Ngaio Marsh - Photo Finish

“Oh, come. But I see your point,” Carmichael said. “I suppose I’m in the same boat myself. I should go no further than making sure she’s dead. And, by God, it doesn’t need a professional man to do that.”

“The law, in respect of bodies, is a bit odd. They belong to nobody. They are not the legal property of anyone. This can lead to muddles.”

“I can imagine.”

“It’s all jolly fine for the lordly Reece to order me to take charge. I’ve no right to do so and the local police would have every right to cut up rough if I did.”

“So would the pathologist if I butted in.”

“I imagine,” Alleyn said, “they won’t boggle at the photographs. After all there will be — changes.”

“There will indeed. This house is central-heated.”

“There may be a local switch in this room. Yes. Over there where it could be reached from the bed. Off with it.”

“I will,” said Carmichael and switched it off.

“I wonder if we can open the windows a crack without wreaking havoc,” Alleyn said. He pulled back the heavy curtains and there was the black and streaming glass. They were sash windows. He opened one and then others half an inch at the top, admitting blades of cold air and the voice of the storm.

“At least, if we can find something appropriate, we can cover her,” he said and looked about the room. There was a sandalwood chest against the wall. He opened it and lifted out a folded bulk of black material. “This will do,” he said. He and Carmichael opened it out, and spread it over the body. It was scented and heavy and it shone dully. The rigid arm jutted up underneath it.

“What on earth is it for ?” Carmichael wondered.

“It’s one of her black satin sheets. There are pillowcases to match in the box.”

“Good God!”

“I know.”

Alleyn locked the door into the bathroom, wrapped the key in his handkerchief, and pocketed it.

He and the doctor stood in the middle of the room. Already it was colder. Slivers of wind from outside stirred the marabou trimming on the Sommita’s dressing gown and even fiddled with her black satin pall so that she might have been thought to move stealthily underneath it.

“No sign of the wind dropping,” said Carmichael. “Or is there?”

“It’s not raining quite so hard, I fancy. I wonder if the launch man’s got through. Where would the nearest police station be?”

“Rivermouth, I should think. Down on the coast. About sixty miles, at a guess.”

“And as, presumably, the cars are all miles away returning guests to their homes east of the ranges, and the telephone at the boatshed will be out of order, we can only hope that the unfortunate Les has set out on foot for the nearest sign of habitation. I remember that on coming here we stopped to collect the mailbag at a railway station some two miles back along the line. A very small station called Kai-kai, I think.”

“That’s right. With about three whares * and a pub. He may wait till first light,” said Dr. Carmichael, “before he goes anywhere.” [A whare is a small dwelling.]

“He did signal ‘Roger,’ which of course may only have meant ‘Message received and understood.’ Let’s leave this bloody room, shall we?”

They turned, and took two steps. Alleyn put his hand on Carmichael’s arm. Something had clicked.

The door handle was turning, this way and that. A pause and then the sound of a key being inserted and engaged.

The door opened and Maria came into the room.

ii

This time Maria did not launch out into histrionics. When she saw the two men she stopped, drew herself up, looked beyond them to the shrouded figure on the bed, and said in English that she had come to be of service to her mistress.

“I perform the last rites,” said Maria. “This is my duty. Nobody else. It is for me.”

Alleyn said: “Maria, certainly it would be for you if circumstances had been different, but this is murder and she must not be touched until permission has been given by the authorities. Neither Doctor Carmichael nor I have touched her. We have examined but we have not touched. We have covered her for dignity’s sake but that is all, and so it must remain until permission is given. We can understand your wish and are sorry to prevent you. Do you understand?”

She neither replied nor looked at him. She went to a window and reached for the cord that operated it.

“No,” Alleyn said. “Nothing must be touched.” She made for the heavier, ornate cord belonging to the curtains. “Not that either,” Alleyn said. “Nothing must be touched. And I’m afraid I must ask you to come away from the room, Maria.”

“I wait. I keep veglia. “

“It is not permitted. I am sorry.”

She said, in Italian, “It is necessary for me to pray for her soul.”

“You can do so. But not here.”

Now she did look at him, directly and for an uncomfortably long time. Dr. Carmichael cleared his throat.

She walked toward the door. Alleyn reached it first. He opened it, removed the key and stood aside.

“ Sozzume ,” Maria said and spat inaccurately at him. She looked and sounded like a snake. He motioned with his head to Dr. Carmichael, who followed Maria quickly to the landing. Alleyn turned off the lights in the room, left it, and locked the door. He put Maria’s key in his pocket. He now had two keys to the room.

“I remain,” Maria said. “All night. Here.”

“That is as you wish,” Alleyn said.

Beside the frisky nude-embellished screen behind which Bert still kept his vigil, there were chairs and a clever occasional table with a lamp carved in wood — an abstract with unmistakable phallic implications, the creation, Alleyn guessed, of the master whose pregnant lady dominated the hall.

“Sit down, Maria,” Alleyn said. “I have something to say to you.”

He moved a chair toward her. “Please,” he said.

At first he thought she would refuse, but after two seconds or so of stony immobility she did sit, poker-backed, on the edge of the offered chair.

“You have seen Madame Sommita and you know she has been murdered,” he said. “You wish that her murderer will be found, don’t you?”

Her mouth set in a tight line and her eyes flashed. She did not speak, but if she had delivered herself of a tirade it could not have been more eloquent.

“Very well,” Alleyn said. “Now then: when the storm is over and the lake is calmer, the New Zealand police will come and they will ask many questions. Until they come, Mr. Reece has put me in charge and anything you tell me, I will tell them. Anything I ask you, I will ask for one reason only: because I hope your answer may help us to find the criminal. If your reply is of no help it will be forgotten — it will be as if you had not made it. Do you understand?”

He thought: I shall pretend she has answered. And he said: “Good. Well now. First question. Do you know what time it was when Madame Sommita came upstairs with Mr. Reece and found you waiting for her? No? It doesn’t matter. The opera began at eight and they will know how long it runs.”

He had a pocket diary on him and produced it. He made quite a business of opening it and flattening it on the table. He wrote in it, almost under her nose.

“Maria. Time of S’s arrival in bedroom. No answer.”

When he looked up he found that Maria was glaring at his notebook. He pushed it nearer and turned it toward her. “Can you see?” he asked politely.

She undamped her mouth.

“Twenty past nine. By her clock,” she said.

“Splendid. And now, Maria — by the way, I haven’t got your surname, have I? Your cognome .”