Читать книгу Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 8: Death at the Dolphin, Hand in Glove, Dead Water - Ngaio Marsh, Stella Duffy - Страница 30

‘Not,’ Mr Fox remarked as they drove away, ‘the type of young people you’d expect to find in this environment.’

‘Not county, you think?’ Alleyn returned.

‘Certainly not,’ Fox said primly. ‘Leiss, now. A bad type that. Wide boy. Only a matter of time before he’s inside for a tidy stretch. But the young lady’s a different story. Or ought to be,’ Fox said, after a pause. ‘Or ought to be,’ he repeated heavily.

‘The young lady,’ Alleyn said tartly, ‘is a young stinker. Look, Fox! There are threads of the Period cigarette tobacco in Leiss’s pocket. Bob Williams’ll lay on a vacuum cleaner, I dare say. Go through the pockets and return the unspeakable garments will you? And check his dabs from the oddments in the pockets. To my mind, there’s no doubt they pinched the cigarette-case. Suppose Cartell or Period or both, cut up rough? What then?’

‘Ah!’ Fox said. ‘Exactly. And suppose Mr Cartell threatened to go to the police and they set the trap for him and accidentally dropped the case in doing it?’

‘All right. Suppose they did. Now as to their actions on the scene of the crime we’ve got that pleasant child, Nicola Maitland-Mayne, for a witness but she was in the throes of young love and may have missed one or two tricks. I’ll check with her young man, although he was probably further gone than she. All right. I’ll drop you at the station and return to the genteel assault on Mr Pyke Period. He’ll have lunched by now. What about you?’

‘Or you, Mr Alleyn, if it comes to that.’

‘I think I’ll press on, Br’er Fox. Get yourself a morsel of cheese and pickle at the pub and see if there’s anything more to be extracted from that cagey little job, Alfred Belt.’

‘As a matter of fact,’ Fox confessed, ‘Mr Belt and Mrs Mitchell the cook, who seems to be a very superior type of woman, suggested I should drop in for a snack later in the day. Mrs Mitchell went so far as to indicate she’d set something cold aside.’

‘I might have known it,’ Alleyn said. ‘Meet you at the station at fiveish.’ The car pulled up at Mr Pyke Period’s gate and he got out, arranging for it to pick him up again in half an hour.

Mr Period received him fretfully in the drawing-room. He was evidently still much perturbed and kept shooting unhappy little glances out of the corners of his eyes. Alleyn could just hear the stutter of Nicola’s typewriter in the study.

‘I can’t settle to anything. I couldn’t eat my lunch. It’s all too difficult and disturbing,’ said Mr Period.

‘And I’m afraid I’m not going to make it any easier,’ Alleyn rejoined. He waited for a moment and decided to fire point-blank. ‘Mr Period,’ he said, ‘will you tell me why you wrote two letters of condolence to Miss Cartell, why they are almost exactly the same and why the first was written and sent to her before either of you had been informed of her brother’s death?’

There was nothing to be learnt from Mr Period’s face. Shock, guilt, astonishment, lack of comprehension or mere deafness might have caused his jaw to drop and his eyes to glaze. When he did speak it was politely and conventionally. ‘I beg your pardon? What did you say?’

Alleyn repeated his question. Mr Period seemed to think it over. After a considerable pause he said flatly: ‘But I didn’t.’

‘You didn’t what?’

‘Write twice. The thing’s ridiculous.’

Alleyn drew the two letters from his pocket and laid them before Mr Period who screwed his glass in his eye and stooped over them. When he straightened up, his face was the colour of beetroot. ‘There has been a stupid mistake,’ he said.

‘I’m afraid I must ask you to explain it.’

‘There’s nothing to explain.’

‘My dear Period!’ Alleyn ejaculated.

‘Nothing! My man must have made a nonsense.’

‘Your man didn’t, by some act of clairvoyance, anticipate a letter of condolence, and forge a copy and deliver it to a lady before anyone knew she was bereaved.’

‘There’s no need to be facetious,’ said Mr Period.

‘I couldn’t agree with you more. It’s an extremely serious matter.’

‘Very well,’ Mr Period said angrily. ‘Very well! I ah – I – ah – I had occasion to write to Connie Cartell about something else. Something entirely different and extremely private.’

Astonishingly he broke into a crazy little laugh which seemed immediately to horrify him. He stared wildly at Alleyn. ‘I – ah – I must have –’ He stopped short. Alleyn would have thought it impossible for him to become redder in the face but he now did so. ‘The wrong letter,’ he said, ‘was put in the envelope. Obviously.’

‘But that doesn’t explain – Wait a bit!’ Alleyn exclaimed. ‘Come!’ he said after a moment. ‘Perhaps sense does begin to dawn after all. Tell me, and I promise I’ll be as discreet as may be, has anybody else of your acquaintance been bereaved of a brother?’

Mr Period’s eyeglass dropped with a click. ‘In point of fact,’ he said unhappily, ‘yes.’

‘When?’

‘It was in yesterday’s – ah! I heard of it yesterday.’

‘And wrote?’

Mr Period inclined his head.

‘And the letter was –’ Alleyn wondered how on earth his victim’s discomfiture could be reduced and decided there was nothing much to be done about it. ‘The letters were identical?’ he suggested. ‘After all, why not? One can’t go on forever inventing consolatory phrases.’

Mr Period bowed and was silent. Alleyn hurried on. ‘Do you mind giving me, in confidence, the name of the’ – it was difficult to avoid a touch of grotesquery – ‘the other bereaved sister?’

‘Forgive me. I prefer not.’

Remembering there was always Nicola and the Daily Press, Alleyn didn’t press the point.

‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘you wouldn’t mind telling me what the missing letter was about: I mean, the one that you intended for Miss Cartell?’

‘Again,’ Mr Period said with miserable dignity, ‘I regret.’ He really looked as if he might cry.

‘Presumably it has gone to the other bereaved sister? The wrong letter in the right envelope as it were.’

Mr Period momentarily closed his eyes as if overtaken by nausea and said nothing.

‘You know,’ Alleyn went on very gently, ‘I have to ask about these things. If they’re irrelevant to the case I can’t tell you how completely and thankfully one puts them out of mind.’

‘They are irrelevant,’ Mr Period assured him with vehemence. ‘Believe me, believe me, they are. Entirely irrelevant! My dear Alleyn – really – I promise you. There now!’ Mr Period concluded with crackpot gaiety. ‘’Nuff said! Tell me, my dear fellow, you did have luncheon? I meant to suggest – but this frightful business puts everything out of one’s head – not, I hope, at our rather baleful little pub?’

He babbled on distractedly. Alleyn listened in the hope of hearing something useful and this not being the case brought him up with a round turn.

He said: ‘There’s one other thing. I understand that Lady Bantling drove you home last night?’

Mr Period gaped at him. ‘But of course,’ he said at last. ‘Dear Desirée! So kind! Of course! Why?’

‘And I believe,’ Alleyn plodded on, ‘that after you had left her, she didn’t at once return to Baynesholme but went into your garden and from there conducted a dialogue with Mr Cartell who was looking out of his bedroom window. Why didn’t you tell me about this?’

‘I don’t – really, I don’t know –’

‘But I think you do. You looked through your own bedroom window and asked if anything was the matter.’

‘And nothing was!’ Mr Period ejaculated with a kind of pale triumph. ‘Nothing! She said so! She said –’

‘She said: “Nothing in the wide world. Go to bed, darling.”’

‘Precisely! So exuberant always!’

‘Did you hear anything of the conversation?’

‘Nothing!’ Mr Period ejaculated. ‘Nothing at all! But nothing! I simply heard their voices. And in my opinion she was just being naughty and teasing poor old Hal.’

As Mr Period could not be dislodged from this position Alleyn made his excuses and sought out Nicola in the study.

She was able to find a copy of yesterday’s Press. He read through the obituary notices.

‘Look here,’ he said, ‘your employer is in a great taking-on about his correspondence. Did you happen to notice what mail was ready to go out yesterday evening?’

‘Yes,’ Nicola said. ‘Two letters.’

‘Local addresses?’

‘That’s right,’ she said uneasily.

‘Mind telling me what they were?’

‘Well – I mean …’

‘All right. Were they to Miss Cartell and Desirée, Lady Bantling?’

‘Why ask me,’ Nicola said rather crossly, ‘if you already know?’

‘I was tricking you, my pretty one, oiled Hawkshaw the detective.’

‘Ha-ha, very funny, I suppose,’ Nicola sourly remarked.

‘Well, only fairly funny.’ Alleyn had wandered over to the corner of the room that bore Mr Period’s illuminated genealogy. ‘He seems woundily keen on begatteries,’ he muttered. ‘Look at all this. Hung up in a dark spot for modesty’s sake, but framed and hung up, all the same. It’s not an old one. Done at his cost, I’ll be bound.’

‘How do you know?’

‘If you keep on asking “feed” questions you must expect to be handed the pay-off line. By the paper, gilt and paint.’

‘Oh.’

‘Where’s Ribblethorpe?’

‘Beyond Baynesholme, I think.’

‘The Pyke family seems to have come from there.’

‘So I’ve been told,’ Nicola sighed, ‘and at some length, poor lamb. He went on and on about it yesterday after luncheon. I think he was working something off.’

‘Tell me again about the conversation at lunch.’ Nicola did so and he thanked her. ‘I must go,’ he said.

‘Where to?’

‘Oh – up and down in the world seeking whom I may devour. See you later, no doubt.’

As he left the house Alleyn thought: ‘That was all pretty bloody facetious, but the girl makes me feel young.’ And as he got into the police car he added to himself: ‘But so after all, does my wife. And that’s what I call being happily married. To Baynesholme,’ he added, to his driver. On the way there, he sat with his hat cocked forward, noticing that spring was advancing in the countryside and wondering what Desirée Ormsbury, as he remembered her, would look like after all these years.

‘Pretty tough, I dare say, what with one thing and another,’ he supposed, and when he was shown into her boudoir and she came forward to greet him, he found he had been right.

Desirée was wearing tight pants and an Italian shirt. The shirt was mostly orange and so were her hair and lipstick. Her make-up generally, was impressionistic rather than representational and her hands, quite desperately haggard.

But when she grinned at him there was the old raffish, disreputable charm he remembered so well and he thought: ‘She’s formidable, still.’

‘It is you, then,’ she said hoarsely. ‘I wasn’t sure if it was going to be you or your brother – George, was he? – who’d turned into a policeman.’

‘I wonder at your remembering either of us.’

‘I do, though. But of course, George turned into a baronet. You’re Rory, the dashing one.’

‘You appal me,’ Alleyn said.

‘You don’t look all that different. I wish I could say as much for myself. Shall we have a drink?’

‘Not me, thank you,’ Alleyn said rather startled. He glanced at a clock: it was twenty to three.

‘I’ve only just had lunch,’ she explained. ‘I thought brandy might be rather a thing. Where did you have lunch?’ She looked at him. ‘Wait a moment, will you? Sorry. I won’t be long. Have a smoke.’ She added over her shoulder as she walked away: ‘I’m not trying to escape.’

Alleyn looked about him. It was a conventional country house boudoir with incongruous dabs of Desirée scattered about it in the form of ‘dotty’ bits of French porcelain and one astonishing picture of a nude sprouting green bay leaves and little flags.

There were photographs of Richard Bantling and a smooth-looking youngish man whom Alleyn supposed must be Desirée’s third husband. It was a rather colourless photograph but he found himself looking at it with a sense of familiarity. He knew the wideset eyes were grey rather than blue and that the mouth, when smiling, displayed almost perfect teeth. He knew he had heard the voice: a light baritone, lacking colour. He knew he had at some time encountered this man but he couldn’t remember where or when.

‘That’s Bimbo,’ said Desirée, returning. ‘My third. We’ve been married a year.’ She carried a loaded tray. ‘I thought you were probably hungry,’ she said, putting it on her desk. ‘You needn’t feel awkward,’ she added. She strolled off and lit a cigarette. ‘Do have it, for God’s sake, after all my trouble getting it. If I’m arrested, I promise I won’t split on you. Eat up.’

‘Since you put it like that,’ Alleyn rejoined, ‘I shall, and very gratefully.’ He sat down to chicken-aspic and salad, bread, butter, cheese, a bottle of lager and something in an over-sized cocktail glass.

‘Dry Martini,’ Desirée said. She herself had a generously equipped brandy glass. She picked up a magazine and disappeared into a sofa. ‘Is that all right?’

By the smell he supposed it to be made up of nine parts gin to one of french. He therefore tipped it quickly into a vase of flowers on the desk and poured out the lager. The chicken-aspic was quite excellent.

‘Andrew tells me,’ Desirée said, ‘that you seem to think Hal was murdered.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘It appears so unlikely, somehow. Unless somebody did it out of irritation. When we were married, I promise you I felt like it often enough. Still, being rid of him I no longer do – or did. If you follow me.’

‘Perfectly,’ said Alleyn.

‘Andrew says it’s all about a kind of booby-trap, he thinks. Is that right?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I expected,’ Desirée said after a pause, ‘that it would be you asking me the questions.’

‘If you fill my mouth with delectable food, how can I?’

‘Is it good? I didn’t have any. I never fancy my lunch much except for the drinks. Was Hal murdered? Honestly?’

‘I think so.’

There was a longish silence and then she began to talk about people they had both known and occasions when they had met. This went on for some time. In her offhand way she managed to convey an implicit familiarity. Presently she came up behind him. He could smell her scent which was sharp and unfamiliar. He knew she was trying to get him off-balance, to make him feel vulnerable, sitting there eating and drinking. He also knew, as certainly as if she had made the grossest of advances, that she was perfectly ready for an unconventional interlude. He wondered where her Bimbo had taken himself off to and if Andrew Bantling was in the house. He continued sedately to eat and drink.

‘My Bimbo,’ she said as if he had spoken aloud, ‘is having his bit of afternoon kip. We were latish last night. One of my parties. Quite a pure one, but I suppose you know about that.’

‘Yes, it sounded a huge success,’ Alleyn said politely. He laid down his knife and fork and got up. ‘That was delicious,’ he said. ‘Thank you very much, jolly kind of you to think of it.’

‘Not at all,’ she murmured, coming at him with cigarettes and a lighter and an ineffable look.

‘May we sit down?’ Alleyn suggested and noticed that she took a chair facing a glare of uncompromising light: she was evidently one of those rare, ugly, provocative women who can’t be bothered taking the usual precautions.

‘I’ve got to ask you one or two pretty important questions,’ Alleyn said. ‘And the first is this. Have you by any chance had a letter from Mr Pyke Period? This morning, perhaps?’

She stared at him. ‘Golly, yes! I’d forgotten all about it. He must be dotty, poor lamb. How did you know?’

Alleyn disregarded this question. ‘Why dotty?’ he asked.

‘Judge for yourself.’

She put a hand on his shoulder, leant across him and pulled out a drawer in her desk, taking her time about it. ‘Here it is,’ she said and dropped a letter in front of him. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Read it.’

It was written in Mr Period’s old-fashioned hand, on his own letter-paper.

‘My dear,’ it read, ‘Please don’t think it too silly of me to be fussed about a little thing, but I can’t help feeling that you might very naturally, have drawn a quite unwarrantable conclusion from the turn our conversation took today. It really is a little too much to have to defend one’s own ancestry, but I care enough about such matters to feel I must assure you that mine goes back as far as I, or anyone else, might wish. I’m afraid Hal, poor dear, had developed a slight thing on the subject. But never mind! I don’t! Forgive me for bothering you, but I know you will understand.

As ever,

P.P.P.’

‘Have you any idea,’ Alleyn said, ‘what he’s driving at?’

‘Not a notion. He dined here last night and was normal.’

‘Would you have expected another sort of letter from him?’

‘Another sort? What sort? Oh! I see what you mean. About Ormsbury, poor brute? He’s dead, you know.’

‘Yes.’

‘With P.P.’s passion for condolences it would have been more likely. You mean he’s done the wrong thing? So, who was meant to have this one?’

‘May I at all events keep it?’

‘Do, if you want to.’

Alleyn pocketed the letter. ‘I’d better say at once that you may have been the last person to speak to Harold Cartell, not excepting his murderer.’

She had a cigarette ready in her mouth and the flame from the lighter didn’t waver until she drew on it.

‘How do you make that out?’ she asked easily. ‘Oh, I know. Somebody’s told you about the balcony scene. Who? Andrew, I suppose, or his girl. Or P.P., of course. He cut in on it from his window.’

‘So you had a brace of Romeos in reverse?’

‘Like hell I did. Both bald and me, if we face it, not quite the dewy job either.’

Alleyn found himself at once relishing this speech and knowing that she had intended him to have exactly that reaction.

‘The dewy jobs,’ he said, ‘have their limitations.’

‘Whereas for me,’ Desirée said, suddenly overdoing it, ‘the sky’s the limit. Did you know that?’

He decided to disregard this and pressed on. ‘Why,’ he asked, ‘having deposited Mr Period at his garden gate did you leave the car, cross the ditch and serenade Mr Cartell?’

‘I saw him at his window and thought it would be fun.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I think I said: “But soft what light from yonder window breaks.”’

‘And after that?’

‘I really don’t remember. I pulled his leg a bit.’

‘Did you tell him you were on the warpath?’

There was a fractional pause before she said: ‘Well, I must say P.P. has sharp ears for an elderly gent. Yes, I did. It meant nothing.’

‘And did you tell him to watch his step?’

‘Why,’ asked Desirée, ‘don’t we just let you tell me what I said and leave it at that?’

‘Did you tackle him about that boy of yours?’

‘All right,’ she said, ‘yes, I did!’ And then: ‘They didn’t tell you? Andy and the girl? Have you needled it out of them, you cunning fellow?’

‘I’m afraid,’ Alleyn prevaricated, ‘they were too far up the lane and much too concerned with each other to be reliable witnesses.’

‘So P.P. –’ She leant forward and touched him. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I honestly don’t remember what I said to Hal. I’d had one or two little drinks and was a morsel high.’ She waited for a moment and then, with a sharpness that she hadn’t exhibited before, she said: ‘If it was a booby-trap, I hadn’t a chance to set it, had I? Not in full view of those two lovebirds.’

‘Who told you about the booby-trap?’

‘P.P. told Andy and Andy told me. And I drove straight here to Baynesholme arriving at twenty-five to twelve. The first couple got back soon afterwards. From then on I was under the closest imaginable observation. Isn’t that what one calls a water-tight alibi?’

‘I shall be glad,’ Alleyn said, ‘to have it confirmed. How do you know you got back at eleven thirty-five?’

‘The clock in the hall. I was watching the time because of the treasure hunt.’

‘Who won?’

‘Need you ask! The Moppett and her bully. They probably cheated in some way.’

‘Really? How do you suppose?’

‘They heard us plotting about the clues in the afternoon. The last one led back to the loo tank in the downstairs cloakroom.’

‘Here?’

‘That’s right. Most of the others guessed it but they were too late. Andrew and Nicola didn’t even try, I imagine.’

‘Any corroborative evidence, do you remember?’

‘Of my alibi?’

‘Of your alibi,’ Alleyn agreed sedately.

‘I don’t know. I think I called out something to Bimbo. He might remember.’

‘So he might. About last night’s serenade to your second husband. Did you introduce the subject of your son’s inheritance?’

She burst out laughing: she had a loud, formidable laugh like a female Duke of Wellington. ‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘I believe I did. Something of the sort. Anything to get a rise.’

‘He called on you yesterday afternoon, didn’t he?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said quickly. ‘About Flash Len and a car. He was in a great taking-on, poor pet.’

‘And on that occasion,’ Alleyn persisted, ‘did you introduce the subject of the inheritance?’

‘Did we? Yes, so we did. I told Hal I thought he was behaving jolly shabbily which was no more than God’s truth.’

‘What was his reaction?’

‘He was too fussed to take proper notice. He just fumed away about the car game. Your spies have been busy,’ she added. ‘Am I allowed to ask who told you? Wait a bit, though. It must have been Sergeant Raikes. What fun for him.’

‘Why was Cartell so set against the picture gallery idea?’

‘My dear, because he was what he was. Fuddy-duddy-plus. It’s a bore, because he’s Andy’s guardian.’

‘Any other trustees?’

‘Yes. P.P.’

‘What does he think?’

‘He thinks Andy might grow a beard and turn beat, which he doesn’t dig. Still, I can manage my P.P. Boo wouldn’t have minded.’

‘Boo?’

‘Bantling. My first. Andy’s papa. You knew Boo. Don’t be so stuffy.’

Alleyn, who did in fact remember this singularly ineffectual peer, made no reply.

‘And, I may add,’ Lady Bantling said, apparently as an afterthought, ‘Bimbo considered it a jolly good bet. And he’s got a flair for that sort of thing, Bimbo has. As a matter of fact Bimbo offered –’ She broke off and seemed to cock an ear. Alleyn had already heard steps in the hall. ‘Here, I do believe, he is!’ Desirée exclaimed and called out loudly: ‘Bimbo!’

‘Hallo!’ said a distant voice, rather crossly.

‘Come in here, darling.’

The door opened and Bimbo Dodds came in. Alleyn now remembered where he had seen him.