A Man Lay Dead ra-1

by Ngaio Marsh

  “Beg pardon, doctor,” said P. C. Bunce.

  “It has been moved into the study,” explained the doctor, “it had already been greatly disturbed. I could see no point in leaving it here — in the hall — very difficult.”

  “Greatly disturbed? By whom? But let me have the whole story. Shall we sit down, Doctor Young? I really know nothing of the case.”

  They sat down before the great fireplace, where only twelve hours ago Rankin had warmed himself as he told one of his “pre-prandial” stories.

  “The victim’s name,” began Doctor Young in a businesslike voice, “was Rankin. He was one of a party of five guests spending the week-end with Sir Hubert Handesley and his niece. They had been playing one of these new-fangled games, one called”—he paused for a second—“called ‘Murders.’ You may have heard of it.”

  “Don’t play it myself,” said Inspector Alleyn. “I’m not frightfully keen on busman’s holidays. But I think I know what you mean. Well?”

  “Well, I gather they were all dressing for dinner— you will hear all the details from the guests of course — when the signal agreed upon was sounded and on coming down they found not a sham but a real victim.”

  “Where was he lying?”

  “Over here.” The Doctor crossed the hall and Inspector Alleyn followed him. The floor in front of the gong had been newly washed and smelt of disinfectant.

  “On his face?”

  “In the first instance, yes, but as I say, the body had been moved. A dagger, Russo-Chinese and his own property, had been driven in between the shoulders at such an angle that it had pierced the heart. Instantaneous.”

  “I see. It’s no good my making a song and dance about the moving of the body and washing the floor— now. The damage is done. You should never have allowed it, Doctor Young. Never, no matter how much the original position had been lost.”

  Doctor Young looked extremely uncomfortable.

  “I am very sorry. Sir Hubert was most anxious;—it was, it was very difficult. The body had been moved some considerable distance.”

  “Do you think I could have a word with Sir Hubert?” asked Alleyn. “Before we go any further I mean?”

  “I’m sure you can presently. He is very much shocked, of course, and I have suggested his trying to rest for a couple of hours. His niece, Miss Angela North, is expecting you, and is to let him know of your arrival. I’ll just find her.”

  “Thank you. By the way, where are the rest of the house party?”

  “They’ve bin warned not to leave the house,” said Mr. Bunce capably, “and in addition they bin kept away from the hall and the drawing-room and asked particular to only frequent the library. Except for the floor being cleaned up nothing here’s bin touched, sir, nothing. And the drawing-room’s left just as it was too — just in case.”

  “Excellent; aren’t our policemen wonderful? And so they are — where?”

  “One of the ladies is in bed and the rest of the bunch is in the library,” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, “a-solving of the mystery.”

  “That should prove very interesting,” said the Inspector without any taint of irony in his pleasant voice. “If you would get Miss North, Doctor Young.”

  The doctor hurried upstairs and the Law was left in possession.

  Inspector Alleyn held a brief colloquy with his two subordinates.

  “If there has really been no interference, there ought to be something for you here, Bailey,” he said to the finger-print expert. “From information received we’ll want prints of the entire household. While I am seeing the people, get busy in here. And you, Sergeant Smith, get me a picture of the area where the body was found, and of course a photo of the body itself.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  P.C. Bunce listened appreciatively.

  “Ever had any dealings with a case of this sort before, constable?” asked the Inspector absent-mindedly.

  “Never, sir. Petty larceny’s the best they can do in these parts, with a smack of furious driving, and one haryplane smash three years ago. Bit of an ad. for the village if looked on in the right light. We’ve got a special reporter on the spot, too.”

  “Really? How do you mean?”

  “A Mr. Bathgate, sir, of the Clarion. He’s staying here, sir.”

  “Singularly fortunate,” said Inspector Alleyn dryly.

  “Yes, sir. Here he is, sir.”

  Angela came downstairs with the doctor and with Nigel. She was extremely white and had about her the pathetic dignity of the very young when they meet disaster with fortitude. Inspector Alleyn met her at the foot of the stairs.

  “I’m so sorry to have to bother you like this,” he said, “but I understand from Doctor Young…”

  “Not a bit,” said Angela. “We were expecting you. This is Mr. Bathgate, who has been very kind about telegraphing and helping us. He is — he is Mr. Rankin’s cousin.”

  Nigel shook hands. Since he had seen Charles lying — empty, unmeaning, coldly remote — at his feet, he could feel neither sorrow, nor horror — not even pity; and yet he supposed he had been fond of Charles.

  “I’m very sorry,” said Inspector Alleyn, “this must have been distressing for you. May we go and talk somewhere?”

  “There’s no one in the drawing-room,” said Angela. “Shall we go in there?”

  They sat in the drawing-room where Charles Rankin had danced a tango with Mrs. Wilde the previous afternoon. Between them Angela and Nigel recounted to the Inspector the history of the Murder Game.

  Angela had time for a good long stare at her first detective. Alleyn did not resemble a plain-clothes policeman she felt sure, nor was he in the romantic manner — white-faced and gimlet-eyed. He looked like one of her Uncle Hubert’s friends, the sort that they knew would “do” for house-parties. He was very tall, and lean, his hair was dark, and his eyes grey with corners that turned down. They looked as if they would smile easily but his mouth didn’t. “His hands and his voice are grand,” thought Angela, and subconsciously she felt less miserable.

  Angela told Nigel afterwards that she approved of Inspector Alleyn. He treated her with a complete absence of any show of personal interest, an attitude that might have piqued this modern young woman under less tragic circumstances. As it was, she was glad of his detachment. Little Doctor Young sat and listened, repeating every now and then his inarticulate consolatory noise. Alleyn made a few notes in his pocket-book.

  “The parlour-game, you say,” he murmured, “was limited to five and a half hours — that is to say, it began at five-thirty, and should have ended before eleven— ended with the mock trial. The body was found at six minutes to eight. Doctor Young arrived some thirty minutes later. Just let me get that clear — I’ve a filthy memory.”

  At this unorthodox and slightly unconvincing statement Doctor Young and Angela started.

  “And now, if you please,” said the Inspector, “I should like to see the other members of the household, one by one, you know. In the meantime Doctor Young can take me into the study. Perhaps you and Miss North will find out if Sir Hubert is feeling up to seeing me.”

  “Certainly,” agreed Angela. She turned to Nigel, “afterwards, will you wait for me?”

  “I’ll wait for you, Angela,” said Nigel.

  In the study Inspector Alleyn bent over the silent heaviness of Rankin’s body. He stared at it for a full two minutes, his lips closed tightly and a sort of fastidiousness winging the corners of his mouth, his nostrils, and his eyes. Then he stooped and turning the body on to its side closely examined, without touching, the dagger that had been left there, still eloquent of the gesture that had driven it through Rankin’s bone and muscle into the citadel of his heart.

  “You can be no end of a help to me here,” said Alleyn. “The blow, of course, came from above. Looks beastly, doesn’t it? The point entered the body as you see — here. Surely something of an expert’s job.”

  The little doctor, who had been greatly chaste
ned by the official rebuke on the subject of the removal of the body, leapt at the chance of re-establishing himself.

  “Great force and, I should have thought, a considerable knowledge of anatomy are indicated. The blade entered the body to the right of the left scapula and between the third and fourth ribs, avoiding the spine and the vertebral border of the scapula. It lies at an acute angle and the point has penetrated the heart.”

  “Yes, I rather imagined it had done that,” said Alleyn sweetly, “but mightn’t this have been due to — shall we say luck, possibly?”

  “Possibly,” said the doctor stiffly. “I think not!”

  The faintest hint of a smile crept into Alleyn’s eyes.

  “Come on, Doctor Young,” he said quietly, “you’ve got your own ideas I see. What are they?”

  The little doctor looked down his little nose and a glint of mild defiance hardened his uneventful face.

  “I realize, of course, that under such very grave circumstances one should put a guard upon one’s tongue,” he said, “nevertheless, perhaps in camera, as it were…”

  “Every detective,” remarked Alleyn, “has to acquire something of the attitude of the priest. ‘In camera’ let it be, Doctor Young.”

  “I have only this to say. Before I arrived last night the body had been turned over and — and — gone over by a Russian gentleman who appears to be a medico. This in spite of the fact,” here Doctor Young’s accent became more definitely Northern, “that I was summoned immediately after the discovery. Possibly in Soviet Russia the finer shades of professional etiquette are not considered.”

  Inspector Alleyn looked at him. “A considerable knowledge of anatomy, you said,” he murmured vaguely. “Ah well, we shall see what we shall see. How extraordinary it is,” he went on, gently laying Rankin down, “his face is quite inscrutable. If only something could be written there. I should like to see Sir Hubert now if that is possible.”

  “I will ascertain,” said Doctor Young formally, and left Rankin and Alleyn alone in the study.

  Handesley was already waiting in the hall. Nigel and Angela were with him. Nigel was perhaps more shocked by the change in his host and more alive to it than to anything else that had happened since Rankin’s death. Handesley looked ghastly. His hands were tremulous and he moved with a kind of controlled hesitancy.

  Alleyn came into the hall and was formally introduced by little Doctor Young, who seemed to be somewhat nonplussed by the Inspector’s markedly Oxonian voice.

  “I am sorry to have kept you waiting,” said Handesley, “I am quite ready to answer any questions that you would like to put to me.”

  “There are very few at the moment,” returned Alleyn. “Miss North and Mr. Bathgate have given me a clear account of what happened since yesterday afternoon. Could we, do you think, go into some other room?”

  “The drawing-room is just here,” answered Handesley. “Do you wish to see us there in turn?”

  “That will do splendidly,” agreed Alleyn.

  “The others are in the library,” said Nigel. Handesley turned to the detective. “Then shall we go into the drawing-room?”

  “I think I can ask you the few questions I want to put immediately. The others can come in there afterwards. I understand, Sir Hubert, that Mr. Rankin was an old friend of yours?”

  “I have known him all his life — I simply cannot take it in — this appalling tragedy. It is incredible. We — we all knew him so well. It must have been someone from outside. It must.”

  “How many servants do you keep? I should like to see them later on. But in the meantime if I may have their names.”

  “Yes, of course. It is imperative that everyone should — should be able to give an account of himself. But my servants! I have had them for years, all of them. I can think of no possible motive.”

  “The motive is not going to be one of the kind that socks you on the jaw. If I may have a list.”

  “My butler is a Little Russian. He was my servant twenty years ago in Petersburg, and has been with me ever since.”

  “He was well acquainted with Mr. Rankin?”

  “Very well acquainted. Rankin has stayed here regularly for many years and has always been on excellent terms with my servants.”

  “They tell me the dagger is of Russian origin.”

  “Its history is Russian, its origin Mongolian,” said Sir Hubert. He briefly related the story of the knife.

  “H’m,” said Alleyn. “Scratch a Russian and you use a Mongolian knife. Had your servant seen this delightful museum piece?”

  “Yes. He must have seen it. Now I come to think of it he was in the hall when Rankin first produced it.”

  “Did he comment on it in any way?”

  “Vassily? No.” Handesley hesitated and turned to Nigel and Angela. “Wait a moment though. Didn’t he say something when Tokareff was holding forth about the knife and its association with a bratsvo?”

  “I think he did,” said Nigel slowly. “He made some remark in Russian. Doctor Tokareff said, ‘This peasant agrees with me,’ and you, sir, told Vassily he could go.”

  “That is how it was,” agreed Angela.

  “I see. Rum coincidence that the knife, your butler and your guest should all be of the same nationality.”

  “Not very odd,” said Angela. “Uncle Hubert has always kept up his interest in Russia — especially since the war. Charles was familiar with his collection of weapons and brought this horrible thing down specially for Uncle Hubert to see.”

  “Yes. Is the dagger interesting from the point of view of the collector?”

  Handesley winced and glanced at Angela. “It interested me enormously,” he said, “I offered to buy it.”

  “Really? Did Mr. Rankin want to sell?”

  There was a very uncomfortable pause. Nigel miserably cast about in his mind for something to say. Suddenly Angela broke the silence.

  “You are very tired, Uncle Hubert,” she said gently, “let me tell Mr. Alleyn.” Without waiting for his reply she turned to the detective.

  “Charles Rankin, in fun, wrote out a statement last night willing the knife to my uncle. Mr. Bathgate here and Mr. Arthur Wilde, another of our guests, signed the paper. It was all a joke.”

  Alleyn, without any comment, made a note in his pocket-book. “Perhaps I may see this paper later on,” he said, “and now for the other servants.”

  “All English,” said Angela, “except the cook, who is a Frenchman. There are three maids, two housemaids, and a little cockney — she’s a tweeny really — a sort of pantry man who, when we have large parties, does footman and helps Vassily, a kitchenmaid, and an odd-boy.”

  “Thank you. Mr. Bathgate, you, I understand, are Mr. Rankin’s cousin. To your knowledge, had he any enemies? This, I know, sounds a childish inquiry, but I think I shall put it to you.”

  “To my knowledge,” answered Nigel, “none. Obviously he had one.”

  “Nobody who would benefit by his death?”

  “Benefit?” Nigel’s voice grated suddenly. “My God, yes. I benefit. I believe he has left me the bulk of his property. You’d better arrest me, Inspector — I killed him for his money.”

  “My good young man,” said Alleyn tartly, “please don’t muddle me with startling announcements of that sort. It is incredibly silly. Here are two witnesses to your theatricality. Pull yourself together and leave me to do my detecting. It’s tricky enough as it is, Lord knows.”

  The unexpectedness of this rebuke had a very salutary effect on Nigel. For a second it lifted him out of his nightmare of shocked reactions.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t really want to leap into the handcuffs.”

  “So I should hope. Now run off and find the assembled guests. I think the local blue-bottle buzzed something about the library. Send them along singly to the drawing-room; and, Miss North, will you find the servants?”

  “Mrs. Wilde,” said Angela, “was in bed a little while ago. She is terribly upset.”
>
  “I am sorry, but I should like everyone to be present.”

  “Very well, I’ll tell her.” Angela went upstairs.

  Having started off the examination with Arthur Wilde, Nigel waited with Sir Hubert in the garden. Apparently the detective spent a very short time over his interviews, for Nigel had smoked only two cigarettes when Mr. Bunce emerged with the tidings that the Chief Inspector was at Sir Hubert’s service. They went indoors and joined Alleyn. Handesley led the way down the hall, where Mr. Bunce still kept guard, into the big library that lay behind the drawing-room and the little gun-room. At the door he paused and looked intently at the Inspector.

  “I see from your card,” he said courteously, “that your name is Roderick Alleyn. I was up at Oxford with a very brilliant man of that name. A relation perhaps?”

  “Perhaps,” said the Inspector politely but uncommunicatively. He stepped back to allow Nigel to open the library door and they went in. Here all the others, with the exception of Marjorie Wilde, were already assembled. Tokareff’s voice could be heard booming as the door opened, and on their entrance they found him standing before the fire, bespectacled, earnest, and resoundingly verbose. Rosamund Grant, deadly white, was sitting in a far corner of the room, immaculate and withdrawn. Arthur Wilde, with an air of strained attention, appeared to be listening, dubiously, to the Russian’s dissertation. Doctor Young was fidgeting in the bow-window.

  “… so to take a loife from my standpoint-of-view is not such a crime as to be always living a false loife,” shouted Tokareff. “Zhis is the real crime more deadly—” he stopped suddenly as Handesley and Alleyn, followed by Nigel and Angela, came towards him.

  “Inspector Alleyn,” said Handesley briefly, “wishes to speak to us all for a moment.”

  “Already,” began Tokareff, “we have been interviewed. Already the hunt is to begin. Excuse me please, but I must make myself clear to say—”

  “Will you please sit round this table,” said Alleyn, incisively cutting through the clamour of Tokareff’s rumbling bass. They all moved across to a long writing table near the windows and seated themselves at it, Alleyn taking the head.