Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 2. Ngaio Marsh

got together like regular fellows. They’re a great little crowd.’

      ‘You’ve been interested in the organisation since its foundation?’

      ‘That’s so. That was way back in – why, it must be two years ago. I met up with Father Garnette coming across to England. I move about some, Inspector. That’s my job. That trip it was the Brightwater Creek Gold Mining Company. Yes, that’s what it would be. I recollect I had Father Garnette accept a small nugget as a souvenir. That would be May two years ago. I was very, very much impressed with Father Garnette’s personality.’

      ‘Really,’ said Alleyn.

      ‘Yes, sir. I’m a self-made man, Chief. I was raised in a ten-cent fish joint, and my education simply forgot to occur, but when I meet culture I respect it. I like it handed out good and peppy, and that’s the way Father Garnette let me have it. By the time we hit Southampton we’d doped out a scheme for this church, and before six months had passed we were drawing congregations of three hundred.’

      ‘Remarkable,’ said Alleyn.

      ‘It was swell.’

      ‘Where did the money come from?’

      ‘Why, from the flock. Father Garnette had a small hall ‘way down Great Holland Road. Compared with this it was a bum show, but say, did we work it? The Father had a service every night for a month. He got right down to it. A small bunch of very influential people came along. Just one or two, but they roped in more. When he’d got them all enthusiastic he had an appeal week and loosed a line of high-voltage oratory. Sob-stuff. I gave five grand and I’m proud to spill the beans.’

      ‘Who were the other subscribers?’

      ‘Why, Dagmar Candour was in on the plush seats with a thousand pounds and poor Cara checked in at the same level. Each of those ladies seemed ambitious to carry off the generosity stakes. Then there was M. de Ravigne and – and all the bunch of Initiates. I guess I’d hold up operations some if I recited all the subscribers.’

      ‘Miss Quayne must have been a very wealthy woman?’

      ‘She was very, very wealthy, and she had a lovely nature. Why, only last month she deposited five thousand in bearer bonds in the safe back there beyond the altar. They are waiting there until another five is raised among the rest of us and then it’s to form a building fund for a new church. That’s how generous she was.’

      Nigel had paused, pen in air, to gape at Mr Ogden’s enthusiastic countenance, and to reflect a little childishly on the gullibility of average men and women. None of these people was particularly stupid, he would say, except perhaps Mrs Candour. Miss Quayne had looked interesting. Mr Ogden was obviously an intelligent business man. Janey Jenkins, Maurice Pringle, M. de Ravigne were none of them idiots. He forgot all about Miss Wade. Yet all these apparently sensible individuals had been duped by Garnette into parting with sums of money. Extraordinary! At this moment he remembered his own reaction to Father Garnett’s oratory and felt less superior.

      ‘That’s how generous she was,’ repeated Mr Ogden.

      ‘What was the relationship between M. de Ravigne and the deceased?’

      ‘Crazy about her,’ answered Mr Ogden succinctly.

      ‘Yet I rather gathered that the Initiates were a cut above earthly love,’ ventured Alleyn.

      ‘I guess M. de Ravigne has not altogether cast off the shackles of the body,’ said Mr Ogden dryly. ‘But get this: Cara was not interested. No, sir. Her soul was yearning after the inner mysteries of the spirit.’

      ‘Did you hear what Mr Pringle and Mrs Candour said immediately after the tragedy?’

      Mr Ogden looked uncomfortable.

      ‘Well, I can’t say –’

      Alleyn consulted his notebook and read aloud the conversation as Nigel had reported it to him.

      ‘Mr Pringle said: “The whole thing is a farce.” He talked about retribution. He said to Mrs Candour: “You would have taken her place if you could.” What do you think he meant, Mr Ogden?’

      ‘I don’t know, Chief, honest I don’t,’ said Mr Ogden, looking very worried. ‘Maybe there was a little competition between the ladies for spiritool honours. Maybe Pringle kind of thought Mrs Candour would have enjoyed a spell as Chosen Vessel.’

      ‘I see.’

      ‘You don’t want to make too much of it. They were all het up. That boy’s three hundred per cent nerves. Garsh!’ Mr Ogden went on fervently, ‘I wish to hell we could smoke.’

      ‘Same here,’ agreed Alleyn. ‘I’d give my soul for a pipe. No hope for me, I’m afraid, but I don’t think I need keep you much longer, Mr Ogden.’

      Mr Ogden looked astounded.

      ‘Well, say!’ he remarked, ‘that’s certainly a surprise to me. I don’t get the works this trip?’

      ‘Nor the next, I hope. Unless you can think of anything you feel we ought to know I shan’t worry you any more until after the inquest. Of course, if you have any theory I should be extremely glad –’

      ‘For Gard’s sake!’ ejaculated Mr Ogden. ‘Listen. Are they all this way around the Yard?’ He looked at Fox and lowered his voice to a penetrating whisper. ‘He looks more like a regular dick. An’ yet if I worded him maybe he’d talk back like a bud’s guide to society stuff. Is that so?’

      ‘You must meet Inspector Fox and find out,’ said Alleyn. ‘Fox!’

      ‘Hullo, sir?’ Fox hoisted himself up and walked solemnly round the pews towards them.

      ‘Mr Ogden finds our methods a little lacking in colour.’

      ‘Indeed, sir?’

      ‘Yes. Can you suggest any improvements? Have you any questions you would like to put to Mr Ogden, Fox? Something really startling, you know.’

      ‘Well, sir, I can’t say I have. Unless’ – Fox paused a moment and stared at Alleyn – ‘unless Mr Ogden can tell us anything about the – er – the ingredients of the cup.’

      ‘Can you, Mr Ogden.’

      ‘Surely. It’s some sissy dope from a departmental store. I’ve seen the bottles. Invalid Port. One half per cent alcohol. But –’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Well, since you’re asking, Chief, I reckon Father Garnette has it pepped up some. A drop of brandy I’d say. Mind, I don’t know.’

      ‘There you are, Fox. Anything else?’

      ‘I don’t think so, sir,’ said Fox with a smile, ‘unless the gentleman would like to be searched.’

      ‘Would you care to be searched, Mr Ogden? We do that sort of thing rather neatly.’

      ‘Well, for crying out loud!’ exclaimed Mr Ogden. He looked from Alleyn to Fox, cast up his eyes, passed a plump hand over his head and burst out laughing.

      ‘Get to it,’ he begged,’ get to it. For the Lord’s sake get to it. Would I care to be searched!’

      ‘Carry on, Fox,’ said Alleyn.

      Fox took out a notebook and Alleyn, with the swift precision of a pick-pocket, explored the inner fastnesses of Mr Ogden’s suit.

      ‘Note-case. One fiver and three singles. Pocket-book. Letter. Typewritten, stamped and sealed. Address “Hector K. Manville, Ogden-Schultz Gold-refining and Extracting Co., 81 East forty-fifth Street, Boston, Massachusetts.” Letter refers to a new gold refining process. It’s rather technical.’

      Fox read it with difficulty.

      ‘Bill from Harrods. £9 10s. 8d. To account rendered. Date: November 2nd of this year. Letter beginning “Dear Sam,” signed Heck. Date –’