Death In Ecstasy

CHAPTER XIV Nigel Takes Stock

Grand old, girl, that,” said Nigel from his armchair.

“Wasn’t she?” agreed Alleyn. “That doorkeeper in the house of the ungodly will have to be seen.”

“To check up on her visit?”

“Just that.”

“Look here,” said Nigel, “how did you know?”

“Never mind. Keep quiet. Now I’ll have to see the rest of the staff.”

The rest of the staff proved to be unproductive of much intelligence. Two housemaids, a parlourmaid, a chauffeur and a cook, who all seemed excited and perturbed as if they had one eye on the tragedy and the other on losing their jobs. The parlourmaid, outwardly a frigid woman, obviously regarded the affair as a personal affront and seemed at the same time to be in a semi-explosive condition. The upper-housemaid was excited, the under-housemaid was incoherent. The cook wept, but absent-mindedly and rather as though she felt it incumbent on her as a fat, comfortable woman to do so. They bore out Nannie’s statements as regards their movements on the preceding day. The chauffeur repeated his previous statement that he had driven Miss Quayne to the church at two-thirty and had brought her home at five to three. He had certainly thought she seemed most upset when she came out of the church. “Kind of flabbergasted,” was the way he’d describe it. She was very pale and, he thought, out of breath. He had got tired of sitting in the car and had walked up the side entry to the double doors. Miss Quayne had left one door open and he looked into the hall. He saw her come out of the door by the altar. He thought she said something and supposed she was speaking to Father Garnette. One or two people had gone into the church while he waited. Alleyn asked the parlourmaid, who had been with Miss Quayne since she took the house, how many of the Initiates were regular visitors. He gave her a list of their names which she held in genteel fashion with her little finger crooked.

“Most of these neemes are familiar,” she said.

“Have all of them visited Miss Quayne?”

“Yes.”

“Some more frequently than others?”

“Quayte,” said the parlourmaid, whose name was Wilson.

“Which were the most regular visitors?”

“Mr. Ravinje,” it appeared, Mr. Ogden and Mrs. Candour.

“Mrs. Candour? When was she last here?”

“I could ascertain,” said Wilson, “from the appointment book.”

“Please let me see it.”

Wilson produced the appointment book. It was a diary, and Alleyn spent some minutes over it.

“I notice,” he said at last, “that Mrs. Candour was quite a regular visitor until some three weeks ago. She seems to have lunched or dined pretty well every week. Then her name does not appear again.” He raised an eyebrow at Wilson. “Any reason for that, do you know?”

“There was words,” said Wilson.

“What about?”

“A certain party.”

“Oh. What party? Or don’t you know?”

Wilson drew down the corners of her mouth.

“Come on, Wilson,” said Alleyn. “Let’s know the worst.”

“Well, reelly, I never am in the habit of repeating the drawing-room in the kitchen,” said Wilson.

“This isn’t the kitchen and it may be important. Did Mrs. Candour and Miss Quayne have words about Mr. Garnette?”

“Yes, sir,” said Wilson who seemed to have weighed Alleyn in the balance and found him quality.

“Tell me about it, Wilson. You’ll be speaking in the cause of justice, you know. Think of that and expand. Did this row take place at lunch on Wednesday, November 14th, the last time Mrs. Candour was here?”

“Yes, sir. Or rather it was after lunch. Over the coffee in here.”

“You brought the coffee in?”

“Yes. Voices was raised and I heard words as the ladies came out of the diningroom. I was coming into the hall with the tray and I didn’t hardly know what to do.”

“Very awkward for you. What were they saying?”

Wilson suddenly cast off all parlourmaidenly restraint and launched herself into a verbatim account.

“Mrs. Candour said to Miss Quayne: ‘You know what I mean, quite well,’ sh’ said, ‘I’ve been watching you,’ sh’ said, ‘and I was disgusted,’ sh’ said. That was when they came out of the diningroom and they never noticed me standing there they was so carried away. And Miss Quayne looked at her and she said: ‘I hope I don’t understand you, Dagmar,’ sh’ said. And the way she said it! ‘I hope I don’t understand you, Dagmar,’ sh’ said, ‘because I can’t believe you would let your soul come down to such an earth-plane,’ sh’ said, ‘as to think of Father Garnette and me in such a way,’ sh’ said. And Mrs. Candour laughed and she said: ‘Earth-plane!’ sh’ said. ‘If you’re not revelling on the earth-plane at this very moment I’d like to know who is? Don’t pretend, Cara,’ sh’ said. Then they went into the drawing-room and I waited and I didn’t like to go in and they never shut the door and Miss Quayne said very loud: ‘It’s pathetically clear,’ sh’ said, ‘what’s the matter with you. You’re devoured by jealousy.’ Mrs. Candour gave a kind of — well, a kind of screech, sir, but Miss Quayne said, sh’ said: ‘Because Father Garnette has chosen me to discover the hidden mysteries of the spirit and the body,’ sh’ said — or something like that it was, and then Mrs. Candour laughed. And the way she laughed! Well! And she said: ‘Cara,’ sh’ said, ‘don’t think you can take me in,’ sh’ said, ‘because I know.’ And she said: ‘I promise you, I’m not going to stand aside and see it,’ sh’ said. And then I was that upset I kind of quivered if you understand me, sir, and. the cups rattled and Miss Quayne said: ‘S’ssh!’ sh’ said, ‘Wilson,’ sh’ said. So I walked in.”

“Extraordinarily dramatic!” exclaimed Alleyn. “A princely entrance. And did they drink their coffee?”

“Their hands shook that much they could hardly pour it out, sir.”

“And you withdrew?”

“Yes, sir, and closed the door,” said Wilson, righteous but regretful. A moment later she followed her own example and Alleyn and Nigel were left alone.

“Could you possibly keep up with all that?” asked Alleyn.

“I may have left out an occasional ‘sh’ said.’ Otherwise it’s all here. Do you think Mrs. Candour really talked like that?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised. She’s a very common woman. She’s a liar, what’s more. She said she’d only been twice to this house.”

“I wonder if she’s a murderess,” said Nigel.

‘Too stupid, I’d have thought,“ said Alleyn, ”but you never know. There’s a certain kind of low cunning that comes out very strong on occasion. I wish I had it. I’m scared to death I’ll make a fool of myself over this case. The boss-man is very excited about it. It ought to be easy — it’s so startling. Startling cases are generally easy. The difficult cases are the ones when one drunk heaves a brick at another drunk and leaves him lying in the road. Once they go in for fancy touches it’s usually kindergarten stuff. And this is so very fancy, so very extra, so specially Susie. Like to make one of your analyses, Bathgate?”

“What do you mean? My analyses?”

“On paper. All the people and their motives and opportunities with neat little sub-headings. Like a balance-sheet.”

“Do you really want me to?”

“Yes, if you will. I shall be able to cast a superior eye over it and then shatter it with a few facetiae. It will restore my self-respect. No, do make it. You will look at the show from a different point of view. It may easily suggest something. It will be a help. Really.”

“I shall be delighted,” said Nigel and set to work.

Alleyn returned to Cara Quayne’s desk and carried on with the job of sorting her papers. There was a long silence broken only by the rustling of paper, the snap and crackle of the fire, and the sound of Nigel’s pen. Presently he looked up and said:

“There. Finished.”

“Let me see,” said Alleyn.

With a smug but slightly anxious air, Nigel laid his paper before the inspector. This is what he had written:

“Have you ever seen one?” asked Alleyn.

“No. That didn’t prevent me from being reminded of one.”

Alleyn read on:

Here Nigel’s summary stopped abruptly. He had added a few words and scored them out.

“Excellent,” said Alleyn.

“It says nothing new, I’m afraid.”

“No, but it raises several disputable points, which is always helpful. By the way, the analyst rang up just before you came. He has found sodium cyanide in the cigarette-paper, but of course the autopsy will take some time yet.”

“Then the Curiosities of Chemistry is an important clue.”

“I don’t know,” said Alleyn slowly, “but I rather fancy it’s not important in quite the way you fancy.”

“Whatever does that mean?”

“There were no prints on that book. Bailey has tried all the stock dodges of dactylography.”

“What may that be? Oh, wait a bit. Dactyl. Why not say ‘fingerprintery’?”

“As you please. He’s dabbed nitrate of silver solution on it and developed the pages. Nothing there. It’s a glossy paper, so someone must have dealt with the book. If Garnette got his big idea from it he must have wiped his fingerprints off and put it where he knew we would find it. A curious combination of forethought and stupidity, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but still — Oh, I don’t know. Go on with Garnette.”

“You note that Garnette was probably the only completely self-possessed person present. A very good point to make. Should you say this crime looks more like the work of a calculating, shrewd, unscrupulous individual, or a hysterical monomaniac with a streak of cunning?”

“The latter, I suppose,” said Nigel slowly, “which Garnette is not. All the same, he might have meant us to think that.”

“Ah,” said Alleyn, “that’s very subtle, Bathgate.”

“Garnette strikes me as being subtlish,” said Nigel. “What do you think about Garnette and Ogden being old partners in infamy?”

“Not a great deal. As I said last night, I think Garnette told the truth when he was tight. If you remember he advanced the colourful suggestion that Ogden looks upon him as the sand-fly’s garters. I’m not well up in Americanese, but I had the distinct impression that Mr. Garnette regards Mr. Ogden as fair and easy game.”

“Look here,” said Nigel suddenly, “let’s pretend it’s a detective novel. Where would we be by this time? About halfway through, I should think. Well, who’s your pick.”

“I am invariably gulled by detective novels. No herring so red but I raise my voice and give chase.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Nigel.

“Fact. You see in real detection herrings are so often out of season.”

“Well, never mind, who’s your pick?”

“It depends on the author. If it’s Agatha Christie, Miss Wade’s occulted guilt drips from every page. Dorothy Sayers’s Lord Peter would plump for Pringle, I fancy. Inspector French would go for Ogden. Of course Ogden, on the face of it, is the first suspect.”

“What are you saying! Ogden! Then you do think he’s a bad hat.”

“No! No! He seems a perfectly good hat. I merely say that for immediate circumstances — the actual situation at the time of the murder — point to Ogden.”

“Why?”

“My dear Bathgate, this is a sad falling-off. Think of his position.”

“I’m damned if I know what you are driving at. His position seems to be very comfortable. He’s a rich business man.”

Alleyn cast his eyes up but said nothing.

“Don’t make that maddening grimace, Alleyn. What are you getting at? Do you or do you not suspect Mr. Ogden?”

“I suspect the whole lot of them. Apart from the one point I have noted I don’t think he’s any likelier than the others.”

“Surely he’s likelier than Janey Jenkins and Miss Wade.”

There was a tap at the door and Inspector Fox came in.

“Another report from Bailey, sir,” he said. “Good morning, Mr. Bathgate.”

“What’s Bailey say?” asked Alleyn.

“Nothing new. He’s got to work properly on the prints. Very smart chap, Bailey. He’s found Father Garnette’s prints on the parcel of newspaper, and he thinks there’s a trace of them on the top of the poison book. Nothing on the cyanide page, as you know. Miss Quayne’s on the page torn out of the notebook.”

“When did he get a pattern to compare them with?” asked Nigel.

“That would be from the body, sir.”

“Oh, of course.”

“There’s another print come out of the book,” Fox continued, “and he hasn’t been able to trace it. He’d like to get impressions from the rest of them.”

“He shall have them,” said Alleyn, “this afternoon. When’s the inquest? Tomorrow at eleven?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Well, we’d better call it a day here.”

“Have you found anything?” Nigel asked. “Any clues?”

“Nothing spectacular. De Ravigne’s love letters. A smug and guarded epistle from the Garnette.”

“May I see M. de Ravigne’s letters, sir?” asked Fox.

“There you are. The one on the top’s the most interesting.”

Fox seated himself at the table, adjusted a large pair of spectacles and spread out the first of the letters. Nigel strolled up behind him.

“What are you up to?” inquired Alleyn.

“Nothing,” said Nigel, reading frantically at long range.

M. de Ravigne wrote a large flowing hand. It was dated Friday of last week.

“And she didn’t,” said Nigel.