Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 9: Clutch of Constables, When in Rome, Tied Up in Tinsel. Ngaio Marsh

no part in this general, if furtive, conversation. Miss Rickerby-Carrick herself retired at mid-morning to a corner of the deck where, snuffling dreadfully and looking greatly perturbed, she kept up her diary.

      The Zodiac cruised tranquilly through the morning. After luncheon Mr Lazenby occasioned some surprise by appearing in a bathing slip, blowing up an inflatable mattress and sunbathing on deck. ‘Once an Aussie, always an Aussie,’ he observed. Mr and Miss Hewson were so far encouraged as to change into Hawaiian shorts and floral tops. Dr Natouche had already appeared in immaculate blue linen and Caley Bard in conservative slacks and cotton shirt. Troy settled at a table in the saloon, finished her drawing and treated it to a lovely blush of aquarelle-crayons which she had bought for fun and because they were easy to carry. Each of the Signs now bore a crazy resemblance to the person she had assigned to it. Caley Bard’s slew-eyed glance looked out of the Scorpion’s head. Virgo was a kind of ethereal whiff of what Miss Rickerby-Carrick might have been. The Hewsons, stylisés, put their heads together for the Twins. Mr Lazenby, naked, blindfold and in elegant retreat, displayed the Scales. Something about the stalked eyes of the Crab quoted Mr Pollock’s rather prominent stare. Mrs Tretheway, translated into classic splendour, presented the Fish on a celestial platter. The Ram had a steering wheel between his hoofs and the boy, Tom – Aquarius, carried water in a ship’s bucket. Troy’s short dark locks tumbled about the brow of the Goat, while her husband glanced ironically through the Lion’s mask. The Bull, vainglorious, rode his motorbike. Splendidly alone, the dark Archer drew his bow. Troy was amused with her picture but sighed at the thought of doing the lettering.

      The Hewsons, passing through the saloon, devoured by curiosity and swathed in tact, asked if they might have a peep. This led to everybody, except Dr Natouche, gathering round her.

      ‘Just see what you’ve done with children’s chalks and a drop of ink!’ Caley Bard exclaimed. ‘What magic!’ He gave a little crowing sound, burst out laughing and looked round at his fellow-passengers. ‘Do you see!’ he cried. ‘Do you see what she’s done?’

      After some reflection they did, each recognizing the others more readily than him – or her self. It appeared that Troy had been lucky in three of her choices. The Hewsons were, in fact, twins and, by an extraordinarily felicitous chance, had been born under Gemini while Miss Rickerby-Carrick confessed, with mantling cheeks and conscious looks, as Caley Bard afterwards put it, to Virgo. She still seemed frightened and stared fixedly at Troy.

      ‘Natouche,’ Caley Bard called up the companion-way, ‘you must come down and see this.’

      He came down at once. Troy gave him the drawing and for the second time heard his laugh. ‘It is beautiful and it is comical,’ he said presently and handed it back to Troy. ‘I know, of course, that one must not frivolously compare the work of one great artist with another but may I say that Erni is perhaps your only contemporary who would have approached the subject like this.’

      ‘Very perceptive of you,’ said Caley Bard.

      ‘I want to put the rhyme in the middle,’ Troy said, ‘but my lettering’s hopeless: it takes ages to do and is awful when it’s finished. I suppose nobody here would do a nice neo-classic job of lettering?’

      ‘I would,’ said Mr Pollock.

      He was close behind Troy, staring over her arm at the drawing. ‘I –’ he paused and, most unaccountably, Troy was revisited by yesterday’s impression of an impending crisis. ‘I started in that business,’ Pollock said and there seemed to be a note of apology in his voice. ‘Commercial art. You know? Gave it up for real estate. I – if you show me what you’d like – the type of lettering – I’ll give satisfaction.’

      He was looking at the drawing with the oddest expression in his barrow-boy face: sharp, appreciative and somehow – what? – shamefaced? Or – could Mr Pollock possibly be frightened?

      Troy said, cordially. ‘Will you really? Thank you so much. It just wants to be a sort of Garamond face. A bit fantasticated if you like.’

      Dr Natouche had a book in his hand with the dust-jacket titled in Garamond. ‘That sort of thing,’ Troy said pointing to it.

      Mr Pollock looked reluctantly but sharply at it and then bent over the drawing. ‘I could do that,’ he said. ‘I don’t know anything about fantasticate,’ and added under his breath something that sounded like: ‘I can copy anything.’

      Mr Lazenby said loudly: ‘You’re very sure of yourself, Mr Pollock, aren’t you?’ and Caley Bard ejaculated: ‘Honestly, Pollock, how you dare!’

      There followed a brief silence. Pollock mumbled: ‘Only a suggestion, isn’t it? No need to take it up, is there?’

      ‘I’d be very glad to take it up,’ Troy said. ‘There you are: it’s all yours.’

      She moved away from the table and after a moment’s hesitation he sat down at it.

      Troy went up on deck where she was soon joined by Caley Bard.

      ‘You didn’t half snub that little man,’ she said.

      ‘He irritates me. And he’s a damn’ sight too cool about your work.’

      ‘Oh come!’

      ‘Yes, he is. Breathing down your neck. My God, you’re you. You’re “Troy”. How he dares!’

      ‘Do come off it.’

      ‘Have you noticed how rude he is to Natouche?’

      ‘Well, that – yes. But you know I really think direct antagonism must be more supportable than the “don’t let’s be beastly” line.’

      ‘See the Rickerby-Carrick?’

      ‘If you like. Yes.’

      ‘You know,’ he said, ‘if you weren’t a passenger in the good ship Zodiac I think I’d rat.’

      ‘Nonsense.’

      ‘It’s not. Where did you get to last night?’

      ‘I had a telephone call to make.’

      ‘It couldn’t have taken you all evening.’

      Remembering Fox’s suggestion Troy, who was a poor liar, lied. ‘It was about a fur I left at the gallery. I had to go to the police station.’

      ‘And then?’

      ‘I went to the church.’

      ‘You’d much better have come on a one-pub-crawl with me,’ he grumbled. ‘Will you dine tomorrow night in Longminster?’

      Before Troy could reply, Miss Rickerby-Carrick, looking scared, came up from below, attired in her magenta wrapper. Her legs were bare and her arthritic toes emerged like roots from her sandals. She wore dark glasses and a panama hat and she carried her Li-lo and her diary. She paused by the wheelhouse for her usual chat with the Skipper, continued on her way and to Troy’s extreme mortification avoided her and Bard with the kind of tact that breaks the sound-barrier, bestowing on them as she passed an understanding smile. She disappeared behind a stack of chairs covered by a tarpaulin, at the far end of the deck.

      Troy said: ‘Not true, is she? Just a myth?’

      ‘What’s she writing?’

      ‘A journal. She calls it her self-propelling confessional.’

      ‘Would you like to read it?’

      ‘Isn’t it awful – but, yes, I can’t say I wouldn’t fancy a little peep.’

      ‘How about tomorrow night? Dinner ashore, boys, and hey for the rollicking bun.’

      ‘Could we decide a bit later?’

      ‘In case something more interesting turns up, you cautious beast.’

      ‘Not altogether that.’

      ‘Well – what?’

      ‘We