Death in a White Tie ra-7

by Ngaio Marsh

  “I know what you are going to ask me. I have no idea who it is. None. I’ve asked myself over and over again who it could be.”

  “Yes. Now see here, Evelyn, I could get up to all the old tricks, and with any luck I’d probably get a line on this secret of yours. I’d trap you into little admissions and when I got away from here I’d write them all down, add them up, and see what I could make of the answer. Probably there wouldn’t be an answer so we’d begin to dig and dig. Back through those years that have sifted over your trouble and hidden it. And sooner or later we would find something. It would all be very disagreeable and I should hate it and the final result would be exactly the same as if you told me your whole story now.”

  “I can’t. I can’t tell you.”

  “You are thinking of the consequences. Newspaper publicity. Court proceedings. You know it wouldn’t be nearly as bad as you imagine. Your name would probably never appear.”

  “Madame X,” said Lady Carrados with a faint smile, “and everybody in court knowing perfectly well who I was. Oh, it’s not for myself I mind. It’s Bridgie. And Herbert. You’ve met Herbert and you must realize how he’d take a blow of this sort. I can think of nobody who would mind more.”

  “And how is he going to take it if we find out for ourselves? Evelyn, think! You’re one of Bunchy’s friends.”

  “I’m not a revengeful woman.”

  “Good God, it’s not a question of revenge. It’s a question of leaving a blackmailing murderer at large.”

  “You needn’t go on, Roderick. I know quite well what I ought to do.”

  “And I know quite well that you’re going to do it.”

  They looked squarely at each other. Her hands made a gesture of surrender.

  “Very well,” said Lady Carrados. “I give in. How much more dignified it would have been, wouldn’t it, if I had accepted my duty at first?”

  “I had no doubt about what you’d do. It’s quite possible, you know, that your side of the business need never come out. Of course, I can’t promise this, but it is possible we’ll work on your information without putting it in as evidence.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” she said faintly.

  “You’re being ironical,” said Alleyn with a grin, “and that shows you’re not going to mind as much as you feared, or I hope it does. Now then. It’s something about Bridget, isn’t it, and it happened more than fourteen years ago. Bridget’s how old? Seventeen?”

  Lady Carrados nodded.

  “I don’t believe I ever met your first husband, Evelyn. Is Bridget very like him?”

  “Yes. She’s got all Paddy’s gaiety.”

  “My mother told me that. Bridget doesn’t remember him, of course. Ought we to begin with him?”

  “Yes. You needn’t go on being delicate, Roderick. I think you’ve guessed, haven’t you? Paddy and I were not married.”

  “Bless my soul,” said Alleyn, “how very courageous of you, Evelyn.”

  “I think it was now but it didn’t seem so then. Nobody knew. It’s the Jane Eyre theme but I hadn’t Miss Eyre’s moral integrity. Paddy left a wife in an Australian lunatic asylum, came home, and fell in love with me. As you would say in your report, we went through a form of marriage and lived happily and bigamously together. Then Paddy died.”

  “Weren’t you afraid it would come out?”

  “No. Paddy’s wife had no relations.” Lady Carrados waited for a moment. She seemed to be gravely contemplating the story she had decided to relate. When she spoke again it was with composure and even, or so Alleyn fancied, an air of relaxation. He wondered if she had often marshalled the facts in her own mind and rehearsed her story to an imaginary listener. The quiet voice went on sedately: “She was a music-hall comedienne who had been left stranded in a little town in New South Wales. He married her there and took her to Sydney. Six weeks later she became hopelessly insane. He found out that her mother was in a lunatic asylum somewhere in America. Paddy had not told anybody of his marriage and he had not looked up any of his acquaintances in Sydney. When he arranged to have her put away it was under her maiden name. He invested a sum of money, the interest on which was enough to pay the fees and expenses. He left the whole thing in the hands of the only man who knew the truth. He was Anthony Banks, Paddy’s greatest friend, and was absolutely above suspicion, I am sure. He lived in Sydney and helped Paddy all through that time. He held Paddy’s power of attorney. Even he did not know Paddy had remarried. Nobody knew that.”

  “What about the parson who married them?”

  “I remember that Paddy said he was a very old man. The witnesses were his wife and sister. You see, we talked it all over very carefully and Paddy was quite certain there was no possibility of discovery.”

  “There is something more, isn’t there?”

  “Yes. Something that I find much more difficult.” The even voice faltered for a moment. Alleyn saw that she mustered up all her fortitude before she went on. “Five months after we were married he was killed. I had started Bridgie and came up to London to stay with my mother and to see my doctor. Paddy was to motor up from our house at Ripplecote and drive me back. In the morning I had a telegram from him. It said: “The best possible news from Anthony Banks.” On the way the car skidded and crashed into the wall of a bridge. It was in a little village. He was taken into the vicarage and then to the cottage hospital. When I got there he was unconscious and he didn’t know that I was with him when he died.”

  “And the news?”

  “I felt certain that it could only be one thing. His wife must have died. But we could find no letters or cables at all, so he must have destroyed whatever message he had been sent by Anthony Banks. The next thing that happened was that Paddy’s solicitors received five thousand pounds from Australia and a letter from Anthony Banks to say it was forwarded in accordance with Paddy’s instructions. In the meantime I had written to Anthony Banks. I told him of Paddy’s death but wrote as a cousin of Paddy’s. He replied with the usual sort of letter. He didn’t, of course, say anything about Paddy’s wife, but he did say that a letter from him must have reached Paddy just before he died and that if it had been found he would like it to be destroyed unopened. You see, Roderick, Anthony Banks must have been honest because he could have kept that five thousand pounds himself quite easily, when she died. And he didn’t know Paddy had remarried.”

  “Yes, that’s quite true. Are you certain from what you knew of Paddy that he would have destroyed Banks’s letter?”

  “No. I’ve always thought he would have kept it to show me.”

  “Do you think he asked the people in the vicarage or at the hospital to destroy his letters?”

  “They had found his name and address on other letters in his wallet, so it wasn’t that.” For the first time the quiet voice faltered a little. “He only spoke once, they said. He asked for me.”

  “Do you remember the name of the people at the vicarage?”

  “I don’t. I wrote and thanked them for what they had done. It was some very ordinary sort of name.”

  “And the cottage hospital?”

  “It was at Falconbridge in Buckinghamshire. Quite a big hospital. I saw the superintendent doctor. He was an elderly man with a face like a sheep. I think his name was Bletherley. I’m perfectly certain that he was not a blackmailer, Roderick. And the nurses were charming.”

  “Do you think that he could possibly have left the letter in the case, or that it could have dropped out of his pocket?”

  “I simply cannot believe that if he kept it at all it would be anywhere but in his wallet. And I was given the wallet. It was in the breast pocket of his coat. You see, Roderick, it’s not as if I didn’t try to trace the letter. I was desperately anxious to see the message from Anthony Banks. I asked again and again if anything could have been overlooked at the hospital and endless enquiries were made.”

  She stopped for a moment and looked steadily at Alleyn.

  “You can see now,” she
said, “why I would go almost to any length to keep this from Bridget.”

  “Yes,” said Alleyn, “I can see.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Element of Youth

  Alleyn saw Bridget in her old nursery which had been converted into a very human sitting-room. She made him take a large armchair and jiggled a box of cigarettes under his nose.

  “It’s no good being official and pretending you don’t. I can see you do.”

  “Really!” exclaimed Alleyn with a look at his fingers which were not stained with nicotine. “How?”

  “The outline of your case shows through your coat. You should take up detection, Mr Alleyn, it’s too interesting.”

  Alleyn took a cigarette.

  “Got me there,” he said. “Have you yourself any ideas about being a policewoman?” He fingered the outline that showed through his breast-pocket.

  “I suppose one has to begin at the bottom,” said Bridget. “What’s the first duty of a policewoman?”

  “I don’t know. We are not allowed to hang around the girls in the force.”

  “What a shame!” said Bridget. “I won’t join. I should like you to hang round me, Mr Alleyn.”

  Alleyn thought: “She’s being just a bit too deliberately the audacious young charmer. What’s up with her? Young Donald, damn his eyes!”

  He said: “Well, so I must for the moment. I want to talk to you about last night, if I may.”

  “I’m afraid I won’t be much good,” said Bridget. “I hope you find whoever it was. It’s worrying Donna to death, and Bart’s being absolutely lethal over it. Bart’s my stepfather. You’ve met him, haven’t you? All pukka sahib and horsewhips. Is a horsewhip any worse than an ordinary one, do you know?”

  “You knew Lord Robert pretty well, didn’t you?” asked Alleyn.

  “Yes. He was a great friend of Donna’s. I suppose you think I’m being hard and modern about him. I’d have been sorrier if it had happened longer ago.”

  “That’s rather cryptic,” said Alleyn. “What does it mean?”

  “It doesn’t mean I’m not sorry now. I am. We all loved him and I mind most dreadfully. But I found out I didn’t really know him well. He was harder than you’d ever believe. In a way that makes it worse; having been out of friends with him. I feel I’d give anything to be able to tell him I–I — I–I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “For not being nice to him last night. I snubbed him.”

  “Why did you snub poor Bunchy?”

  “Because he was beastly to his nephew who happens to be rather a particular friend of mine.”

  “Donald Potter? Yes, I know about that. Don’t you think it’s possible that Donald was rather hard on his uncle?”

  “No, I don’t. Donald’s a man now. He’s got to stand on his own feet and decide things for himself. Bunchy simply wouldn’t understand that. He wanted to choose Donald’s friends, settle his career, and treat him exactly as if he was a schoolboy. Bunchy was just hopelessly Victorian and conventional.”

  “Do you like Captain Withers?” asked Alleyn suddenly.

  “What?” Bridget became rather pink. “I can’t say he’s exactly my cup of tea. I suppose he is rather ghastly in a way, but he’s a marvellous dancer and he can be quite fun. I can forgive anybody almost anything if they’re amusing, can’t you?”

  “What sort of amusement does Captain Withers provide?”

  “Well, I mean he’s gay. Not exactly gay but he goes everywhere and everybody knows him, so he’s always quite good value. Donald says Wits is a terribly good business man. He’s been frightfully nice about advising Donald and he knows all sorts of people who could be useful.”

  “Useful in what way? Donald is going in for medicine, isn’t he?”

  “Well—” Bridget hesitated. ”Yes. That was the original idea, but Wits rather advises him not to. Donald says there’s not much in medicine nowadays and, anyway, a doctor is rather a dreary sort of thing to be.”

  “Is he?” asked Alleyn. “You mean not very smart?”

  “No, of course I don’t mean that,” said Bridget. She glared at Alleyn. “You are a pig,” she said. “I suppose I do. I hate drab, worthy sort of things and, anyway, it’s got nothing to with the case.”

  “I should like to know what career Captain Withers has suggested for Donald.”

  “There’s nothing definite yet. They’ve thought of starting a new night club. Wits has got wonderfully original ideas.”

  “Yes,” agreed Alleyn. “I can quite imagine it. He’s doing quite well with the place at Leatherhead, isn’t he? Why doesn’t he take Donald in there?”

  Bridget looked surprised.

  “How did you know about that?” she asked.

  “You must never say that to policemen,” said Alleyn. “It steals their thunder. As a matter of fact, I have been talking to Withers and the Leatherhead venture cropped up.”

  “Well, I dare say you know more about it than I do,” said Bridget. “Donald says it’s just a small men’s club. More for fun than to make money. They play bridge and things. I don’t think there’s any opening there.”

  “Have you spoken to Donald since his uncle died?”

  Bridget clenched her hands and thumped them angrily on her knees.

  “Of course, he rang me up. I’d just got to the telephone when Bart came in looking like a beastly old Cochin China rooster and took the receiver from me. I could have killed him, he was so infuriating! He was all sort of patient and old-world. He sympathized with Donald and then he said: ‘If you don’t mind old fellow speaking frankly, I think it would be better if you didn’t communicate with my stepdaughter for the time being!’ I said: ‘No! Give it to me,’ but he simply turned his back on me and went on: ‘You understand. I’m afraid I must forbid it,’ and put the receiver down. I stormed at him but we were in Donna’s room and she was so upset I had to give in and promise I wouldn’t write or anything. It’s so beastly, beastly unfair. And it’s all because Bart’s such a filthy old snob and is afraid of all the reporters and scandal and everything. Horrid bogus old man. And he’s absolutely filthy to darling Donna. How she ever married him! After daddy, who must have been so gay, and charming, and who loved her so much. How she could! And if Bart thinks I’m going to give Donald up he’s jolly well got another think coming.”

  “Are you engaged?”

  “No. We’re waiting till Donald begins to earn.”

  “And how much must Donald earn before he is marriageable?”

  “You don’t put it very nicely, do you? I suppose you think I’m hard and modern and beastly. I dare say I am, but I can’t bear the idea of everything getting squalid and drab because we have to worry about money. A horrid little flat, second-rate restaurants, whitewood furniture painted to look fresh and nice. Ugh! I’ve seen these sorts of marriages,” said Bridget looking worldly-wise, “and I know.”

  “Donald is his uncle’s heir, you know.”

  Bridget was on her feet, her eyes flashing.

  “Don’t you dare,” she said, “don’t you dare to say that because Donald gets the money he had anything to do with this. Don’t you dare.”

  “And don’t you go putting ideas into people’s heads by getting on the defensive before you’ve been given cause,” said Alleyn very firmly indeed. He put his hand inside his breast-pocket. The slight bulge disappeared and out came Alleyn’s notebook. In the midst of her fury Bridget’s glance fell on it. She looked from the notebook to Alleyn. He raised one eyebrow and screwed his face into an apologetic grimace.

  “The idea was perfectly magnificent,” he said. “It did look like a cigarette-case. The edges of the bulge weren’t quite sharp enough.”

  “Pig!” said Bridget.

  “Sorry,” said Alleyn. “Now then. Three or four official questions, if you please. And look here, Miss Bridget, will you let me offer you a very dreary piece of advice? It’s our set-piece for innocent witnesses. Don’t prevaricate. Don’t l
ose your temper. And don’t try any downright thumping lies, because if you do, as sure as eggs is eggs, you’ll be caught out and it’ll look very nasty indeed for anyone whom you thought you were going to protect. You think Donald is innocent, don’t you?”

  “I know he is innocent.”

  “Right. Then you have nothing in the wide world to fear. Away we go. Did you sit out in the green sitting-room on the top gallery?”

  “Yes. Lots of times.”

  “During the supper hour? Between twelve and one?”

  Bridget pondered. As he watched her Alleyn looked back at youth and marvelled at its buoyancy. Bridget’s mind bounced from thoughts of death to thoughts of love. She was sorry Bunchy was murdered, but as long as Donald was not suspected she was also rather thrilled at the idea of police investigation. She was sincerely concerned at her mother’s distress and ready to make sacrifices on Lady Carrados’s behalf. But ready to meet all sorrow, anger or fright was her youth, like a sort of pneumatic armour that received momentary impressions of these things but instantly filled out again. Now, when she came to her mother’s indisposition she spoke soberly, but it was impossible to escape the impression that on the whole she was stimulated rather than unnerved by tragedy.

  “I was up there with Donald until after most people had gone into the supper-room. We both came down together. That was when I returned her bag to Donna. Donna wasn’t well. She’s awfully tired. She nearly fainted when I found her in the supper-room. She said afterwards it was the stuffiness.”

  “Yes?”

  “It was a queer sort of night, hot indoors, but when any of the windows were opened the mist came in and it brought a kind of dank chilliness. Donna asked me to fetch her smelling-salts. I ran upstairs to the ladies’ cloakroom. Donna’s maid Sophie was there. I got the smelling-salts from Sophie and ran downstairs. I couldn’t find Donna but I ran into Bunchy who said she was all right again. I had booked that dance with Percy Percival. He was a bit drunk and was making a scene about my having cut him out. So I danced with him to keep him quiet.”