upper lip was fuller than the under one and that when she smiled it curved richly. “Darling Lisle,” she said, “doesn’t have much fun and she’s so madly interested always in other people’s little flutters.” She watched Alleyn out of the corners of her eyes and added: “We’re all devoted to her.”

  “What do you want to ask me, Miss de Suze?”

  “Please may I have the letter back? Please!”

  “In due course,” he said. “Certainly.”

  “Not now?”

  “I’m afraid not now.”

  “That’s rather a bore,” said Félicité. “I suppose I’d better come clean in a big way.”

  “If it’s relevant to the matter in hand,” Alleyn agreed. “I am only concerned with the death of Mr. Carlos Rivera.”

  She leant back against the bannister, stretching her arms along it and looking downwards, arranging herself for him to look at. “I’d suggest we went somewhere where we could sit down,” she said, “but here seems to be the only place where there’s no lurking minor detective.”

  “Let it be here, then.”

  “You are not,” Félicité said, “making this very easy.”

  “I’m sorry. I shall be glad to hear what you have to say but to tell the truth, there’s a heavy day’s work in front of us.”

  They stood there, disliking each other. Alleyn thought: “She’s going to be one of the tricky ones. She may have nothing to say; I know the signs but I can’t be sure of them.” And Félicité thought: “I didn’t really notice him last night. If he’d known what Carlos was like he’d have despised me. He’s taller than Ned. I’d like him to be on my side thinking how courageous and young and attractive I am. Younger than Lisle, for instance, with two men in love with me. I wonder what sort of women he likes. I suppose I’m frightened.”