Ngaio Marsh - Grave Mistake

“Here! Wait a bit — wait a bit,” said Fox, startled. He became broody and remained so all the way to Greater Quintern.

They drove to the police station where Alleyn had established his headquarters and been given a sort of mini-office next door to the charge room. It had a table, three chairs, writing material and a telephone, which was all he expected to be given, and suited him very well.

The sergeant behind the counter in the front office was on the telephone when they came in. When he saw Alleyn he raised his hand.

“Just a minute, Madam,” he said. “The Chief Superintendent has come in. Will you hold on, please?” He put his enormous hand over the receiver. “It’s a lady asking for you, sir. She seems to be upset. Shall I take the name?”

“Do.”

“What name was it, Madam? Yes, Madam, he is here. What name shall I say? Thank you. Hold the line please,” said the sergeant, restopping the receiver. “It’s a Sister Jackson, sir. She says it’s very urgent.”

Alleyn gave a long whistle, pulled a face at Fox and said he’d take the call in his room.

Sister Jackson’s voice, when it came through, was an extraordinary mixture of refinement and what sounded like sheer terror. She whispered, and her whisper was of the piercing kind. She gasped, she faded out altogether and came back with a rush. She apologized for being silly and said she didn’t know what he would think of her. Finally she breathed heavily into the receiver, said she was “in shock” and wanted to see him. She could not elaborate over the telephone.

Alleyn, thoughtfully contemplating Mr. Fox, said he would come to Greengages, upon which she gave an instantly muffled shriek and said no, no that would never do and that she had the evening off and would meet him in the bar-parlour of the Iron Duke on the outskirts of Maidstone. “It’s quite nice, really,” she quavered.

“Certainly,” Alleyn said. “What time?”

“About nayne?”

“Nine let it be. Cheer up, Sister. You don’t feel like giving me an inkling as to what it’s all about?”

When she answered she had evidently put her mouth inside the receiver.

“Blackmail,” she articulated and his eardrum tingled.

Approaching voices were to be heard. Sister Jackson came through from a normal distance. “O.K.” she cried. “That’ll be fantastic, cheery-bye” and hung up.

“Blackmail,”‘ Alleyn said to Fox. “We’ve only got to mention it and up it rises.”

“Well!” said Fox, “fancy that! Would it be going too far to mention Claude?”

“Who can tell? But at least it’s suggestive. I’ll leave you to get things laid up in the village. Where are Bailey and Thompson, by the way?”

“Doing the fireplace and the toolshed. They’re to ring back here before leaving.”

“Right. Get the local copper to keep an eye on the lych-gate until B and T arrive. Having dealt with that and just to show zealous they may then go over the churchyard area and see if they can find a trace we’ve missed. And having turned them on, Fox, check the progress, if any, of the search for Claude Carter. Oh, and see if you can get a check on the London train from Great Quintern at eleven-five last night. I think that’s the lot.”

“You don’t require me?”

“No. La belle Jackson is clearly not in the mood. Sickening for you.”

“We’ll meet at our pub, then?”

“Yes.”

“I shan’t wait up,” said Fox.

“Don’t dream of it.”

“In the meantime I’ll stroll down to the station hoping for better luck than I had with the Greengages bus.”

“Do. I’ll bring my file up to date.”

“Were you thinking of taking dinner?”

“I was thinking of taking worm-coloured fish in pink sauce and athletic fowl at our own pub. Do join me.”

“Thanks. That’s all settled, then,” said Fox comfortably and took himself oft.

v

There were only seven customers in the bar-parlour of the Iron Duke when Alleyn walked in at a quarter to nine: an amorous couple at a corner table and five city-dressed men playing poker.

Alleyn took a glass of a respectable port to a banquette at the farthest remove from the other tables and opened the evening paper. A distant roar of voices from the two bars bore witness to the Duke’s popularity. At five to nine Sister Jackson walked in. He received the slight shock caused by an encounter with a nurse seen for the first time out of uniform. Sister Jackson was sheathed in clinging blue with a fairly reckless cleavage. She wore a velvet beret that rakishly shaded her face, and insistent gloves. He saw that her makeup was more emphatic than usual, especially about the eyes. She had been crying.

“How punctual we both are,” he said. He turned a chair to the table with its back to the room and facing the banquette. She sat in it without looking at him and with a movement of her shoulders that held a faint suggestion of what might have passed as provocation under happier circumstances. He asked her what she would have to drink and when she hesitated and bridled a little, proposed brandy.

“Well — thank you,” she said. He ordered a double one. When it came she took a sudden pull at it, shuddered and said she had been under a severe strain. It was the first remark of more than three words that she had offered.

“This seems quite a pleasant pub,” he said. “Do you often come here?”

“No. Never. They — we — all use the Crown at Greendale. That’s why I suggested it. To be sure.”

“I’m glad,” Alleyn said, “that whatever it’s all about you decided to tell me.”

“It’s very difficult to begin.”

“Never mind. Try. You said something about blackmail, didn’t you? Shall we begin there?”

She stared at him for an awkwardly long time and then suddenly opened her handbag, pulled out a folded paper and thrust it across the table. She then took another pull at her brandy.

Alleyn unfolded the paper, using his pen and a fingernail to do so. “Were you by any chance wearing gloves when you handled this?” he asked.

“As it happened. I was going out. I picked it up at the desk.”

“Where’s the envelope?”

“I don’t know. Yes, I do. I think. On the floor of my car. I opened it in the car.”

The paper was now spread out on the table. It was of a kind as well-known to the police as a hand-bill: a piece of off-white commercial paper, long and narrow, that might have been torn from a domestic aide-mémoire . The message was composed of words and letters that had been cut from newsprint and gummed in two irregular lines.

“Post £500 fives and singles to C. Morris 11 Port Lane Southampton otherwise will inform police your visit to room 20 Genuine”

Alleyn looked at Sister Jackson and Sister Jackson looked like a mesmerized rabbit at him.

“When did it come?”

“Yesterday morning.”

“To Greengages?”

“Yes.”

“Is the envelope addressed in this fashion?”

“Yes. My name’s all in one. I recognized it — it’s from an advertisement in the local rag for Jackson’s Drapery and it’s the same with Greengages Hotel. Cut out of an advertisement.”

“You didn’t comply, of course?”

“No. I didn’t know what to do. I — nothing like that’s ever happened to me — I–I was dreadfully upset.”

“You didn’t ask anyone to advise you?”

She shook her head.

“Dr. Schramm, for instance?”

He could have sworn that her opulent flesh did a little hop and that for the briefest moment an extremely vindictive look flicked on and off. She wetted her mouth. “Oh, no,” she whispered. “No, thank you!”

“This is the only message you’ve received?”