Spinsters in Jeopardy

Chapter XI P. E. Garbel

i

Raoul slowed down at a point above the entrance to the tunnel.

“Where should we leave the car, Monsieur?”

“There’s a recess off the road, on the far side, near the tunnel and well under the lee of the hill. Pull in there.”

The silhouette of the Chèvre d’Argent showed black above the hills against a clearing but still stormy sky. A wind had risen and cloud-rack scurried across a brilliant display of stars.

“Gothic in spirit,” Alleyn muttered, “if not in design.”

The road turned the headland. Raoul dropped to a crawl and switched off his lights. Alleyn used a pocket torch. When they came down to the level of the tunnel exit he got out and guided Raoul into a recess hard by the stone facing.

Raoul dragged out a marketing basket from which the intermingled smells of cabbage, garlic and flowers rose incongruously on the rain-sweetened air.

“Have you hidden the cloaks underneath?” Alleyn asked him.

“Yes, Monsieur. It was an excellent notion. It is not unusual for me to present myself with such gear. The aunt of Teresa is a market-gardener.”

“Good. We’ll smell like two helpings of a particularly exotic soup.”

“Monsieur?”

“No matter. Now, Raoul, to make certain we understand each other will you repeat the instructions?”

“Very well, Monsieur. We go together to the servants’ entrance. If, by mischance, we encounter anybody on the way who recognizes Monsieur, Monsieur will at once say he has come to enquire for the sick Mademoiselle. I will continue on and will wait for Monsieur at the servants’ entrance. If Monsieur, on arriving there, is recognized by one of the servants who may not yet have left, he will say he has been waiting for me and is angry. He will say he wishes to speak to Teresa about the stealing of Riki. If, on the other hand, all goes well and we reach the servants’ quarters together and unchallenged, we go at once to Teresa’s room. Monsieur is seen but not recognized, he is introduced as the intellectual cousin of Teresa who has been to England, working in a bank, and has greatly improved his social status, and again we retire quickly to Teresa’s room before the Egyptian valet or the butler can encounter Monsieur. In either case, Teresa is to give a message saying it has come by a peasant on a bicycle. It is to say that Mr. Herrington’s car has broken down but that Miss Taylor and he will arrive in time for the party. Finally, if Monsieur does not come at all, I wait an hour then go to seek for him.”

“And if something we have not in the least anticipated turns up?”

Raoul laughed softly in the dark: “One must then use one’s wits, Monsieur.”

“Good, shall we start?”

They walked together up the steep incline to the platform.

A goods train came puffing up from Douceville. The glow from the engine slid across the lower walls and bastions of the Chèvre d’Argent. Behind the silk blind a dim light burned: a much fainter light than the one they had seen from the window of their own train. Higher up, at odd intervals in that vast façade, other windows glowed or flickered where candles had been placed or were carried from one room to another.

The train tooted and clanked into the tunnel.

It was quite cold on the platform. A mountain breeze cut across it and lent credibility to the turned-up collar of Alleyn’s raincoat and the scarf across his mouth. The passage was almost pitch dark but they thought it better not to use a torch. They slipped and stumbled on wet and uneven steps. The glow from old Marie’s door was a guide. As they passed by she shouted from behind the oil-lamp: “Hola, there! Is it still raining?”

Raoul said quietly: “The stars are out. Good night, Marie,” and they hurried into the shadows. They heard her shouting jovially after them: “Give her something to keep out the cold.”

“She speaks of Teresa,” Raoul whispered primly. “There is a hint of vulgarity in Marie.”

Alleyn stifled a laugh. They groped their way round a bend in the passage, brushing their hands against damp stone. Presently an elegant design of interlaced rosettes appeared against a background of reflected warmth. It was the wrought-iron gate of the Chèvre d’Argent.

“As quick as we dare,” Alleyn whispered.

The passage glinted wet before the doorway. The soles of his shoes were like glass. He poised himself and moved lightly forward. As he entered the patch of light he heard a slither and an oath. Raoul hurtled against him, throwing him off his balance. He clung to the gate while Raoul, in a wild attempt to recover himself, clutched at the nearest object.

It was the iron bell-pull.

The bell gave tongue with a violence that was refracted intolerably by the stone walls.

Three cabbages rolled down the steps. Raoul by some desperate effort still clung to the basket with one hand and to the bell-pull with the other.

“Monsieur! Monsieur!” he stammered.

“Go on,” Alleyn said. “Go on!”

Raoul let go the bell-pull and a single note fell inconsequently across the still-echoing clangour. He plunged forward and was lost in shadow.

Alleyn turned to face the door.

“Why, if it’s not Mr. Alleyn!” said Mr. Oberon.

ii

He stood on the far side of the door with his back to a lighted candelabrum that had been set down on a chest in the entry. Little could be seen of him but his shape, enveloped in his white gown with the hood drawn over his head. He moved towards the door and his hands emerged and grasped two of the iron bars.

Alleyn said: “I’m afraid we made an appalling din. My chauffeur slipped and grabbed your bell-pull.”

“Your chauffeur?”

“He’s taken himself off. I fancy he knows one of your maids. He had some message for her, it seems.”

Mr. Oberon said, as if to explain his presence at the door “I am waiting for someone. Have you seen—” He paused and shifted his hands on the bars. His voice sounded out of focus. “Perhaps you met Ginny. Ginny Taylor? And Robin Herrington? We are a little anxious about them.”

“No,” Alleyn said. “I didn’t see them. I came to ask about Miss Truebody.”

Mr. Oberon didn’t move. Alleyn peered at him. “How is she?” he asked.

Mr. Oberon said abruptly: “Our telephone has been out of order since yesterday afternoon. Do forgive me. I am a little anxious, you know.”

“How is Miss Truebody?”

“Alas, she is dead,” said Mr. Oberon.

They faced each other like actors in some medieval prison scene. The shadow of twisted iron was thrown across Alleyn’s face and chest.

“Perhaps,” Alleyn said, “I may come in for a moment.”

“But, of course. How dreadful of me! We are all so distressed. Mahomet!”

Evidently the Egyptian servant had been waiting in the main hall. He unlocked the door, opened and stood aside. When Alleyn had come in he relocked the door.

With the air of having arrived at a decision, Mr. Oberon led the way into the great hall. Mahomet came behind them bringing the candelabrum, which he set down on a distant table. In that vast interior it served rather to emphasize the dark than relieve it.

“Monsieur,” said Mahomet in French, “may I speak?”

“Well?”

“There is a message brought by a peasant from Mr. Herrington. He has had trouble with his auto. He is getting a taxi. He and Mlle. Taylor will arrive in time for the ceremony.”

“Ah!” It was a long-drawn out sigh. “Who took the message?”

“The girl Teresa, who was on her way to catch the omnibus. The peasant would not wait so the girl returned with the message. Miss Taylor also sent a message. It was that Monsieur must not trouble himself. She will not fail the ceremony. She will go immediately to her room.”

“Is all prepared?”

“All is prepared, Monsieur.”

Mr. Oberon raised his hand in dismissal. Mahomet moved away into the shadows. Alleyn listened for the rattle of curtain rings but there was no other sound than that of Mr. Oberon’s uneven breathing. “Forgive me again,” he said, coming closer to Alleyn. “As you heard it was news of our young people.”

“I’m afraid my French is too rudimentary for anything but the most childish phrases.”

“Indeed? It appears they have had a breakdown but all is now well.”

Alleyn said: “When did Miss Truebody die?”

“Ah, yes. We are so sorry. Yesterday afternoon. We tried to get you at the hotel, of course, but were told that you had gone to St. Céleste for a few days.”

“We changed our plans,” Alleyn said. “May I speak to Dr. Baradi?”

“To Ali? I am not sure — I will enquire — Mahomet!”

“Monsieur?” said a voice in the shadows.

“Tell your master that the English visitor is here. Tell him the visitor knows that his compatriot has left us.”

“Monsieur.”

The curtain rings jangled together.

“He will see if our friend is at home.”

“I feel,” Alleyn said, “that I should do everything that can be done. In a way she is our responsibility.”

“That is quite wonderful of you, Mr. Allen,” said Mr. Oberon, who seemed to have made a return to his normal form. “But I already sensed in you a rare and beautiful spirit. Still, you need not distress yourself. We felt it our privilege to speed this soul to its new life. The interment is tomorrow at three o’clock. Anglican. I shall, however, conduct a little valedictory ceremony here.”

The curtain rings clashed again. Alleyn saw a large whiteness move towards them.

“Mr. Allen?” said Baradi, looming up on the far side of the candelabrum. He wore a white robe and his face was a blackness within the hood. “I am so glad you’ve come. We were puzzled what to do when we heard you had gone to St. Celeste.”

“Fortunately there was no occasion. We ran Ricky to earth, I’m glad to say.”

They both made enthusiastic noises. They were rejoiced. An atrocious affair. Where had he been found?

“In the chemical factory, of all places,” Alleyn said. “The police think the kidnappers must have got cold feet and dumped him there.” He allowed their ejaculations a decent margin and then said: “About poor Miss Truebody—”

“Yes, about her,” Baradi began crisply. “I’m sorry it happened as it did. I can assure you that it would have made no difference if there had been a hospital with an entire corps of trained nurses and surgeons. And certainly, may I add, she could not have had a more efficient anaesthetist. But, as you know, peritonitis was greatly advanced. Her condition steadily deteriorated. The heart, by the way, was not in good trim. Valvular trouble. She died at 4:28 yesterday afternoon without recovering consciousness. We found her address in her passport. I have made a report which I shall send to the suitable authorities in the Bermudas. Her effects, of course, will be returned to her home there. I understand there are no near relatives. I have completed the necessary formalities here. I should have preferred, under the circumstances, to have asked a brother medico to look at her, but it appears they are all in conclave at St. Christophe.”

“I expect I should write to — well, to somebody.”

“By all means. Enclose a letter with my report. The authorities in the Bermudas will see that it reaches the lawyer or whoever is in charge of her affairs.”

“I think perhaps — one has a feeling of responsibility — I think perhaps I should see her.”

There was an infinitesimal pause.

“Of course,” Baradi said. “If you wish, of course, I must warn you that the climatic conditions and those of her illness and death have considerably accelerated the usual postmortem changes.”

“We have done what we could,” Mr. Oberon said. “Tuberoses and orchids.”

“How very kind. If it’s not troubling you too much.”

There was a further slight pause. Baradi said: “Of course,” again and clapped his hands. “No electricity,” he explained. “So provoking.” The servant reappeared, carrying a single candle. Baradi spoke.to him in their own language and took the candle from him. “I’ll go with you,” he said. “We have moved her into a room outside the main part of the Château. It is quite suitable and cooler.”

With this grisly little announcement he led Alleyn down the now familiar corridor past the operating room and into a much narrower side-passage that ended in a flight of descending steps and a door. This, in turn, opened on a further reach of the outside passageway. The night air smelled freshly after the incense-tainted house. They turned left and walked a short distance down the uneven steps. Alleyn thought that they could not be far from the servants’ entrance.

Baradi stopped at a deeply recessed doorway and asked Alleyn to hold the candle. Alleyn produced his torch and switched it on. It shone into Baradi's face.

“Ah!” he said blinking, “that will be better. Thank you.” He set down the candle. It flickered and guttered in the draught. He thrust his hand under his gown and produced a heavily furnished key-ring that might have hung from the girdle of a medieval gaoler. Alleyn turned his light on it and Baradi selected a great key with a wrought-iron loop. He stopped to fit it in a key-hole placed low in the door. His wide sleeves drooped from his arms, his hood fell over his face, and his shadow, grotesque and distorted, sprawled down the steps beyond him.

“If you would lend me your torch,” he said. “It is a little awkward, this lock."

Alleyn gave him his torch. The shadow darted across the passage and reared itself up the opposite wall. After some fumbling, the key was engaged and noisily turned. Baradi shoved at the door and with a grind of its hinges it opened suddenly inwards and he fell forward with it, dropping the torch, nose first, on the stone threshold. There was a tinkle of glass and they were left with with the guttering candle.

“Ah, sacré nom d’un chien!” Baradi ejaculated. “My dear Mr. Allen, what have I done!”

Alleyn said: “Be careful of the broken glass.”

“I am wearing sandals. But how careless! I am so sorry.”

“Never mind. The passage seems to be unlucky for us this evening. Let’s hope there’s not a third mishap. Don’t give it another thought. Shall we go in?” Alleyn laid down his walking-stick and took up the candle and the broken torch. They went in, Baradi shutting the door with a heave and a weighty slam.

It seemed to be a small room with whitewashed stone walls and a shuttered window. Candlelight wavered over a bank of flowers. A coffin stood in the middle on trestles. The mingled odours of death and tuberoses were horrible.

“I hope you are not over-sensitive,” Baradi said. “We have done our best. Mr. Oberon was most particular, but — well — as you see—”

Alleyn saw. The lid of the coffin had been left far enough withdrawn to expose the head of its inhabitant, which was literally bedded in orchids. A white veil of coarse net lay over the face, but it did little to soften the inexorable indignities of death.

“The teeth,” said Baradi, “make a difference, don’t they?”

Looking at them Alleyn was reminded of Teresa’s generality to the effect that all English spinsters have teeth like mares. This lonely spinster’s dentist had evidently subscribed to Teresa’s opinion and Alleyn saw the other stigmata of her kind: the small mole, the lines and pouches, the pathetic tufts of grey hair from which the skin had receded.

He backed away. “I thought it better to see her,” he said, and his voice was constrained and thin. “In case there should be any question of identification.”

“Much better. Are you all right? For the layman it is not a pleasant experience.”

Alleyn said: “I find it quite appalling. Shall we go? I’m afraid I—” His voice faded. He turned away with a violent movement and at the same time jerked his handkerchief. It flapped across the candle flame and extinguished it.

In the malodorous dark Baradi cursed unintelligibly. Alleyn gabbled: “The door, for God’s sake, where is the door? I’m going to be sick.” He lurched against Baradi and sent him staggering to the far end of the room. He drop-kicked the candlestick in the opposite direction. His hands were on the coffin. His left hand discovered the edge of the lid, slid under it, explored a soft material, a tight band and the surface beneath. His fingers, inquisitive and thrusting, found what they sought.

“I can’t stand this!” he choked out. “The door!”

Baradi was now swearing in French. “Idiot!” he was saying. “Maladroit, imbécile!”

Alleyn made retching noises. He found his way unerringly to the door and dragged it open. A pale lessening of the dark was admitted. He staggered out into the passage-way and rested against the stone wall. Baradi came after him and dragged the door shut. Alleyn heard him turn the key in the lock.

“That was not an amusing interlude,” Baradi said. “I warned you it would not be pleasant.”

Alleyn had his handkerchief pressed to his mouth. He said indistinctly: “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize — I’ll be all right.”

“Of course you will,” Baradi snapped at him. “So shall I when my bruises wear off.”

“Please don’t let me keep you. Fresh air. I’ll go back to the car. Thank you: I’m sorry.”

Apparently Baradi had regained his temper. He said: “It is undoubtedly the best thing you can do. I recommend a hot bath, a stiff drink, two aspirins and bed. If you’re sure you’re all right and can find your way back—”

“Yes, yes. It’s passing off.”

“Then if you will excuse me. I am already late. Good night, Mr. Alleyn.”

Alleyn, over his handkerchief, watched Baradi return up the steps, open the side-door and disappear into the house. He waited for some minutes, accustoming his eyes to the night.

“Somehow,” he thought, “I must get a wash,” and he wiped his left hand vigorously on his handkerchief which he then threw into the shadows.

But he did not wipe away the memory of a not very large cavity under the left breast of a sprigged locknit nightgown.

iii

He had been right about the nearness of the servants’ entrance. The stone passage-way dipped, turned and came to an end by a sort of open pent-house. Alleyn had to grope his way down steps, but the non-darkness that is starlight had filtered into the purlieus of the Chèvre d’Argent and glistened faintly on ledges and wet stone. He paused for a moment and looked back and upwards. The great mass of stone and rock made a black hole in the spangled heavens. The passage-way had emerged from beneath a bridge-like extension of the house. This linked the seaward portion with what he imagined must be the original fortress, deep inside the cliff-face. Alleyn moved into an inky-dark recess. A light had appeared on the bridge.

It was carried by the Egyptian servant, who appeared to have something else, possibly a tray, in his hand. He was followed by Baradi. Unmistakably it was Baradi. The servant turned and his torchlight flickered across the dark face. The doctor no longer wore his robe. Something that looked like a smooth cord hung round his neck. They moved on and were lost inside the house. Alleyn gave a little grunt of satisfaction and continued on his way.

A lantern with a stub of candle in it hung by a half-open door and threw a yellow pool on the flat surface beneath.

“Monsieur?” a voice whispered.

“Raoul?”

“Oui, Monsieur. Tout va bien. Allons.”

Raoul slid out of the penthouse. Alleyn’s wrist was grasped. He moved into the pool of light. Raoul pushed the door open with his foot. They entered a stone corridor, passed two closed doors and turned right. Raoul tapped with his finger-tips on a third door. Teresa opened it and admitted them.

It was a small neat bedroom, smelling a little fusty. One of old Marie’s Madonnas, neatly inscribed: “Notre Dame de Paysdoux” stood on a corner shelf with a stool before it. Dusty paper flowers, candles and a photograph of Teresa in her confirmation dress, with folded hands and upturned eyes, completed the décor. A sacred print, looking dreadfully like Mr. Oberon, hung nearby. Across the bed were disposed two white gowns. A washstand with a jug and basin stood in a further corner.

Teresa, looking both nervous and complacent, pushed forward her only chair.

Alleyn said: “It is possible to wash one’s hands, Teresa? A little water and some soap?”

“I will slip out for some warm water, Monsieur. It is quite safe to do so. Monsieur will forgive me. I had forgotten. The English always wish to wash themselves.”

Alleyn did not correct this aphorism. When she had gone he said: “Well, Raoul?”

“The servants have gone out, Monsieur, with the exception of the Egyptian, who is occupied downstairs. The guests are in their rooms. It is unlikely that they will emerge before the ceremony.” He extended his hands, palms upwards. “Monsieur, how much mischief have I made by my imbecility?”

Alleyn said: “Well, Raoul, you certainly rang the bell,” and then seeing his companion’s bewilderment and distress, added: “It was not so bad after all. It worked out rather well. Dr. Baradi and I have visited the body of a murdered woman.”

“Indeed, Monsieur?”

“It lies among orchids in a handsome coffin in a room across the passage of entrance. The coffin, as M. le Commissaire had already ascertained, arrived this morning from an undertaker in Roqueville.”

“But Monsieur—”

“There is a wound, covered by a surgical dressing, under the left breast.”

“Teresa has told me that the English lady died.”

“Here is Teresa,” Alleyn said and held up his hand.

While he washed he questioned Teresa about Miss Truebody.

“Teresa, in what room of the house did the English lady die? Was it where we put her after the operation?”

“No, Monsieur. She was moved at once from there. The Egyptian and the porter carried her to a room upstairs in the Saracen’s watch-tower. It is not often used. She was taken there because it would be quieter, Monsieur.”

“I’ll be bound she was,” Alleyn muttered. He dried his hands and began to outline a further plan of action. “Last night,” he said, “I learned from Mr. Herrington a little more than Teresa perhaps may know, of the normal procedure on Thursday nights. At eleven o’clock a bell is rung. The guests then emerge from their rooms wearing their robes which have been laid out for them. They go in silence to the ceremony known as the Rites of the Children of the Sun. First they enter the small ante-room where each takes up a lighted candle. They then go into the main room and stay there until after midnight. Supper is served in Mr. Oberon’s salon. The whole affair may go on, after a fashion, until five o’clock in the morning.”

Teresa drew in her breath with an excited hiss.

“Now it is my intention to witness this affair. To that end I propose that you, Raoul, and I replace Miss Taylor and Mr. Herrington, who will not be there. Electricity will not be restored in the Château tonight and by candlelight we have at least a chance of remaining unrecognized.”

Teresa made a little gesture. “If Monsieur pleases,” she said.

“Well, Teresa?”

“The Egyptian has brought in iron boxes from Mr. Oberon’s auto and a great deal of electrical cord and a soldering iron; he has arranged that the sun lamp in the room of ceremonies shall be lighted.”

“Indeed? How very ingenious of him.”

“Monsieur,” Raoul said, eyeing the gowns on the bed, “is it your intention that I make myself to pass for a lady?”

Teresa cackled and clapped her hand over her mouth.

“Exactly so,” said Alleyn. “You are about the same height as Miss Taylor. In the black gown with the hood drawn over your face and hands — by the way, you too must wash your hands — hidden in the sleeves, you should, with luck, pass muster. You have small feet. Perhaps you may be able to wear Miss Taylor’s slippers.”

“Ah, mon Dieu, quelle blague!”

“Comport yourself with propriety, Teresa, Monsieur is speaking.”

“If you cannot manage this I have bought a pair of black slippers which will have to do instead.”

“And my costume, Monsieur?” Raoul asked, indicating with an expressive gesture his stained singlet, his greenish black trousers and his mackintosh hitched over his shoulders.

“I understand that, apart from the gown and slippers there is no costume at all.”

“Ah, mon Dieu, en voilà une affaire!”

“Teresa! Attention!”

“However, the gown is voluminous. For propriety’s sake, Raoul, you may retain your vest and underpants. In any case you must be careful to conceal your legs which, no doubt, are unmistakably masculine.”

“They are superb,” said Teresa. “But undoubtedly masculine.”

“It seems to me,” continued Alleyn, who had become quite used to the peculiarities of conversation with Raoul and Teresa, “that our first difficulty is the problem of getting from here to the respective rooms of Mr. Herrington and Miss Taylor. Teresa, I see, has brought two white gowns. Mr. Herrington has provided us with a white and a black one. Miss Taylor would have appeared in black tonight. Therefore, you must put on the black, Raoul, and I shall wear the longest of the white. Teresa must tell us where these rooms are. If the Egyptian or any of the guests should see us on our way to them we must hope they will observe the rule of silence which is enforced before the ceremony and pay no attention. It will be best if we can find our way without candles. Once inside our rooms we remain there until we hear the bell. How close, Teresa, are these rooms to the room where the ceremony is held? The room you described to me yesterday.”

“The young lady’s is nearby, Monsieur. It is therefore close also to the apartment of Mr. Oberon.”

“In that case, Raoul, when you hear the bell, go at once to the ante-room. Take a candle and, by the communicating door, go into the ceremonial room. There will be five or six black cushions on the floor and a large black divan. If there are six cushions, yours will be apart from the others. If there are five, your position will be on the divan. I am only guessing at this. One thing I do know — the rule of silence will be observed until the actual ceremony begins. If you are in the wrong position it will be attributed, with luck, to stage-fright and somebody will put you right. Where is Mr. Herrington’s room, Teresa?”

“It is off the landing, Monsieur, going down to the lower storey where the ceremonies are held.”

“And the other guests?”

“They are in the higher parts of the Château, Monsieur. Across the outside passage and beyond it.”

“Do you know the room of Miss Grizel Locke?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“Have you seen her today?”

“Not since two days ago, Monsieur, but that is not unusual. As I have informed Monsieur, it is the lady’s habit to keep to her room and leave a notice that she must not be disturbed.”

“I see. Now, if I leave Mr. Herrington’s room on the first stroke of the bell, I should arrive hard on your heels, Raoul, and in advance of the others. I may even go in a little earlier.” He looked at his watch. “It is half-past-seven. Let us put on our gowns. Then, Teresa, you must go out and, if possible, discover the whereabouts of the Egyptian.”

“Monsieur, he was summoned by M. Baradi before you came in. I heard him speaking on the house telephone.”

“Let us hope the doctor keeps his man with him for some time. Now then, Raoul. On with the motley!”

The gowns proved to be amply made, wrapping across under their girdles. The hoods would come well forward and, when the head was bent, completely exclude any normal lighting from the face. “But it will be a different story if one holds a lighted candle,” Alleyn said. “We must not be seen with our candles in our hands.”

He had bought for Raoul a pair of feminine sandals, black and elegant with highish heels. Raoul said he thought they would fit admirably. With a grimace of humorous resignation he washed his small, beautiful and very dirty feet and then fitted them into the sandals. “Oh, là, là!” he said, “one must be an acrobat, it appears.” And for the diversion of Teresa he minced to and fro, wagging his hips and making unseemly gestures. Teresa crammed her fists in her mouth and was consumed with merriment. “Ah, mon Dieu,”she gasped punctually, “quel drôle de type!”

Alleyn wondered rather desperately if he was dealing with children or merely with the celebrated latin joie de vivre. He called them to order and they were at once as solemn as owls.

“Teresa,” he said, “you will go a little ahead of us with your candle. Go straight through the house and down the stairs to the landing beneath the library. If you see anybody, blow your nose loudly.”

“Have you a handkerchief, my jewel?”

“No.”

“Accept mine,” said Raoul, offering her a dubious rag.

“If anybody speaks to you and, perhaps, asks you why you are still on the premises, say that you missed your bus because of the message about Miss Taylor. If it is necessary, you must say you are going to her room to do some little act of service that you had forgotten and that you will leave to catch the later bus. If it is possible, in this event, Raoul and I will conceal ourselves until the coast is clear. If this is not possible, we will behave as Mr. Herrington and Miss Taylor would behave under the rule of silence. You will continue to Miss Taylor’s room, open the door for Raoul and go in for a moment, but only for a moment. Then, Teresa, I have another task for you,” continued Alleyn, feeling for the second time in two days that he had become as big a bore as Prospero. Teresa, however, was a complacent Ariel and merely gazed submissively upon him.

“You will find Mr. Oberon and will tell him that Miss Taylor has returned and asks to be allowed her private meditation alone in her room until the ceremony. That is very important.”

“Ah, Monsieur, if he were not so troubling to my soul!”

“If you value my esteem, Teresa—” Raoul began.

“Yes, yes, Monsieur,” said Teresa in a hurry, “I am resolved! I will face it.”

“Good. Having given this message, come and report to me. After that your tasks for the night are finished. You will catch the late bus for your home in the Paysdoux. Heaven will reward you and I shall not forget you. Is all that clear, Teresa?”

Teresa repeated it all.

“Good. Now, Raoul, we may not have a chance to speak to each other again. Do as I have said. You are enacting the role of a frightened yet fascinated girl who is under the rule of silence. What will happen during the ceremony I cannot tell you. Mr. Herrington could not be persuaded to confide more than you already know. You can only try to behave as the others do. If there is a crisis I shall deal with it. You will probably see and hear much that will shock and anger you. However beastly the behaviour of these people, you must control yourself. Have you ever heard of the Augean Stables?”

“No, Monsieur.”

“They were filthy and were cleansed. It was a heroic task. Now, when you get to Miss Taylor’s room you will find a robe, like the one you are wearing, laid out for her. If there is no difference you need not change. I don’t think you need try to wear her shoes but if there is anything else set out for her — gloves perhaps — you must wear whatever it may be. One thing more. There may be cigarettes in Miss Taylor’s room. Don’t smoke them. If cigarettes are given to us during the ceremony we must pretend to smoke. Like this.”

Alleyn pouted his lips as if to whistle, held a cigarette in the gap between them and drew in audibly. “They will be drugged cigarettes. Air and smoke will be inhaled together. Keep your thumb over the end like this and you will be safe. That’s all. A great deal depends upon us, Raoul. There have been many girls before Miss Taylor who have become the guests of Mr. Oberon. I think perhaps of all evil-doers, his kind are the worst. Monsieur le Commissaire and I are asking much of you.”

Raoul, perched on his high heels and peering out of the black hood, said: “Monsieur l’Inspecteur-en-Chef, in the army one learns to recognize authority. I recognize it in you, Monsieur, and I shall serve it to the best of my ability.”

Alleyn was acutely embarrassed and more than a little touched by this speech. He said: “Thank you. Then we must all do our best. Shall we set about it? Now, Teresa, as quietly as you can unless you meet anybody, and then — boldly. Off you go.”

“Courage, my beloved. Courage and good sense.”

Teresa bestowed a melting glance upon Raoul, opened the door and, after a preliminary look down the passage, took up her candle and went out. Alleyn followed with his walking-stick in his hand and Raoul, clicking his high heels and taking small steps, brought up the rear.

Down in Roqueville Troy absent-mindedly arranged little figures round a crib and pondered on the failure of her session with Ginny and Robin. She heard again Ginny’s desperate protest: “I don’t want to, I don’t want to but I must. I’ve taken the oath. Dreadful things will happen if I don’t go back.”

“You don’t really believe that,” Robin had said and she had cried out: “You’ve sworn and you won’t tell. If we don’t believe, why don’t we tell?”

Suddenly, with something of Ricky’s abandon, she had flung her arms round Troy. “If you could help,” she had stammered, “but you can’t; you can’t!”And she had run out of the room like a frightened animal. Robin, limping after her, had turned at the door.

“It’s all right,” he had said. “Mrs. Allen, it’s all right. She won’t go back.”

There was a tidily arranged pile of illustrated papers in the private sitting-room where they had had their drinks. Troy found herself idly turning the pages of the top one. Photographs of sunbathers and race-goers flipped over under her abstracted gaze. Dresses by Dior and dresses by Fath, Prince Aly Khan leading in his father’s horse, the new ballet at the Marigny—“Les invités réunis pour quelques jours au Château de la Chèvre d’Argent. De gauche à droite: l’Hôte, M. Oberon; Mlle. Imogen Taylor, M. Carbury Glande, Dr. Baradi, M. Robin Herrington et la Hon. Grizel Locke—” Troy’s attention was arrested and then transfixed. It was a clear photograph taken on the roof-garden. There they were, perfectly recognizable, all except Grizel Locke.

The photograph of Grizel Locke was that of a short, lean woman with the face of a complete stranger.

iv

Robin was driving up a rough lane into the hills with Ginny beside him saying feverishly: “You’re sure this is a shorter way? It’s a quarter to eight, Robin! Robin, you’re sure?”

He thought: “The tank was half-full. How long will it take for half a tank of air to be exhausted?”

“There’s tons of time,” he said, “and I’m quite sure.” As he turned the next corner the engine missed and then stopped. Robin crammed on his brakes.

Looking at Ginny’s blank face he thought: “Now, we’re for it. It’s tonight or nevermore for Ginny and me.”

Dupont, waiting under the stars on the platform outside the Chèvre d’Argent, looked at his watch. It was a quarter to eight. He sighed and settled himself inside his coat. He expected a long vigil.

v

Teresa’s candle bobbed ahead. Sometimes it vanished round corners, sometimes dipped or ascended as she arrived at steps and sometimes it was stationary for a moment as she stopped and listened. Presently they were on familiar ground. Forward, on their left, was the operating room: opposite this, the room where Miss Truebody had waited. Nearer, on their right, a thin blade of light across the carpet indicated the door into Baradi’s room. Teresa’s hand, dramatized by candlelight, shielded the flame. Beyond her, the curtain at the end of the passage was faintly defined against some further diffusion of light.

She passed Baradi’s room. Alleyn and Raoul approached it. Alleyn held up a warning hand. He halted and then crept forward. His ear was at the door. Beyond it, like erring souls, Baradi and his servant were talking together in their own language.

Alleyn and Raoul moved on. Teresa had come to the curtain. They saw her lift it and a triangle of warmth appeared. Her candle sank to the floor. The foot of the curtain was raised and the candle, followed by the doubled-up shape of Teresa, disappeared beneath it.

“Good girl,” Alleyn thought, “she’s remembered the rings.”

He followed quickly. He was tall enough to reach the rings and hold the top of the curtain to the rail while he raised the skirt for Raoul to pass through.

Now Raoul was in the great hall where the candellabrum still burned on the central table. Teresa had already passed into the entrance lobby. Alleyn still held the curtain in his hand when Teresa blew her nose.

He slipped back behind the curtain, leaving a peephole for himself. He saw Raoul hesitate and then move forward until his back was to the light and he saw a white-robed figure that might have been himself come in from the lobby. Looking beyond the six burning candles he watched the two figures confront each other. The white hood was thrust back and Carbury Glande’s red beard jutted out. Alleyn heard him mutter:

“Well, thank God for you, anyway. You have put him in a tizzy! What happened?’

The black cowl moved slightly from side to side. The head was bent.

“Oh, all right!”Glande said pettishly. “What a stickler you are, to be sure!”

The white figure crossed the end of the hall and disappeared up the stairway.

Raoul moved on into the lobby and Alleyn came out of cover and followed him. When he entered the lobby, Alleyn went to the carved chest that stood against the back wall. It was there that the Egyptian servant had put the key of the wrought-iron door. Alleyn found the key and through the grill tossed it out of reach into the outside passage-way.

From the lobby, the staircase wound downstairs. Teresa’s candle, out of sight and sinking, threw up her own travelling shadow and that of Raoul. Alleyn followed them, but they moved faster than he and he was left to grope his way down in a kind of twilight. He had completed three descending spirals when he arrived at the landing. The door he had noticed on his previous visit was not open and beyond it was a bedroom with a light burning before a looking-glass. This, evidently, was Robin Herrington’s room. Alleyn went in. On the inside door-handle hung a notice: “Heure de Méditation. Ne dérangez pas.” He hung it outside and shut the door.

The room had the smell and sensation of luxury that were characteristic of the Chèvre d’Argent. A white robe, like his own, was laid out together with silk shorts and shirt and a pair of white sandals. Alieyn changed quickly. On a table near the bed was a silver box, an ashtray, an elaborate lighter and, incongruously, a large covered dish which, on examination, proved to contain a sumptuous assortment of hors d’oeuvres and savouries. In the box were three cigarettes: long, thin and straw-coloured. He took one up, smelt it, broke it across and put the two halves in his case. He held a second to his candle, kept it going by returning it continuously to the flame and, as it was consumed, broke the ash into the tray.

“Three of those,” he thought, “and young Herrington’s values would be as cockeyed as one of Carbury Glande’s abstracts.”

There was the lightest of taps on the door. It opened slightly. “Monsieur?” whispered Teresa.

He let her in.

“Monsieur, it is to tell you that I have executed your order. I have spoken to M. Oberon. Tonight he was not as formerly he has been. He was not interested in me, but all the same he was excited. One would have thought he was intoxicated, Monsieur, but he does not take wine.”

“You gave the message?”

“Yes, Monsieur. He listened eagerly and questioned me, saying: ‘Have you seen her?’ and I thought best, with the permission of the saints, to say ‘yes.’ ”

“Quite so, Teresa.”

“He then asked me if Mademoiselle Taylor was quite well and I said she was and then if she seemed happy and I said: ‘Yes, she seemed pleased and excited,’ because that is how one is, Monsieur, when one keeps an appointment. And I repeated that Mademoiselle had asked to be alone and he said: ‘Of course, of course. It is essential,’ as if to himself. And he was staring in a strange manner as if I was not there and so I left him. And although I was frightened, Monsieur, I was not troubled as formerly by M. Oberon because Raoul is the friend of my bosom and to him I will be constant.”

“I should certainly stick to that, if I were you. You are a good girl, Teresa, and now you must catch your bus. Tomorrow you shall choose a fine present against your wedding-day.”

“Ah, Monsieur!” Teresa exclaimed and neatly sketching ineffable astonishment and delight, she slipped out of the room.

It was now eight o’clock. Alleyn settled down to his vigil. He thought of poor Miss Truebody and of the four remaining guests and Mr. Oberon, each in his or her room, and each, he believed, oppressed by an almost intolerable sense of approaching climax. He wondered if Robin Herrington had followed his advice about blocking the vent in the cap on his petrol tank and he wondered if Troy had had any success in breaking down Ginny’s enthralment.

He turned over in his mind all he had read of that curious expression of human credulity called magic. As it happened he had been obliged on a former case to dig up evidence of esoteric ritual and had become fascinated by its witness to man’s industry in the pursuit of a chimera. Hundreds and hundreds of otherwise intelligent men, he found, had subjected themselves throughout the centuries to the boredom of memorizing and reciting senseless formulae, to the indignity of unspeakable practices and to the threat of the most ghastly reprisals. Through age after age men and women had starved, frightened and exhausted themselves, had got themselves racked, broken and burned, had delivered themselves up to what they believed to be the threat of eternal damnation and all without any firsthand evidence of the smallest success. Age after age the Obérons and Baradis had battened on this unquenchable credulity, had traced their pentagrams, muttered their interminable spells, performed their gruelling ceremonies and taken their toll. And at the same time, he reflected, the Oberons (never the Baradis) had ended by falling into their own traps. The hysteria they induced was refracted upon themselves. Beyond the reek of ceremonial smoke they too began to look for the terrifying reward.

He wondered to what class of adept Oberon belonged. There was a definite hierarchy. There had always been practitioners who, however misguided, could not be accused of charlatanism. To this day, he believed, such beings existed, continuing their barren search for a talisman, for a philosopher’s stone, for power and for easy money.

Magical rituals from the dawn of time had taken on the imprint of their several ages. From the scope and dignity of the Atkadian Inscriptions to the magnificence of the Graeco-Egyptian Papyri, from the pious Jewish mysteries to the squalors, brutalities and sheer silliness of the German pseudo-Faustian cults. From the Necromancer of the Coliseum to the surprisingly fresh folklorishness of the English genre: each had its peculiar character and its own formula of frustration. And alongside the direct line like a bastard brother ran the cult of Satanism, the imbecile horrors of the Black Mass, the Amatory Mass and the Mortuary Mass.

If Oberon had read all the books in his own library he had a pretty sound knowledge of these rituals together with a generous helping of Hinduism, Voodoo and Polynesian mythology: a wide field from which to concoct a ceremony for the downfall of Ginny Taylor and her predecessors. Alleyn fancied that the orthodox forms would not be followed. The oath of silence he had read in Baradi’s room was certainly original. “If it’s the Amatory Mass as practised by Madame de Montespan,” he thought, “poor old Raoul’s sunk from the word go.” And he began to wonder what he should to if this particular crisis arose.

He spent the rest of his vigil eating the savouries that had no doubt been provided to satisfy the hunger of the reefer addict and smoking his own cigarettes. He checked over the possibilities of disaster and found them many and formidable. “All the same,” he thought, “it’s worth it. And if the worst comes to the worst we can always—”

Somebody was scratching at his door.

He ground out his cigarette, extinguished his candle and seated himself on the floor with his back to the door and his legs folded Oberon-wise under his gown. He was facing the dressing-table with its large tilted looking-glass. The scratching persisted and turned into a feather-light tattoo of finger-tips. He kept his gaze on that part of the darkness where he knew the looking-glass must be. He heard a fumbling and a slight rap and guessed that the notice had been moved from the door-handle. A vertical sliver of light appeared. He watched the reflection of the opening door and of the white-robed candle-bearer. He caught a glimpse, under the hood, of a long face with a beaked nose. Robed like that she seemed incredibly tall: no longer the figure of fantasy that she had presented yesterday in pedal-pushers and scarf and yet, unmistakably, the same woman. The door was shut. He bent his head and looked from under his brows at the reflexion of the woman, who advanced so close that he could hear her breathing behind him.

“I know it’s against the Rule,” she whispered, “I’ve got to speak to you.”

He made no sign.

“I don’t know what they’ll do to me if they find out but I’m actually past caring!”In the glass he saw her put the candle on the table. “Have you smoked?” she said. “If you have I suppose it’s no good. I haven’t.” He heard her sit heavily in the chair. “Well,” she whispered almost cosily, “it’s about Ginny. You’ve never seen an initiation, have you? I mean of that sort. You might at least nod or shake your head.”

Alleyn shook his head.

“I thought not. You’ve got to stop her doing it. She’s fond of you, you may depend upon it. If it was not for him she’d be in love, like any other nice girl, with you. And you’re fond of her. I know. I’ve watched. Well, you’ve got to stop it. She’s a thoroughly nice girl,” the prim whisper insisted, “and you’re still a splendid young fellow. Tell her she mustn’t.”

Alleyn’s shoulders rose in an exaggerated shrug.

“Oh, don’t!” The whisper broke into a vocal protest. “If you only knew how I’ve been watching you both. If you only knew what I’m risking. Why, if you tell on me I don’t know what they won’t do. Murder me, as likely as not. It wouldn’t be the first time unless you believe she killed herself, and I certainly don’t.”

The voice stopped. Alleyn waited.

“One way or another,” the voice said quite loudly, “you’ve got to give me a sign.”

He raised his hand and made the Italian negative sign with his finger.

“You won’t! You mean you’ll let it happen. To Ginny? In front of everybody? Oh, dear me!” The voice sighed out most lamentably. “Oh, dear, dear me, it’s enough to break one’s heart!” There was a further silence. Alleyn thought: “The time’s going by: we haven’t much longer. If she’d just say one thing!”

The voice said strongly, as if its owner had taken fresh courage: “Very well. I shall speak to her. It won’t do any good. I look at you and I ask myself what sort of creature you are. I look—”

She broke off. She had moved her candle so that its reflexion in the glass was thrown back upon Alleyn. He sat frozen.

“Who are you?” the voice demanded strongly. “You’re not Robin Herrington.”

She was behind him. She jerked the hood back from his head and they stared at each other in the looking-glass.

“And you’re not Grizel Locke,” Alleyn said. He got up, faced her and held out his hand. “Miss P.E. Garbel, I presume,” he said gently.