Ngaio Marsh - Photo Finish

The islanders chattered excitedly, telling each other that the signal must mean the launch was mobile again, that the Lake was undoubtedly calmer, and that when the police did arrive they would be able to cross. The hope that they themselves would all be able to leave remained unspoken.

They trooped up to the house and were shepherded in by Mr. Reece, who said, with somber playfulness, that “elevenses” were now served in the library.

Troy and Dr. Carmichael joined Alleyn. They seemed to be in good spirits. “We’ve finished our chores,” Troy said, “and we’ve got something to report. Let’s have a quick swallow, and join up in the studio.”

“Don’t make it too obvious,” said Alleyn, who was aware that he was now under close though furtive observation by most of the household. He fetched two blameless tomato juices for himself and Troy. They joined Rupert and Sylvia Parry, who were standing a little apart from the others and were not looking at each other. Rupert was still white about the gills but, or so Alleyn thought, rather less distraught — indeed there was perhaps a hint of portentousness, of self-conscious gloom in his manner.

She has provided him with an sudience, thought Alleyn. Let’s hope she knows what she’s letting herself in for.

Rupert said: “I’ve told Sylvia about — last night.”

“So I supposed,” said Alleyn.

“She thinks I was right.”

“Good.”

Sylvia said: “I think it took wonderful courage and artistic integrity and I do think it was right.”

“That’s a very proper conclusion.”

“It won’t be long now, will it?” Rupert asked. “Before the police come?” He pitched his voice rather high and brittle, with the sort of false airiness some actors employ when they hope to convey suppressed emotion.

“Probably not,” said Alleyn.

“Of course, I’ll be the prime suspect,” Rupert announced.

“Rupert, no ,” Sylvia whispered.

“My dear girl, it sticks out a mile. After my curtain performance. Motive. Opportunity. The lot. We might as well face it.”

“We might as well not make public announcements about it,” Troy observed.

“I’m sorry,” said Rupert grandly. “No doubt I’m being silly.”

“Well,” Alleyn cheerfully remarked, “you said it. We didn’t. Troy, hadn’t we better sort out those drawings of yours?”

“O.K. Let’s. I’d forgotten.”

“She leaves them unfixed and tiles the floor with them,” Alleyn explained. “Our cat sat on a preliminary sketch of the Prime Minister and turned it into a jungle flower. Come on, darling.”

They found Dr. Carmichael already in the studio. “I didn’t want Reece’s ‘elevenses,’ ” he said. And to Troy: “Have you told him?”

“I waited for you,” said Troy.

They were, Alleyn thought, as pleased as Punch with themselves. “You tell him,” they said simultaneously. “Ladies first,” said the doctor.

“Come on,” said Alleyn.

Troy inserted her thin hand in a gingerly fashion into a large pocket of her dress. Using only her first finger and her thumb, she drew out something wrapped in one of Alleyn’s handkerchiefs. She was in the habit of using them, as she preferred a large one and she had been known when intent on her work to confuse the handkerchief and her paint rag, with regrettable results to the handkerchief and to her face.

She carried her trophy to the paint table and placed it there. Then, with a sidelong look at her husband, she produced two clean hoghair brushes and, using them upside down in the manner of chopsticks, fiddled open the handkerchief and stood back.

Alleyn walked over, put his arm across her shoulders, and looked at what she had revealed.

A large heavy envelope, creased and burned but not so extensively that an airmail stamp and part of the address were not still in evidence. The address was typewritten.

The Edit

“The Watchma

P.O. Bo

N.S.W. 14C

Sy

Australia

“Of course,” Troy said after a considerable pause, “it may be of no consequence at all, may it?”

“Suppose we have the full story?”

Their story was that they had gone some way with their housemaiding expedition when Troy decided to equip herself with a box-broom and a duster. They went downstairs in search of them and ran into Mrs. Bacon emerging from the study. She intimated that she was nearing the end of her tether. The staff, having gone through progressive stages of hysteria and suspicion, had settled for a sort of work-to-rule attitude and, with the exception of the chef, who had agreed to provide a very basic luncheon, and Marco, who was, said Mr. Bacon, abnormally quiet but did his jobs, either sulked in their rooms or muttered together in the staff sitting room. As far as Mrs. Bacon could make out, the New Zealand ex-hotel group suspected in turn Signor Lattienzo, Marco, and Maria on the score of their being Italians and Mr. Reece, whom they cast in the role of de facto cuckold. Rupert Bartholomew was fancied as an outside chance on the score of his having turned against the Sommita. Maria had gone to earth, supposedly in her room. Chaos, Mrs. Bacon said, prevailed.

Mrs. Bacon herself had rushed round the dining and drawing rooms while Marco set out the elevenses. She had then turned her attention to the study and found to her horror that the open fireplace had not been cleaned or the fire relaid. To confirm this, she had drawn their attention to a steel ashpan she herself carried in her rubber-gloved hands.

“And that’s when I saw it, Rory,” Troy explained. “It was sticking up out of the ashes and I saw what’s left of the address.”

“And she nudged me,” said Dr. Carmichael proudly, “and I saw it too.”

“And he behaved perfectly ,” Troy intervened. “He said: ‘Do let me take that thing and tell me where to empty it. ’ And Mrs. Bacon said, rather wildly: ‘In the bin. In the yard,’ and made feeble protestations, and at that moment we all heard the launch hooting and she became distracted. So Dr. Carmichael got hold of the ashpan. And I — well — I—got hold of the envelope and put it in my pocket amongst your handkerchief, which happened to be there.”

“So it appears,” Dr. Carmichael summed up, “that somebody typed a communication of some sort to the Watchman and stamped the envelope, which he or somebody else then chucked on the study fire, and it dropped through the grate into the ashpan when it was only half-burnt. Or doesn’t it?”

“Did you get a chance to have a good look at the ashes?” asked Alleyn.

“Pretty good. In the yard. They were faintly warm. I ran them carefully into a zinc rubbish bin, already half-full. There were one or two very small fragments of heavily charred paper and some clinkers. Nothing else. I heard someone coming and cleared out. I put the ashpan back under the study grate.”

Alleyn bent over the trophy. “It’s a Sommita envelope,” said Troy. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes. Bigger than the Reece envelope, but the same paper: like the letter she wrote to the Yard.”

“Why would she write to the Watchman ?”

“We don’t know that she did.”

“Don’t we?”

“Or if she did, whether her letter was in this envelope.” He took one of Troy’s brushes and used it to flip the envelope over. “It may have been stuck up,” he said, “and opened before the gum dried. There’s not enough left to be certain. It’s big enough to take the photograph.”

Dr. Carmichael blew out his cheeks and then expelled the air rather noisily. “That’s a long shot, isn’t it?” he said.

“Of course it is,” agreed Alleyn. “Pure speculation.”

“If she wrote it,” Troy said carefully, “she dictated it. I’m sure she couldn’t type, aren’t you?”