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

Mrs Bacon told Alleyn she was glad of the opportunity to have a word with him. ‘There are difficulties. It’s very inconvenient,’ she said as if the plumbing had failed them.

      ‘I’m sure it is,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything I can do –’

      ‘It’s Maria.’

      ‘Is she still cutting up rough?’

      ‘Indeed she is.’ Mrs Bacon turned to Troy. ‘This is all so unpleasant, Mrs Alleyn,’ she apologized. ‘I’m sorry to bring it up!’

      The Alleyns made appropriate noises.

      ‘Of course she is upset,’ Mrs Bacon conceded. ‘We understand that, don’t we? But really!’

      ‘What form is it taking now?’ Alleyn asked.

      ‘She wants to go – in there.’

      ‘Still on that lay, is she? Well, she can’t.’

      ‘She – being a Catholic, of course, one should make allowances,’ Mrs Bacon herself astonishingly allowed. ‘I hope you’re not – ?’ she hurriedly added, turning pink. ‘And, of course, being a foreigner should be taken into consideration. But it’s getting more than a joke. She wants to lay Madame out. I was wondering if – just to satisfy her?’

      ‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Bacon,’ Alleyn said, ‘the body must be left as it is until the police have seen it.’

      ‘That’s what they always say in the thrillers, of course. I know that, but I thought it might be an exaggeration.’

      ‘Not in this instance at any rate.’

      ‘She’s worrying Mr Reece about it. He’s spoken to me. He’s very much shocked, you can sense that, although he doesn’t allow himself to show it. He told me everything must be referred to you. I think he would like to see you.’

      ‘Where is he?’

      ‘In the study. That Italian gentleman, Mr Lattienzo, and Mr Ruby are with him. And then,’ Mrs Bacon went on, ‘there are the two ladies, the singers, who stayed last night, I must say what I can to them. They’ll be wondering. Really, it’s almost more than one can be expected to cope with.’

      ‘Maddening for you,’ said Troy.

      ‘Well, it is. And the staff! The two housemaids are talking themselves into hysterics and refusing to come up to this landing and the men are not much better. I thought I could depend on Marco but he’s suddenly gone peculiar and doesn’t seem to hear when he’s spoken to. Upon my word,’ said Mrs Bacon, ‘I’ll be glad to see the police on the premises and I never thought to say that in my occupation.’

      ‘Can’t Hanley help out?’ asked Alleyn.

      ‘Not really. They all giggle at him, or did when they had a giggle left in them. I told them they were making a mistake. It’s obvious what he is, of course, but that doesn’t mean he’s not competent. Far from it. He’s very shrewd and very capable and he and I get on quite well. I really don’t know,’ Mrs Bacon exclaimed, ‘why I’m boring you like this! I must be going off at the deep end, myself.’

      ‘Small wonder if you did,’ said Troy. ‘Look, don’t worry about the rooms. How about you and me whipping round when they’re all out of them.’

      ‘Oh!’ cried Mrs Bacon. ‘I couldn’t dream of it.’

      ‘Yes, you could. Or, I tell you what. I’ll talk to Miss Dancy and Miss Parry and see how they feel about a bit of bedmaking. Do us all good instead of sitting round giving each other the jim-jams. Wouldn’t it, Rory?’

      ‘Certainly,’ said Alleyn and put his arm round her.

      ‘Are they in their rooms? I’ll ring them up,’ Troy offered.

      ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, Mrs Alleyn, you’re a darling. Their breakfasts went up at eight-thirty. They’ll still be in bed, eating it.’

      ‘One of them isn’t,’ said Alleyn who had gone to the window. ‘Look.’

      The prospect from their windows commanded the swimming pool on the extreme left and the hangar on the right. In the centre, Lake Waihoe swept turbulently away into nothing. The mountains that rose from its far shore had been shut off by a curtain of ashen cloud. The fringes of trees that ran out into the lake were intermittently wind-whipped. The waters tumbled about the shore, washed over the patio and reared and collapsed into the brimming pool which still overflowed its borders.

      And down below on the bricked terrace, just clear of the water stood Rupert and a figure in a heavy mackintosh and sou’wester so much too big that it was difficult to identify as Miss Sylvia Parry.

      Mrs Bacon joined Alleyn at the window. ‘Well,’ she said after a pause. ‘If that’s what it seems to be it’s a pity it didn’t develop when he was going away for days at a time for all those rehearsals.’

      ‘Where was that?’

      ‘On the other side – at a Canterbury seaside resort. The chopper used to take him over and he stayed the night. Mr Reece had them all put up at the Carisbrook. Luxury. Seven star,’ said Mrs Bacon. ‘They rehearsed in a local hall and gave concerts.’

      Down below Rupert was speaking. The girl touched his arm and he took her hand in his. They remained like that for some moments. It had begun fitfully to rain again. He led her out of sight, presumably into the house.

      ‘Nice girl,’ said Mrs Bacon crisply. ‘Pity. Oh well, you never know, do you?’

      She made for the door.

      Alleyn said: ‘Wait a second, Mrs Bacon. Listen. Troy, listen.’

      They listened. As always when an imposed silence takes over, the background of household sounds that had passed unnoticed and the voice of the wind outside to which they had grown inattentive, declared themselves. Behind them, very distant but thinly clear, was the sound of a bell.

      ‘Les, by Heaven!’ said Alleyn. ‘Here! Mrs Bacon, have you got a bell in the house? A big bell?’

      ‘No,’ she said, startled.

      ‘A gong?’

      ‘Yes. We don’t use it.’

      ‘Bring it out on the terrace, please. Or get the men to bring it. And field glasses. I saw a pair in the hall, didn’t I? But quick.’

      He pulled the slips off two of their pillows and ran down the hall and out on the terrace to a point from which the jetty and boathouse could be seen across the lake. Out here the sound of the bell was louder and echoed in the unseen hills.

      It was ringing irregularly: long-spaced notes mixed with quick short-spaced ones.

      ‘Bless his heart he’s signalling again,’ said Alleyn. He got out his notebook and pen and set himself to read the code. It was a shortish sequence confused by its echo and repeated after a considerable pause. The second time round he got it. Police informed, Les signalled.

      Alleyn, hoping he was a fairly conspicuous figure from the boatshed, had begun a laborious attempt at semaphoring with pillowcases when Bert and Marco piloted by Mrs Bacon staggered out of the house bearing an enormous Burmese gong on a carved stand. They set it up on the terrace. Alleyn discarded his pillowcases and whacked out a booming acknowledgement. This too set up an echo.

      Received and understood thanks.

      It struck him that he had created a picture worthy of Salvador Dali – a Burmese gong on an island in New Zealand, a figure beating it – pillowslips on a wet shore and on the far shore another figure, waving. And in the foreground a string of unrelated persons strung out at intervals. For, in addition to trim Mrs Bacon, Dr Carmichael, Hanley, Ben Ruby, Signor Lattienzo and Mr Reece, in that order, had come out of the house.

      Mrs