Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 11: Photo-Finish, Light Thickens, Black Beech and Honeydew. Ngaio Marsh

      ‘You have seen Madame Sommita and you know she has been murdered,’ he said. ‘You wish that her murderer will be found, don’t you?’

      Her mouth set in a tight line and her eyes flashed. She did not speak but if she had delivered herself of a tirade it could not have been more eloquent.

      ‘Very well,’ Alleyn said. ‘Now then: when the storm is over and the lake is calmer the New Zealand police will come and they will ask many questions. Until they come Mr Reece has put me in charge and anything you tell me, I will tell them. Anything I ask you, I will ask for one reason only: because I hope your answer may help us to find the criminal. If your reply is of no help it will be forgotten – it will be as if you had not made it. Do you understand?’

      He thought: I shall pretend she has answered. And he said: ‘Good. Well, now. First question. Do you know what time it was when Madame Sommita came upstairs with Mr Reece and found you waiting for her? No? It doesn’t matter. The opera began at eight and they will know how long it runs.’

      He had a pocket diary on him and produced it. He made quite a business of opening it and flattening it on the table. He wrote in it, almost under her nose.

      ‘Maria. Time of S’s arrival in bedroom. No answer.’

      When he looked up he found that Maria was glaring at his notebook. He pushed it nearer and turned it towards her. ‘Can you see?’ he asked politely.

      She unclamped her mouth.

      ‘Twenty past nine. By her clock,’ she said.

      ‘Splendid. And now, Maria – by the way I haven’t got your surname, have I? Your cognome.’

      ‘Bennini.’

      ‘Thank you.’ He added it to his note. ‘I see you wear a wedding ring,’ he said. ‘What was your maiden name, please?’

      ‘Why do you ask me such questions? You are impertinent.’

      ‘You prefer not to answer?’ Alleyn enquired politely.

      Silence.

      ‘Ah well,’ he said. ‘When you are more composed and I hope a little recovered from the terrible shock you have sustained, will you tell me exactly what happened after she arrived with Signor Reece?’

      And astonishingly, with no further ado, this creature of surprises who a few seconds ago had called him ‘filth’ and spat at him, embarked upon a coherent and lucid account. Maria had gone straight upstairs as soon as the curtain fell on the opera. She had performed her usual duties, putting out the glass of water and the sleeping pill that the Sommita always took after an opening night, folding her negligée and nightdress over the back of a chair and turning down the crimson counterpane. The Sommita arrived with Signor Reece. She was much displeased, Maria said, which Alleyn thought was probably the understatement of the year, and ordered Maria to leave the room. This, he gathered, was a not unusual occurrence. She also ordered Mr Reece to leave, which was. He tried to soothe her but she became enraged.

      ‘About what?’ Alleyn asked.

      About something that happened after the opera. Maria had already left the audience. The Signor Bartholomew, she gathered, had insulted the diva. Signor Reece tried to calm her, Maria herself offered to massage her shoulders but was flung off. In the upshot he and Maria left and went downstairs together, Mr Reece suggesting that Maria give the diva time to calm down and go to bed and then take her a hot drink, which had been known on similar occasions to produce a favourable reaction.

      Maria had followed this advice.

      How long between the time when they had left the room and Maria returned to it?

      About twenty minutes, she thought.

      Where was she during that time?

      In the servants’ quarters where she made the hot drink. Mrs Bacon and Bert the chauffeur were there most of the time and others of the staff came to and fro from their duties in the dining room where the guests were now at table. Mr Reece had joined them. Maria made the hot drink, returned to the bedroom, found her mistress murdered and raised the alarm.

      ‘When Madame Sommita dismissed you, did she lock the door after you?’

      Yes, it appeared. Maria heard the lock click. She had her own key and used it on her return.

      Had anybody else a key to the room?

      For the first time she boggled. Her mouth worked but she did not speak.

      ‘Signor Reece, for instance?’ Alleyn prompted.

      She made the Italian negative sign with her finger.

      ‘Who, then?’

      A sly look appeared. Her eyes slid round in the direction of the passage to the right of the landing. Her hand moved to her breast.

      ‘Do you mean Signor Bartholomew?’ Alleyn asked.

      ‘Perhaps,’ she said, and he saw that, very furtively, she crossed herself.

      He made a note about keys in his book.

      She watched him avidly.

      ‘Maria,’ he said when he had finished writing, ‘how long have you been with Madame Sommita?’

      Five years, it appeared. She had come to Australia as wardrobe mistress with an Italian opera company, and had stayed on as sewing-maid at the Italian Embassy. The Signora’s personal maid had displeased her and been dismissed and Signor Reece had enquired of an aide-de-camp who was a friend of his if they could tell him of anyone suitable. The Ambassador had come to the end of his term and the household staff was to be reorganized. Maria had been engaged as personal dresser and lady’s maid to Isabella Sommita.

      ‘Who do you think committed this crime?’ Alleyn asked suddenly.

      ‘The young man,’ she answered venomously and at once, as if that was a foolish question. And then with another of her abrupt changes of key she urged, begged, demanded that she go back into the room and perform the last services for her mistress – lay her out with decency and close her eyes and pray it would not be held in wrath against her that she had died in a state of sin. ‘I must go. I insist,’ said Maria.

      ‘That is still impossible,’ said Alleyn. ‘I’m sorry.’

      He saw that she was on the edge of another outburst and hoped that if she was again moved to spit at him her aim would not have improved.

      ‘You must pull yourself together,’ he said. ‘Otherwise I shall be obliged to ask Mr Reece to have you locked up in your own room. Be a good girl, Maria. Grieve for her. Pray for her soul but do not make scenes. They won’t get you anywhere, you know.’

      Dr Carmichael who had contemplated Maria dubiously throughout now said with professional authority: ‘Come along like a sensible woman. You’ll make yourself unwell if you go on like this. I’ll take you down and we’ll see if we can find the housekeeper. Mrs Bacon, isn’t it? You’d much better go to bed, you know. Take an aspirin.’

      ‘And a hot drink?’ Alleyn mildly suggested.

      She looked furies at him but with the abruptness that was no longer unexpected stood up, crossed the landing and walked quickly downstairs.

      ‘Shall I see if I can find Mrs Bacon and hand her over?’ Dr Carmichael offered.

      ‘Do, like a good chap,’ said Alleyn. ‘And if Mrs B. has vanished, take her to bed yourself.’

      ‘Choose your words,’ said Dr Carmichael and set off in pursuit.

      Alleyn caught him up at the head of the stairs. ‘I’m going back in there,’ he said. ‘I may be a little time. Join me if you will when you’ve brought home the Bacon. Actually I hope they’re all tucked up for the night but I’d like to know.’

      Dr