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

      ‘Well, look at him. Take, take, take. Everything she could give. But everything. All caught up with the opera nonsense and then when it flopped, turning round and making a public fool of himself. And her. I could see right through the high tragedy bit, don’t you worry: it was an act. He blamed her for the disaster. For egging him on. He was getting back on her.’ Hanley had spoken rapidly in a high voice. He stopped short, swung round and stared at Alleyn.

      ‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘I shouldn’t say these things to you. For Christ’s sake don’t go reading something awful into it all. It’s just that I got so bored with the way everyone fell for the boy-beautiful. Everyone. Even the Boss-Man. Until he chickened out and said he wouldn’t go on with the show. That put a different complexion on the affaire, didn’t it? Well, on everything, really. The Boss-Man was livid. Such a change!’

      He stood up and carefully replaced his glass on the tray. ‘I’m a trifle tiddly,’ he said, ‘but quite clear in the head. Is it true or did I dream it that the British press used to call you the Handsome Sleuth? Or something like that?’

      ‘You dreamt it,’ said Alleyn. ‘Good night.’

      II

      At twenty to three Alleyn had finished his notes. He locked them away in his dispatch case, looked round the studio, turned out the lights and, carrying the case, went out into the passage, locking the door behind him.

      And now how quiet was the Lodge. It smelt of new carpets, of dying fires and of the aftermath of food, champagne and cigarettes. It was not altogether silent. There were minuscule sounds suggestive of its adjusting to the storm. As he approached the landing there were Bert’s snores to be heard, rhythmic but not very loud.

      Alleyn had, by now, a pretty accurate knowledge, acquired on the earlier search, of the Lodge and its sleeping quarters. The principal bedrooms and the studio were all on this floor and opened on to two passages that led off, right and left, from the landing, each taking a right-angled turn after three rooms had been passed. The guests’ names were inserted in neat little slots on their doors: à la Versailles, thought Alleyn; they might as well have gone the whole hog while they were about it and used the discriminating pour. It would be Pour Signor Lattienzo. But he suspected merely Dr Carmichael.

      He crossed the landing. Bert had left the shaded table lamp on and it softly illuminated his innocent face. As Alleyn passed him he stopped snoring and opened his eyes. They looked at each other for a second or two. Bert said ‘Gidday’ and went back to sleep.

      Alleyn entered the now dark passage on the right of the landing, passed his own bedroom door and thought how strange it was that Troy should be in there and that soon he would be able to join her. He paused for a moment and as he did so heard a door open somewhere beyond the turn of the passage.

      The floor, like all floors in this padded house, was thickly carpeted; nevertheless he felt rather than heard somebody walking towards him.

      Realizing that he might be silhouetted against the dimly glowing landing, he flattened himself against the wall and slid back to where he remembered seeing a switch for the passage lights. After some groping his hand found it. He turned it on and there, almost within touching distance, was Rupert Bartholomew.

      For a moment he thought Rupert would bolt. He had jerked up his hands as if to guard his face. He looked quickly behind him, hesitated, and then seemed to pull himself together.

      ‘It’s you,’ he whispered. ‘You gave me a shock.’

      ‘Wasn’t Signor Lattienzo’s pill any good?’

      ‘No. I’ve got to get to the lavatory. I can’t wait.’

      ‘There isn’t one along here, you must know that.’

      ‘Oh God!’ said Rupert loudly. ‘Lay off me, can’t you?’

      ‘Don’t start anything here, you silly chap. Keep your voice down and come to the studio.’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Oh yes you will. Come on.’

      He took him by the arm.

      Down the passage, back across the landing, back past Bert Smith, back into the studio, will this night never end? Alleyn wondered, putting down his dispatch case.

      ‘If you really want the Usual Offices,’ he said, ‘there’s one next door which you know as well as I do and I don’t mind betting there’s one in your own communicating bathroom. But you don’t want it, do you?’

      ‘Not now.’

      ‘Where were you bound for?’

      ‘I’ve told you.’

      ‘Oh, come on.’

      ‘Does it matter?’

      ‘Of course it matters, you ass. Ask yourself.’

      Silence.

      ‘Well?’

      ‘I left something. Downstairs.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘The score.’

      ‘Of The Alien Corn?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Couldn’t it wait till daylight? Which is not far off.’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘I want to burn it. The score. All the parts. Everything. I woke up and kept thinking of it. There, on the hall fire, burn it, I thought.’

      ‘The fire will probably be out.’

      ‘I’ll blow it together,’ said Rupert.

      ‘You’re making this up as you go along. Aren’t you?’

      ‘No. No. Honestly. I swear not. I want to burn it.’

      ‘And anything else?’

      He caught back his breath and shook his head.

      ‘Are you sure you want to burn it?’

      ‘How many times do I have to say!’

      ‘Very well,’ said Alleyn.

      ‘Thank God.’

      ‘I’ll come with you.’

      ‘No. I mean there’s no need. I won’t,’ said Rupert with a wan attempt at lightness, ‘get up to any funny business.’

      ‘Such as?’

      ‘Anything. Nothing. I just don’t want an audience. I’ve had enough of audiences,’ said Rupert and contrived a laugh.

      ‘I’ll be unobtrusive.’

      ‘You suspect me. Don’t you?’

      ‘I suspect a round half-dozen of you. Come on.’

      Alleyn took him by the arm.

      ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ Rupert said and broke away.

      ‘If you’re thinking I’ll go to bed and then you’ll pop down by yourself, you couldn’t be more mistaken. I’ll sit you out.’

      Rupert bit his finger and stared at Alleyn. A sudden battering by the gale sent some metal object clattering across the patio down below. Still blowing great guns, thought Alleyn.

      ‘Come along,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I’ve got to be bloody-minded but you might as well take it gracefully. We don’t want to do a cinematic roll down the stairs in each other’s arms, do we?’

      Rupert turned on his heel and walked out of the room. They