Scales of Justice ra-18

by Ngaio Marsh

  “That’ll be one of Mr. Phinn’s creatures, no doubt,” said Sergeant Oliphant. “He’s crackers on cats, is Mr. Phinn.”

  “Indeed,” Alleyn said, sniffing at his fingers.

  They emerged in full view of Hammer Farm house with its row of French windows lit behind their curtains.

  “Not,” said the sergeant, “that it’s been a farm or anything like it, for I don’t know how long. The present lady’s had it done up considerable.”

  Skip gave a short bark and darted ahead. One of the curtains was pulled open, and Mark Lacklander came through to the terrace, followed by Rose.

  “Skip?” Rose said. “Skip?”

  He whined and flung himself at her. She sank to her knees crying and holding him in her arms. “Don’t, darling,” Mark said, “don’t. He’s wet and muddy. Don’t.”

  Alleyn, Fox and Sergeant Oliphant had halted. Mark and Rose looked across the lawn and saw them standing in the moonlight with their wet clothes shining and their faces shadowed by their hatbrims. For a moment neither group moved or spoke, and then Alleyn crossed the lawn and came towards them, bareheaded. Rose stood up. The skirts of her linen house-coat were bedabbled with muddy paw marks.

  “Miss Cartarette?” Alleyn said. “We are from the C.I.D. My name is Alleyn.”

  Rose was a well-mannered girl with more than her share of natural dignity. She shook hands with him and introduced him to Mark. Fox was summoned and Sergeant Oliphant eased up the path in an anonymous manner and waited at the end of the terrace.

  “Will you come in?” Rose said, and Mark added, “My grandmother is here, Mr. Alleyn, and my father, who informed the local police.”

  “And Nurse Kettle, I hope?”

  “And Nurse Kettle.”

  “Splendid. Shall we go in, Miss Cartarette?”

  Alleyn and Fox took off their wet mackintoshes and hats and left them on a garden seat.

  Rose led the way through the French window into the drawing-room, where Alleyn found an out-of-drawing conversation piece established. Lady Lacklander, a vast black bulk, completely filled an arm chair. Alleyn noticed that upon one of her remarkably small feet she wore a buckled velvet shoe and upon the other, a man’s bath slipper. Kitty Cartarette was extended on a sofa with one black-velvet leg dangling, a cigarette in her holder, a glass in her hand and an ash tray with butts at her elbow. It was obvious that she had wept, but repairs had been effected in her make-up, and though her hands were still shaky, she was tolerably composed. Between the two oddly assorted women, poised on the hearthrug with a whiskey-and-soda, looking exquisitely uncomfortable and good-looking, was Sir George Lacklander. And at a remove in a small chair perfectly at her ease sat Nurse Kettle, reclaimed from her isolation in the hall.

  “Hullo,” said Lady Lacklander, picking her lorgnette off her bosom and flicking it open. “Good evening to you. You’re Roderick Alleyn, aren’t you? We haven’t met since you left the Foreign Service, and that’s not yesterday nor the day before that. How many years is it? And how’s your mama?”

  “More than I care to remind you of and very well considering,” Alleyn said, taking a hand like a pincushion in his.

  “Considering what? Her age? She’s five years my junior, and there’s nothing but fat amiss with me. Kitty, this is Roderick Alleyn; Mrs. Cartarette. My son George.”

  “Hah-yoo?” George intervened coldly.

  “…and over there is Miss Kettle, our district nurse. Good evening,” Lady Lacklander continued, looking at Fox.

  “Good evening, my lady,” said Fox placidly.

  “Inspector Fox,” Alleyn said.

  “Now, what do you propose to do with us all? Take your time,” she added kindly.

  Alleyn thought to himself, “Not only must I take my time, but I must also take control. This old lady is up to something.”

  He turned to Kitty Cartarette. “I’m sorry,” he said, “to come so hard on the heels of what must have been an appalling shock. I’m afraid that in these cases police enquiries are not the easiest ordeals to put up with. If I may, Mrs. Cartarette, I’ll begin by asking you”… he glanced briefly round the room… “indeed, all of you, if you’ve formed any opinion at all about this affair.”

  There was a pause. He looked at Kitty Cartarette and then steadily, for a moment, at Rose, who was standing at the far end of the room with Mark.

  Kitty said, “Somehow, I can’t sort of get it. It seems so… so unlikely.”

  “And you, Miss Cartarette?”

  “No,” Rose said. “No. It’s unthinkable that anyone who knew him should want to hurt him.”

  George Lacklander cleared his throat. Alleyn glanced at him. “I… ah…” George said, “I… ah… personally believe it must have been some tramp or other. Trespassing or something. There’s nobody in the district, I mean. I mean, it’s quite incredible.”

  “I see,” Alleyn said. “The next point is: do we know of anybody who was near Colonel Cartarette within, let us say, two hours of the time… I believe it was five minutes to nine… when you, Miss Kettle, found him?”

  “Exactly what,” Lady Lacklander said, “do you mean by ‘near’?”

  “Let us say within sight or hearing of him.”

  “I was,” said Lady Lacklander. “I made an appointment with him for eight, which he kept twenty minutes early. Our meeting took place on the river bank opposite the willow grove where I understand he was found.”

  Fox, unobtrusively stationed by the piano, had begun to take notes. Although her back was turned towards him, Lady Lacklander appeared to sense this activity. She shifted massively in her chair and looked at him without comment.

  “Come,” Alleyn said, “that’s a starting point, at least. We’ll return to it later if we may. Does anyone know anything about Colonel Cartarette’s movements after this meeting which lasted… how long do you think, Lady Lacklander?”

  “About ten minutes. I remember looking at my watch after Maurice Cartarette left me. He re-crossed Bottom Bridge, turned left and disappeared behind the willow grove. It was then nine minutes to eight. I packed up my things and left them to be collected and went home. I’d been sketching.”

  “About nine minutes to eight?” Alleyn repeated.

  Kitty said, “I didn’t see him, but… I must have been somewhere near him, I suppose, when I came back from the golf course. I got home at five past eight — I remember.”

  “The golf course?”

  “At Nunspardon,” George Lacklander said. “Mrs. Cartarette and I played a round of golf there this evening.”

  “Ah, yes. The course is above the stream, isn’t it, and on the opposite side of the valley from where we are now?”

  “Yes, but the greater part is over the crest of the hill.”

  “The second tee,” Mark said, “overlooks the valley.”

  “I see. You came home by the bottom bridge, Mrs. Cartarette?”

  “Yes. The river path.”

  “On the far side wouldn’t you overlook the willow grove?”

  Kitty pressed the palms of her hands against her head.

  “Yes, I suppose you would. I don’t think he could have been there. I’m sure I’d have seen him if he had been there. As a matter of fact,” Kitty said, “I wasn’t looking much in that direction. I was looking, actually, at the upper reaches to see…” she glanced at George Lacklander …“well, to see if I could spot Mr. Phinn,” she said.

  In the silence that followed, Alleyn was quite certain that the Lacklander wariness had been screwed up to its highest tension. All three had made slight movements that were instantly checked.

  “Mr. Danberry-Phinn?” Alleyn said. “And did you see him?”

  “Not then. No. He must have either gone home or moved beyond the upper bend.”

  “Fishing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Poaching!” George Lacklander ejaculated. “Yes, by God, poaching!”

  There were subdued ejaculations from Mark and his grandmother.

&nb
sp; “Indeed?” Alleyn asked. “What makes you think so?”

  “We saw him. No, Mama, I insist on saying so. We saw him from the second tee. He rents the upper reaches above the bridge from me, by God, and Maurice Cartarette rents… I’m sorry, Kitty… rented the lower. And there… damndest thing you ever saw… there he was on his own ground on the right bank above the bridge, casting above the bridge and letting the stream carry his cast under the bridge and below it into Cartarette’s waters.”

  Lady Lacklander gave a short bark of laughter. George cast an incredulous and scandalized glance at her. Mark said, “Honestly! How he dared!”

  “Most blackguardly thing I ever saw,” George continued. “Deliberate. And the cast, damme, was carried over that hole above the punt where the Old ’Un lurks. I saw it with my own eyes! Didn’t I, Kitty? Fellow like that deserves no consideration at all. None,” he repeated with a violence that made Alleyn prick up his ears and seemed to rebound (to his embarrassment) upon George himself.

  “When did this nefarious bit of trickery occur?” Alleyn asked.

  “I don’t know when.”

  “When did you begin your round?”

  “At six-thirty. No!” shouted George in a hurry and turning purple. “No! Later. About seven.”

  “It wouldn’t be later than seven-fifteen then, when you reached the second tee?”

  “About then, I daresay.”

  “Would you say so, Mrs. Cartarette?”

  Kitty said, “I should think, about then.”

  “Did Mr. Phinn see you?”

  “Not he. Too damned taken up with his poaching,” said George.

  “Why didn’t you tackle him?” Lady Lacklander enquired.

  “I would have for tuppence, Mama, but Kitty thought better not. We walked away,” George said virtuously, “in disgust.”

  “I saw you walking away,” said Lady Lacklander, “but from where I was, you didn’t look particularly disgusted, George.”

  Kitty opened her mouth and shut it again, and George remained empurpled.

  “Of course,” Alleyn said, “you were sketching, Lady Lacklander, weren’t you? Whereabouts?”

  “In a hollow about the length of this room below the bridge on the left bank.”

  “Near a clump of alders?”

  “You’re a sharpish observant fellow, it appears. Exactly.”

  “Of course,” Alleyn said, “you were sketching.” Lady Lacklander said rather grimly, “through the alders.”

  “But you couldn’t see Mr. Phinn poaching?”

  “I couldn’t,” Lady Lacklander said, “but somebody else could and did.”

  “Who was that, I wonder?”

  “None other,” said Lady Lacklander, “than poor Maurice Cartarette himself. He saw it and the devil of a row they had over it, I may tell you.”

  If the Lacklanders had been a different sort of people, Alleyn thought, they would have more clearly betrayed the emotion that he suspected had visited them all. It was, he felt sure from one or two slight manifestations, one of relief rather than surprise on Mark’s part and of both elements on his father’s. Rose looked troubled and Kitty merely stared. It was, surprisingly, Nurse Kettle who made the first comment.

  “That old fish,” she said. “Such a lot of fuss!”

  Alleyn looked at her and liked what he saw. “I’ll talk to her first,” he thought, “when I get round to solo interviews.”

  He said, “How do you know, Lady Lacklander, that they had this row?”

  “A: because I heard ’em, and B: because Maurice came straight to me when they parted company. That’s how, my dear man.”

  “What happened, exactly?”

  “I gathered that Maurice Cartarette came down intending to try the evening rise when I’d done with him. He came out of his own spinney and saw Occy Phinn up to no good down by the bridge. Maurice crept up behind him. He caught Occy red-handed, having just landed the Old ’Un. They didn’t see me,” Lady Lacklander went on, “because I was down in my hollow on the other bank. Upon my soul, I doubt if they’d have bridled their tongues if they had. They sounded as if they’d come to blows. I heard them tramping about on the bridge. I was debating whether I should rise up like some rather oversized deity and settle them when Occy bawled out that Maurice could have his so-and-so fish and Maurice said he wouldn’t be seen dead with it.” A look of absolute horror appeared for one second in Lady Lacklander’s eyes. It was as if they had all shouted at her, “But he was seen dead with it, you know.” She made a sharp movement with her hands and hurried on. “There was a thump, as if someone had thrown something wet and heavy on the ground. Maurice said he’d make a county business of it, and Occy said if he did, he, Occy, would have Maurice’s dog empounded for chasing his, Occy’s, cats. On that note they parted. Maurice came fuming over the hillock and saw me. Occy, as far as I know, stormed back up the hill to Jacob’s Cottage.”

  “Had Colonel Cartarette got the fish in his hands, then?”

  “Not he. I told you, he refused to touch it. He left it there, on the bridge. I saw it when I went home. For all I know, it’s still lying there on the bridge.”

  “It’s lying by Colonel Cartarette,” Alleyn said, “and the question seems to be, doesn’t it, who put it there?”

  This time the silence was long and completely blank.

  “He must have come back and taken it, after all,” Mark said dubiously.

  “No,” Rose said strongly. They all turned to her. Rose’s face was dimmed with tears and her voice uncertain. Since Alleyn’s arrival she had scarcely spoken, and he wondered if she was so much shocked that she did not even try to listen to them.

  “No?” he said gently.

  “He wouldn’t have done that,” she said. “It’s not at all the sort of thing he’d do.”

  “That’s right,” Kitty agreed. “He wasn’t like that,” and she caught her breath in a sob.

  “I’m sorry,” Mark said at once. “Stupid of me. Of course, you’re right. The Colonel wasn’t like that.”

  Rose gave him a look that told Alleyn as much as he wanted to know about their relationship. “So they’re in love,” he thought. “And unless I’m growing purblind, his father’s got more than half an eye on her stepmother. What a very compact little party, to be sure.”

  He said to Lady Lacklander, “Did you stay there long after he left you?”

  “No. We talked for about ten minutes and then Maurice re-crossed the bridge, as I told you, and disappeared behind the willows on the right bank.”

  “Which way did you go home?”

  “Up through the Home Spinney to Nunspardon.”

  “Could you see into the willow grove at all?”

  “Certainly. When I was half-way up I stopped to pant, and I looked down and there he was, casting into the willow-grove reach.”

  “That would be about eight.”

  “About eight, yes.”

  “I think you said you left your painting gear to be collected, didn’t you?”

  “I did.”

  “Who collected it, please?”

  “One of the servants. William, the footman, probably.”

  “No,” Mark said. “No, Gar. I did.”

  “You?” his grandmother said. “What were you doing…” and stopped short.

  Mark said rapidly that after making a professional call in the village he had gone in to play tennis at Hammer and had stayed there until about ten minutes past eight. He had returned home by the river path and as he approached Bottom Bridge had seen his grandmother’s shooting-stick, stool and painting gear in a deserted group on a hillock. He carried them back to Nunspardon and was just in time to prevent the footman from going down to collect them. Alleyn asked him if he had noticed a large trout lying on Bottom Bridge. Mark said that he hadn’t done so, but at the same moment his grandmother gave one of her short ejaculations.

  “You must have seen it, Mark,” she said. “Great gaping thing lying there where Octavius Phinn must hav
e chucked it down. On the bridge, my dear boy. You must have practically stepped over it.”

  “It wasn’t there,” Mark said. “Sorry, Gar, but it wasn’t, when I went home.”

  “Mrs. Cartarette,” Alleyn said, “you must have crossed Bottom Bridge a few minutes after Lady Lacklander had gone home, mustn’t you?”

  “That’s right,” Kitty said. “We saw her going into the Nunspardon Home Spinney as we came over the hill by the second tee.”

  “And Sir George, then, in his turn, went home through the Home Spinney, and you came down the hill by the river path?”

  “That’s right,” she said drearily.

  “Did you see the fabulous trout lying on Bottom Bridge?”

  “Not a sign of it, I’m afraid.”

  “So that between about ten to eight and ten past eight the trout was removed by somebody and subsequently left in the willow grove. Are you all of the opinion that Colonel Cartarette would have been unlikely to change his mind and go back for it?” Alleyn asked.

  George looked huffy and said he didn’t know, he was sure, and Lady Lacklander said that judging by what Colonel Cartarette had said to her, she was persuaded that wild horses wouldn’t have induced him to touch the trout. Alleyn thought to himself, “If he was disinclined to touch it, still less would he feel like wrapping it up in grass in order to stow it away in his creel, which apparently was what he had been doing when he died.”

  “I suppose there’s no doubt about this fish being the classic Old ’Un?” Alleyn asked.

  “None,” Mark said. “There’s not such another in the Chyne. No question.”

  “By the way, did you look down at the willow grove as you climbed up the hill to the Home Spinney?”

  “I don’t remember doing so. I was hung about with my grandmother’s sketching gear and I didn’t…”