by Ngaio Marsh
“Signor Lattienzo came and told me. Rory, how terrible!”
“I know. Wait here. All right? Or would you rather go to bed?”
“I’m all right. I don’t think I really believe it has happened.”
“I won’t be long, I promise.”
“Don’t give it another throught. I’m O.K., Rory. Signor Lattienzo seems to think it was Strix — the photographer. Is that possible?”
“Remotely, I suppose.”
“I don’t quite believe in the photographer.”
“If you want to talk about it, we will. In the meantime could you look me out my camera, a big sable brush and a squirt-thing of talc powder?”
“Certainly. There are at least three of the latter in our bathroom. Why,” asked Troy, rallying, “do people perpetually give each other talc powder and never use it themselves?”
“We must work it out when we’ve the leisure,” said Alleyn. “I’ll come back for the things.”
He kissed her and rejoined the doctor.
Rupert Bartholomew’s room was two doors along the passage. Dr. Carmichael stopped. “He doesn’t know,” he said. “Unless, of course, someone has come up and told him.”
“If he’s taken Lattienzo’s pill he’ll be asleep.”
“Should be. But it’s one of the mildest sort.”
Dr. Carmichael opened the door and Alleyn followed him.
Rupert was not asleep. Nor had he undressed. He was sitting upright on his bed with his arms clasped round his knees. He looked very young.
“Hello!” said Dr. Carmichael. “What’s all this? You ought to be sound asleep.” He looked at the bedside table with its switched-on lamp, glass of water, and the tablet lying beside it. “So you haven’t taken your Lattienzo pill,” he said. “What’s that?”
“I didn’t want it. I want to know what’s happening. All that screaming and rushing about.” He looked at Alleyn. “Was it her? Bella? Was it because of me? I want to know. What have I done?”
Dr. Carmichael slid his fingers over Rupert’s wrist. “You haven’t done anything,” he said. “Calm down.”
“Then what—?”
“The rumpus,” Alleyn said, “was nothing to do with you. As far as we know. Nothing. It was Maria who screamed.”
An expression that in less dramatic circumstances might almost have been described as huffy appeared and faded: Rupert looked at them out of the corners of his eyes. “Then, why did Maria scream?” he asked.
Alleyn exchanged a glance with the doctor, who slightly nodded his head.
“Well?” Rupert demanded.
“Because,” Alleyn said, “there has been a disaster. A tragedy. A death. It will be a shock to you, but as far as we can see, which admittedly is not very far, there is no reason to link it with what happened after the performance. You will have to know of it and there would be no point in holding it back.”
“A death? Do you mean—? You can’t mean—? Bella?”
“I’m afraid — yes.”
“Bella?” Rupert said and sounded incredulous. “Bella? Dead?”
“It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?”
There was a long silence, broken by Rupert.
“But — why? What was it? Was it heart failure?”
“You could say,” Dr. Carmichael observed with a macabre touch of the professional whimsy sometimes employed by doctors, “that all deaths are due to heart failure.”
“Do you know if she had any heart trouble at all?” Alleyn asked Rupert.
“She had high blood pressure. She saw a specialist in Sydney.”
“Do you know who?”
“I’ve forgotten. Monty will know. So will Ned Hanley.”
“Was it a serious condition, did you gather?”
“She was told to — to slow down. Not get overexcited. That sort of thing.” He looked at them with what seemed to be apprehension.
“Should I see her?” he mumbled.
“No,” they both said quickly. He breathed out a sigh.
“I can’t get hold of this,” he said and shook his head slowly. “I can’t get hold of it at all. I can’t sort of seem to believe it.”
“The best thing you can do,” said Dr. Carmichael, “is to take this tablet and settle down. There’s absolutely nothing else you can do.”
“Oh. Oh, I see. Well: all right, then,” he replied with a strange air of speaking at random. “But I’ll put myself to bed, if you don’t mind.”
He took the tablet, drank the water and leaned back, staring in front of him. “Extraordinary!” he said and closed his eyes.
Alleyn and Carmichael waited for a minute or two. Rupert opened his eyes and turned off the bedside lamp. Disconcerted, they moved to the door.
“Thank you,” said Rupert in the dark. “Goodnight.”
When they were in the passage Carmichael said: “That was a very odd little conversation.”
“It was, rather.”
“You’d have almost said — well — I mean—”
“What?”
“That he was relieved. Don’t get me wrong. He’s had a shock — I mean that extraordinary apology for his opera, which I must say I didn’t find very impressive, and his faint. His pulse is still a bit erratic. But the reaction,” Carmichael repeated, “was odd, didn’t you think?”
“People do tend to behave oddly when they hear of death. I’m sure you’ve found that, haven’t you? In this case I rather think there has actually been a sense of release.”
“A release? From what?”
“Oh,” said Alleyn, “from a tricky situation. From extreme anxiety. High tension. Didn’t somebody say — was it Shaw? — that after the death of even one’s closest and dearest, there is always a sensation of release. And relief.”
Carmichael made the noise that is written “Humph.” He gave Alleyn a speculative look. “You didn’t,” he said, “tell him it was murder.”
“No. Time enough in the morning. He may as well enjoy the benefit of the Lattienzo pill.”
Dr. Carmichael said “Humph” again.
Alleyn returned to Troy, who had the camera, brush, and talc powder ready for him.
“How is that boy?” she asked. “How has he taken it?”
“On the whole, very well. Remarkably well.”
“Perhaps he’s run out of emotional reactions,” said Troy. “He’s been fully extended in that department.”
“Perhaps he has. You’re the wisest of downy owls and had better go to roost. I’m off, and it looks like being one of those nights.”
“Oh, for Br’er Fox and Thompson and Bailey?”
“You can say that again. And oh, for you to be in your London nest thirteen thousand miles away, which sounds like the burden of a ballad,” said Alleyn. “But as you’re here, you’d better turn the key in your lock when you go to bed.”
“Me!” said Troy incredulously. “Why?”
“So that I’ll be obliged to wake you up,” said Alleyn and left her.
He asked Bert to continue his vigil.
Dr. Carmichael said: “But I don’t quite see — I mean, you’ve got the key.”
“There may be other keys and other people may have them. If Bert sits behind that screen he can see anyone who tries to effect an entry.”
“I can’t imagine anyone wanting to go back. Not even her murderer.”
“Can’t you?” said Alleyn. “I can.”
He and Dr. Carmichael went downstairs to the drawing room leaving Bert on guard.
A wan little trio of leftovers was there: Hilda Dancy, Sylvia Parry, Lattienzo. Mr. Reece, Alleyn gathered, was closeted with Ben Ruby and Hanley in the study. The drawing room had only been half-tidied of its preprandial litter when the news broke. It was tarnished with used champagne glasses, full ashtrays, and buckets of melted ice. The fire had burned down to embers, and when Alleyn came in Signor Lattienzo was gingerly dropping a small log on them.
Miss Dancy at once tackled Alleyn. Was it, she boomed, true th
at he was in charge? If so would he tell them exactly what had happened. Had the Sommita really been done away with? Did this mean there was a murderer at large in the house? How had she been done away with?
Signor Lattienzo had by this time stationed himself behind Miss Dancy in order to make deprecating faces at Alleyn.
“We have a right to be told,” said the masterful Miss Dancy.
“And told you shall be,” Alleyn replied. “Between one and two hours ago Madame Sommita was murdered in her bedroom. That is all that any of us knows. I have been asked by Mr. Reece to take charge until such time as the local police can be informed. I’m going to organize a search of the premises. There are routine questions that should be asked of everybody who was in the house after the last launch trip. If you would prefer to go to your rooms, please do so but with the knowledge that I may be obliged to call on you when the search is completed. I’m sure Signor Lattienzo will be pleased to escort you to your rooms.”
Signor Lattienzo gave slightly incoherent assurances that he was theirs, dear ladies, to command.
“I’m staying where I am,” Miss Dancy decided. “What about you, dear?”
“Yes. Yes, so am I,” Sylvia Parry decided, and to Alleyn: “Does Rupert know? About Madame Sommita?”
“Dr. Carmichael and I told him.”
Dr. Carmichael made diffident noises.
“It will have been a terrible shock for Rupert,” said Sylvia. “For everybody, of course, but specially for Rupert. After— what happened.” And with an air of defiance she added: “I think Rupert did a very brave thing. It took an awful lot of guts.”
“We all know that, dear,” said Miss Dancy with a kind of gloomy cosiness.
Alleyn said, “Before I go, I wonder if you’d tell me exactly what happened after Bartholomew fainted.”
Their account was put together like a sort of unrehearsed duet with occasional stoppages when they disagreed about details and called upon Signor Lattienzo. It seemed that as soon as Rupert fell, Hanley, who was standing by, said, “Curtains” and closed them himself. Sylvia Parry knelt down by Rupert and loosened his collar and tie. Roberto Rodolfo said something about fresh air and fanned Rupert with his biblical skirt. The Sommita, it appeared, after letting out an abortive shriek, stifled herself with her own hand, looked frantically round the assembly, and then flung herself upon the still unconscious Rupert with such abandon that it was impossible to decide whether she was moved by remorse or fury. It was at this point that Signor Lattienzo arrived, followed in turn by Mr. Reece and Ben Ruby.
As far as Alleyn could make out, these three men lost no time in tackling the diva in a very businesslike manner, detaching her from Rupert and suggesting strongly that she go to her room. From here the narrative followed, more or less, the accounts already given by Signor Lattienzo and the doctor. Mr. Reece accompanied the Sommita out of the concert hall, which was by this time emptied of its audience, and was understood to conduct her to her room. Hanley fetched Dr. Carmichael, and Sylvia Parry fetched water. Rupert, when sufficiently recovered, was removed to his room by the doctor and Signor Lattienzo, who fetched the sleeping tablet and placed it on the bedside table. Rupert refused all offers to help him undress and get into bed, so they left him and went down to dinner. The ladies and the rest of the cast were already at table.
“After Hanley had fetched Dr. Carmichael, what did he do?” Alleyn asked.
Nobody had noticed. Miss Dancy said that he “seemed to be all over the shop” and Sylvia thought it had been he who urged them into the dining room.
On this vague note Alleyn left them.
In the hall he ran into the ubiquitous Hanley, who said that the entire staff was assembled in their sitting room awaiting instructions. Alleyn gathered that Maria had, so to put it, “stolen the show.” The New Zealand members of the staff — they of the recently bankrupt luxury hotel, including the chef and housekeeper — had grown restive under recurrent onsets of Maria’s hysteria, modeled, Alleyn guessed, upon those of her late employer.
The staff sitting room, which in less democratic days would have been called the servants’ hall, was large, modern in design, gaily furnished, and equipped with color television, a Ping-Pong table, and any number of functional armchairs. The housekeeper, who turned out to be called, with Congrevean explicitness, Mrs. Bacon, sat apart from her staff but adjacent to Mr. Reece. She was a well-dressed, personable lady of capable appearance. Behind her was a subdued bevy of two men and three girls, the ex-hotel staff, Alleyn assumed, that she brought with her to the Lodge.
Hanley continued in his role of restless dogsbody and hovered, apparently in readiness for something unexpected to turn up, near the door.
Alleyn spoke briefly. He said he knew how shocked and horrified they all must be and assured them that he would make as few demands upon them as possible.
“I’m sure,” he said, “that you all wonder if there is a connection between this appalling crime and the recent activities of the elusive cameraman.” (And he wondered if Maria had noticed the photograph pinned to the body.) “You will, I daresay, be asking yourselves if yesterday’s intruder, whom we failed to hunt down, could be the criminal. I’m sure your search,” Alleyn said and managed to avoid a sardonic tone, “was extremely thorough. But in a case like this every possibility, however remote, should be explored. For that reason I am going to ask the men of the household to sort themselves into pairs and to search the whole of the indoor premises. I want the pairs to remain strictly together throughout the exercise. You will not go into Madame Sommita’s bedroom, which is now locked. Mr. Bartholomew has already gone to bed and you need not disturb him. Just look in quietly and make sure he is there. I must ask you simply to assure yourselves that there is no intruder in the house. Open any doors behind which someone might be hiding, look under beds and behind curtains, but don’t handle anything else. I am going to ask Mrs. Bacon and Mr. Hanley to supervise this operation.”
He turned to Mrs. Bacon. “Perhaps we might just have a word?” he suggested.
“Certainly,” she said. “In my office.”
“Good.” He looked around the assembled staff.
“I want you all to remain here,” he said. “We won’t keep you long. I’ll leave Dr. Carmichael in charge.”
Mrs. Bacon conducted Alleyn and Hanley to her office, which turned out to be a sitting room with a large desk in it.
She said: “I don’t know whether you gentlemen would care for a drink, but I do know I would,” and went to a cupboard, from which she produced a bottle of whiskey and three glasses. Alleyn didn’t want a drink but thought it politic to accept. Hanley said: “Oh, yes. Oh yes. Please.”
Alleyn said: “I see no point in pretending that I think the perpetrator of this crime has contrived to leave the island, nor do I think he is somewhere out there in the storm or skulking in the hangar. Mrs. Bacon, is the entire staff collected in there? Nobody missing?”
“No. I made sure of that.”
“Good. I think it will be best for you two, if you will, to apportion the various areas so that all are covered without overlapping. I’m not familiar enough with the topography of the Lodge to do this. I’ll cruise. But the guests will know their way about, presumably, after yesterday’s abortive search.”
Mrs. Bacon had watched him very steadily. He thought that this had probably been her manner in her hotel days when listening to complaints.
She said: “Am I wrong in understanding that you don’t believe the murderer was on the island yesterday? That the trespasser was not the murderer, in fact?”
Alleyn hesitated and then said: “I don’t think the murderer was a trespasser, no.”
Hanley said loudly: “Oh no! But you can’t — I mean — that would mean — I mean — oh no.”
“It would mean,” said Mrs. Bacon, still looking at Alleyn, “that Mr. Alleyn thinks Madame Sommita was murdered either by a guest or by a member of the household. That’s correct, Mr. Alleyn, isn’t it? By �
� if I can put it that way — one of us?”
“That is perfectly correct, Mrs. Bacon,” said Alleyn.
Chapter five
Nocturne
i
The hunt turned out, as Alleyn had expected it would, to be a perfectly useless exercise. The couples were carefully assorted. Marco was paired with Mrs. Bacon, Ben Ruby with Dr. Carmichael, and Hanley with the chef, for whom he seemed to have an affinity. Alleyn dodged from one pair to another, turning up where he was least expected, sometimes checking a room that had already been searched, sometimes watching the reluctant activities of the investigators, always registering in detail their reactions to the exercise.
These did not vary much. Hanley was all eyes and teeth and inclined to get up little intimate arguments with the chef. Ben Ruby, smoking a cigar, instructed his partner, Dr. Carmichael, where to search, but did nothing in particular himself. Alleyn thought he seemed to be preoccupied as if confronted by a difficult crossword puzzle. Signor Lattienzo looked as if he thought the exercise was futile.
When the search was over they all returned to the staff sitting room where, on Alleyn’s request, Hilda Dancy and Sylvia Parry joined them. Nobody had anything to report. The New Zealanders, Alleyn noticed, collected in a huddle. Mrs. Bacon and the ex-hotel staff showed a joint tendency to eye the Italians. Marco attached himself to Signor Lattienzo. Maria entered weeping but in a subdued manner, having been chastened, Alleyn fancied, by Mrs. Bacon. Hanley detached himself from his chef and joined Ben Ruby.
When they were all assembled, the door opened and Mr. Reece walked in. He might have arrived to take the chair at a shareholders’ meeting. Hanley was assiduous with offers of a seat and was disregarded.
Mr. Reece said to Alleyn: “Please don’t let me interrupt. Do carry on.”
“Thank you,” Alleyn said. He told Mr. Reece of the search and its non-result and was listened to with stony attention. He then addressed the company. He said he was grateful to them for having carried out a disagreeable job and asked that if any one of them, on afterthought, should remember something that, however remotely, could be of significance, he would at once speak of it. There was no response. He then asked how many of them possessed cameras.
