Artists in Crime

CHAPTER X Week-end of an Engaged Couple

In the silence that followed Watt Hatchett’s announcement Fox was heard to cough discreetly. Alleyn glanced quickly at him, and then contemplated Hatchett. Hatchett glared defiantly round the room rather as if he expected an instant arrest.

“How do you know this, Mr. Hatchett?” asked Alleyn.

“I’ve seen it in writing.”

“Where?”

“It’s like this. Me and Basil Pilgrim’s got the same kind of paint-smocks, see? When I first come I saw his new one and I thought it was a goody. It’s a sort of dark khaki stuff, made like a coat, with corking great big pockets. He told me where he got it, and I sent for one. When I got it, I hung it up with the others in the junk-room. That was last Tuesdee. On Wensdee morning I put it on, and I noticed at the time that his smock wasn’t there. He’d taken it up to the house for something, I suppose. Well, when we cleaned up at midday, I put me hand in one of me pockets and I felt a bit of paper. I took it out and had a look at it. Thought it might be the docket from the shop or something, see? When I got it opened up, I see it was a bit of a note scrawled on the back of a bill. It said, as near as I remember: ‘Congrats on the engagement, but what if I tell her she’s going to have a step-child? I’ll be in the studio to-night at ten. Advise you to come.’ Something like that it was. I may not have got it just the same as what it was, but that’s near enough. It was signed ‘S’.”

“What did you do with it?”

“Aw, cripey, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t feel so good about reading it. Gee, it was a fair cow, me reading it by mistake like that. I just went into the junk-room and I saw he’d put his smock back by then, so I shoved the blooming paper into his pocket. That evening I could see he was feeling pretty crook himself, so I guessed he’d read it.”

“I see.”

“Look, Mr. Alleyn, I’m sorry I went nasty just now. I’m like that. I go horribly crook, and the next minute I could knock me own block off for what I said. But look, you don’t want to think too much about this. Honest! That girl Sonia was easy. Look, she went round asking for it, dinkum she did. Soon as I saw that note I tipped she’d got hold of old Basil some time, and he’d just kind of thought, ‘Aw, what the hell’ and there you were. Look, he’s a decent old sport, dinkum he is. And now he’s got a real corking girl like Valmai Seacliff, it’d be a nark if he got in wrong. His old pot’s a wowser, too. That makes things worse. Look, Mr. Alleyn, I’d hate him to think I— ”

“All right, all right,” said Alleyn good-humouredly. “We’ll keep your name out of it if we can.”

“Good-oh, Mr. Alleyn. And, look, you won’t— ”

“I won’t clap the handcuffs on Mr. Pilgrim just yet.”

“Yeah, but— ”

“You buzz off. And if you’ll take a tip from an effete policeman, just think sometimes, before you label the people you meet! ‘No good’ or ‘standoffish,’ or — what is that splendid phrase? — ‘fair cows.’ Have you ever heard of an inferiority complex?”

“Naow.”

“Thank the Lord for that. All the same I fancy you suffer from one. Go slow. Think a bit more. Wait for people to like you and they will. And forgive me if you can, for prosing away like a Victorian uncle. Now, off you go.”

“Good-oh, Mr. Alleyn.”

Hatchett walked to the door. He opened it and then swung round.

“Thanks a lot,” he said. “Ta-ta for now.”

The door banged, and he was gone. Alleyn leant back in his chair and laughed very heartily.

“Cheeky young fellow, that,” said Fox. “Australian. I’ve come across some of them. Always think you’re looking down on them. Funny!”

“He’s an appalling specimen,” said Nigel from the corner. “Bumptious young larrikin. Even his beastly argot is bogus. Half-American, half-Cockney.”

“And pure Australian. The dialect is rapidly becoming Americanised.”

“A frightful youth. No wonder they sat on him. He ought to be told how revolting he is whenever he opens his mouth. Antipodean monster.”

“I don’t agree with you,” said Alleyn. “He’s an awkward pup, but he might respond to reason in time. What do you make of this business of the note, Fox?”

“Hard to say,” said Fox. “Looks like the beginnings of blackmail.”

“Very like, very like.”

“From all accounts it wouldn’t be very surprising if we found Garcia had set her on to it, would it now?”

“Speculative, but attractive.”

“And then murdered her when he’d collared the money,” said Nigel.

“You’re a fanciful fellow, Bathgate,” said Alleyn mildly.

“Well, isn’t it possible?”

“Quite possible on what we’ve got.”

“Shall I get Mr. Pilgrim, sir?”

“I think so, Fox. We’ll see if he conforms to the Garcia theme or not.”

“I’ll bet he does,” said Nigel. “Is it the Basil Pilgrim who’s the eldest son of the Methodist Peer?”

“That’s the one. Do you know him?”

“No, but I know of him. I did a story for my paper on his old man. The son’s rather a pleasant specimen, I fancy. Cricketer. He was a Blue and looked good enough for an M.C.C. star before he took to this painting.”

“And became a little odd?” finished Alleyn with a twinkle.

“I didn’t say that, but it was rather a waste. Anyhow I fail to visualise him as a particularly revolting type of murderer. He’ll conform to the Garcia theme, you may depend upon it.”

“That’s because you want things to work out that way.”

“Don’t you think Garcia’s your man?”

“On what we’ve got I do, certainly, but it’s much too early to become wedded to a theory. Back to your corner.”

Fox returned with Basil Pilgrim. As Nigel had remarked, Pilgrim was a very pleasant specimen. He was tall with a small head, square shoulders and a narrow waist. His face was rather fine-drawn. He had a curious trick while he talked of turning his head first to one member of his audience and then to another. This habit suggested a nervous restlessness. He had a wide mouth, magnificent teeth and very good manners. Alleyn got him to sit down, gave him a cigarette and began at once to establish his movements after he drove away with Valmai Seacliff from Tatler’s End House on Friday afternoon. Pilgrim said that they motored to some friends of Valmai Seacliff’s who lived at Boxover, twelve miles away. They dined with these friends — a Captain and Mrs. Pascoe — spent the evening playing bridge and stayed the night there. The next day they motored to Ankerton Manor, the Oxfordshire seat of Lord Pilgrim, where Basil introduced his fiancée to his father. They spent Saturday night at Ankerton and returned to Tatler’s End House on Sunday afternoon.

“At what time did you break up your bridge party on Friday night?” asked Alleyn.

“Fairly early, I think, sir. About elevenish. Valmai had got a snorter of a headache and could hardly see the cards. I gave her some aspirin. She took three tablets, and turned in.”

“Did the aspirin do its job?”

“Oh-rather! She said she slept like the dead.” He looked from Alleyn to Fox and back again. “She didn’t wake till they brought in tea. Her head had quite cleared up.”

“Is she subject to these headaches?”

Pilgrim looked surprised.

“Yes, she is rather. At least, she’s had one or two lately. I’m a bit worried about them. I want her to see an oculist but she doesn’t like the idea of wearing glasses.”

“It may not be the eyes.”

“Oh, I think it is. Painters often strain their eyes, you know.”

“Did you sleep comfortably?”

“Me?” Pilgrim turned to Alleyn with an air of bewilderment. “Oh, I always sleep like a log.”

“How far is Ankerton Manor from here, Mr. Pilgrim?”

“Eighty-five miles by my speedometer. I took a note of it.”

“So you had a run of seventy-three miles from Boxover on Saturday?”

“That’s the idea, sir.”

“Right. Now about this unfortunate girl. Can you let any light in on the subject?”

“Afraid I can’t. It’s a damn’ bad show. I feel rotten about it.”

“Why?”

“Well, wouldn’t anybody? It’s a foul thing to happen, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes — perfectly abominable. I meant, had you any personal reason for feeling rotten about it?”

“Not more than any of the others,” said Pilgrim after a pause.

“Is that quite true, Mr. Pilgrim?”

“What do you mean?” Again he looked from Alleyn to Fox. He had gone very white.

“I mean this. Had Sonia Gluck no closer link with you than with the rest of the class?”

If Pilgrim had been restless before, he was now very still. He stared straight in front of him, his lips parted, and his brows slightly raised.

“I see I shall have to make a clean breast of it,” he said at last.

“I think you would be wise to do so.”

“It’s got nothing to do with this business,” he said. “Unless Garcia knew and was furious about it. My God, I don’t know what put you on to this, but I’m not sure it won’t be a relief to talk about it. Ever since this morning when she was killed, I’ve been thinking of it. I’d have told you at once if I’d thought it had any bearing on the case, but I–I didn’t want Valmai to know. It happened three months ago. Before I met Valmai. I was at a studio party in Bloomsbury and she — Sonia — was there. Everyone got pretty tight. She asked me to drive her back to her room and then she asked me if I wouldn’t come in for a minute. Well — I did. It was the only time. I got a damned unpleasant surprise when I found she was the model here. I didn’t say anything to her and she didn’t say anything to me. That’s all.”

“What about the child?” asked Alleyn.

“God! Then she did tell somebody?”

“She told you, at all events.”

“I don’t believe it’s true. I don’t believe the child was mine. Everybody knows what sort of girl she was. Poor little devil! I don’t want to blackguard her after this has happened, but I can see what you’re driving at now, and it’s a serious business for me. If I’d thought the child was my affair, I’d have looked after Sonia, but everybody knows she’s been Garcia’s mistress for months. She was poisonously jealous of Valmai, and after our engagement was announced she threatened this as a hit at Valmai.”

“How was the matter first broached?”

“She left a note in the pocket of my painting-coat. I don’t know how long it had been there. I burnt it. She said she wanted me to meet her somewhere.”

“Did you do this?”

“Yes. I met her in the studio one evening. It was pretty ghastly.”

“What happened?”

“She said she was going to have a baby. She said I was the father. I said I didn’t believe it. I knew she was lying, and I told her I knew. I said I’d tell Valmai the whole story myself and I said I’d go to Garcia and tell him. She seemed frightened. That’s all that happened.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Yes. What d’you mean? Of course I’m sure.”

“She didn’t try blackmail? She didn’t say she would go to Miss Seacliff with this story or, if that failed, she didn’t threaten to appeal to your father?”

“She said all sorts of things. She was hysterical. I don’t remember everything she said. She didn’t know what she was talking about.”

“Surely you would remember if she threatened to go to your father?”

“I don’t think she did say she’d do that. Anyway, if she had it wouldn’t have made any difference. He couldn’t force me to marry her, I know that sounds pretty low, but, you see, I knew the whole thing was a bluff. It was all so foul and squalid. I was terrified someone would hear her or something. I just walked away.”

“Did she carry out any of her threats?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, I’d have heard pretty soon if she’d said anything to my father.”

“Then she did threaten to tell your father?”

“God damn you, I tell you I don’t remember what she threatened.”

“Did you give her any money?”

Pilgrim moved his head restlessly.

“I advise you to answer me, Mr. Pilgrim.”

“I needn’t answer anything. I can get a lawyer.”

“Certainly. Do you wish to do that?”

Pilgrim opened his mouth and shut it again. He frowned to himself as if he thought very deeply, and at last he seemed to come to a decision. He looked from Alleyn to Fox and suddenly he smiled.

“Look here,” he said, “I didn’t kill that girl. I couldn’t have killed her. The Parkers and Valmai will tell you I spent Friday night with them. My father and everyone else at Ankerton knows I was there on Saturday. I hadn’t a chance to rig the knife. I suppose there’s no reason why I should shy off talking about this business with Sonia except that — well, when there’s a crime like this in the air one’s apt to get nervous.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“You know all about my father, I expect. He’s been given a good deal of publicity. Some bounder of a journalist wrote a lot of miserable gup in one of the papers the other day. The Methodist Peer and all that. Everyone knows he’s a bit fantastic on the subject of morals, and if he ever got to hear of this business there’d be a row of simply devastating magnitude. That’s why I didn’t want it to leak out. He’d do some tremendous heavy father stuff at me, and have a stroke on top of it as likely as not. That’s why I didn’t want to say any more about it than I could possibly help. I see now that I’ve been a fool not to tell you the whole thing.”

“Good,” said Alleyn.

“As a matter of fact I did give Sonia a cheque for a hundred, and she promised she’d make no more scenes. In the end she practically admitted the child was not mine, but,” he smiled ruefully, “as she pointed out, she had a perfectly good story to tell my father or Valmai if she felt inclined to do so.”

“Have you made a clean breast of this to Miss Seacliff?”

“No. I–I—couldn’t do that. It seems so foul to go to her with a squalid little story when we were just engaged. You see, I happen to feel rather strongly about — well, about some things. I rather disliked myself for what had happened. Valmai’s so marvelous.” His face lit up with a sudden intensity of emotion. He seemed translated. “She’s so far beyond all that kind of thing. She’s terribly, terribly attractive — you only had to see how the other men here fell for her — but she remains quite aloof from her own loveliness. Just accepts it as something she can’t help and then ignores it. It’s amazing that she should care—” He stopped short. “I don’t know that we need discuss all this.”

“I don’t think we need. I shall ask you later on to sign a statement of your own movements from Friday to Sunday.”

“Will the Sonia business have to come out, sir?”

“I can promise nothing about that. If it is irrelevant it will not be used. I think it advisable that you should tell Miss Seacliff, but that, of course, is entirely a matter of your own judgment.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Possibly not. There’s one other question. Did you return to the studio on Friday before you left for Boxover?”

“No. I packed my suit-case after lunch. Young Hatchett came in and talked to me while I was at it. Then I called Valmai and we set off in the car.”

“I see. Thank you. I won’t keep you any longer, Mr. Pilgrim.”

“Very well, sir. Thank you.”

Fox showed Pilgrim out and returned to the fire. He looked dubious. Nigel reappeared and sat on the wide fender.

“Well, Fox,” said Alleyn, raising an eyebrow, “what did you think of that?”

“His ideas on the subject of his young lady seem a bit high-flown from what we’ve seen of her,” said Fox.

“What’s she like?” asked Nigel.

“She’s extremely beautiful,” Alleyn said. “Beautiful enough to launch a thousand crimes, perhaps. But I should not have thought the Sonia episode would have caused her to so much as bat an eyelid. She has completely wiped the floor with all the other females, and that, I imagine, is all that matters to Miss Seacliff.”

“Of course, the poor fool’s besotted on her. You can see that with half an eye,” said Nigel. He glanced at his shorthand notes. “What about his alibi?”

“If this place Boxover is only twelve miles away,” grunted Fox, “his alibi isn’t of much account. Is it, Mr. Alleyn? They went to bed early on Friday night. He could slip out, run over here, rig the knife and get back to Boxover almost within the hour.”

“You must remember that Garcia slept in the studio.”

“Yes, that’s so. But he may not have been there on Friday night. He may have packed up by then and gone off on his tour.”

“Pilgrim must have known that, Fox, if he planned to come to the studio.”

“Yes. That’s so. Mind, I still think Garcia’s our man. This Mr. Pilgrim doesn’t strike me as the chap for a job of this sort.”

“He’s a bit too obviously the clean young Englishman, though, isn’t he?” said Nigel.

“Hullo,” remarked Alleyn, “didn’t Pilgrim come up to your high expectations, Bathgate?”

“Well, you were remarkably cold and snorty with him, yourself.”

“Because throughout our conversation he so repeatedly shifted ground. That sort of behaviour is always exceedingly tedious. It was only because I was round with him that we got the blackmail story at all.”

“He seemed quite an honest-to-God sort of fellow, really,” pronounced Nigel. “I think it was that stuff about being ashamed of his affair with the model that put me off him. It sounded spurious. Anyway, it’s the sort of thing one doesn’t talk about to people one has just met.”

“Under rather unusual conditions,” Alleyn pointed out.

“Certainly. All the same he talks too much.”

“The remark about bounding journalists and miserable gup was perhaps gratuitous.”

“I didn’t mean that,” said Nigel in a hurry.

“I’m inclined to agree with you. Let us see Miss Valmai Seacliff, Brer Fox.”

“I wish you wouldn’t make me coil up in that chair,” complained Nigel when Fox had gone. “It’s plaguilly uncomfortable and right in a draught. Can’t I just be here, openly? I’d like to have a look at this lovely.”

“Very well. I suppose you’ll do no harm. The concealment was your own suggestion, if you remember. You may sit at the desk and make an attempt to look like the Yard.”

“You don’t look much like it yourself in your smart gent’s dinner jacket. Tell me, Alleyn, have you fallen in love with Miss Troy?”

“Don’t be a fool, Bathgate,” said Alleyn, with such unusual warmth that Nigel’s eyebrows went up.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Merely a pleasantry. No offence and so on.”

“I’m sorry, too. You must forgive me. I’m bothered about this case.”

“There, there,” said Nigel. “Coom, coom, coom, it’s early days yet.”

“True enough. But suppose Garcia walks in with a happy smile in answer to our broadcast? That bit of clay in the drape. Acid marks and no acid to make ’em. This legendary warehouse. Clay models of comedy and tragedy melted into the night. Damn, I’ve got the mumbles.”

The door was thrown open, and in came Valmai Seacliff followed by Fox. Miss Seacliff managed to convey by her entrance that she never moved anywhere without a masculine satellite. That Inspector Fox in his double-breasted blue serge was not precisely in the right manner did nothing to unsettle her poise. She was dressed in a silk trousered garment. Her hair was swept off her forehead into a knot on the nape of her neck. Moving her hips voluptuously, she walked rather like a mannequin. When she reached the chair Alleyn had pushed forward, she turned, paused, and then sank into it with the glorious certainty of a well-trained show-girl. She stared languidly at Nigel whose hand had gone automatically to his tie.

“Well, Mr. Alleyn?” said Miss Seacliff.

The three men sat down. Alleyn turned a page of his tiny note-book, appeared to deliberate, and embarked upon the familiar opening.

“Miss Seacliff, my chief concern at the moment is to get a clear account of everybody’s movements during the weekend. Mr. Pilgrim has told us of your motor trip with him to Boxover, and then to Ankerton Manor. I should like you to corroborate his statement if you will. Did you return to the studio before you left?”

“No, I was packing. The housemaid helped me and carried my things down to the car.”

“You arrived at Captain and Mrs. Pascoe’s house in Boxover on Friday afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“And spent the afternoon together?”

“Yes. The Pascoes talked about tennis but I didn’t feel inclined to play. I rather loathe tennis. So we talked.

Alleyn noticed again her curious little stutter, and the trick she had of letting her voice die and then catching it up on an intake of breath.

“How did you spend the evening?”

“We played bridge for a bit. I had a frightful headache and went to bed early. I felt quite sick with it.”

“That was bad luck. Do you often have these headaches?”

“Never until lately. They started about a month ago. It’s rather tiresome.”

“You should consult an oculist.”

“My eyes are perfectly all right. As a matter of fact a rather distinguished oculist once told me that intensely blue eyes like mine usually give no trouble. He said my eyes were the most vivid blue he had ever seen.”

“Indeed!” said Alleyn, without looking at them. “How do you explain the headaches, then?”

“I’m perfectly certain the one on Friday night was due to champagne and port. The Pascoes had champagne at dinner to celebrate my engagement, and there was brandy afterwards. I loathe brandy, so Basil made me have a glass of port. I told him it would upset me but he went on and on. The coffee was filthy, too. Bitter and beastly. Sybil Pascoe is one of those plain women whom one expects to be good housekeepers, but I must say she doesn’t appear to take the smallest trouble over the coffee. Basil says his was abominable, too.”

“When did you give up the bridge?”

“I’ve no idea, I’m afraid. I simply couldn’t go on. Basil got me three aspirin and I went to bed. The others came up soon afterwards, I fancy. I heard Basil go into his room.”

“It was next to yours.”

“Yes.”

“Did you sleep?”

“Like the dead. I didn’t wake till they brought my tea at nine o’clock.”

“And the headache had cleared up?”

“Yes, quite. I still felt a little unpleasant. It was a sort of carry-over from that damned port, I imagine.”

“Were your host and hostess anywhere near you upstairs?”

“Sybil and Ken? Not very. There was Basil and then me, and then I think two spare rooms and a bathroom. Then their room. Why?”

“It sounds rather absurd, I know,” said Alleyn, “but you see we’ve got to find out as closely as possible what everyone did that night.”

“Basil didn’t come into my room, if that’s what you’re hinting at,” said Miss Seacliff without heat. “It wasn’t that sort of party. Anyway, I’m not given to that kind of thing even when I haven’t got a headache. I don’t believe in it. Sooner or later you lose your glamour. Look at Sonia.”

“Quite so. Then as far as you know the household slept without stirring from Friday night to Saturday morning?”

“Yes,” said Miss Seacliff, looking at him as if he was slightly demented.

“And on Saturday you went on to Ankerton Manor. When did you start?”

“We had a glass of sherry at about ten, and then pushed off. Basil was in a great state lest we should be late for lunch, and wanted to get away earlier, but I saw no reason why we should go rushing about the countryside before it was necessary. We had plenty of time.”

“Why was he so anxious?”

“He kept saying that he was sure Sybil Pascoe wanted to get away. She was going up to London for a week and leaving Ken to look after himself. I pointed out that was no reason why we should bolt off. Then Basil said we mustn’t be late at Ankerton. The truth was, the poor lamb wanted me to make a good impression on his extraordinary old father. I told him he needn’t worry. Old men always go quite crazy about me. But Basil was absurdly nervous about the meeting and kept fidgeting me to start. We got there early as it was, and by luncheon-time the old person was talking about the family jewels. He’s given me some emeralds that I’m going to have reset. They’re rather spectacular.”

“You left Ankerton yesterday after luncheon, I suppose?”

“Yes. Basil was rather keen to stay on till Monday, but I’d had enough. The old person made me hack round the ancestral acres on a beastly little animal that nearly pulled my arms out. I saw you looking at my hand.”

With a slow and beautiful movement she extended her left arm, opened her hand, and held it close to Alleyn’s face. It was warmly scented and the palm was rouged. At the base of the little finger were two or three scarlet marks.

“My hands are terribly soft, of course,” said Miss Seacliff, advancing it a little closer to his face.

“Yes,” said Alleyn. “You are evidently not an experienced horsewoman.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, you know, these marks have not been made by a rein. I should say, Miss Seacliff, that your pony’s mane had been called into service.”

She pulled her hand away and turned rather pink.

“I don’t pretend to be a horsey woman, thank God! I simply loathe the brutes. I must say I got very bored with the old person. And besides, I didn’t want to miss the pose this morning. I’d got a good deal to do to my thing of Sonia. I suppose I’ll never get it done now.”

Fox coughed and Nigel glanced up at Valmai Seacliff in astonishment.

“I suppose not,” agreed Alleyn. “Now, Miss Seacliff, we come to this morning’s tragedy. Will you describe to us exactly what happened, please?”

“Have you got a cigarette?”

Alleyn sprang up and offered her his case.

“What are they? Oh, I see. Thank you.”

She took one and he lit it for her. She looked into his eyes deliberately but calmly, as if she followed a familiar routine. Alleyn returned her glance gravely and sat down again.

“This morning?” she said. “You mean when Sonia was killed? It was rather ghastly. I felt wretched after it was all over. Ill. I suppose it was shock. I do think it was rather cruel that I should be the one to — to do it — to set the pose. They all knew I always pushed her shoulders down.” She caught her breath, and for the first time showed some signs of genuine distress. “I believe Garcia deliberately planned it like that. He loathed the sight of Sonia, and at the same time he wanted to revenge himself on me because I didn’t fall for him. It was just like Garcia to do that. He’s a spiteful little beast. It was cruel. I–I can’t get rid of the remembrance. I’ll never be able to get rid of it.”

“I’m sorry that I am obliged to ask you to go over it again, but I’m sure you will understand— ”

“Oh, yes. And the psycho people say one shouldn’t repress things of this sort. I don’t want to get nervy and lose my poise. After all, I didn’t do it really. I keep telling myself that.”

“When did you go down to the studio?”

“Just before class time. Basil and I walked down together. Katti Bostock was there and — let me see — yes, the appalling Hatchett youth, Lee and Ormerin and Malmsley came down afterwards, I think.”

“Together?”

“I don’t remember. They were not there when I got down.”

“I see. Will you go on, Miss Seacliff?”

“Well, we all put up our easels and set our palettes and so on. Sonia came in last and Katti said we’d begin. Sonia went into the junk-room and undressed. She came out in her white kimono and hung about trying to get the men to talk to her. Katti told her to go on to the throne. She got down into the chalkmarks. She always fitted her right thigh into its trace first, with the drape behind her. I don’t know if you understand?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

And indeed Alleyn suddenly had a very vivid impression of what must have taken place. He saw the model, wrapped in the thin white garment, her warm and vital beauty shining through it. He saw her speak to the men, look at them perhaps with a pathetic attempt to draw their attention to herself.

Then the white wrapper would slide to the floor and the nude figure sink gingerly into a half-recumbent posture on the throne.

“She grumbled as usual about the pose and said she was sick of it. I remember now that she asked us if we knew where Garcia had gone on his hiking trip. I suppose he wouldn’t tell her. Then she lay down on her side. The drape was still stretched taut behind her. There is generally a sort of key position among the different canvases. When we set the pose we always look at that particular canvas to get it right. My painting was in this position so it was always left to me to push her down into the right position. She could have done it all herself but she always made such a scene. I’d got into the way of taking her shoulders and pressing them over. She wouldn’t do it otherwise. So I leant over and gripped them. They felt smooth and alive. She began to make a fuss. She said ‘Don’t,’ and I said ‘Don’t be such a fool.’ Katti said: ‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Sonia!’ Something like that. Sonia said: ‘Your hands are cold, you’re hurting me.’ Then she let herself go and I pushed down.” Valmai Seacliff raised her hands and pressed them against her face.

“She didn’t struggle but I felt her body leap under my hands and then shudder. I can’t tell you exactly what it was like. Everything happened at the same moment. I saw her face. She opened her eyes very wide, and wrinkled her forehead as if she was astonished. I think she said ‘Don’t’ again, but I’m not sure. I thought — you know how one’s thoughts can travel — I thought how silly she looked, and at the same moment I suddenly wondered if she was going to have a baby and the pose really hurt her. I don’t know why I thought that. I knew s-something had happened. I didn’t know what it was. I just leant over her and looked into her face. I think I said: ‘Sonia’s ill.’ I think Katti or someone said ‘Rot.’ I still touched her — leant on her. She quivered as if I tickled her and then she was still. Phillida Lee said: ‘She’s fainted.’ Then the others came up. Katti put her arm behind Sonia to raise her. She said: ‘I can’t move her — she seems stuck.’ Then she pulled. There was a queer little n-noise and Sonia came up suddenly. Ormerin cried out loudly: ‘Mon Dieu, c’est le poignard.’ At least that’s what he told us he said. And the drape stuck to my fingers. It came out of the hole in her back — the blood, I mean. Her back was wet. We moved her a little, and Katti tried to stop the blood with a piece of rag. Troy came. She sent Basil out to ring up the doctor. She looked at Sonia and said she wasn’t dead. Troy put her arms round Sonia. I don’t know how long it was before Sonia gave a sort of cough. She opened her eyes very wide. Troy looked up and said: ‘She’s gone.’ Phillida Lee started to cry. Nobody said very much. Basil came back and Troy said n-nobody was to leave the studio. She covered Sonia with a drape. We began to talk about the knife. Lee and Hatchett said G-Garcia had done it. We all thought Garcia had done it. Then the doctor came and when he had seen Sonia he sent for the p-police.”

Her voice died away. She had begun her recital calmly enough, but it was strange to see how the memory of the morning grew more vivid and more disquieting as she revived it. The slight hesitation in her speech became more noticeable. When she had finished her hands were trembling.

“I d-didn’t know I was so upset,” she said. “A doctor once told me my nerves were as sensitive as the strings of a violin.”

“It was a horrible experience for all of you,” said Alleyn. “Tell me, Miss Seacliff, when did you yourself suspect that Garcia had laid this trap for the model?”

“I thought of Garcia at once. I remembered what Lee had told me about the conversation between Garcia and Sonia. I don’t see who else could have done it, and somehow— ”

“Yes?”

“Somehow it — it’s the sort of thing he might do. There’s something very cold-blooded about Garcia. He’s quite mad about me, but I simply can’t bear him to touch me. Lee says he’s got masses of S.A. and he evidently had for Sonia — but I can’t see it. I think he’s rather repulsive. Women do fall for him, I’m told.”

“And the motive?”

“I imagine he was sick of her. She literally hurled herself at him. Always watching him. Men hate women to do that— ”

She looked directly into Alleyn’s eyes. “Don’t they, Mr. Alleyn.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“And of course he was livid when she defaced my portrait. She must have hated me to do that. In a way it was rather interesting, a directly sexual jealousy manifesting itself on the symbol of the hated person.”

Alleyn repressed a movement of impatience and said: “No doubt.”

“My own idea is that she was going to have a baby and had threatened to sue him for maintenance. I suppose in a way I’m responsible.”

She looked grave enough as she made this statement, but Alleyn thought there was more than a hint of complacency in her voice.

“Surely not,” he said.

“Oh, yes. In a way. If he hadn’t been besotted on me, I dare say he might not have done it.”

“I thought,” said Alleyn, “that you were worrying about your actual hand in the business.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Alleyn’s voice was grave, “the circumstance of it being your hands, Miss Seacliff, that thrust her down upon the knife. Tell me, please, did you notice any resistance at first? I should have thought that there might even have been a slight sound as the point entered.”

“I — don’t think— ”

“We are considering the actual death throes of a murdered individual,” said Alleyn mildly. “I should like a clear picture.”

She opened her eyes wide, a look of extreme horror came into her face. She looked wildly round the room, darted a furious glance at Alleyn, and said in a strangled voice: “Let me out. I’ve got to go out.”

Fox rose in consternation, but she pushed him away and ran blindly to the door.

“Never mind, Fox,” said Alleyn.

The door banged.

“Here,” said Fox, “what’s she up to?”

“She’s bolted,” exclaimed Nigel. “Look out! She’s doing a bolt.”

“Only as far as the cloak-room,” said Alleyn. “The fatal woman is going to be very sick.”