Читать книгу Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 11: Photo-Finish, Light Thickens, Black Beech and Honeydew - Ngaio Marsh, Stella Duffy - Страница 30

Marco brought their breakfast at eight o’clock. Troy had been awake for an hour. She had woken when Alleyn came to bed and had lain quiet and waited to see if he wanted to talk but he had touched her head lightly and in a matter of seconds was dead to the world.

It was not his habit to use a halfway interval between sleep and wake. He woke like a cat, fully and instantly, and gave Marco good morning. Marco drew the curtains and the room was flooded with pallid light. There was no rain on the window-panes and no sound of wind.

‘Clearing is it?’ Alleyn asked.

‘Yes, sir. Slowly. The lake is still very rough.’

‘Too rough for the launch?’

‘Too much rough, sir, certainly.’

He placed elaborate trays across them both and brought them extra pillows. His dark rather handsome head came close to theirs.

‘It must be quite a sight – the lake and the mountains?’ Alleyn said lightly.

‘Very impressive, sir.’

‘Your mysterious photographer should be there again with his camera.’

A little muscle jumped under Marco’s olive cheek.

‘It is certain he has gone, sir. But of course you are joking.’

‘Do you know exactly how Madame Sommita was murdered, Marco? The details?’

‘Maria is talking last night but she is excitable. When she is excitable she is not reasonable. Or possible to understand. It is all,’ said Marco, ‘very dreadful, sir.’

‘They forgot to take the mailbag to the launch last night. Had you noticed?’

Marco knocked over the marmalade pot on Troy’s tray.

‘I am very sorry, madame,’ he said. ‘I am clumsy.’

‘It’s all right,’ Troy said. ‘It hasn’t spilt.’

‘Do you know what I think, Marco?’ said Alleyn. ‘I think there never was a strange photographer on the Island.’

‘Do you, sir? Thank you, sir. Will that be all?’

‘Do you have a key to the postbag?’

‘It is kept in the study, sir.’

‘And is the bag unlocked during the time it is in the house?’

‘There is a posting-box in the entrance, sir. Mr Hanley empties it into the bag when it is time for the launchman to take it.’

‘Too bad he overlooked it last night.’

Marco, sheet-white, bowed and left the room.

‘And I suppose,’ Troy ventured, ‘I pretend I didn’t notice you’ve terrified the pants off that poor little man.’

‘Not such a poor little man.’

‘Not?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Rory,’ said his wife. ‘Under ordinary circumstances I never, never ask about cases. Admit.’

‘My darling, you are perfection in that as in all other respects. You never do.’

‘Very well. These circumstances are not ordinary and if you wish me to give my customary imitation of a violet by a mossy stone half hidden from the view you must also be prepared for me to spontaneously combust.’

‘Upon my word, love, I can’t remember how much you do or do not know of our continuing soap opera. Let us eat our breakfasts and you ask questions the while. When, by the way, did we last meet? Not counting bed.’

‘When I gave you the powder and brush in the studio. Remember?’

‘Ah yes. Oh, and thank you for the dispatch case. Just what I wanted, like a Christmas present. You don’t know how she was killed, do you?

‘Signor Lattienzo told me. Remember?’

‘Ah yes. He came up to the studio, didn’t he?’

‘Yes. To see if I was all right. It was kind of him, really.’

‘Very,’ said Alleyn drily.

‘Don’t you like him?’

‘Did he tell you in detail?’

‘Just that she was stabbed. At first it seemed unreal. Like more bad opera. You know his flowery way of saying things. And then, of course, when it got real – quite appalling. It’s rather awful to be wallowing between silken sheets, crunching toast while we talk about it,’ said Troy, ‘but I happen to be hungry.’

‘You wouldn’t help matters if you suddenly decided to diet.’

‘True.’

‘I think I’d better tell you the events of the night in order of occurrence. Or, no,’ said Alleyn. ‘You can read my file. While you’re doing that I’ll get up and see if Bert is still on duty, poor chap.’

‘Bert? The chauffeur?’

‘That’s right. I won’t be long.’

He gave her the file, put on his dressing gown and slippers and went out to the landing. Bert was up and slightly dishevelled. The chairs still barricaded the door.

‘Gidday,’ he said. ‘Glad to see you.’

‘I’m sorry I’ve left it so late. Did you have a beastly night of it?’

‘Naow. She was good. Wee bit draughty but we mustn’t grumble.’

‘Anything to report?’

‘Maria. At four-twenty. I’m right out to it but I reckon she must of touched me because I open my eyes and there she bloody is, hanging over me with a key in her hand looking as if she’s trying to nut it out how to get the door open. Brainless. I say: “What’s the big idea?” and she lets out a screech and drops the key. On me. Plonk. No trouble.’

‘And did you – ?’

‘Grab it. Kind of reflex action, really.’

‘You didn’t give it back to her, Bert?’

Bert assumed a patient, quizzical expression and produced the key from his trouser pocket.

‘Good on you, boy,’ said Alleyn, displaying what he hoped was the correct idiom and the proper show of enthusiasm. He clapped Bert on the shoulder. ‘What was her reaction?’ he asked and wondered if he too ought to adopt the present tense.

‘She’s moanin’,’ said Bert.

‘Moaning?’

‘This is right. Complainin’. Reckonin’ she’ll put my pot on with the boss. Clawin’ at me to get it back. Reckonin’ she wants to lay out the deceased and say prayers and that lot. But never raising her voice, mind. Never once. When she sees it’s no dice and when I tell her I’ll hand the key over to you she spits in my face, no trouble, and beats it downstairs.’

‘That seems to be the Maria form. I’ll take the key, Bert, and thank you very much indeed. Do you happen to know how many keys there are to the room? Four, is it?’

‘That’s right. To all the rooms. Weird idea.’

Alleyn thought: This one, which was Rupert Bartholomew’s. The one already in my pocket which was Maria’s, the housekeeper’s key, and the Sommita’s in her evening bag at the bottom of her dressingtable drawer.

He said: ‘While I think of it. On the way over here you said something about a vet putting down Madame Sommita’s dog. You said he chloroformed it before giving it the injection.’

‘That’s correct,’ said Bert looking surprised.

‘Do you remember by any chance what happened to the bottle?’

Bert stared at him. ‘That’s a hairy one,’ he said. ‘What happened to the bottle, eh?’ He scratched his head and pulled a face. ‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘Yeah! That’s right. He put it on a shelf in the hangar and forgot to take it away.’

‘And would you,’ said Alleyn, ‘know what became of it? Is it still there?’

‘No, it is not. Maria come out to see if it was all OK about the dog. She’d been sent by the Lady. She seen the bottle. It was, you know, labelled. She reckoned it wasn’t safe having it lying around. She took it off.’

‘Did she indeed?’ said Alleyn. ‘Thank you, Bert.’

‘Be my guest.’

Alleyn said: ‘Well, you’d better get something to eat, hadn’t you?’

‘I don’t mind if I do,’ said Bert. ‘Seeing you,’ and went, in a leisurely manner, downstairs.

Alleyn returned to their bedroom. Troy was deep in the file and continued to read it while he shaved, bathed and dressed. Occasionally she shouted an enquiry or a comment. She had just finished it and was about to get up when there was a tap on the door. Alleyn opened it and there was Mrs Bacon, trim and competent: the very epitome of the five-star housekeeper.

‘Good morning, Mr Alleyn,’ said Mrs Bacon. ‘I’ve just come up to see if Mrs Alleyn has everything she wants. I’m afraid, in all this disturbance, she may have been neglected and we can’t have that, can we?’

Alleyn said we couldn’t and Troy called out for her to come in.

When she had been assured of Troy’s well-being, Mrs Bacon told Alleyn she was glad of the opportunity to have a word with him. ‘There are difficulties. It’s very inconvenient,’ she said as if the plumbing had failed them.

‘I’m sure it is,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything I can do –’

‘It’s Maria.’

‘Is she still cutting up rough?’

‘Indeed she is.’ Mrs Bacon turned to Troy. ‘This is all so unpleasant, Mrs Alleyn,’ she apologized. ‘I’m sorry to bring it up!’

The Alleyns made appropriate noises.

‘Of course she is upset,’ Mrs Bacon conceded. ‘We understand that, don’t we? But really!’

‘What form is it taking now?’ Alleyn asked.

‘She wants to go – in there.’

‘Still on that lay, is she? Well, she can’t.’

‘She – being a Catholic, of course, one should make allowances,’ Mrs Bacon herself astonishingly allowed. ‘I hope you’re not – ?’ she hurriedly added, turning pink. ‘And, of course, being a foreigner should be taken into consideration. But it’s getting more than a joke. She wants to lay Madame out. I was wondering if – just to satisfy her?’

‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Bacon,’ Alleyn said, ‘the body must be left as it is until the police have seen it.’

‘That’s what they always say in the thrillers, of course. I know that, but I thought it might be an exaggeration.’

‘Not in this instance at any rate.’

‘She’s worrying Mr Reece about it. He’s spoken to me. He’s very much shocked, you can sense that, although he doesn’t allow himself to show it. He told me everything must be referred to you. I think he would like to see you.’

‘Where is he?’

‘In the study. That Italian gentleman, Mr Lattienzo, and Mr Ruby are with him. And then,’ Mrs Bacon went on, ‘there are the two ladies, the singers, who stayed last night, I must say what I can to them. They’ll be wondering. Really, it’s almost more than one can be expected to cope with.’

‘Maddening for you,’ said Troy.

‘Well, it is. And the staff! The two housemaids are talking themselves into hysterics and refusing to come up to this landing and the men are not much better. I thought I could depend on Marco but he’s suddenly gone peculiar and doesn’t seem to hear when he’s spoken to. Upon my word,’ said Mrs Bacon, ‘I’ll be glad to see the police on the premises and I never thought to say that in my occupation.’

‘Can’t Hanley help out?’ asked Alleyn.

‘Not really. They all giggle at him, or did when they had a giggle left in them. I told them they were making a mistake. It’s obvious what he is, of course, but that doesn’t mean he’s not competent. Far from it. He’s very shrewd and very capable and he and I get on quite well. I really don’t know,’ Mrs Bacon exclaimed, ‘why I’m boring you like this! I must be going off at the deep end, myself.’

‘Small wonder if you did,’ said Troy. ‘Look, don’t worry about the rooms. How about you and me whipping round when they’re all out of them.’

‘Oh!’ cried Mrs Bacon. ‘I couldn’t dream of it.’

‘Yes, you could. Or, I tell you what. I’ll talk to Miss Dancy and Miss Parry and see how they feel about a bit of bedmaking. Do us all good instead of sitting round giving each other the jim-jams. Wouldn’t it, Rory?’

‘Certainly,’ said Alleyn and put his arm round her.

‘Are they in their rooms? I’ll ring them up,’ Troy offered.

‘If you don’t mind my saying so, Mrs Alleyn, you’re a darling. Their breakfasts went up at eight-thirty. They’ll still be in bed, eating it.’

‘One of them isn’t,’ said Alleyn who had gone to the window. ‘Look.’

The prospect from their windows commanded the swimming pool on the extreme left and the hangar on the right. In the centre, Lake Waihoe swept turbulently away into nothing. The mountains that rose from its far shore had been shut off by a curtain of ashen cloud. The fringes of trees that ran out into the lake were intermittently wind-whipped. The waters tumbled about the shore, washed over the patio and reared and collapsed into the brimming pool which still overflowed its borders.

And down below on the bricked terrace, just clear of the water stood Rupert and a figure in a heavy mackintosh and sou’wester so much too big that it was difficult to identify as Miss Sylvia Parry.

Mrs Bacon joined Alleyn at the window. ‘Well,’ she said after a pause. ‘If that’s what it seems to be it’s a pity it didn’t develop when he was going away for days at a time for all those rehearsals.’

‘Where was that?’

‘On the other side – at a Canterbury seaside resort. The chopper used to take him over and he stayed the night. Mr Reece had them all put up at the Carisbrook. Luxury. Seven star,’ said Mrs Bacon. ‘They rehearsed in a local hall and gave concerts.’

Down below Rupert was speaking. The girl touched his arm and he took her hand in his. They remained like that for some moments. It had begun fitfully to rain again. He led her out of sight, presumably into the house.

‘Nice girl,’ said Mrs Bacon crisply. ‘Pity. Oh well, you never know, do you?’

She made for the door.

Alleyn said: ‘Wait a second, Mrs Bacon. Listen. Troy, listen.’

They listened. As always when an imposed silence takes over, the background of household sounds that had passed unnoticed and the voice of the wind outside to which they had grown inattentive, declared themselves. Behind them, very distant but thinly clear, was the sound of a bell.

‘Les, by Heaven!’ said Alleyn. ‘Here! Mrs Bacon, have you got a bell in the house? A big bell?’

‘No,’ she said, startled.

‘A gong?’

‘Yes. We don’t use it.’

‘Bring it out on the terrace, please. Or get the men to bring it. And field glasses. I saw a pair in the hall, didn’t I? But quick.’

He pulled the slips off two of their pillows and ran down the hall and out on the terrace to a point from which the jetty and boathouse could be seen across the lake. Out here the sound of the bell was louder and echoed in the unseen hills.

It was ringing irregularly: long-spaced notes mixed with quick short-spaced ones.

‘Bless his heart he’s signalling again,’ said Alleyn. He got out his notebook and pen and set himself to read the code. It was a shortish sequence confused by its echo and repeated after a considerable pause. The second time round he got it. Police informed, Les signalled.

Alleyn, hoping he was a fairly conspicuous figure from the boatshed, had begun a laborious attempt at semaphoring with pillowcases when Bert and Marco piloted by Mrs Bacon staggered out of the house bearing an enormous Burmese gong on a carved stand. They set it up on the terrace. Alleyn discarded his pillowcases and whacked out a booming acknowledgement. This too set up an echo.

Received and understood thanks.

It struck him that he had created a picture worthy of Salvador Dali – a Burmese gong on an island in New Zealand, a figure beating it – pillowslips on a wet shore and on the far shore another figure, waving. And in the foreground a string of unrelated persons strung out at intervals. For, in addition to trim Mrs Bacon, Dr Carmichael, Hanley, Ben Ruby, Signor Lattienzo and Mr Reece, in that order, had come out of the house.

Mrs Bacon gave Alleyn the binoculars. He focused them and Les, the launchman, jumped up before him. He was wearing a red woollen cap and oilskins. He wiped his nose with a mittened hand and pointed in the direction of the rustic belfry. He was going to signal again. He gesticulated, as much as to say ‘Hold on’, and went into the belfry.

‘Doyng!’ said the bell. ‘’oyng, ’oyng, ’oyng,’ said the echo.

This time Alleyn got it first time. Launch engine crook it read and was repeated. Launch engine crook.

‘Hell!’ said Alleyn and took it out on the gong.

Mr Reece, wearing an American sporting raincoat and hogskin gloves, was at his elbow. ‘What’s the message?’ he asked.

‘Shut up,’ said Alleyn. ‘Sorry. He’s at it again.’

Les signalled: ‘Hope temporary.’

‘Bang!’ Alleyn acknowledged. ‘’ang, ’ang, ’ang,’ said the echo.

‘Over and out,’ signalled Les.

‘Bang.’

Alleyn followed Les through the binoculars down to the jetty which was swept at intervals by waves. He saw Les dodge the waves, board the launch, jouncing at its moorings, and disappear into the engine room.

He gave Mr Reece a full account of the exchange.

‘I must apologize for my incivility,’ he said.

Mr Reece waved it aside. ‘So if the lake becomes navigable,’ he said, ‘we are still cut off.’

‘He did say he hopes the trouble’s temporary. And by the time he’s fixed it, surely the wind will have dropped and the helicopter will become a possibility.’

‘The helicopter is in Canterbury. It took the piano-tuner back yesterday afternoon and remained on the other side.’

‘Nobody loves us,’ said Alleyn. ‘Could I have a word with you, indoors?’

‘Certainly. Alone?’

‘It might be as well, I think.’

When they went indoors Alleyn was given an illustration of Mr Reece’s gift of authority. Signor Lattienzo and Ben Ruby clearly expected to return with him to the study. Hanley hovered. Without saying a word to any of them but with something in his manner that was perfectly explicit Mr Reece gave them to understand that this was not to be.

Signor Lattienzo who was rigged out in a shepherd’s cape and a Tyrolean hat said: ‘My dear Ben, it is not raining. Should we perhaps, for the good of our digestions, venture a modest step or two abroad? To the landing and back? What do you say?’

Mr Ruby agreed without enthusiasm.

Mr Reece said to Hanley: ‘I think the ladies have come down. Find out if there is anything we can do for them, will you? I shan’t need you at present.’

‘Certainly, sir,’ said Hanley.

Dr Carmichael returned from outside. Alleyn suggested to their host that perhaps he might join them in the study.

When they were once more seated in the huge soft leather chairs of that singularly negative apartment, Alleyn said he thought that Mr Reece would probably like to know about the events of the previous night.

He went over them in some detail, making very little of Rupert’s bonfire and quite a lot of Maria’s on-goings and Bert’s vigil. Mr Reece listened with his habitual passivity. Alleyn thought it quite possible that he had gone his own rounds during the night and wondered if it was he who had looked down from the landing. It would somehow be in character for Mr Reece not to mention his prowl but to allow Alleyn to give his own account of the bonfire without interruption.

Alleyn said: ‘I hope you managed to get some sleep last night.’

‘Not very much, I confess. I am not a heavy sleeper at normal times. You wanted to see me?’

‘I’d better explain. I seem to be forever raising the cry that I am really, as indeed we all are, treading water until the police arrive. It’s difficult to decide how far I can, with propriety, probe. The important thing has been to make sure, as far as possible, that there has been no interference at the scene of the crime. I thought perhaps you might be prepared to give me some account of Madame Sommita’s background and of any events that might, however remotely, have some bearing on this appalling crime.’

‘I will tell you anything I can, of course.’

‘Please don’t feel you are under any obligation to do so. Of course you are not. And if my questions are impertinent we’ll make it a case of “No comment” and, I hope, no bones broken.’

Mr Reece smiled faintly. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘agreed.’

‘You see, it’s like this. I’ve been wondering, as of course we all have, if the crime ties up in any way with the Strix business and if it does whether the motive could be a long-standing affair. Based, perhaps, on some sort of enmity. Like the Macdonalds and the Campbells, for instance. Not that in this day and age they have recourse to enormities of that kind. Better perhaps to instance the Montagues and Capulets.’

Mr Reece’s faint smile deepened.

He said, “You are really thinking more of the Lucianos and Costellos, aren’t you?’

Alleyn thought: He’s rumbled that one pretty smartly, and he said: ‘Yes, in a way, I am. It’s the Italian background that put it into my head. The whole thing is so shockingly outlandish and – well – theatrical. I believe Madame Sommita was born a Pepitone: a Sicilian.’

‘You are very well-informed.’

‘Oh,’ Alleyn said, ‘when we got your letter, asking me to come out with Troy and take a look at the Strix business, the Yard did a bit of research. It did seem a remote possibility that Strix might be acting as an agent of sorts. I was going to ask you if such an idea, or something at all like it, had ever occurred to you.’

With more animation than one might have supposed him to be capable of, Mr Reece gave a dismal little laugh and brought the palms of his hands down on the arms of his chair. He actually raised his voice.

‘Occurred to me!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’ve got, as they say, to be joking, Mr Alleyn. How could it not have occurred to me when she herself brought it to my notice day in, day out, ever since this wretched photographer came on the scene.’

He paused and looked very hard at Alleyn who merely replied: ‘She did?’

‘She most certainly did. It was an obsession with her. Some family feud that had started generations ago in Sicily. She persuaded herself that it had cropped up again in Australia of all places. She really believed she was next in line for – elimination. It was no good telling her that this guy Strix was in it for the money. She would listen, say nothing, calm down and then when you thought you’d got somewhere simply say she knew. I made enquiries. I talked to the police in Australia and the USA. There was not a shred of evidence to support the idea. But she couldn’t be moved.’

‘Last night you said you were certain Strix was her murderer.’

‘Because of what you told me about – the photograph. That seemed to be – still seems to be – so much in character with the sort of thing she said these people do. It was as if the man had signed his work and wanted to make sure it was recognized. As if I had been wrong and she had been right – right to be terrified. That we should have had her fully guarded. That I am responsible. And this,’ said Mr Reece, ‘is a very, very dreadful thought, Mr Alleyn.’

‘It may turn out to be a mistaken thought. Tell me, how much do you know about Madame Sommita’s background – her early life? Her recent associates?’

Mr Reece clasped his large well-kept hands and tapped them against his lower teeth. He frowned and seemed to be at a loss. At last he said: ‘That is difficult to answer. How much do I know? In some ways a lot, in others very little. Her mother died in childbirth. She was educated at convent schools in the USA, the last being in New York where her voice was first trained. I got the impression that she saw next to nothing of her father, who lived in Chicago and died when Bella was twelve years old. She was brought up by an aunt of sorts who accompanied her to Italy and is now deceased. There used to be confused allusions to this reputed feud but in a way they were reticent – generalizations, nothing specific. Only these – these expressions of fear. I am afraid I thought they were little more than fairytales. I knew how she exaggerated and dramatized everything.’

‘Did she ever mention the name Rossi?’

‘Rossi? It sounds familiar. Yes, I believe she may have but she didn’t, as a matter of fact, mention names – Italian names – when she talked about this threat. She would seem as if she was going to but if I asked her point blank to be specific in order that I could make enquiries, she merely crossed herself and wouldn’t utter. I’m afraid I found that exasperating. It confirmed me in the opinion that the whole thing was imaginary.’

‘Yes, I see.’ Alleyn put his hand in his overcoat pocket, drew out the book from the library and handed it to Mr Reece. ‘Have you ever seen this?’ he asked.

He took it and turned it over distastefully.

‘Not that I remember,’ he said. He opened it and read the title, translating it. ‘The Mystery of Bianca Rossi. Oh, I see – Rossi. What is all this, Mr Alleyn?’

‘I don’t know. I hoped you might throw some light on it.’

‘Where did you find it? In her room?’ he asked.

‘In the library. Have you noticed the name on the flyleaf?’

Mr Reece looked at it. ‘M. V. Rossi,’ he said. And then: ‘I can’t make any sense out of this. Do we assume it was hers?’

‘It will be fingerprinted, of course.’

‘Ah yes. Oh, I see. I shouldn’t have handled it, should I?’

‘I don’t think you’ve done any damage,’ Alleyn said, and took it from him.

‘If it was Bella’s she may have left it lying about somewhere and one of the servants put it in the library. We can ask.’

‘So we can. Leaving it for the moment: did you ever hear of her association with the Hoffman-Beilstein group?’

It was curious to see how immediate was Mr Reece’s return to his own world of financial expertise. He at once became solemn, disapproving and grand.

‘I certainly did,’ he said shortly and shot an appraising glance at Alleyn. ‘Again,’ he said, ‘you seem to be well-informed.’

‘I thought I remembered,’ Alleyn improvised, ‘seeing press photographs of her in a group of guests aboard Hoffman’s yacht.’

‘I see. It was not a desirable association. I broke it off.’

‘He came to grief, didn’t he?’

‘Deservedly so,’ said Mr Reece, pursing his mouth rather in the manner of a disapproving governess. Perhaps he felt he could not quite leave it at that because he added, stuffily, as if he was humouring an inquisitive child: ‘Hoffman had approached me with a view to interesting me in an enterprise he hoped to float. Actually, he invited me to join the cruise you allude to. I did so and was confirmed in my opinion of his activities.’ Mr Reece waited for a moment. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘it was then that I met one of his executives – young Ned Hanley. I considered he might well come to grief in that company and as I required a private secretary, offered him the position.’ He looked much more fixedly at Alleyn. ‘Has he been prattling?’ he asked and Alleyn thought: He’s formidable, all right.

‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Not indiscreetly, I promise you. I asked him how long he’d been in your employ and he simply arrived at the answer by recalling the date of the cruise.’

‘He talks too much,’ said Mr Reece, dismissing him, but with an air of – what? Indulgence? Tolerance? Proprietorship? He turned to Dr Carmichael. ‘I wanted to speak to you, Doctor,’ he said. ‘I want to hear from you exactly how my friend was killed. I do not wish, if it can be spared me, to see her again as she was last night and I presume still is. But I must know how it was done. I must know.’

Dr Carmichael glanced at Alleyn who nodded very slightly.

‘Madame Sommita,’ said Dr Carmichael, ‘was almost certainly anaesthetized, probably asphyxiated, when she had become unconscious and, after death, stabbed. There will be an autopsy, of course, which will tell us more.’

‘Did she suffer?’

‘I think, most unlikely.’

‘Anaesthetized? With what? How?’

‘I suspect, chloroform.’

‘But – chloroform? Do you mean somebody came here prepared to commit this crime? Provided?’

‘It looks like it. Unless there was chloroform somewhere on the premises.’

‘Not to my knowledge. I can’t imagine it.’

Alleyn suddenly remembered the gossip of Bert the chauffeur. ‘Did you by any chance have a vet come to the house?’ he asked.

‘Ah! Yes. Yes, we did. To see Isabella’s Afghan hound. She was very – distressed. The vet examined the dog under an anaesthetic and found it had a malignant growth. He advised that it be put down immediately and it was done.’

‘You wouldn’t of course know if by any chance the vet forgot to take the chloroform away with him?’

‘No. Ned might know. He superintended the whole thing.’

‘I’ll ask him,’ said Alleyn.

‘Or perhaps Marco,’ speculated Mr Reece. ‘I seem to remember he was involved.’

‘Ah yes. Marco,’ said Alleyn. ‘You have told me, haven’t you, that Marco is completely dependable.’

‘Certainly. I have no reason to suppose anything else.’

‘In the very nature of the circumstances and the development of events as we hear about them, we must all have been asking ourselves disturbing questions about each other, mustn’t we? Have you not asked yourself disturbing questions about Marco?’

‘Well, of course I have,’ Mr Reece said at once. ‘About him, and, as you say, about all of them. But there is no earthly reason, no conceivable motive for Marco to do anything – wrong.’

‘Not if Marco should happen to be Strix?’ Alleyn asked.