Ngaio Marsh - Photo Finish

“Bennini.”

“Thank you.” He added it to his note. “I see you wear a wedding ring,” he said. “What was your maiden name, please?”

“Why do you ask me such questions? You are impertinent.”

“You prefer not to answer?” Alleyn inquired politely.

Silence.

“Ah well,” he said. “When you are more composed and I hope a little recovered from the terrible shock you have sustained, you will tell me exactly what happened after she arrived with Signor Reece?”

And astonishingly, with no further ado, this creature of surprises, who a few seconds ago had called him “filth” and spat at him, embarked upon a coherent and lucid account. Maria had gone straight upstairs as soon as the curtain fell on the opera. She had performed her usual duties, putting out the glass of water and the tranquilizer that the Sommita always took after an opening night, folding her negligé over the back of a chair, and turning down the crimson counterpane. The Sommita arrived with Signor Reece. She was much displeased, Maria said, which Alleyn thought was probably the understatement of the year, and ordered Maria to leave the room. This, he gathered was a not unusual occurrence. She also ordered Mr. Reece to leave, which was . He tried to soothe her, but she became enraged.

“About what?” Alleyn asked.

About something that happened after the opera. Maria had already left the audience. The Signor Bartholomew, she gathered, had insulted the diva. Signor Reece tried to calm her, Maria herself offered to massage her shoulders but was flung off. In the upshot he and Maria left and went downstairs together, Mr. Reece suggesting that Maria give the diva time to calm down and then take her a hot drink, which had been known on similar occasions to produce a favorable reaction.

Maria had followed this advice.

How long between the time when they had left the room and Maria returned to it?

About an hour, she thought.

Where was she during that time?

In the servants’ quarters, where she made the hot drink. Mrs. Bacon and Bert the chaffeur were there most of the time, and others of the staff came to and fro from their duties in the dining room, where the guests were now at table. Mr. Reece had joined them. Maria sat and waited for her mistress to compose herself, as Mr. Reece had suggested, and then made the hot drink. Then she returned to the bedroom, found her mistress murdered, and raised the alarm.

“When Madame Sommita dismissed you, did she lock the door after you?”

Yes, it appeared. Maria heard the lock click. She had her own key and used it on her return.

Had anybody else a key to the room?

For the first time she boggled. Her mouth worked but she did not speak.

“Signor Reece, for instance?” Alleyn prompted.

She made the Italian negative sign with her finger.

“Who, then?”

A sly look appeared. Her eyes slid around in the direction of the passage to the right of the landing. Her hand moved to her breast.

“Do you mean Signor Bartholomew?” Alleyn asked.

“Perhaps,” she said, and he saw that, very furtively, she crossed herself.

He made a note about keys in his book.

She watched him avidly.

“Maria,” he said when he had finished writing, “how long have you been with Madame Sommita?”

Five years, it appeared. She had come to Australia as wardrobe mistress with an Italian opera company, and had stayed on as sewing maid at the Italian Embassy. The Signora’s personal maid had displeased her and been dismissed and Signor Reece had inquired of an aide-de-camp who was a friend of his if they could tell him of anyone suitable. The Ambassador had come to the end of his term and the household staff was to be reorganized. Maria had been engaged as personal dresser and lady’s maid to Isabella Sommita.

“Who do you think committed this crime?” Alleyn asked suddenly.

“The young man,” she answered venomously and at once as if that was a foolish question. And then with another of her abrupt changes of key she urged, begged, demanded that she go back into the room and perform the last services for her mistress — lay her out with decency and close her eyes and pray it would not be held in wrath against her that she had died in a state of sin. “I must go. I insist,” said Maria.

“That is still impossible,” said Alleyn. “I’m sorry.”

He saw that she was on the edge of another outburst and hoped that if she was again moved to spit at him her aim would not have improved.

“You must pull yourself together,” he said. “Otherwise I shall be obliged to ask Mr. Reece to have you locked up in your own room. Be a good girl, Maria. Grieve for her. Pray for her soul but do not make scenes. They won’t get you anywhere, you know.”

Dr. Carmichael, who had contemplated Maria dubiously throughout, now said with professional authority: “Come along like a sensible woman. You’ll make yourself unwell if you go on like this. I’ll take you down and we’ll see if we can find the housekeeper. Mrs. Bacon, isn’t it? You’d much better go to bed, you know. Take an aspirin.”

“And a hot drink?” Alleyn mildly suggested.

She looked furies at him but with the abruptness that was no longer unexpected stood up, crossed the landing, and walked quickly downstairs.

“Shall I see if I can find Mrs. Bacon and hand her over?” Dr. Carmichael offered.

“Do, like a good chap,” said Alleyn. “And if Mrs. B. has vanished, take her to bed yourself.”

“Choose your words,” said Dr. Carmichael and set off in pursuit.

Alleyn caught him at the head of the stairs. “I’m going back in there,” he said. “I may be a little time. Join me if you will when you’ve brought home the Bacon. Actually I hope they’re all tucked up for the night, but I’d like to know.”

Dr. Carmichael ran nimbly downstairs and Alleyn returned, once more, to the bedroom.

iii

He began a search. The bedroom was much more ornate than the rest of the house. No doubt, Alleyn thought, this reflected the Sommita’s taste more than that of the clever young architect. The wardrobe doors, for instance were carved with elegant festoons and swags of flowers in deep relief, each depending from the central motif of a conventionalized sunflower with a sunken black center, the whole concoction being rather loudly painted and reminiscent of art nouveau.

Alleyn made a thorough search of the surfaces under the bed, of the top of her dressing table, of an escritoire, on which he found the Sommita’s jewel box. This was unlocked and the contents were startling in their magnificence. The bedside table. The crimson coverlet. Nothing. Could it be under the body? Possible, he supposed, but he must not move the body.

The bathroom: all along the glass shelves, the floor, everywhere.

And yet Maria, if she was to be believed, had heard the key turned in the lock after she and Mr. Reece were kicked out. And when she returned she had used her own key. He tried to picture the Sommita, at the height, it seemed, of one of her rages, turning the key in the lock, withdrawing it, and then putting it — where? Hiding it? But why? There was no accommodation for it in the bosom of her Hebraic gown, which was now slashed down in ribbons. He uncovered the horror that was the Sommita, and with infinite caution, scarcely touching it, examined the surface of the counterpane round the body. He even slid his hand under the body. Nothing. He re-covered the body.

“When all likely places have been fruitlessly explored, begin on the unlikely and carry on into the preposterous.” This was the standard practice. He attacked the drawers of the dressing table. They were kept, by Maria, no doubt, in perfect order. He patted, lifted and replaced lacy undergarments, stockings, gloves. Finally, in the bottom drawer on the left he arrived at the Sommita’s collection of handbags. On the top was a gold mesh, bejeweled affair that he remembered her carrying on the evening of their arrival.