Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 2. Ngaio Marsh

      ‘I adored the way she said she had her eyes shut all through the cup ceremony, and then told you what each of them did,’ said Nigel. ‘Didn’t you, Alleyn?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Alleyn. ‘It was extremely helpful and rather interesting.’

      ‘D. will be Mr Pringle,’ observed Fox. ‘And here we go again. To my way of thinking he’s the most likely type. Neurotic, excitable young gentleman and dopes, as you found out, sir.’

      ‘I agree,’ said Alleyn. ‘He is a likely type. He’s in a bad way. He’s had a violent emotional jolt and he’s suffering from the after-effects of unbridled hero-worship. Silly young dolt. I hope it’s not Pringle.’

      ‘Obviously,’ ventured Nigel, ‘he would look on Miss Quayne as Garnette’s evil genius.’

      ‘Yes,’ murmured Alleyn. ‘I don’t pretend to speak with any sort of authority, but I should expect a person in Pringle’s condition to turn against the object of his worship rather than against the – what shall I call her? – the temptress. I should expect him in the shock of his discovery to direct his violence against Garnette there and then, not against Miss Quayne some three weeks later. I may be quite wrong about that,’ he added after a minute or two. ‘However – there is Pringle. He’s neurotic, he’s dopey, and he’s had a severe emotional shock. He hero-worshipped Garnette and made a hideous discovery. He’s probably been living in an ugly little hell of his own for the last three weeks. By the way, we haven’t sampled Mr Garnette’s cigarettes, have we? Another little job for the analyst.’

      ‘Now Miss Jenkins,’ said Fox. ‘She’s E.’

      ‘She struck me as being a pleasant creature,’ said Nigel. ‘Rather amusing I should think. Not a “lovely” of course, but moderately easy to look at. Intelligent.’

      ‘Very intelligent,’ agreed Alleyn.

      ‘How she got herself mixed up in this show beats me,’ confessed Fox. ‘A nice young lady like that.’

      ‘She practically said herself,’ Nigel interrupted. ‘She’s attached to that ass Pringle. Women are –’

      ‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Alleyn hastily. ‘We needn’t go into all that, I think, As far as we’ve got there’s no motive apparent in Miss Jenkins’s case. We are back at Ogden.’

      ‘F. Mr Ogden,’ said Fox solemnly. ‘It seems to me, sir, the only call we’ve got for suspecting Mr Ogden more than anybody else is that he’s an American, and it seems as if Father Garnette’s another. It don’t amount to much.’

      ‘It don’t,’ said Alleyn. ‘Personally I fancy the Atlantic meeting was their first one. I agree with you, Fox.’

      ‘As regards Father Garnette’s later utterances,’ said Nigel, ‘we had a clear case of in vino veritas.’

      ‘Someone was bound to say in vino veritas sooner or later,’ said Alleyn, ‘but you are quite right, Bathgate.’

      ‘That’s the lot, then,’ said Nigel.

      ‘No. Again you’ve forgotten Opifex.’

      ‘Opifex? What do you mean?’

      ‘Another classical touch. Don’t you remember the rhyme in the Latin text-books:

       Common are to either sex

      Artifex and Opifex.

      ‘Quite good names for Lionel and Claude.’

      ‘Really, Inspector!’ protested Nigel, grinning broadly.

      ‘Artifex was busy with the censer and seems unlikely. Opifex had, of course, less opportunity than the others. I understand he did not handle the cup?’

      ‘I don’t think he did,’ said Nigel. ‘Of course he was bending over the Initiates while they passed it round.’

      ‘Meaning Mr Wheatley?’ asked Fox.

      ‘Yes. Mr Claude Wheatley.’

      ‘Hardly got the guts to kill anybody, would you think, sir?’

      ‘I’d say not,’ agreed Nigel heartily.

      ‘They call poison a woman’s weapon, don’t they?’ asked Alleyn vaguely. ‘A dangerous generalisation. Well, let’s go home. There’s one more point I want to clear up. Any prints of interest, Bailey?’

      Detective-Sergeant Bailey had returned from the bedroom and had been at work on the parcel and the book. He had not uttered a word for some time. He now said with an air of disgruntled boredom: ‘Nothing on the book. Reverend Garnette on the parcel, I think, but I’ll take a photograph. There’s some prints in the bedroom besides the Reverend’s. I think they are Mr Pringle’s. I got a good one of his from that rail out there. Noticed him leaning on it.’

      ‘Did you find out how the torch is worked?’

      ‘Yes. Naphtha. Bottle in the vestry.’

      ‘Can you ginger it up for a moment, Bailey?’

      ‘Very good, sir.’

      ‘Have you got any cigarette-papers on you?’

      Bailey, looking completely disinterested, produced a packet and went out. Alleyn got a silver cup from the sideboard, half filled it with some of Father Garnette’s Invalid Port, emptied some salt into a cigarette-paper, stuck the margins together, and screwed up the end. Meanwhile, Fox locked the safe and sealed it with tape and wax. Alleyn pocketed the keys.

      ‘Come on out,’ he said.

      ‘They all returned to the sanctuary. Bailey had got the torch flaring again. The hall had taken on a new but rather ghastly lease of life. It looked like a setting for a film in extremely bad taste. The nude gods, the cubistic animals, the velvets and the elaborate ornaments flickered in the torchlight with meretricious theatricality. It was, Nigel told himself, altogether too much of a good thing. And yet, over-emphasized as it was, it did make its gesture. It was not, as it might well have been, merely silly. As the light flared up, the faces of the plaster figures flushed and seemed to move a little. The shadows under the eyes and nostrils of the Wotan wavered and the empty scowl deepened. One god seemed to puff out his cheeks, another to open and close his blank eyes. It was very still; there was no sound at all but for the roar of the naphtha. The men’s voices sounded forlorn and small. It had grown very cold.

      Alleyn walked down to the chancel steps and peered out into the body of the hall.

      ‘I want you all up here for a moment,’ he said.

      His voice seemed to echo a little. A plain-clothes man came out of the vestry and another appeared in the aisle. A constable came out of the porch.

      When they were all assembled under the torch Alleyn asked them to kneel in a circle. They did this, the constable and Fox very stolidly, Bailey with morose detachment, and two plain-clothes men with an air of mild interest. Nigel was unpleasantly moved by this performance. His imagination fashioned out of shadows the figure of Cara Quayne.

      Alleyn knelt with them. All their hands were shadowed by the sconce. They held them folded as Nigel showed them. They passed the cup from hand to hand, beginning with Fox who knelt in Mrs Candour’s place. Alleyn made them send it twice round the circle. Then they all stood up.

      ‘Notice anything?’ asked Alleyn.

      Nobody spoke.

      Alleyn suddenly flung the cup from him. It fell with a dull thud and the wine seeped into the carpet. Alleyn bent down and invited them all to look. In the bottom of the cup were the dregs of the wine and a tiny piece of paper.

      ‘You see it’s stuck to the side,’ said Alleyn.

      ‘When did you put it in, sir?’ asked Fox.

      ‘The first time round. You see, none of you noticed