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

you? Does the name “Rossi” ring a bell?’

      ‘Rossi,’ Mr Ruby mused. ‘Rossi, eh? Hang on. Wait a sec.’

      As if to prompt, or perhaps warn him, raucous hoots sounded from the jetty across the water, giving the intervals without the cadence of the familiar singing-off phrase ‘Dah dahdy dah-dah. Dah dah.’

      Les appeared on deck and could be seen to wave his scarlet cap.

      The response from the islanders was instant. They hurried into a group. Miss Dancy flourished her woollen scarf. Mr Reece raised his arm in a Roman salute. Signor Lattienzo lifted his Tyrolean hat high above his head. Sylvia ran to Rupert and took his arm. Hanley moved out of cover and Troy, Mrs Bacon and Dr Carmichael came out of the house and pointed Les out to each other from the steps. Mr Ruby bawled out, ‘He’s done it. Good on ’im, ’e’s done it.’

      Alleyn took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and a spare from his overcoat. He went down to the lake edge and semaphored: Nice Work. Les returned to the wheelhouse and sent a short toot of acknowledgement.

      The islanders chattered excitedly, telling each other that the signal must mean the launch was mobile again, that the lake was undoubtedly calmer and that when the police did arrive they would be able to cross. The hope that they themselves would all be able to leave remained unspoken.

      They trooped up to the house and were shepherded in by Mr Reece who said, with sombre playfulness, that ‘elevenses’ were now served in the library.

      Troy and Dr Carmichael joined Alleyn. They seemed to be in good spirits. ‘We’ve finished our chores,’ Troy said, ‘and we’ve got something to report. Let’s have a quick swallow, and join up in the studio.’

      ‘Don’t make it too obvious,’ said Alleyn, who was aware that he was now under close though furtive observation by most of the household. He fetched two blameless tomato juices for himself and Troy. They joined Rupert and Sylvia Parry who were standing a little apart from the others and were not looking at each other. Rupert was still white about the gills but, or so Alleyn thought, rather less distraught – indeed there was perhaps a hint of portentousness, of self-conscious gloom in his manner.

      She has provided him with an audience, thought Alleyn. Let’s hope she knows what she’s letting herself in for.

      Rupert said: ‘I’ve told Sylvia about – last night.’

      ‘So I supposed,’ said Alleyn.

      ‘She thinks I was right.’

      ‘Good.’

      Sylvia said: ‘I think it took wonderful courage and artistic integrity and I do think it was right.’

      ‘That’s a very proper conclusion.’

      ‘It won’t be long now, will it?’ Rupert asked. ‘Before the police come?’ He pitched his voice rather high and brittle with the sort of false airiness some actors employ when they hope to convey suppressed emotion.

      ‘Probably not,’ said Alleyn.

      ‘Of course, I’ll be the prime suspect,’ Rupert announced.

      ‘Rupert, no,’ Sylvia whispered.

      ‘My dear girl, it sticks out a mile. After my curtain performance. Motive. Opportunity. The lot. We might as well face it.’

      ‘We might as well not make public announcements about it,’ Troy observed.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ said Rupert grandly. ‘No doubt I’m being silly.’

      ‘Well,’ Alleyn cheerfully remarked, ‘you said it. We didn’t. Troy, hadn’t we better sort out those drawings of yours?’

      ‘OK. Let’s. I’d forgotten.’

      ‘She leaves them unfixed and tiles the floor with them,’ Alleyn explained. ‘Our cat sat on a preliminary sketch of the Prime Minister and turned it into a jungle flower. Come on, darling.’

      They found Dr Carmichael already in the studio. ‘I didn’t want Reece’s “elevenses”,’ he said. And to Troy: ‘Have you told him?’

      ‘I waited for you,’ said Troy.

      They were, Alleyn thought, as pleased as Punch with themselves. ‘You tell him,’ they said simultaneously. ‘Ladies first,’ said the doctor.

      ‘Come on,’ said Alleyn.

      Troy inserted her thin hand in a gingerly fashion into a large pocket of her dress. Using only her first finger and her thumb she drew out something wrapped in one of Alleyn’s handkerchiefs. She was in the habit of using them as she preferred a large one and she had been known when intent on her work to confuse the handkerchief and her paint-rag, with regrettable results to the handkerchief and to her face.

      She carried her trophy to the paint-table and placed it there. Then, with a sidelong look at her husband, she produced two clean hog-hair brushes and, using them upside down in the manner of chopsticks, fiddled open the handkerchief and stood back.

      Alleyn walked over, put his arm across her shoulders and looked at what she had revealed.

      A large heavy envelope, creased and burnt but not so extensively that an airmail stamp and part of the address was not still in evidence. The address was typewritten.

       The Edit

       The Watchma

       PO Bo

       NSW 14C

       SY

       Australia

      ‘Of course,’ Troy said after a considerable pause, ‘it may be of no consequence at all, may it?’

      ‘Suppose we have the full story?’

      ‘Yes. All right. Here goes, then.’

      Their story was that they had gone some way with their housemaiding expedition when Troy decided to equip herself with a box-broom and a duster. They went downstairs in search of them and ran into Mrs Bacon emerging from the study. She intimated that she was nearing the end of her tether. The staff, having gone through progressive stages of hysteria and suspicion, had settled for a sort of work-to-rule attitude and, with the exception of the chef who had agreed to provide a very basic luncheon and Marco who was, said Mrs Bacon, abnormally quiet but did his jobs, either sulked in their rooms or muttered together in the staff sitting room. As far as Mrs Bacon could make out, the New Zealand ex-hotel group suspected in turn Signor Lattienzo, Marco and Maria on the score of their being Italians and Mr Reece whom they cast in the role of de facto cuckold. Rupert Bartholomew was fancied as an outside chance on the score of his having turned against the Sommita. Maria had gone to earth, supposedly in her room. Chaos, Mrs Bacon said, prevailed.

      Mrs Bacon herself had rushed round the dining and drawing rooms while Marco set out the elevenses. She had then turned her attention to the study and found to her horror that the open fireplace had not been cleaned nor the fire relaid. To confirm this, she had drawn their attention to a steel ashpan she herself carried in her rubber-gloved hands.

      ‘And that’s when I saw it, Rory,’ Troy explained. ‘It was sticking up out of the ashes and I saw what’s left of the address.’

      ‘And she nudged me,’ said Dr Carmichael proudly, ‘and I saw it too.’

      ‘And he behaved perfectly,’ Troy intervened. ‘He said: “Do let me take that thing and tell me where to empty it.” And Mrs Bacon said, rather wildly: “In the bin. In the yard,” and made feeble protestations and at that moment we all heard the launch hooting and she became distracted. So Dr Carmichael got hold of the ashpan. And I – well – I – got hold of the envelope and put it in my pocket among your handkerchief which happened to be there.’

      ‘So it appears,’ Dr Carmichael summed up, ‘that somebody