Death in a White Tie

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT Alleyn Marshals the Protagonists

The assistant Commissioner’s clock struck a quarter to nine as Alleyn walked into the room.

“Hello, Rory.”

“Good evening, sir.”

“As you have no doubt observed with your trained eye, my secretary is not present. So you may come off the official rocks. Sit down and light your pipe.”

“Thank you,” said Alleyn.

“Feeling a bit shaky?”

“A bit. I shall look such an egregious ass if they don’t come up to scratch.”

“No doubt. It’s a big case, Chief Inspector.”

“Don’t I know it, sir!”

“Who comes first?”

“Sir Herbert and Lady Carrados.”

“Any of ’em arrived yet?”

“All except Dimitri. Fox has dotted them about the place. His room, mine, the waiting-room and the charge-room. As soon as Dimitri arrives, Fox’ll come and report.”

“Right. In the meantime, we’ll go over the plan of action again.”

They went over the plan of action.

“Well,” said the Assistant Commissioner, “it’s ticklish, but it may work. As I see it, everything depends on the way you handle them.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Alleyn grimly, “for those few reassuring words.”

The Assistant Commissioner’s clock struck nine. Alleyn knocked out his pipe. There was a tap on the door and Fox came in.

“We are all ready, sir,” he said.

“All right, Mr Fox. Show them in.”

Fox went out. Alleyn glanced at the two chairs under the central lamp, and then at the Assistant Commissioner sitting motionless in the green-shaded light from his desk. Alleyn himself stood before the mantelpiece.

“Stage set,” said the quiet voice beyond the green lamp. “And now the curtain rises.”

There was a brief silence, and then once more the door opened.

“Sir Herbert and Lady Carrados, sir.”

They came in. Alleyn moved forward, greeted them formally, and then introduced them to the Assistant Commissioner. Carrados’s manner as he shook hands was a remarkable mixture of the condescension of a viceroy and the fortitude of an early Christian martyr.

The Assistant Commissioner was crisp with them.

“Good evening, Lady Carrados. Good evening, Sir Herbert. In view of certain information he has received, Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn and I decided to invite you to come and see us. As the case is in Mr Alleyn’s hands, I shall leave it to him to conduct the conversation. Will you both sit down?”

They sat. The light from the overhead lamp beat down on their faces, throwing strong shadows under the eyes and cheek-bones. The two heads turned in unison to Alleyn.

Alleyn said: “Most of what I have to say is addressed to you, Sir Herbert.”

“Indeed?” said Carrados. “Well, Alleyn, as I fancy I told you yesterday afternoon, I am only too anxious to help you to clear up the wretched business. As Lord Robert’s host on that fatal night—”

“Yes, we quite realize that, sir. Your attitude encourages one to hope that you will understand, or at any rate excuse, my going over old ground, and also breaking into new. I am in a position to tell you that we have followed a very strange trail since yesterday — a trail that has led us to some remarkable conclusions.”

Carrados turned his eyes, but not his head, towards his wife. He did not speak.

“We have reason to believe,” Alleyn went on, “that the murder of Lord Robert Gospell is the outcome of blackmail. Did you speak, sir?”

“No. No! I cannot see, I fail to understand—”

“I’ll make myself clearer in a moment, I hope. Now, for reasons into which I need not go at the moment, the connection between this crime and blackmail leads us to one of two conclusions. Either Lord Robert was a blackmailer, and was killed by one of his victims, or possibly someone wishing to protect his victim—”

“What makes you say that?” asked Carrados hoarsely. “It’s impossible!”

“Impossible? Why, please?”

“Because, Lord Robert, Lord Robert was not — it’s impossible to imagine — have you any proof that he was a blackmailer?”

“The alternative is that Lord Robert had discovered the identity of the blackmailer, and was murdered before he could reveal it.”

“You say this,” said Carrados, breathlessly, “but you give no proof.”

“I ask you, sir, simply to accept my statement that rightly or wrongly we believe our case to rest on one or the other of those alternatives.”

“I don’t pretend to be a detective, Alleyn, but—”

“Just a minute, sir, if you don’t mind. I want you now to go back with me to a day nearly eighteen years ago, when you motored Lady Carrados down to a village called Falconbridge in Buckinghamshire. You were not married then.”

“I frequently motored her into the country in those days.”

“You will have no difficulty in remembering this occasion. It was the day on which Captain Paddy O’Brien met with his accident.”

Alleyn waited. He saw the sweat round Carrados’s eyes shine in the strong lamplight.

“Well?” said Carrados.

“You do remember that day?” Alleyn asked.

“But Herbert,” said Lady Carrados, “of course you do.”

“I remember, yes. But I fail to see—”

“Please, sir! I shall fire point-blank in a moment. You remember?”

“Naturally.”

“You remember that Captain O’Brien was taken first to the vicarage and from there, in an ambulance, to the hospital, where he died a few hours later?”

“Yes.”

“You remember that, after he died, your wife, as she is now, was very distressed because she believed that a certain letter which Captain O’Brien carried had been lost?”

“I have no recollection of this.”

“Let me help you. She said that he had probably carried it in his pocket, that it must have fallen out, that she was most anxious to recover it. Am I right, Lady Carrados?”

“Yes — quite right.”

Her voice was low, but perfectly steady. She was looking at Alleyn with an air of shocked bewilderment.

“Did you ask Sir Herbert if he had enquired everywhere for this missing letter?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember now, Sir Herbert?”

“I think — I remember — something. It was all very distressing. I tried to be of some use; I think I may have been of some use.”

“Did you succeed in finding the letter?”

“I — don’t think so.”

“Are you sure?”

A little runnel of sweat trickled down each side of his nose into that fine moustache.

“I am tolerably certain.”

“Do you remember sitting in your car outside the hospital while Lady Carrados was with Captain O’Brien?”

Carrados did not speak for a long time. Then he swung round in his chair, and addressed that silent figure in the green lamplight.

“I can see no possible reason for this extraordinary procedure. It is most distressing for my wife, and I may say, sir, it strikes me as being damnably offensive and outside the duties of your office.”

“I don’t think it is, Sir Herbert,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “I advise you to answer Mr Alleyn, you know.”

“I may tell you,” Carrados began, “that I am an intimate friend of your chiefs. He shall hear about this.”

“I expect so,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “Go on, Mr Alleyn.”

“Lady Carrados,” said Alleyn, “did you, in point of fact, leave Sir Herbert in the car when you went into the hospital?”

“Yes.”

“Yes. Now, Sir Herbert, while you waited there, do you remember a schoolgirl of fifteen or so coming up on her bicycle?”

“How the devil can I remember a schoolgirl on a bicycle eighteen years ago?”

“Only because she gave you the letter that we have been discussing.”

Evelyn Carrados uttered a stifled cry. She turned and looked at her husband, as though she saw him for the first time. He met her with what Alleyn thought one of the most extraordinary glances he had ever seen — accusation, abasement, even a sort of triumphant misery, were all expressed in it; it was the face of a mean martyr. “The mask of jealousy,” thought Alleyn. “There’s nothing more pitiable or more degrading. My God, if ever I—” He thrust the thought from him, and began again.

“Sir Herbert, did you take that letter from the schoolgirl on the bicycle?”

Still with a sort of smile on his mouth, Carrados turned to Alleyn.

“I have no recollection of it,” he said.

Alleyn nodded to Fox, who went out. He was away for perhaps two minutes. Nobody spoke. Lady Carrados had bent her head, and seemed to look with profound attention at her gloved hands, clasped tightly together in her lap. Carrados suddenly wiped his face with his palm, and then drew out his handkerchief. Fox came back.

He ushered in Miss Harris.

“Good evening, Miss Harris,” said Alleyn.

“Good evening, Mr Alleyn. Good evening, Lady Carrados. Good evening, Sir Herbert. Good evening,” concluded Miss Harris with a collected glance at the Assistant Commissioner.

“Miss Harris,” said Alleyn, “do you remember staying with your uncle, Mr Walter Harris, when he was vicar at Falconbridge? You were fifteen at the time I mean.”

“Yes Mr Alleyn, certainly,” said Miss Harris.

Carrados uttered some sort of oath. Lady Carrados said: “ But — what do you mean, Miss Harris?”

“Certainly, Lady Carrados,” said Miss Harris brightly.

“At that time,” said Alleyn, “there was a fatal motor accident.”

“To Captain O’Brien. Pardon me, Lady Carrados. Yes, Mr Alleyn.”

“Good Lord!” ejaculated Alleyn, involuntarily. “Do you mean to say that you have realized that—”

“I knew Captain ‘Paddy’ O’Brien was Lady Carrados’s first husband, naturally.”

“But,” said Alleyn, “did you never think of telling Lady Carrados that there was this, well, this link, between you?”

“Oh, no,” said Miss Harris, “naturally not, Mr Alleyn. It would not have been at all my place to bring it up. When I was given the list of vacant posts at the Friendly Cousins Registry Office I thought this seemed the most suitable, and I — please excuse me, Lady Carrados — I made enquiries, as one does, you know. And I said to my friend Miss Smith: ‘What an extraordinary coincidence,’ because when I learned of Lady Carrados’s former name I realized it must be the same, and I said to Smithy: ‘I think that must be an omen,’ so I applied for the post.”

“I see,” said Alleyn, “and do you remember Sir Herbert, too?”

“Oh, yes. At least, I wasn’t quite sure at first, but afterwards I was. Sir Herbert was the gentleman in the car. Perhaps I should explain?”

“Please do.”

“I had actually spoken to him.” She looked apologetically at Carrados. “I’m quite sure Sir Herbert has quite forgotten, because I was just a gawky schoolgirl at the time.”

“That will do, Miss Harris,” said Carrados violently. “You will please not answer any further questions.”

Miss Harris looked extremely startled, turned bright pink, and opened her eyes very wide indeed. She closed her lips in a prudent button.

“Go on, Miss Harris,” said Alleyn.

“Which do you wish me to do, Lady Carrados?” asked her secretary.

“I think you had better go on,” said the faint voice.

“Very well, Lady Carrados. You see, I had the pleasure of returning a letter that had been left behind at the vicarage.”

“That is an absolute lie,” said Carrados, loudly.

“Pardon me,” said Miss Harris, “but I cannot let that pass. I am speaking the truth.”

“Thank you, Miss Harris,” said Alleyn quickly. “Would you mind waiting outside for a moment? Fox.”

Fox shepherded her out.

“By God!” began Carrados. “If you take the word of a—”

“Wait a moment,” said Alleyn, “I think I shall go on with my story. Our case, Sir Herbert, is that you did, in fact, take this letter, and for some reason never gave it to the lady who afterwards married you. Our case is that, having read the letter, you kept it for eighteen years, in the drawer of a miniature writing-desk in your study.”

“I protest. I absolutely deny—”

“You deny this, too?”

“It is outrageous! I tell you this, sir, if I have any influence—”

“Just a moment,” said Alleyn, “Lady Carrados is speaking.”

The focus of attention shifted to the woman. She sat there as if she attended a meeting of some society in which she was interested. Her furs, her expensive, unnoticeable clothes, her gloves, her discreet make-up, might have been taken as symbols of controlled good breeding. It was the fierce rigidity of her figure that gave expression to her emotion. Her voice scarcely wavered. Alleyn realized that she was oblivious to her surroundings, and to the presence of other people in the room, and that seemed to him to be the most significant indication of her distress. She spoke directly to her husband.

“You knew! All these years you have watched me, and known how much I suffered. Why did you hide the letter? Why did you marry me, knowing my past history? It seems to me you must be mad. I understand now why you have watched me, why, since this awful business, you have never taken your eyes off me. You knew. You knew I was being blackmailed.” She caught her breath, and moved round stiffly until she faced her husband. “You’ve done it,” she whispered. “It’s you. You’re mad, and you’ve done it to torture me. You’ve always been jealous of Paddy. Ever since I told you it could never be the same with anyone else. You were jealous of dead Paddy.”

“Evelyn,” said Alleyn gently. She made a slight impatient gesture, but she spoke only to Carrados.

“You wrote those letters. It’s you.”

Carrados stared at her like an idiot. His mouth was open. His eyebrows were raised in a sort of imbecile astonishment. He shook his head from side to side.

“No,” he said. “No, Evelyn, no.”

“Make him tell you, Roderick,” she said, without turning her head.

“Sir Herbert,” said Alleyn. “Do you deny you kept this letter in the secret drawer of that desk?”

“Yes.”

Fox glanced at Alleyn, went out, and returned, after another deadly silence, with Bridget.

Lady Carrados gave a little moaning cry, and caught at her daughter’s hand.

“Miss O’Brien,” said Alleyn, “I’ve asked you to come here in order that the Assistant Commissioner may hear of an incident you related to me yesterday. You told me that on one occasion, when you were alone in the study of your stepfather’s house, you examined the miniature writing-cabinet in that room. You told me that when you pressed a tiny screw a triangular drawer opened out of the cabinet, and that there was a letter in it. Is this true?”

“Donna?” Bridget looked anxiously at her mother.

“Yes, yes, darling. Tell them. Whatever it is, tell them.”

“It’s quite true,” said Bridget.

“Your stepfather came into the study at this juncture?”

“Yes.”

“What was his attitude when he saw what you had done?”

“He was very angry indeed.”

“What did he do?”

“He twisted my arm, and bruised it.”

“A lie. The child has always hated me. Everything I have tried to do for her — a lie, a wicked spiteful lie!”

“Fox,” said Alleyn, “will you ask Sir Daniel to come in?”

Sir Daniel had evidently been sitting in the secretary’s office, as he came in almost immediately. When he saw the two Carradoses and Bridget, he greeted them exactly as if they were fellow guests at a party. He then shook hands with the Assistant Commissioner, and turned to Alleyn.

“Sir Daniel,” said Alleyn. “I’ve asked you to come in as I understand you were witness to a scene which Miss O’Brien has just described to us. It took place about two years ago. Do you remember that Miss O’Brien rang you up and asked you to come and see her mother who was unwell?”

“That has happened more than once,” said Davidson.

“On this particular visit you went into the study and talked to Miss O’Brien about a small French writing-cabinet.”

Davidson moved his eyebrows.

“Oh, yes?”

“Do you remember it?”

“I do. Very well.”

“You told her that there was probably a secret drawer in the box. Then you went upstairs to see Lady Carrados.”

“Yes. That’s how it was, I think.”

“When you returned, were Miss O’Brien and Sir Herbert together in the study?”

“Yes,” said Davidson, and set his lips in an extremely firm line.

“Will you describe the scene that followed?”

“I am afraid not, Mr Alleyn.”

“Why not?”

“Let us say, for reasons of professional etiquette.”

Lady Carrados said: “Sir Daniel, if you are thinking of me, I implore you to tell them what they want to know. I want the truth as much as anyone here. If I don’t know the truth now, I shall go to pieces.”

Davidson looked at her in astonishment.

“You want me to tell them about that afternoon?”

“Yes, yes, I do.”

“And you, Carrados?” Davidson stared at Carrados, as if he were a sort of curiosity.

“Davidson, I implore you to keep your head. I am sure you saw nothing that could be construed — that could be regarded as evidence — that — Davidson, you know me. You know that I’m not a vindictive man. You know.”

“Come,” said Alleyn, “we can cut this short. Sir Daniel, did you examine Miss O’Brien’s arm when you returned to the study?”

“I did,” said Davidson, turning his back on Carrados.

“What did you find?”

“A certain amount of contusion, for which I prescribed a lotion.”

“To what cause did you attribute these bruises?”

“They suggested that the arm had been tightly held, and twisted.”

“What were the relative positions of Sir Herbert and his stepdaughter when you came into the study?”

“He held her by the arm.”

“Would it be correct to say he was storming at her?”

Davidson looked thoughtfully at Bridget. They exchanged half-smiles. “He was shouting a good deal, certainly,” said Davidson dryly.

“Did you notice the writing-desk?”

“I don’t think I noticed it the second time I went into the room. I realized that Sir Herbert Carrados was talking about it when I came in.”

“Yes. Thank you, Sir Daniel. Will you and Miss O’Brien wait outside? We’ll see Mr Dimitri, if you please, Fox.”

Davidson and Bridget both went out. Dimitri was ushered in by Fox. He was very sleek, with a clean bandage round his cut finger, oil on his hair, scent on his person. He looked out of the corners of his eyes, and bowed extensively.

“Good evening, my lady. Good evening, gentlemen.”

“Mr Dimitri,” Alleyn began, “I have—”

“Stop.”

Carrados had got to his feet. He stood with his hand raised before his face in a curious gesture, half-defensive, half-declamatory. Then he slowly extended his arm, and pointed to Dimitri. The action was both ridiculous and alarming.

“What’s the matter, Sir Herbert?” asked Alleyn.

“What’s he doing here? My God, now I know — I know—”

“Well, Sir Herbert? What do you know?”

“Stop! I’ll tell you. I did it! I did it! I confess. I confess everything. I did it!”