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

Carmichael?’

      Carmichael rose, fixed Alleyn with his blue stare and delivered.

      ‘To re-cap, sir,’ Carmichael began ominously. ‘As a wur-r-r-king hypothesis, it could be argued that the bawdy of the deceased had been passed from the deck of the vessel into the possession of the persons who received it and that it had maybe been drawped and dragged in the process, sir, thus pairtially obleeterating the heel prints. Furthermore it could be reasonably deduced, sir, that the bawdy was transported by means of the motorbike to Ramsdyke where it was conveyed by hand to the weir bridge, dragged some twelve feet along it and consigned to the watter.’

      He stopped, cleared his throat and raised his hand: ‘As a rider to the above, sir, and proceeding out of it,’ he said. ‘A suitcase, being the personal property of deceased, and packed with her effects, was removed from her cabin and transferred by the means already detailed, with the bawdy, to the said weir and there, weighted with stones and gravel and a half-brick, attached to the bawdy by the cord produced. The bawdy and the suitcase were then as detailed consigned to the watter.’

      He resumed his seat and gave Alleyn a modest smile.

      ‘Yes, Carmichael, yes,’ Alleyn said, ‘and what about the post-mortem marks of the cord?’

      Carmichael rose again.

      ‘For want of an alternative,’ he said with the utmost complacency, ‘I would assume as a wurrking premiss, sir, that the deed bawdy was lashed to the person of the cyclist thus rendering the spurious appearance of a pillion-rider.’

      ‘Revolting as the picture you conjure up may be,’ Alleyn said. ‘I’m afraid you’re right, Carmichael.’

      ‘Shall we say deed right, sir?’ Carmichael suggested with an odiously pawky grin.

      ‘We shall do nothing of the sort, Carmichael. Sit down.’

       I

      ‘It’s a horrid picture that begins to emerge, isn’t it?’ Alleyn said as he eased the diary out of the sponge-bag and laid it with elaborate care on a folded towel. ‘The body is lashed to the cyclist’s back and over it is dragged the dull magenta gown, hiding the cord. The arms are pulled round his waist and the wrists tied. The head, one must suppose, lolls forward on the rider’s shoulder.

      ‘And if anyone was abroad in the night on the road from Crossdyke to Ramsdyke they might have seen an antic show: a man on a Route-Rocket with what seemed to be either a very affectionate or a very drunken rider on his pillion: a rider whose head lolled and jerked preposterously and who seemed to be glued to his back.’

      ‘What about the suitcase?’ asked Tillottson.

      ‘Made fast. It’s not weighted at this stage. The stones were collected at the weir.’

      ‘Roadside heap,’ Fox put in. ‘Loose brick. Shingle. We’ve got all that.’

      ‘Exactly, Br’er Fox. Fish out a sponge from my bag, would you?’

      Fox did so. Alleyn pressed it over the surfaces of the diary, mopping up the water that seeped out. ‘It’s when he gets to Ramsdyke,’ he went on, ‘that the cyclist’s toughest job begins. Presumably he’s single-handed. He has to dismount, carry his burden, a ghastly pick-a-back, presumably, down to the weir. He unlooses and dumps it, returns for the case, puts in the stones and shingle, humps the case to the body, adds a loose half-brick, ties the body to the case and pushes both of them far enough along the footbridge to topple them into the weir.’

      ‘Do I,’ Fox blandly inquired, ‘hear the little word conjecture?’

      ‘If you do you can shut up about it. But you don’t hear it all that clearly, old boy. Find me another theory that fits the facts and I’ll eat the dust.’

      ‘I won’t give you the satisfaction, Mr Alleyn.’

      ‘Find something to slide under the diary, will you? I want to turn it over. A stiff card will do. Good. Here we go. Now, the sponge again. Yes. Well, from here, the sinister cyclist and his moll begin to set-up their disappearing act. All we know is that they had paid their bill at the Star and that they lit off some time that night or early next morning. Presumably with a fabulous Fabergé bibelot representing the Signs of the Zodiac in their possession.’

      ‘Hi!’ Tillottson ejaculated. ‘D’you reckon?’

      ‘This really is conjecture,’ Alleyn said. ‘But I don’t mind betting we do not find the damned jewel on board the Zodiac.’

      ‘River bed? Swept off the body, like?’

      ‘I don’t see him leaving it on the body, you know.’

      ‘I suppose not. No.’

      ‘It may have been the motive,’ Fox said. ‘If it’s all that fabulous.’

      ‘Or it may have been a particularly lush extra: a kind of bonus in the general scheme of awards.’

      Tillottson said: ‘You don’t lean to the notion that this cyclist character –’

      ‘Call him Smith,’ Fox suggested sourly. ‘I’ll bet nobody else ever has.’

      ‘This Smith, then. You don’t fancy he did the killing?’

      ‘No,’ Alleyn said. ‘I don’t. I think she was killed on board the Zodiac. I think the body was handed over to Smith together with the suitcase and probably the Fabergé jewel. Now, dare we take a look inside this diary.’

      It had deteriorated since poor Hazel Rickerby-Carrick had examined it after its first immersion. The block of pages had parted company with the spine and had broken into sections. The binding was pulpy and the paper softened.

      ‘Should we dry it out first?’ Fox asked.

      ‘I’ll try one gingerly fiddle. Got a broadish knife in the station?’

      Tillotson produced a bread knife. With infinite caution Alleyn introduced it into the diary at the place where the condition of the edges suggested a division between the much used and still unused sections. He followed the knife blade up with a wider piece of card and finally turned the top section back.