Artists in Crime

CHAPTER XIX Alleyn Makes a Pilgrimage

The inquest on the body of Sonia Gluck was held at Bossicote on the morning of Thursday, September 22nd. The court, as might have been expected, was jammed to the doors; otherwise the proceedings were as colourless as the coroner, a gentleman with an air of irritated incredulity, could make them. He dealt roundly with the witnesses and with the evidence, reducing everything by a sort of sleight-of-hand to a dead norm. One would have thought that models impaled on the points of poignards were a commonplace of police investigation. Only once did he appear to be at all startled and that was when Cedric Malmsley gave evidence. The coroner eyed Malmsley’s beard as if he thought it must be detachable, abruptly changed his own glasses, and never removed his outraged gaze from the witness throughout his evidence. The barest outline of the tragedy was brought out. Alleyn gave formal evidence on the finding of Garcia’s body, and the court was fraught with an unspoken inference that it was a case of murder and suicide. Alleyn asked for an adjournment, and the whole thing was over by eleven o’clock.

In the corridor Alleyn caught Fox by the arm.

“Come on, Brer Fox. We’re for Boxover. The first stop in the pilgrimage. I’ve got my mother’s car— looks less official. It’s over there — wait for me, will you?”

He watched Fox walk away and then turned quickly into a side lane where Troy sat in her three-seater. Alleyn came up to her from behind, and she did not see him. She was staring straight in front of her. He stood there with his hat in his hands, waiting for her to turn her head. When at last she woke from her meditation and saw him, her eyes widened. She looked at him gravely and then smiled.

“Hullo. It’s you,” said Troy. “I’m waiting for Katti.”

“I had to say a word to you,” said Alleyn.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. Any word. Are you all right?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I’m afraid it’s difficult for you,” said Alleyn, “having all these people still in the house. This second case made it necessary. We can’t let them go.”

“It’s all right. We’re doing some work out of doors when it’s fine, and I’ve moved everything round in the studio and got a man from the village to sit. Katti’s doing a life-size thing of the policeman at the front gate. It’s a bit — difficult — at times, but they seem to have made up their minds Garcia did it.”

“This last thing — about Garcia. It’s been a pretty bad shock to you.”

“In a way — yes,” said Troy. “It was kind of you to send me a telegram.”

“Kind! Oh, well, if it broke the news a bit, that’s something. You had no particular feeling about him, had you? It was his work, wasn’t it?”

“True enough. His work. That clay group was really good, you know. I think it would have been the best thing he ever did. Somebody will do the marble from the model, I suppose.” She looked directly into Alleyn’s eyes. “I’m — I’m horrified,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“Nitric acid! It’s so beyond the bounds of one’s imagination that anyone could possibly — Please tell me — they seemed to suggest that Garcia himself — I must know. Did he kill her and then himself? I can’t believe he did. He would never do that. The first — all that business with the knife — I can imagine him suddenly deciding to kill Sonia like that. In a ghastly sort of way it might appeal to his imagination, but it’s just because his imagination was so vivid that I am sure he wouldn’t kill himself so horribly. Why — why, Ormerin once spilt acid from that bottle on his hand — Garcia was there. He knew. He saw the burn.”

“He was drugged at the time he died. He’d been smoking opium.”

“Garcia! But — All right. It’s not fair to ask you questions.”

“I’m so sorry. I think we’re nearly at an end. Tomorrow, perhaps, we shall know.”

“Don’t look so — so worried,” said Troy suddenly.

“I wonder if it has ever entered your head,” said Alleyn, “that it is only by wrenching my thoughts round with a remarkable effort that I can keep them on my job and not on you.”

She looked at him without speaking.

“Well,” he said. “What have you got to say to that, Troy?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry. I’d better go.”

“A woman never actually objects to a man getting into this state of mind about her, does she? I mean — as long as he behaves himself?”

“No. I don’t think she does.”

“Unless she happens to associate him with something particularly unpleasant. As you must me. Good God, I’m a pretty sort of fellow to shove my damned attentions on a lady in the middle of a job like this.”

“You’re saying too much,” said Troy. “You must stop. Please.”

“I’m extremely sorry. You’re perfectly right — it was unpardonable. Good-bye.”

He stood back. Troy made a swift movement with her hands and leant towards him.

“Don’t be so ‘pukka sahib,’ ” she said. “It is quite true — a woman doesn’t mind.”

“Troy!”

“Now I’m saying too much. It’s her vanity. Even mixed up with horrors like these she rather likes it.”

“We seem to be an odd pair,” said Alleyn. “I haven’t the smallest idea of what you think of me. No, truly, not the smallest idea. But even in the middle of police investigations we appear to finish our thoughts. Troy, have you ever thought of me when you were alone?”

“Naturally.”

“Do you dislike me?”

“No.”

“That will do to go on with,” said Alleyn. “Good morning.”

With his hat still in his hand he turned and walked away quickly to his mother’s car.

“Off we go, Fox,” he said. “Alley houp! The day is ours.”

He slipped in the clutch and in a very few minutes they were travelling down a fortunately deserted road at fifty miles an hour. Fox cleared his throat.

“What’s that, Brer Fox?” asked Alleyn cheerfully.

“I didn’t speak, Mr. Alleyn. Are we in a hurry?”

“Not particularly. I have a disposition of speed come upon me.”

“I see,” said Fox dryly. Alleyn began to sing.

Trees and hedges flew past in a grey blur. From the back of the car a muffled voice suddenly chanted:

Alleyn took his foot off the accelerator. Fox slewed round and stared into the back of the car. From an upheaval of rugs Nigel’s head emerged.

“Rude is never funny,” said Alleyn. “When did you hide in my mother’s car?”

“Immediately after the old gentleman pronounced the word ‘adjournment.’ Where are we bound for?”

“I shan’t tell you. Alley houp! Away we go again.”

“Mr. Fox,” said Nigel, “what has overtaken your chief? Is he mad, drunk, or in love?”

“Don’t answer the fellow, Brer Fox,” said Alleyn. “Let him burst in ignorance. Sit down, behind, there.”

They arrived at Boxover and drew up outside a rather charming Georgian house on the outskirts of the village.

“Twenty minutes,” said Alleyn, looking from his watch to the speedometer. “Twenty minutes from Bossicote and twelve miles. It’s two miles from the studio to Bossicote. Fourteen miles and a straightish road. We slowed down once on Bathgate’s account and once to ask the way. At night you could do the whole trip in a quarter of an hour or less. Now then. A certain amount and yet not too much finesse is indicated. Come on, Fox.”

“May I come?” asked Nigel.

“You? You have got the most colossal, the most incredible, the most appalling cheek. Your hide! Your effrontery! Well, well, well. Come along. You are a Yard typist. Wait by the car until I give you a leery nod, both of you.”

He rang the front-door bell and whistled very sweetly and shrilly.

“What is the matter with him, Fox?” asked Nigel.

“Search me, Mr. Bathgate. He’s been that worried over this case ever since we found Garcia, you’d think he’d never crack a joke again, and then he comes out from this inquest, crosses the road to have a word with Miss Troy and comes back, as you might say, with bells on.”

“Oh ho!” said Nigel. “Say you so, Fox. By gum, Fox, do you suppose— ”

The door was opened by a manservant. Alleyn spoke to him and gave him a card. The man stood back and Alleyn, with a grimace at them over his shoulder, stepped inside, leaving the door open.

“Come on, Mr. Bathgate,” said Fox. “That means us.”

They joined Alleyn in a little hall that was rather overwhelmed with the horns, masks, and hides of dead animals.

“Mrs. Pascoe is away,” whispered Alleyn, “but the gallant captain is within. Here he comes.”

Captain Pascoe was short, plump and vague-looking. He had prominent light blue eyes and a red face. He smelt of whisky. He looked doubtfully from Alleyn to Fox.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Captain Pascoe,” said Alleyn.

“That’s all right. You’re from Scotland Yard, aren’t you? This business over at Bossicote, what?”

“That’s it. We’re checking up everybody’s movements on the night in question — you’ll understand it has to be done.”

“Oh quite. Routine, what?”

“Exactly. Inspector Fox and Mr. Bathgate are with me.”

“Oh ya’,” said Captain Pascoe. “H’ are y’. H’ are y’. Have a drink.”

“Thank you so much, but I think we’ll get on with the job.”

“Oh. Right-ho. I suppose it’s about Valmai — Miss Seacliff — and Pilgrim, isn’t it? I’ve been followin’ the case. Damn’ funny, isn’t it? They’re all right. Spent Friday here with us. Slept here and went on to old Pilgrim’s place next day.”

“So they told us. I’m just going to ask you to check up the times. It won’t take a moment.”

“Oh, quite. Right-ho. Sit down.”

Alleyn led him through the week-end from the moment when Valmai Seacliff and Pilgrim arrived, up to the time they all sat down to dinner. Captain Pascoe said nothing to contradict the information given by the other two. Alleyn complimented him on his memory and on the crispness of his recital, which was anything but crisp. The little man expanded gratefully.

“And now,” said Alleyn, “we come to the important period between ten o’clock on Friday night and five the following morning. You are a soldier, sir, and you understand the difficulties of this sort of thing. One has to be very discreet—” Alleyn waved his hands and looked respectfully at Captain Pascoe.

“By Jove, ya’. I ’member there was a feller in my reg’ment”—the anecdote wound itself up into an impenetrable tangle—“and, by Jove, we nearly had a court martial over it.”

“Exactly. Just the sort of thing we want to avoid. So you see, if we can account, now, for every second of their time during Friday evening they will be saved a lot of unpleasantness later on. You know yourself, sir— ”

“Oh, quite. All for it. Damned unpleasant. Always flatter myself I’ve got the faculty of observing detail.”

“Yes. Now, I understand that during dinner Miss Seacliff complained of a headache?”

“No, no. Not till after dinner. Minor point, but we may’s well be accurate, Inspector.”

“Certainly, sir. Stupid of me. Was it about the time you had coffee that she first spoke of it?”

“No. Wait a bit, though. Tell you what — just to show you — what I was saying about my faculty for tabulatin’ detail— ”

“Yes.”

“I ‘member Valmai made a face over her coffee. Took a swig at it and then did a sort of shudder and m’wife said: ‘What’s up?’ or words to the same effect, and Val said the coffee was bitter, and then Pilgrim looked a bit sheepish and I said: ‘Was yours bitter?’ and he said: ‘Matter of fact it was!’ Funny — mine was all right. But my idea is that Val was feeling a bit off colour then, and he just agreed the coffee was bitter to keep her in countenance. In my opinion the girl had a liver. Pilgrim persuaded her to have a glass of port after champagne, and she said at the time it would upset her. Damn’ bad show. She’s a lovely thing. Damn’ good rider to hounds. Lovely hands. Goes as straight and as well as the best of ’em. Look at that.” He fumbled in a drawer of his writing-desk and produced a press photograph of Valmai Seacliff looking magnificent on a hunter. Captain Pascoe gloated over it, handed it to Alleyn, and flung himself back in his chair. He appeared to collect his thoughts. “But to show you how one notices little things,” he resumed. “Not till after dinner that she talked about feeling under the weather. Matter of fact, it was when I took her empty cup. Precise moment. There you are.” And he laughed triumphantly.

“Splendid, sir. I wish everyone was as clear-minded. I remember a case where the whole thing hinged on just such an incident. It was a question of who put sugar in a cup of tea, and do you think we could get anyone who remembered? Not a bit of it. It’s only one witness in a hundred who can give us that sort of thing.”

“Really? Well, I’ll lay you a tenner, Inspector, I can tell you about the coffee on Friday night. Just for the sake of argument.”

“I’m not betting, sir.”

“Ha, ha, ha. Now then. M’wife poured out our coffee at that table over there. Pilgrim handed it round for her. He put Val’s down beside her with his own, told her he’d put sugar in it, and went back to the table for mine. There you are, Inspector. Val complained her coffee was bitter. She asked Pilgrim if his tasted funny and he said it did, and—” He stopped short and his eyes bulged. “Look here,” he said, “ ’way I’m talking anybody might think this was a case of hanky-panky with the coffee. Good Lord, Inspector. Here! I say, I hope you don’t— ”

“Don’t let that bother you, sir. We’re only taking a sample case and I congratulate you. We don’t get our information as lucidly as that very often, do we, Fox?”

“Very nice, indeed, sir,” agreed Fox, wagging his head.

“And then,” said Alleyn, “I believe you played bridge?”

“Yes. That’s right. But by that time Val was looking very seedy and said her head was splitting, so after two or three hands we chucked it up and m’wife took Val up to her room.”

“Gave her some aspirin perhaps?”

“No. Pilgrim rushed off and got some aspirin for her. Anxious about her as an old hen. Engaged couples, what? Ha! She took the bottle up with her. M’wife tucked her up and went to her own room. Pilgrim said he was sleepy — I must say he’s a dreary young blighter. Not nearly good enough for Val. Said he felt like bed and a long sleep. Dull chap. So we had a whisky and soda and turned in. That was at half-past ten. I wound up the clocks, and we went and had a look at Val and found she was in bed. Very attractive creature, Val. Naughty little thing hadn’t taken the aspirin. Said it made her sick trying to swallow. So Pilgrim dissolved three in water and she promised she’d take ’em. M’wife looked in later and found her sound sleep. We were all tucked up and snoozing by eleven, I should think. And now let’s see. Following morning— ”

Captain Pascoe described the following morning with a wealth of detail to which Alleyn listened with every sign of respect and appreciation. Drinks were again suggested. “Well, if you won’t, I will,” said Captain Pascoe, and did, twice. Alleyn asked to see the bedrooms. Captain Pascoe mixed himself a third drink, and somewhat noisily escorted them over the house. The guest-rooms were at the top of the stairs.

“Val had this one, and that fellow was next door. What! Felt like a good long sleep! My God.” Here the captain laughed uproariously and pulled himself together. “Not that Val’d stand any nonsense. Thoroughly nice gal. Looks very cometoish, but b’lieve me — na poo. I know. Too much other way ’fanything. I mean, give you ninstance. Following morning took her round rose garden. Looking lovely. Little purple cap and little purple gloves. Lovely. Just in friendly spirit I said, ‘ ’ffected little thing, wearing little purple gloves,’ and gave little left-hand purple glove little squeeze. Just like that. Purely platonicalistic. Jumped as if I’d bitten her and snatched away. Pooff!”

Captain Pascoe sat on the edge of Valmai’s bed and finished his drink. He glared round the room, sucking his upper lip.

“ ’Tchah!” he said suddenly. “Look’t that. Disgraceful. Staff work in this house is abominable. M’wife’s away. Maid’s away. Only that feller to look after me. Meals at club. Nothing to do, and look at that.”

He pointed unsteadily to the mantelpiece.

“ ’Bominable. Never been touched. Look at this!”

He turned his eye on the bedside table. Upon it stood a row of books. A dirty table-napkin lay on top of the books.

Captain Pascoe snatched it up. Underneath it was a tumbler holding three fingers of murky fluid.

“D’yer know what that is? That’s been there since Friday night. I mean!” He lurched again towards the bedside table. Alleyn slipped in front of him.

“Maddening, that sort of thing. I wonder if we might see Mr. Pilgrim’s room, sir.”

“By George, well see every room in this house,” shouted Captain Pascoe. “By God, we’ll catch them red-handed.”

With this remarkable pronouncement he turned about and made for the door. Alleyn followed him, looked over his shoulder at Fox, raised his left eyebrow, and disappeared.

To Nigel’s surprise, Fox said: “Wait here, Mr. Bathgate, please,” darted out of the room and reappeared in about a minute.

“Stand by that door if you please, Mr. Bathgate,” whispered Fox. “Keep the room clear.”

Nigel stood by the door and Fox, with surprising dexterity and speed, whipped a small wide-necked bottle from his pocket, poured the contents of the tumbler into it, corked it, and wrapped the tumbler in his handkerchief.

“Now, sir. If you’ll take those down to the car and put them in the chief’s case — thank you very much. Quickly does it.”

When Nigel got back he found that Captain Pascoe, accompanied by Alleyn, had returned to the hall and was yelling for his servant. The servant arrived and was damned to heaps. Fox came down. Captain Pascoe suddenly collapsed into an arm-chair, showed signs of drowsiness, and appeared to lose all interest in his visitors. Alleyn spoke to the servant.

“We are police officers and are making a few inquiries about the affair at Bossicote. Will you show us the garage, please?”

“Very good, sir,” said the man stolidly.

“It’s nothing whatever to do with your employer, personally, by the way.”

Captain Pascoe’s servant bestowed a disappointed glance upon his master and led his visitors out by the front door.

“The garage is a step or two down the lane, sir. The house, being old and what they call restored, hasn’t many conveniences.”

“Do you keep early hours here? What time do you get up in the mornings?”

“Breakfast is not till ten, sir. The maids are supposed to get up at seven. It’s more like half-past. The Captain and Mrs. Pascoe breakfast in their rooms, you see, and so do most guests.”

“Did Mr. Pilgrim and Miss Seacliff breakfast in their rooms?”

“Oh yes, sir. There’s the garage, sir.”

He showed them a double garage about two hundred yards down the lane. Captain Pascoe’s Morris Cowley occupied less than half the floor space.

“Ah yes,” said Alleyn. “Plenty of room here. I suppose, now, that Mr. Pilgrim’s car fitted in very comfortably?”

“Oh yes, sir.”

“Nice car, isn’t it?”

“Very nice job, sir. Tiger on petrol, sir.”

“Really? What makes you think that?”

“Well, sir, I asked the gentleman on Saturday morning was she all right for petrol — I’m butler-chauffeur, sir — and he said yes, she was filled up as full as she’d go in Bossicote. Well, sir, I looked at the gauge and she’d eaten up two gallons coming over here. Twelve miles, sir, no more. I looked to see if she was leaking but she wasn’t. Something wrong there, sir, isn’t there?”

“I agree with you,” said Alleyn. “Thank you very much, I think that’s all.”

“Thank you very much indeed, sir,” said the butler-chauffeur, closing his hand gratefully.

Alleyn, Fox and Nigel returned to their car and drove away.

“Get that tumbler, Fox?” asked Alleyn.

“Yes, sir. And the liquid. Had to go down to the car for a bottle.”

“Good enough. What a bit of luck, Fox! You remember the Seacliff told us Mrs. Pascoe was leaving on Saturday and giving the maids a holiday? My golly, what a bit of luck.”

“Do you think that stuff was the melted aspirin Pilgrim doled out for her on Friday night?” asked Nigel.

“That’s my clever little man,” said Alleyn. “I do think so. And if the tumbler has Pilgrim’s prints, and only his, we’ll know.”

“Are you going to have the stuff analysed?”

“Yes. Damn’ quick about it, too, if possible.”

“And what then?”

“Why then,” said Alleyn, “we’ll be within sight of an arrest.”