Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 2. Ngaio Marsh

      ‘I think so. See here, Bathgate. Suppose one of the Initiates had a pinch of cyanide in this little envelope. He – or she has it concealed about his or her person. In a cigarette-case, perhaps, or an empty lipstick holder. Just before he goes up with the others he takes it out and holds it right end up – wait a moment – like this perhaps.’

      ‘No,’ said Nigel, ‘like this.’ He folded his hands like those of a saint in a mediaeval drawing, ‘I noticed they all did that.’

      ‘Excellent. The flat open end would be slipped between two fingers, and the thing would be held snug. When he – call it he for the moment – takes the cup, he manages to let the little envelope fall in. Not so difficult as it sounds. We’ll experiment later. The paper floats. The folded end uppermost, the open end down. The powder falls out.’

      ‘But,’ objected Fox, ‘he’s running a big risk, sir. Suppose somebody notices the paper floating about on the top of the wine. Suppose, for the sake of argument, Miss Jenkins or Mr Ogden say they saw it, and Mr Pringle and the rest don’t mention it – well, that won’t look too good for Mr Pringle. If he’s the murderer he’ll think of that. I mean –’

      ‘I know what you’re driving at, Inspector,’ said Nigel excitedly. ‘But the gentleman says to himself that if anyone notices the paper he’ll notice it too. That will switch it back a place to the one before him.’

      ‘Um,’ rumbled Fox doubtfully.

      ‘I don’t think they would see it,’ Alleyn murmured. ‘You say, Bathgate, that during the ceremony of the cup the torch was the only light?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Quite so. It’s nearly burnt out now, but I think you will find that when it’s going full blast there will be a shadow immediately beneath it where they knelt, a shadow cast by its own sconce.’

      ‘I think there was,’ agreed Nigel. ‘I remember that they seemed to be in a sort of pool of gloom.’

      ‘Exactly. And in addition, their own heads, bent over the cup, would cast a further shadow. All the same, you’re right, Fox. He is taking a big risk. Unless –’ Alleyn stopped short, stared at his colleague, and then for no apparent reason made a hideous grimace at Nigel.

      ‘What’s that for?’ demanded Nigel suspiciously.

      ‘This is all pure conjecture,’ said Alleyn abruptly. ‘When the analyst finds traces of cyanide we can start talking.’

      ‘I can’t see why he’d drop the paper in,’ complained Nigel. ‘It must have been accidental.’

      ‘I don’t know, Mr Bathgate,’ said Fox in his slow way. ‘There are points about it. No fingerprints. Nothing to show if he’s searched.’

      ‘That’s right,’ said Bailey suddenly. ‘And he’d reckon the lady’d be sure to drop the cup. He’d reckon on it falling out and getting tramped into the carpet like it was.’

      ‘Say it stuck to the side?’ objected Fox.

      ‘Well, say it did,’ said Bailey combatively. ‘What’s to stop him getting it out when they’re all looking at the lady throwing fancy fits and passing in her checks?’

      ‘Say it slid out on to her lips,’ continued Fox monotonously.

      ‘Say she drank it? You make me tired, Mr Fox. It wouldn’t slide out, it’d slide back on the top of the wine. Isn’t that right?’

      ‘Um,’ said Fox again.

      ‘What d’yer mean “Um”! That’s fair enough, isn’t it, sir?’ He appealed to Alleyn.

      ‘Conjecture,’ said Alleyn. ‘Surmise and conjecture.’

      ‘You started it,’ remarked Nigel perkily.

      ‘So I did. That’s all the thanks I get for thinking aloud. Come on, Fox. It grows beastly late. Shut up your find. We’ll know more about it when the analyst has spoken his piece.’

      Fox took the little box from him, shut it, and put it into the bag.

      ‘What’s next, sir?’ he asked.

      ‘Why, Mr Garnett’s little bottle. Where is Mr Garnette?’

      ‘In his rooms. Dr Curtis is there and one of our men.’

      ‘I wonder if he has converted them. Let us join the cosy circle. You can tackle the vestry now, Bailey.’

      Fox, Alleyn and Nigel went up to Father Garnette’s room, leaving Bailey and his satellites to continue their prowling.

      Father Garnette sat at his desk which, with its collection of objects de piété, so closely resembled an altar. Dr Curtis sat at the table. A uniformed constable with a perfectly expressionless face stood by Father Garnette’s prie-dieu, furnishing a most fantastic juxtaposition of opposites. They all had the look of persons who have not spoken for a considerable time. Father Garnette was pallid and a little too dignified; Dr Curtis was wan and puffed with suppressed yawning; the constable was merely pale by nature.

      ‘Ah, Mr Garnette,’ said Alleyn cheerfully, ‘here we are at last. You must long for your bed.’

      ‘No, no,’ said Father Garnette. ‘No, no.’

      ‘We shan’t keep you very much longer. I wonder if you will allow me to make an inspection of these rooms? I’m afraid it ought to be done.’

      ‘An inspection! But really, Inspector, is that necessarah? I must confess I –’ Father Garnette stopped and then added a throaty sound suggestive of sweet reasonableness coupled with distress.

      ‘You object?’ said Alleyn briskly. ‘Then I shall have to leave my men here for the time being. I’m so sorry.’

      ‘But – I cannot understand –’

      ‘You see I’m afraid there is little doubt that this is a case of homicide. That means there is a certain routine that we are obliged to follow. A search of the premises is part of this routine. Of course, if you object –’

      ‘I – no – I –’

      ‘You don’t?’

      ‘Not if – no. It is merely that this little dwelling is very precious to me. It is filled with the thoughts – the meditations of a specially dedicated life. One shrinks a little from the thought of – ah –’

      ‘Of fools stepping in where – but no, of course this is one of the places where angels tread all over the place. We’ll be as quick as we can. You can help us if you will. The bedroom is through there, I suppose.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Any other rooms?’

      ‘The usual offices,’ said Father Garnette grandly: ‘bathroom, etceterah, etceterah.’

      ‘Any back door?’

      ‘Ah – yes.’

      ‘Is it locked?’

      ‘Invariablah.’

      ‘Have a look, will you, Fox? I’ll take this room’

      Fox dived past a black velvet portière. The constable, at a nod from Alleyn, followed him.

      ‘Would you rather stay here?’ asked Alleyn of Father Garnette. Father Garnette cast a somewhat distracted glance round the room and said he thought he would.

      ‘Finished with me, Alleyn?’ asked Dr Curtis.

      ‘Yes, thanks, Curtis. Inquest on Tuesday, I suppose. They’ll want a post-mortem, of course.’

      ‘Of course. I’ll be off.’

      ‘Lucky creature. Goodnight.’

      ‘Goodnight.