Death of a Peer

CHAPTER XVII MR. FOX FINDS AN EFFIGY

The north wind that had come up during the night brought clouds. Before dawn these broke into teeming rain. At nine o’clock Roberta and Henry breakfasted in a room heavy with Victorian appointments. The windows were blind with rain and the room so dark that Henry turned on the lights.

“I don’t suppose that’s ever been done before except in a pea-soup fog,” he said cheerfully. “How did you sleep, Robin?”

“Not so badly,” said Roberta, “but for the wind in the chimney. It would drone out your name.”

“My name?” said Henry quickly. “I’ve never heard the north wind make a noise like ‘Henry.’ ”

“Your new name.”

“Oh,” said Henry, “that. Yes, it is rather flatulent, isn’t it?”

“Have you heard how Lady Wutherwood is this morning?”

“I met Tinkerton on the landing. She says Aunt V. slept like a log. ‘Very peaceful,’ Tinkerton said, as if Aunt V. was a corpse.”

“Don’t.”

“I suppose it’s real,” said Henry, returning with eggs and bacon from the side table. “I suppose somebody did kill Uncle G. last night. This morning it scarcely seems credible. What shall we do all day, Robin? Do you imagine if we go out our footsteps will be dogged by a plain-clothes detective? It might be fun to see if we could shake him off. I’ve always thought how easy it must be to lose a follower. Shall we try, or is it too wet?”

“There’s a policeman down in the hall.”

“How inexpressibly deadly for him,” said Henry. “I think the hall is possibly the worst part of this house. When we were small the direst threat Nanny had for us was that we should be sent to live in Brummell Street. Even now I slink past that stuffed bear, half expecting him to reach out and paw me to his bosom.”

“It’s such a large house,” said Roberta, “even the bear looks smallish. Has it been your family’s house for long?”

“It dates from a Lamprey who did some very fishy bit of hanky-panky for Good Queen Anne or one of her ministers. A pretty hot bit of work, one would think, to be rewarded with such a monstrous tip. She made him a Marquis into the bargain. The house must have been rather a fine affair in those days. It took my grandfather to ruin it. Uncle G. and Aunt V. merely added a few layers of gloom to the general chaos.”

“I suppose it’s your father’s house now.”

Henry paused in the act of raising his cup. “Golly,” he said, “I wonder if it is. One could make rather a lovely house of it, you know.” And to Henry’s face came a speculative expression which Roberta, with a sinking heart, recognized as the look of a Lamprey about to spend a lot of money.

“There’ll be terrific death duties,” she cried in panic.

“Oh, yes,” said Henry, grandly dismissing them.

They finished their breakfast in silence. An extremely old manservant, who Roberta thought must be Mrs. Moffatt’s husband, came in to say Henry was wanted on the telephone.

“I’ll answer it in the library,” said Henry, and to Roberta: “It’ll be the family. Come on.”

In a dimly forbidding library Roberta listened to Henry on the telephone: “Good morning, good morning,” said Henry brightly. “Anybody arrested yet or are you all at liberty? … Oh, good…Yes, thank you, Mama… No, but Tinkerton says she’s all right…” He ambled on in a discursive manner and Roberta’s attention strayed but was presently caught again by Henry ejaculating: “Baskett! Why on earth?… Good lord, how preposterous.” He said rapidly to Roberta: “That vast person Fox has been closeted with Baskett and Nanny for an hour and they’re wondering if he thinks Baskett… All right, Mama… No, I thought of showing Robin the house and then we might pay you a visit… Tonight?… Oh. Oh I see… Yes, if you think we ought to…Yes, I know it’s monstrous but it might be made rather pleasant don’t you think?” Henry lowered his voice. “I say, Mum,” he said guardedly, “will it be Aunt V.’s or ours?… Oh. Oh, well good-bye darling.”

He hung up the receiver. “I’m afraid we’ll have to stay tonight, Robin,” he said. “They’re bringing him here, you see.”

“I see.”

“And Mama rather thinks we get this house. Let’s have a look at it”

At eleven o’clock Alleyn got the surgeon’s report on the post-mortem. It was accompanied by a note from Dr. Curtis. The skewer, he said, had been introduced into the left orbit and had penetrated the fissure at the back of the eye and had entered the blood vessels at the base of the brain.

Alleyn brooded over the report, put it aside, and rang up Mr. Rattisbon, the Lamprey’s family solicitor. Mr. Rattisbon was an old acquaintance of Alleyn’s. He said that he was just leaving to wait upon the new Lord Wutherwood but would call on Alleyn in an hour’s time. He sounded extremely bothered and fussily remote. Alleyn was heartily thankful that the Lampreys had not sent for Mr. Rattisbon last night. If any one could keep their tongues from uttering indiscretions it was surely he. “I shall get very little out of him,” Alleyn thought. “He’ll be as acid as a lime and as dry as a biscuit. He will look after the Lampreys.” And with a sigh he turned back to his report. Presently Fox came in, beaming mildly, with his white scarf folded neatly under his wet mackintosh and his umbrella and hat in his hand.

“Hullo, Br’er Fox. Enjoy your game of Happy Families this morning?”

“I got on nicely, thank you, Mr. Alleyn. I looked in at the house in Brummell Street. I didn’t see Mr. Henry Lamprey — Lord Rune, rather — or Miss Grey, but I understand they passed a quiet night. Her ladyship’s quieted down a lot too, so the nurse told me. She thinks one nurse will be enough tonight. I saw that chap Giggle, the chauffeur, and passed the time of day with him. He didn’t seem to like it.”

“Your method of ‘passing the time of day’ is sometimes a bit ominous, Foxkin. What did you say to Giggle?”

“I thought I’d have a shot at shaking his story about when he went downstairs. He got very nervous, of course, when I hammered away at it, but he stuck to it that he went down just after Lord Wutherwood called out the first time.”

“It’s the truth,” said Alleyn. “Young Michael saw him go. You won’t shake that story, Br’er Fox.”

“So I found, sir. I left the chap in a great taking on, however, and went along to Pleasaunce Court. They all seem to be much the same. Quite enjoyed signing their statements. I don’t fancy they slept a great deal, but they were as bright as ever and uncommonly friendly.”

“A fig for their friendliness,” muttered Alleyn.

“Lady Friede seemed very put out that you didn’t interview her last night,” Fox continued as he opened the door and shook his dripping umbrella into the corridor.

Alleyn grunted.

“You appear to have made quite an impression, sir.”

“Shut that door, and put your gamp away and come here, damn you.”

Fox obeyed these instructions with an air of innocence. He sat down and took out his official notebook. Alleyn reflected that his affection for Fox must be impregnable since it survived the ordeal of watching him moisten his forefinger on his lower lip whenever he turned a page, a habit that in any other associate would have filled Alleyn with a desire to be rid of him.

“Yes,” said Fox, finding his place. “Yes. Baskett. Well now, Mr. Alleyn, I’ve been able to get very little out of him beyond what we already knew. He helped his late lordship into his coat and went back to the servants’ hall. He states positively that he didn’t meet Miss Tinkerton on the way. Says he didn’t see her at all. But if her story’s correct that she saw Baskett and his lordship from the passage and fetched her things from the servants’ hall, then they must have met in one place or another. He seems a straightforward old chap, too.”

“And she doesn’t seem a straightforward middle-aged girl. No, by gum, Fox, she doesn’t. But she’s not our pigeon, you know.”

“I reckon she was up to something, however, and I fancy I’ve found what it is.”

“Have you, now! This is what we keep you for, Foxkin.”

“Is that so?” said Fox with his slow smile. “Well, Mr. Alleyn, I thought I’d better finish in the flat and let them get it straight again. Following your suggestion I had a look round the hall. Now, as you know, the hall was in a mess. The young people had had these charades and hadn’t done much to clear up beyond slinging things into the cupboard. Now the cupboard was open. The cupboard door is flush with the hall door. All right. On the floor, half in and half out, was one of those thin, transparent mackintoshes that ladies go in for nowadays. All right. Inside the cupboard and on the mackintosh I found a couple of prints. Female shoes, with what they call Cuban heels, pointing inwards and to the left. Now one heel has gone through the stuff and the other has made a deep dent. Very nice prints, the surface being a bit tacky and taking a good impression. Now, sir, which of those ladies wore Cuban-heeled shoes?”

“Tinkerton, for one,” said Alleyn. “What about the parlourmaid?”

“No. I checked up on Cora. She wears round heels. I’ve brought away that mackintosh, Mr. Alleyn, and with your approval I’ll take a chance and try to lay my hands on Miss Tinkerton’s shoes.”

“Better ask Master Henry or Miss Grey to do it for you,” said Alleyn drily. “They’ll be only too pleased if they think we’re sniffing round after the servants.”

“Should you say they were dependable?”

“She is. But I don’t give it as a serious suggestion. Br’er Fox. What do you think Tinkerton may have been up to?”

“I was going to ask you for an opinion.”

“Having one of your own up your sleeve, you old dog. Well Fox, the cupboard is in the hall between the hall and the drawing-room. Isn’t it at least possible that the lady in the cupboard was listening to the conversation in the drawing-room?”

“Ah,” said Fox. “When?”

“There’s only one possible time if it was yesterday afternoon.”

“Which it was,” said Fox. “Baskett says the cupboard was all spick and span before the charade. We’re lucky it wasn’t tidied up later on. He was going to put things straight when the accident happened and after that our chaps told him not to. So it must have been during the conversation between the brothers. I got the old nurse talking. She won’t say anything against the family but she’s got her knife into Miss Tinkerton. You know what these old girls are like, sir. Mrs. Burnaby kept sort of hinting at things, suggesting Miss Tinkerton’s a very inquisitive sort of woman and very much in with her ladyship and against his late lordship. I reckon Miss T. and Mrs. B. had a row at some time or other and Mrs. Burnaby doesn’t forget it. I reckon they’re kind of bosom enemies if you know what I mean.”

“I do. Not very reliable evidence.”

“No, but there may be something in it all the same. She couldn’t say a good word for Miss Tinkerton but there was nothing you could get your teeth into. At one time it was Miss Tinkerton carrying on with the menservants — that Giggle, as Mrs. B. called him, in particular.”

“Good lord!”

“Yes. At another time it was Miss Tinkerton repeating gossip about Miss Friede, as Mrs. Burnaby calls her.”

“What sort of gossip?”

“Oh, saying the stage was a funny life for a young lady. Nothing definite. She kept saying ‘those two.’ ”

“Who did she mean?”

“That’s what I asked her, and she gave a bit of a laugh and said: ‘Never mind, but they were hand in glove against his late lordship and there was more in it than met the eye.’ Seemed as if she meant Tinkerton and her ladyship. Later on she said her ladyship would be properly in the soup if it wasn’t for Miss T. I don’t know,” said Fox. “Search me what she was driving at half the time, but I’ve got it all down and you can see it, sir, for what it’s worth. Based on imagination from start to finish, as like as not, but it did seem to suggest that Miss Tinkerton’s a bit of a sly one. And taking the prints in the cupboard into consideration, if they are hers, I wondered if she was sort of keeping watch — well, for somebody else. Naming no names, as Mrs. B. would say.”

“On the other hand,” Alleyn said, “she may have been merely snooping for the love of the sport, like your friend Cora.”

“That’s so. You know, sir, I sometimes wonder how people would react if they heard everything their servants said about them.”

“I should think the Lampreys would laugh till they were sick,” said Alleyn. “I remember one afternoon, when my brother George and I were conceited youths, we took a couple of deck chairs and our books to a spot which happened to be under the window of the servants’ hall. The window was open and we heard a series of very spirited imitations of ourselves and our parents. The boot-boy was particularly gifted. George was conducting a not very reputable affair of the heart of which I knew nothing. But the boot-boy had it all pat.” Alleyn broke into one of his rare laughs. “It was damn good for us,” he said.

“Would you say they were usually correct, though? If this old nurse lets on that Miss Tinkerton and the chap Giggle are carrying on a bit, or that Miss T. is in some sort of cahoots with her mistress, or that Miss T.’s got her knife into the Lampreys, is she more likely to be lying or talking turkey?”

“If she’s got her knife into Miss T.,” said Alleyn, “it’s a fifty-fifty chance. I should say Nanny Burnaby was a bit of a tartar. Inclined to be illogically jealous and touchy but a very faithful old dragon with the family. I bet you didn’t get her to say anything about them.”

“Lor’ no. They were a bunch of cherubs.”

“Yes, I daresay. I wonder if it’d be a good idea to see Giggle again. If he’s Tinkerton’s boy friend (and it’s a grim thought) he may possibly throw a new ray of light on that unlovely figure. We’ll see him, Fox. Ring up the Brummell Street house and get him to come here. And I tell you what, Foxkin,” said Alleyn gloomily, “it looks very much as if we’ll have to go into that Kent visit. It’ll be one of those little jaunts that sound such fun in the detective books and are such a crashing bore in reality. Do you read detective novels, Br’er Fox?”

“No,” said Fox. And perhaps with some idea of softening this shortest of all rejoinders he added: “It’s not for the want of trying. Seeing the average person’s knowledge of the department is based on these tales I thought I’d have a go at them. I don’t say they’re not very smart. Something happening on every page to make you think different from what you thought the one before, and the routine got over in the gaps between the chapters. In two of the ones I tried, the investigating officers let the case run for a couple more murders and listened in to the fourth attempt in order to hear the murderer tell the victim how the first three were done. Then they walked in and copped him just before the cosh. Well, you don’t do that sort of thing in the department. There’d be questions asked. I don’t say it’s not clever but it’s fanciful.”

“A little, perhaps.”

“The truth is,” said Fox gravely, “homicidal cases are not what people would like them to be. How often do we get a murder with a row of suspects, each with motive and opportunity?”

“Not often, thank the lord, but it has happened.”

“Well, yes. But motives aren’t all of equal weight. You don’t have much trouble in getting at the prime motive.”

“No.”

“No. Mostly there’s one suspect and our problem is to nail the job on him.”

“What about this case?”

“Well, sir. I’ll give you there’s two motives. First, money. In which case either one of the family or one of the servants did the job. Second: insane hatred. In which case it’s her ladyship we’re after. That’s on the face of it; never mind what we’ve found out since we came in on the job. Something else may crop up but if so I’ll be surprised if it doesn’t fit in with one or the other motive. Do you know if he’s left anything to the servants, sir?”

“I’ll try and get it out of Mr. Rattisbon. I don’t suppose he’ll object to telling me. None of them gives a tuppenny damn about the servants. Except Lady Wutherwood. She’d find Tinkerton hard to replace.”

“Maybe,” said Fox, “she won’t be wanting a maid.”

Mr. Rattisbon came mumbling in with his chin poked forward and his leather case under his arm. He was a family solicitor who reeked of his trade. A story was told of him that on emerging from his chambers one summer evening he was accosted by a famous film producer who walked halfway along the Strand with him, imploring him to play the part of a family solicitor in his new picture. Mr. Rattisbon’s refusals were so gloriously in character that each titupping, pernickety refusal stung the producer into making a fresh financial assault until, so the story said, Mr. Rattisbon threatened him shrilly with the Municipal Corporation Aet of 1822 and looked about him for a constable.

When he saw Alleyn he hurried across the room, shook hands, snatched his claw away, looked sharply from Alleyn to Fox, and finally took a chair. He then formed his mouth into a tight circle and vibrated the tip of his tongue rather as if he had taken a sip of scalding liquid.

“We are very grateful to you for coming, sir,” said Alleyn.

“Not at all, not at all,” grabbled Mr. Rattisbon. “Shocking affair. Dreadful.”

“Appalling.”

Mr. Rattisbon repeated the word with great emphasis: “A-PALL-ing” and waited for Alleyn to make the first move. Alleyn decided that his only hope lay in direct attack. He said: “I expect you know why we have asked to see you, sir.”

“Frankly,” said Rattisbon, “no.”

“For the usual reason, I’m afraid. We hope you will tell us something about the late Lord Wutherwood’s estate.” Mr. Rattisbon’s tongue vibrated rapidly in preparation for utterance and Alleyn hurried on. “We realize, of course, that you are in a — how shall I put it — a confidential position: a position that might become delicate if we began to press in certain definite directions. But in what we still trustfully call the interests of justice—”

“In those interests, Chief Inspector,” Mr. Rattisbon cut in neatly, “I have a duty to my client.”

“Of course, sir.”

“I have, as you know, this morning had an interview with the present Lord Wutherwood. I may tell you that at the inquest I shall watch proceedings on his behalf. I think I may, with propriety, add that my client is naturally most anxious to give the police every assistance that lies in his power. He desires above all things that his brother’s assailant shall be brought to justice. You will appreciate, however, that as regards any information prejudicial to my client (should such information exist which I by no means suggest), my own attitude is — most clearly defined.”

Alleyn had expected nothing better and he said: “And as Lady Wutherwood’s solicitor—”

“The present Lady Wutherwood?”

“The Dowager Lady Wutherwood, sir.”

“Mm — a — a — ah,” said Rattisbon with a formidable and sheeplike cry. “I am not the Dowager Lady Wutherwood’s solicitor, Chief Inspector.”

“No, sir?”

“No. I understand that she has in the past consulted solicitors. I have this information from a reliable source. I think I may tell you that I understand her solicitors to be Messrs. Hungerford, Hungerford and Butterworth.”

“Thank you,” said Alleyn, making a note of it. “Then, sir, our position is not so delicate as I supposed.” He paused, wishing heartily that Mr. Rattisbon’s conversational style was less infectious. “Perhaps,” he said, “you won’t mind telling me how Lord Wutherwood’s widow is affected by the will.”

“I anticipated this question. I may say I have considered it closely and — in short, Chief Inspector, I have decided that there are certain details of the will with which I may acquaint you.” With his entire person Mr. Rattisbon effected a kind of burrowing movement which, in a less emaciated person, would have suggested he was settling down to a square meal. “The Dowager Lady Wutherwood,” he said rapidly, “by her marriage settlement becomes possessed of a very considerable fortune. Apart from this actual fortune she inherits a life interest in the Dower House of Deepacres St. Jude, Deepacres, Kent, and a Manor House near Bognor Regis.”

“She will be a very wealthy woman, then?”

“Very wealthy?” repeated Mr. Rattisbon as if the expression was altogether too loose and unprofessional. “Ah — you may say she will be possessed of a very considerable, I may say a very handsome, inheritance. Yes.”

“Yes.” Alleyn knew very well that it was no good trying any approach to the Lamprey side of the picture. Better, he thought, to make what he could of Mr. Rattisbon’s “unprejudiced” information. He said: “I believe I may be quite frank about Lady Wutherwood. Her behaviour since the catastrophe has been, to put it mildly, eccentric. From what I’ve been able to learn from the others, one cannot put her eccentricity to shock. It’s an old story. You’ll understand, sir, that in the course of routine we are concerned with the relationship between Lord Wutherwood and his wife. Now, do you feel inclined to tell me anything about it?”

Mr. Rattisbon executed several small snatching gestures which resulted in the appearance of a pair of pince-nez. These he waved at Alleyn. “Under less extraordinary circumstances…” he began, and Alleyn listened to an exposition of Mr. Rattisbon’s professional reticence under less extraordinary circumstances. Gradually, however, small flakes of information were wafted through the dry wind of his discourse. It appeared that Mr. Rattisbon knew a good deal about Lady Wutherwood. Alleyn learnt that she was the daughter of a Hungarian minor official and a Russian cabaret artiste, that her maiden name was Glapeera Zadody. He learnt that, from the beginning, the marriage had been disastrous and that at one time Lord Wutherwood had seriously considered the advantages of divorce. Mr. Rattisbon had been consulted. The question of insanity had been discussed. All this, though it was something, was not much, and Alleyn perceived that Mr. Rattisbon hovered on the brink of more daring disclosures. At last, after a series of sheeplike cries and strange grimaces, Mr. Rattisbon told his secret.

“It occurs to me,” he said, for all the world as if he were some stray Dickensian character embarking on a tale within a tale, “It occurs to me that a certain incident, which, though I dismissed it as childish when I was made aware of it, should be brought to your attention. No longer ago than February last, the late Lord Wutherwood called upon me at my rooms. He appeared to be in an unusual state of agitation. I may say that I was quite startled by his manner which I can only describe as furtive and uneasy. It was some time before I got from him the object of his visit, but at last it appeared that he wished to know if he could take legal measures to protect himself from menaces to his person threatened by his wife. I pressed him for closer information and he gave it me. I may say that his story seemed to me ridiculous and, if it pointed to anything, merely furnished us with additional proof of his wife’s mental condition.”

Mr. Rattisbon cleared his throat, darted an uncomfortable glance at Alleyn, waved his pince-nez and gabbled rapidly. “He informed me of a discovery. He had found in a drawer of Lady Wutherwood’s dressing-table — maa — a — ah — evidence, or so he assured me, of an attempt upon her part to — ah — to ah perform upon him by some supernatural agency.”

Alleyn uttered a stifled ejaculation.

“You may well say so,” said Mr. Rattisbon. “Fantastic! I questioned him rather closely, but he would give me no sort of evidence to support his story though he hinted at definite and concrete proof. He became quite hysterical and was utterly unlike himself. I — really I found myself at a loss how to deal with him. I pointed out that anything in the nature of legal protection was out of the question. He actually replied that the laws against witchcraft should not have been repealed. I suggested an alienist. He raised the extraordinary objection that if Lady Wutherwood were placed in confinement she would still find some means of harming him. I should add that while he was obviously in a state little removed from terror, he also professed to ridicule the idea of danger. His manner was extraordinary and illogical. He contradicted himself repeatedly and became more and more agitated. I could do little to reassure him. He displayed irritation and hostility. When he finally left me he turned in the doorway and — and — ah—”

Mr. Rattisbon vibrated his tongue and sucked in his breath. “Lord Wutherwood,” he said, “made this final statement. He said: ‘You mark my words. If somebody doesn’t do something to stop her she’ll get me yet!’ ”

“Oh, hell!” said Alleyn.

“Well, now,” said Mr. Rattisbon after a long silence, “you may dismiss this incident, Chief Inspector, as absurd and, irrelevant. I assure you that I deliberated at some length whether I should acquaint you with it.”

“I’m very glad you decided to tell me about it. What did he do with this concrete proof of her activities, whatever it may have been?”

“He locked it away in some hiding place of his own. It appeared that for some superstitious reason, which I don’t pretend to understand, he was unwilling to destroy it, though he refused to tell me what it was.”

“Had he ever discussed the affair with his wife, do you know? Taxed her with it?”

“Never. I asked the same question. Never.”

“No. No, I suppose he wouldn’t. Well, it’s a strange story.”

“Is it a significant story?”

“It fits into the pattern, I think.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Rattisbon who knew Alleyn. “The pattern. Your pet theory, Chief Inspector.”

“Yes, sir, my pet theory. I hope you may provide me with another lozenge in the pattern. Did he leave any large sums to his servants?”

“He made the customary bequests of a man in his position. One hundred pounds to each servant who had been in his employment for five years or more. In the cases of old family servants the legacies were in some cases considerable.”

“What about the two servants who were with them yesterday? William Giggle and Grace Tinkerton.”

“William Stanley Giggle,” said Mr. Rattisbon, “is the son of Lord Wutherwood’s late coachman and the grandson of his father’s coachman. He receives a more substantial inheritance in the form of an invested sum that should produce three hundred pounds per annum together with a small freehold property — a cottage and some three acres of land on the outskirts of the village of Deepacres.”

“Is this a recent bequest?”

“No, no. Lord Wutherwood has made several wills and many alterations but this bequest appears in the earliest of them. I understand that it was done at the request of Lord Wutherwood’s father.”

“And Tinkerton?”

“Is that Lady Wutherwood’s personal maid?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing.”

Alleyn grimaced and dropped his pencil on the desk before him.

“Isn’t it strange under the circumstances that Lady Wutherwood receives so much?”

“She would have received a great deal less,” said Mr. Ratrisbon, “if the late Lord Wutherwood had lived until noon today.” And with some appearance of relishing the effect of this statement he added: “I was to wait upon the late Lord Wutherwood this morning with the purpose of obtaining his signature to a will. By that will Lady Wutherwood received the minimum which the law insists and not one penny-piece more.”

Giggle’s arrival coincided with Mr. Rattisbon’s departure. He was brought in by Mr. Fox. The stolid indifference of the previous night had deserted him. He was very pale and seemed to make no attempt to conceal his obvious alarm. Evidently, thought Alleyn, his morning’s interview with Fox had shaken him. He stood to attention turning his chauffeur’s cap around in his hands, and staring with signs of the liveliest distrust at Mr. Fox.

“Now then, Giggle,” Alleyn said, “there’s no need to worry, you know, if you’ve given us a straight-forward account of yourself.”

“I have so, sir. I’ve told the truth, sir, so help me. I wasn’t there, sir, honest I wasn’t. Master Michael will bear me out, sir. He saw me go downstairs, and they say they heard his lordship sing out after I’d gone, sir.”

“All right. We only want the facts, you know. If you’ve given us the facts you’ve nothing to worry about.”

“If I might ask, sir, has Master Michael spoken for me?”

“Yes, he has. He says he saw you go down.”

Giggle wiped his hand across his mouth. “Thank God! I beg your pardon, sir, but young gentlemen of his age don’t always notice much, and I’ve been that worried.”

“We’ve asked you to come here this morning,” Alleyn said, “to see if you can give us any further information.”

“I will if I can, sir, but I don’t know a thing. I’ve got nothing to do with it. I never wished his lordship dead. His lordship always treated me fair enough.”

“Even to the extent of leaving you a nice little property, I understand.”

Giggle burst into a clumsy tirade of self-defence. It was not his doing, he cried, that his lordship had favoured him. “It was along of what my dad did for his lordship’s father. I never asked for anything nor never expected it. You can’t pin anything on me. It’s always the same. If it’s gentry and workingmen in trouble the police go for the workingmen every time. My Gawd, can’t you understand…” Alleyn let him talk himself to a standstill. At last he was silent and stood there sweating freely and showing the whites of his eyes like a startled horse.

“Now you’ve got that off your chest,” said Alleyn, “perhaps you’ll listen to one or two questions. Sit down.”

“I’d as soon stand.”

“All right. You tell us you went downstairs to the car, and that the first thing you knew about the tragedy was when Miss Grey came for you. Very well. Now, as you went downstairs, did the lift overtake you and go to the bottom?”

“No, sir.”

“It didn’t come down at all while you were on the stairs?”

Giggle seemed to shy all over. “What’s this about the lift? It was up top. I never seen it after I went down.”

“That’s all I wanted you to tell me,” said Alleyn.

“Oh cripes!” said Giggle under his breath.

“Another point. How did his lordship get on with his servants?”

“Good enough,” said Giggle cautiously.

“Really?”

“I’m not going to get myself trapped—”

“Don’t talk silly,” said Inspector Fox austerely. “What’s the matter with you? The Chief Inspector asked you a plain question. Why can’t you answer it? You’re making yourself look awkward, that’s what you’re doing.”

“Come along, now, Giggle,” said Alleyn. “Pipe up, there’s a good fellow.”

“Well, sir, I’m sorry, but I’m all anyhow. His lordship got on good enough with his staff in a manner of speaking. There was some thought he was a bit on the near side and there was some didn’t like his sarcastic ways but I never minded. He treated me fair.”

“Did some of the staff prefer her ladyship to his lordship?”

“They might of.”

“The maid for instance?”

“She might of.”

“Are you friendly with her maid?”

“We get on all right,” said Giggle, eyeing Alleyn suspiciously.

“Any attachment between you?”

“What the hell’s that got to do with this business?” roared Giggle. “Who says there’s anything?”

“Away you go again,” observed Alleyn wearily. “Will you answer the question or won’t you?”

“There’s nothing between us, then. We might have been a bit friendly, like. What’s there in that? I don’t say we’re not friendly.”

“Would you say that Tinkerton took Lady Wutherwood’s part against her husband? Sympathized with her?”

“She’s very fond of her ladyship. She’s been with her a long time.”

“Quite so. Did she sympathize with Lady Wutherwood when it came to any differences between them?”

“I suppose so.”

“Then there were differences between Lord and Lady Wutherwood?”

“Yes, sir,” said Giggle, obviously relieved at this turn of the conversation.

“What did they quarrel about, do you know?”

“Her ladyship’s got funny ideas. She takes up with funny people.”

“Do you think she’s normal mentally?”

Giggle shuffled his feet and looked at his cap. His lips were trembling.

“Come on,” said Alleyn.

“It’s pretty well known she’s a bit funny. Grace Tinkerton doesn’t like it said, but it’s a fact. She was shut up for a time and she’s never what you’d call the same as other people. I think most of us on the staff have that opinion.”

“Except Miss Tinkerton?”

“She knows,” said Giggle, “but she won’t let on. Loyal-like.”

“All right,” said Alleyn. “That’s everything, I think.”

Giggle wiped his face with a shaking hand. He seemed to hover on the edge of speech.

“What is it?” Alleyn asked.

“Gawd, sir, I’m that upset! It’s got me down. Thinking about it.” He stopped again and then with a curious air of taking control of himself said rapidly, “I beg pardon, sir, for forgetting myself. I got that rattled thinking about it when Mr. Fox came at me again this morning—”

“That’s all right,” said Alleyn, “good-bye.”

Giggle gave him a terrified glance and went out.

A mid-day train took Alleyn, Fox and Nigel Bathgate into Kent. Nigel rang up Alleyn two minutes before he left for Victoria and climbed into the restaurant carriage two seconds after it had started moving. “Ever faithful, ever sure,” he said and ordered drinks for the three of them.

“You won’t get much out of this,” said Alleyn.

“You never know, do you? We sent a cameraman down there this morning. I hope to fix up some trimmings for the pictures.”

“Have you seen your friends this morning?”

“Yes.” Nigel looked doubtfully at Alleyn, seemed about to speak, but evidently changed his mind.

“Let’s have lunch,” said Alleyn.

During the journey he was amiable but uncommunicative. After lunch Fox and Nigel went to sleep and did not wake until they reached Canterbury. Here they found the sun shining between ponderous clouds moving slowly to the south. They changed to a branch line, arriving at Deepacres Halt at three o’clock.

“Out we get,” said Alleyn. “The local superintendent is supposed to have sent a car. It’s three miles, I understand, to the chateau Wutherwood. There’s our man.”

The superintendent himself waited for them on the platform and led the way out to a village road and the police car. He was evidently much stimulated by this visit from the Yard and showed great readiness to discuss Deepacres Park and the Lamprey family. As they drove away from the village he pointed to a pleasant cottage standing back from a side lane.

“That’ll be Bill Giggle’s property now,” he said.

“Nice for Bill Giggle,” said Alleyn.

“Very nice. Funny, the way he’s come by it. Ancient history, it is. Bill Giggle’s old man was coachman to his late lordship’s father and saved his life. Runaway horse affair, it was. His old lordship promised Bill Giggle’s dad the cottage for his work which was very courageous and smart but, in the end, it was horses did for his old lordship, just the same, for he was killed in the hunting field. Only lived a few minutes but in the hearing of them that were there he said he was sorry he’d never made that addition to his will, and asked his son — that’s his late lordship — to make it good. Well, his new lordship’s, as he was then, didn’t actually hand over the cottage, being a bit on the near side, but he sent for his lawyers and made his will and let it be known young Bill Giggle would get the place when he himself was dead and gone.”

“I see.”

“Yes, and they’re going to take the railroad that way now, so it looks as if Bill Giggle’s in for a nice thing, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Alleyn, “it does.”

He was rather silent after that. They drove through country lanes past a mild sequence of open fields, small holdings, spinneys, and a private golf course, to the gates of Deepacres Park. The house was hidden by trees and as they climbed a long winding avenue Fox began to look solemnly impressed.

“A show-place, seemingly,” said Fox.

“Wait till you see the house,” said the superintendent. “It’s as fine a seat as you’ll find in Kent after Leeds Castle. Not so big, but impressive, if you know what I mean.”

He was right. The great house stood on a terrace above a deer park. It was built at the time of John Evelyn and that industrious connoisseur of fine houses could have found no fault in it. Indeed he might have described it as perfectly uniform structure, observable for its noble site, and showing without like a diadem. The simile would have been well chosen, thought Alleyn, for in the late afternoon sunshine the house glowed like a jewel against the velvet setting of its trees.

“Lummy!” said Nigel. “I never knew it was as grand as all this. Good Lord, it’s funny to think of the Lampreys coming home to this sort of roost.”

“I suppose Lord Charles was born here?” observed Alleyn.

“Oh, yes. Yes, I suppose so. Yes, of course he was. Rather terrific, isn’t it?” And Nigel’s fingers went to his tie.

“I’ve told the servants to expect you,” said the superintendent. “They’ll be in a fine taking on over this, I’ll be bound.”

But the butler and housekeeper, when Alleyn saw them, seemed to be less agitated than bewildered. They were more concerned, it seemed, with the problem of their own responsibilities and, for the moment, were made uneasy by the lack of them. They had heard of his lordship’s death through the stop-press column of the newspaper. They had received no orders. Should they and a detachment of servants go up to London? Where was his lordship to be buried? Alleyn suggested they should ring up Brummell Street or the Pleasaunce Court flat. He produced a search warrant and got to work. It would take weeks to go over the whole of Deepacres but he hoped to bring off a lucky dip. Lord Wutherwood’s secretary, it appeared, was away on his holiday. Alleyn’did not regret his absence. He asked to see the rooms Lord Wutherwood used most often and was shown a library and a sort of office. Fox went off to a dressing-room in a remote wing. Nigel sought out the housekeeper to get, so he said, the faithful retainer’s angle on the story. Alleyn had brought a bunch of keys taken from Lord Wutherwood’s body. One of them fitted the lock of a magnificent Jacobean cupboard in the library. It was full of bundles of letters and papers. With a sigh he settled down to them, pausing every now and then to glance through the tall windows at the formal and charming prospect outside.

He found little to help him in the Jacobean cupboard.

There were gay begging letters from Lord Charles, acidly blue-pencilled by his brother: “Answered 10/5/38, Refused. Answered 11/12/38. Final refusal.” But Lord Charles’s letters still came in and there were further final refusals. The late Lord Wutherwood, Alleyn saw, had been a methodical man. But he had not always refused to help his brother. A letter from New Zealand was blue-pencilled “Replied 3/4/33. £500” and a still earlier appeal: “£500 forwarded B. N. Z.” These appeared to be the only occasions on which Lord Charles had not drawn a blank. There were letters from Lady Katherine Lobe in which the writer reminded her nephew of his obligations to the poor and placed her pet charities before him. These were emphatically pencilled “No.” Among a bundle of ancient letters Alleyn came upon one from the Nedbrun Nursing Home, Otterton, Devon. It reported Lady Wutherwood’s condition as being somewhat improved. He made a note of the address.

It was Fox who made the strange discovery. The sun had crept low on the library windows and the room had begun to be filled with a translucent dusk when a door at the far end opened and Fox, bulkily dark, materialized from the shadows of the hall beyond. Alleyn was down on the floor, groping in the bottom shelf of the cupboard. He sat back on his heels and watched Fox advance slowly from dark into thick golden light. Fox looked a huge and portentous figure. He seemed to carry some small object on the palms of his hands. Without speaking Alleyn watched him. The carpet was deep and he advanced as silently as a robust ghost. It was not until he drew quite near that Alleyn could distinguish the object he held in his hands.

It was a small and very ugly doll.

Without a word Fox put it on the carpet. It was a pale, misshapen figure, ill-modelled from some dirtily glossy substance of a livid colour. It was dressed, after a fashion, in a black coat and grey trousers. On the tip of its deformity of a head were stuck a few grey hairs. Black-headed pins formed the eyes; a couple of holes the nostrils. A row of match ends projected horridly from beneath a monstrous upper lip. Alleyn advanced a long finger and pointed to the end of the figure where the feet should have been. They had dwindled away like the feet of the suffering Jews in Cruikshank’s drawing for The Ingoldsby Legends.

“Melted,” said Fox loudly.

Alleyn’s finger travelled up to the breast of the doll. A long pin stuck out from its travesty of a waistcoat.

“Where was it?”

“In the back of his dressing-table drawer.”

“This is the thing he wouldn’t show old Rattisbon. I wonder why.”

“Perhaps he was afraid he’d laugh.”

“Perhaps,” said Alleyn.