Ngaio Marsh - Photo Finish

Below in the hall a door had shut and he caught the sound of a bolt being pushed home. He went to the head of the stairs and looked down. There was the unmistakable, greatly foreshortened figure of their driver: short ginger hair and heavy shoulders. He was coming away from the front door and had evidently been locking up. What was his name? Ah, yes. Bert.

Alleyn gave a not too loud whistle between his teeth. “Hi! Bert!” he said. The head tilted back and the dependable face was presented. Alleyn beckoned and Bert came upstairs.

“G’day,” he said. “This is no good. Murder, eh?”

Alleyn said: “Look, do you feel like lending a hand? Dr. Carmichael and I have got a call to make, but I don’t want to leave this landing unguarded. Would you be a good chap and stay here? We won’t be too long. I hope.”

“She’ll be right,” said Bert. And then, with a motion of his head toward the bedroom door: “Would that be where it is?”

“Yes. The door’s locked.”

“But you reckon somebody might get nosy?”

“Something like that. How about it?”

“I don’t mind,” said Bert. “Got it all on your own, eh?”

“With Dr. Carmichael. I would be grateful. Nobody, no matter who, is to go in.”

“Good as gold,” said Bert.

So they left him there, lounging in the chair behind the screen.

“Come on,” Alleyn said to Dr. Carmichael. “Where’s his room?”

“This way.”

They were passing the studio door. Alleyn said, “Half a second, will you?” and went in. Troy was sitting on the edge of the throne looking desolate. She jumped to her feet.

He said, “You know about it?”

“Signor Lattienzo came and told me. Rory, how terrible!”

“I know. Wait here. All right? Or would you rather go to bed?”

“I’m all right. I don’t think I really believe it has happened.”

“I won’t be long, I promise.”

“Don’t give it another throught. I’m O.K., Rory. Signor Lattienzo seems to think it was Strix — the photographer. Is that possible?”

“Remotely, I suppose.”

“I don’t quite believe in the photographer.”

“If you want to talk about it, we will. In the meantime could you look me out my camera, a big sable brush and a squirt-thing of talc powder?”

“Certainly. There are at least three of the latter in our bathroom. Why,” asked Troy, rallying, “do people perpetually give each other talc powder and never use it themselves?”

“We must work it out when we’ve the leisure,” said Alleyn. “I’ll come back for the things.”

He kissed her and rejoined the doctor.

Rupert Bartholomew’s room was two doors along the passage. Dr. Carmichael stopped. “He doesn’t know,” he said. “Unless, of course, someone has come up and told him.”

“If he’s taken Lattienzo’s pill he’ll be asleep.”

“Should be. But it’s one of the mildest sort.”

Dr. Carmichael opened the door and Alleyn followed him.

Rupert was not asleep. Nor had he undressed. He was sitting upright on his bed with his arms clasped round his knees. He looked very young.

“Hello!” said Dr. Carmichael. “What’s all this? You ought to be sound asleep.” He looked at the bedside table with its switched-on lamp, glass of water, and the tablet lying beside it. “So you haven’t taken your Lattienzo pill,” he said. “What’s that?”

“I didn’t want it. I want to know what’s happening. All that screaming and rushing about.” He looked at Alleyn. “Was it her? Bella? Was it because of me? I want to know. What have I done?”

Dr. Carmichael slid his fingers over Rupert’s wrist. “You haven’t done anything,” he said. “Calm down.”

“Then what—?”

“The rumpus,” Alleyn said, “was nothing to do with you. As far as we know. Nothing. It was Maria who screamed.”

An expression that in less dramatic circumstances might almost have been described as huffy appeared and faded: Rupert looked at them out of the corners of his eyes. “Then, why did Maria scream?” he asked.

Alleyn exchanged a glance with the doctor, who slightly nodded his head.

“Well?” Rupert demanded.

“Because,” Alleyn said, “there has been a disaster. A tragedy. A death. It will be a shock to you, but as far as we can see, which admittedly is not very far, there is no reason to link it with what happened after the performance. You will have to know of it and there would be no point in holding it back.”

“A death ? Do you mean—? You can’t mean—? Bella?”

“I’m afraid — yes.”

“Bella?” Rupert said and sounded incredulous. “Bella? Dead ?”

“It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?”

There was a long silence, broken by Rupert.

“But — why? What was it? Was it heart failure?”

“You could say,” Dr. Carmichael observed with a macabre touch of the professional whimsy sometimes employed by doctors, “that all deaths are due to heart failure.”

“Do you know if she had any heart trouble at all?” Alleyn asked Rupert.

“She had high blood pressure. She saw a specialist in Sydney.”

“Do you know who?”

“I’ve forgotten. Monty will know. So will Ned Hanley.”

“Was it a serious condition, did you gather?”

“She was told to — to slow down. Not get overexcited. That sort of thing.” He looked at them with what seemed to be apprehension.

“Should I see her?” he mumbled.

“No,” they both said quickly. He breathed out a sigh.

“I can’t get hold of this,” he said and shook his head slowly. “I can’t get hold of it at all. I can’t sort of seem to believe it.”

“The best thing you can do,” said Dr. Carmichael, “is to take this tablet and settle down. There’s absolutely nothing else you can do.”

“Oh. Oh, I see. Well: all right, then,” he replied with a strange air of speaking at random. “But I’ll put myself to bed, if you don’t mind.”

He took the tablet, drank the water and leaned back, staring in front of him. “Extraordinary!” he said and closed his eyes.

Alleyn and Carmichael waited for a minute or two. Rupert opened his eyes and turned off the bedside lamp. Disconcerted, they moved to the door.

“Thank you,” said Rupert in the dark. “Goodnight.”

When they were in the passage Carmichael said: “That was a very odd little conversation.”

“It was, rather.”

“You’d have almost said — well — I mean—”

“What?”

“That he was relieved. Don’t get me wrong. He’s had a shock — I mean that extraordinary apology for his opera, which I must say I didn’t find very impressive, and his faint. His pulse is still a bit erratic. But the reaction,” Carmichael repeated, “ was odd, didn’t you think?”

“People do tend to behave oddly when they hear of death. I’m sure you’ve found that, haven’t you? In this case I rather think there has actually been a sense of release.”

“A release ? From what?”

“Oh,” said Alleyn, “from a tricky situation. From extreme anxiety. High tension. Didn’t somebody say — was it Shaw? — that after the death of even one’s closest and dearest, there is always a sensation of release. And relief.”

Carmichael made the noise that is written “Humph.” He gave Alleyn a speculative look. “You didn’t,” he said, “tell him it was murder.”

“No. Time enough in the morning. He may as well enjoy the benefit of the Lattienzo pill.”

Dr. Carmichael said “Humph” again.

Alleyn returned to Troy, who had the camera, brush, and talc powder ready for him.

“How is that boy?” she asked. “How has he taken it?”