Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 2. Ngaio Marsh

rather as though she felt it incumbent on her as a fat, comfortable woman to do so. They bore out Nannie’s statements as regard their movements on the preceding day. The chauffeur repeated his previous statement that he had driven Miss Quayne to the church at two-thirty and had brought her home at five to three. He had certainly thought she seemed most upset when she came out of the church. ‘Kind of flabbergasted,’ was the way he’d describe it. She was very pale and, he thought, out of breath. He had got tired of sitting in the car and had walked up the side entry to the double doors. Miss Quayne had left one door open and he looked into the hall. He saw her come out of the door by the altar. He thought she said something and supposed she was speaking to Father Garnette. One or two people had gone into the church while he waited. Alleyn asked the parlourmaid, who had been with Miss Quayne since she took the house, how many of the Initiates were regular visitors. He gave her a list of their names which she held in genteel fashion with her little finger crooked.

      ‘Most of these neemes are familiar,’ she said.

      ‘Have all of them visited Miss Quayne?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Some more frequently than others?’

      ‘Quayte,’ said the parlourmaid, whose name was Wilson.

      ‘Which were the most regular visitors?’

      ‘Mr Ravinje,’ it appeared, Mr Ogden and Mrs Candour.

      ‘Mrs Candour? When was she last here?’

      ‘I could ascertain,’ said Wilson, ‘from the appointment book.’

      ‘Please let me see it.’

      Wilson produced the appointment book. It was a diary, and Alleyn spent some minutes over it.

      ‘I notice,’ he said at last, ‘that Mrs Candour was quite a regular visitor until some three weeks ago. She seems to have lunched or dined pretty well every week. Then her name does not appear again. He raised an eyebrow at Wilson. ‘Any reason for that, do you know?’

      ‘There was words,’ said Wilson.

      ‘What about?’

      ‘A certain party.’

      ‘Oh. What party? Or don’t you know?’

      Wilson drew down the corners of her mouth.

      ‘Come on, Wilson,’ said Alleyn, ‘Let’s know the worst.’

      ‘Well, reely, I never am in the habit of repeating the drawing-room in the kitchen,’ said Wilson.

      ‘This isn’t the kitchen and it may be important. Did Mrs Candour and Miss Quayne have words about Mr Garnette?’

      ‘Yes, sir,’ said Wilson who seemed to have weighed Alleyn in the balance and found him quality.

      ‘Tell me about it, Wilson. You’ll be speaking in the cause of justice, you know. Think of that and expand. Did this row take place at lunch on Wednesday, November 14th, the last time Mrs Candour was here?’

      ‘Yes, sir. Or rather it was after lunch. Over the coffee in here.’

      ‘You brought the coffee in?’

      ‘Yes. Voices was raised and I heard words as the ladies came out of the dining-room. I was coming into the hall with the tray and I didn’t actually know what to do.’

      ‘Very awkward for you. What were they saying?’

      Wilson suddenly cast off all parlourmaidenly restraint and launched herself into a verbatim account.

      ‘Mrs Candour said to Miss Quayne: “You know what I mean, quite well,” sh’ said, “I’ve been watching you,” sh’ said, “and I was disgusted,” sh’ said. That was when they came out of the dining-room and they never noticed me standing there they was so carried away. And Miss Quayne looked at her and said: “I hope I don’t understand you, Dagmar,” sh’ said. And the way she said it! “I hope I don’t understand you, Dagmar,” sh’ said, “because I can’t believe you would let your soul come down to such an earth-plane,” sh’ said, “as to think of Father Garnette and me in such a way,” sh’ said. And Mrs Candour laughed and she said: “Earth-plane!” sh’ said. “If you’re not revelling on the earth-plane at this very moment I’d like to know who is? Don’t pretend, Cara,” sh’ said. Then they went into the drawing-room and I waited and I didn’t like to go in and they never shut the door and Miss Quayne said very loud: “It’s pathetically clear,” sh’ said, “what’s the matter with you. You’re devoured by jealousy.” Mrs Candour gave a kind of – well, a kind of screech, sir, but Miss Quayne said, sh’ said: “Because Father Garnette has chosen me to discover the hidden mysteries of the spirit and the body,” sh’ said – or something like that it was, and then Mrs Candour laughed. And the way she laughed! Well! And she said: “Cara,” sh’ said, “don’t think you can take me in,” sh’ said, “because I know.” And she said: “I promise you, I’m not going to stand aside and see it,” sh’ said. And then I was that upset I kind of quivered if you understand me, and the cups rattled and Miss Quayne said: “S’ssh!” sh’ said, “Wilson,” sh’ said. So I walked in.’

      ‘Extraordinarily dramatic!’ exclaimed Alleyn. ‘A princely entrance. And did they drink their coffee?’

      ‘Their hands shook that much they could hardly pour it out, sir.’

      ‘And you withdrew?’

      ‘Yes, sir, and closed the door,’ said Wilson, righteous but regretful. A moment later she followed her own example and Alleyn and Nigel were left alone.

      ‘Could you possibly keep up with all that?’ asked Alleyn.

      ‘I may have left out an occasional “sh’ said.” Otherwise it’s all here. Do you think Mrs Candour really talked like that?’

      ‘Wouldn’t be surprised. She’s a very common woman. She’s a liar, what’s more. She said she’d only been twice to this house.’

      ‘I wonder if she’s a murderess,’ said Nigel.

      ‘Too stupid, I’d have thought,’ said Alleyn, ‘but you never know. There’s a certain kind of low cunning that comes out very strong on occasion. I wish I had it. I’m scared to death I’ll make a fool of myself over this case. The boss-man is very excited about it. It ought to be easy – it’s so startling. Startling cases are generally easy. The difficult cases are the ones when one drunk heaves a brick at another drunk and leaves him lying in the road. Once they go in for fancy touches it’s usually kindergarten stuff. And this is so very fancy, so very extra, so specially Susie. Like to make one of your analyses, Bathgate?’

      ‘What do you mean? My analyses?’

      ‘On paper. All the people and their motives and opportunities with neat little sub-headings. Like a balance-sheet.’

      ‘Do you really want me to?’

      ‘Yes, if you will. I shall be able to cast a superior eye over it and then shatter it with a few facetiae. It will restore my self-respect. No, do make it. You will look at the show from a different point of view. It may easily suggest something. It will be a help. Really.’

      ‘I shall be delighted,’ said Nigel and set to work.

      Alleyn returned to Cara Quayne’s desk and carried on with the job of sorting her papers. There was a long silence broken only by the rustle of paper, the snap and crackle of the fire, and the sound of Nigel’s pen. Presently he looked up and said:

      ‘There. Finished.’

      ‘Let me see,’ said Alleyn.

      With a smug but slightly anxious air, Nigel laid his paper before the inspector. This is what he had written:

      MURDER OF CARA QUAYNE

       Suspects

      The Initiates, the priest, and the acolyte.