Ngaio Marsh - Grave Mistake

“Even plutocratic yachts are not necessarily steamed up and ready to sail at the drop of a hat.”

“This one is.”

“Really?”

“He happened to mention it,” said Verity, turning pink. “He’s planning a cruise in four weeks’ time. He could put it forward.”

“Are you invited?”

“I can’t go,” she said shortly. “I’ve got a first night coming up.”

“You know, your suggestion has its points. Even if someone does talk about it, long after it’s all over and done with, that’s not going to be as bad as knowing it is going to be done now and that it’s actually happening. Or is it?”

“Not nearly so bad.”

“And in any case,” Alleyn said, more to himself than to her, “she’s going to find out — ultimately. Unless I’m all to blazes.” He stood up. “I’ll leave it to you,” he said. “The decision. Is that unfair?”

“No. It’s good of you to concern yourself. So I talk to Nikolas. Is that it?”

To Verity’s surprise he hesitated for a moment.

“Could you, perhaps, suggest he put forward the cruise because Prunella’s had about as much as she can take and would be all the better for a complete change of scene: now?”

“I suppose so. I don’t much fancy asking a favour.”

“No? Because he’ll be a little too delighted to oblige?”

“Something like that,” said Verity.

ii

The next day dawned overcast with the promise of rain. By late afternoon it was coming down inexorably.

“Set in solid,” Fox said, staring out of the station window.

“In one way a hellish bore and in another an advantage.”

“You mean people will be kept indoors?”

“That’s right.”

“It’ll be heavy going, though,” sighed Fox. “For our lot.”

“All of that.”

The telephone rang. Alleyn answered it quickly. It was the Yard. The duty squad with men and equipment was about to leave in a “nondescript” vehicle and wanted to know if there were any final orders. The sergeant in charge checked over details.

“Just a moment,” Alleyn said. And to Fox. “What time does the village take its evening meal, would you say?”

“I’ll ask McGuiness.” He went into the front office and returned.

“Between five-thirty and six-thirty. And after that they’ll be at their tellies.”

“Yes. Hullo,” Alleyn said into the receiver. “I want you to time it so that you arrive at six o’clock with the least possible amount of fuss. Come to the vicarage. Make it all look like a repair job. No uniform copper. There’s a downpour going on here, you’ll need to dress for it. I’ll be there. You’ll go through the church and out by an exit on the far side, which is out of sight from the village. If by any unlikely chance somebody gets curious, you’re looking for a leak in the roof. Got it? Good. Put me through to Missing Persons and stay where you are for ten minutes in case there’s a change of procedure. Then leave.”

Alleyn waited. He felt the pulse in the bruise on his jaw and knew it beat a little faster. “If they give a positive answer,” he thought, “it’s all up. Call off the exercise and back we go to square one.”

A voice on the line. “Hullo? Superintendent Alleyn? You were calling us, sir?”

“Yes. Any reports come in?”

“Nothing, sir. No joy anywhere.”

“Southampton? The stationer’s shop?”

“Nothing.”

“Thank God.”

“I beg pardon, Mr. Alleyn?”

“Never mind. It’s, to coin a phrase, a case of no news being good news. Keep going, though. Until you get orders to the contrary and if any sign or sniff of Carter comes up let me know at once. At once. This is of great importance. Understood?”

“Understood, Mr. Alleyn.”

Alleyn hung up and looked at his watch. Four-thirty.

“We give it an hour and then go over,” he said.

The hour passed slowly. Rain streamed down the blinded window pane. Small occupational noises could be heard in the front office and the intermittent sounds of passing vehicles.

At twenty past five the constable on duty brought in that panacea against anxiety that the Force has unfailingly on tap: strong tea in heavy cups and two recalcitrant biscuits.

Alleyn, with difficulty, swallowed the tea. He carried his cup into the front office where Sergeant McGuiness, with an affectation of nonchalance, said it wouldn’t be long now, would it?

“No,” said Alleyn, “you can gird up your loins, such as they are,” and returned to his own room. He and Fox exchanged a nod and put on heavy mackintoshes, sou’westers and gum boots. He looked at his watch. Half-past five.

“Give it three minutes,” he said. They waited.

The telephone rang in the front office but not for them. They went through. Sergeant McGuiness was attired in oilskin and sou’wester.

Alleyn said to P.C. Dance: “If there’s a call for me from Missing Persons, ring Upper Quintern Rectory. Have the number under your nose.”

He and Fox and McGuiness went out into the rain and drove to Upper Quintern village. The interior of the car smelt of stale smoke, rubber and petrol. The wind-screen wipers jerked to and fro, surface water fanned up from under their wheels and sloshed against the windows. The sky was so blackened with rainclouds that a premature dusk seemed to have fallen on the village. Not a soul was abroad in Long Lane. The red window curtains in the bar of the Passcoigne Arms glowed dimly.

“This is not going to let up,” said Fox.

Alleyn led the way up a steep and slippery path to the vicarage. They were expected and the door was opened before they reached it.

The Vicar, white-faced and anxious, welcomed them and took them to his study, which was like all parsonic studies with its framed photographs of ordinands and steel engravings of’classic monuments, its high fender, its worn chairs and its rows of predictable literature.

“This is a shocking business,” said the Vicar. “I can’t tell you how distressing I find it. Is it — I mean I suppose it must be — absolutely necessary?”

“I’m afraid it is,” said Alleyn.

“Inspector Fox,” said the Vicar, looking wistfully at him, “was very discreet.”

Fox modestly contemplated the far wall of the study.

“He said he thought he should leave it to you to explain.”

“Indeed,” Alleyn rejoined with a long hard stare at his subordinate.

“And I do hope you will. I think I should know. You see, it is consecrated ground.”

“Yes.”

“So — may I, if you please, be told?” asked the Vicar with what Alleyn thought, rather touching simplicity.

“Of course,” he said. “I’ll tell you why we are doing it and what we think we may find. In honesty I should add that we may find nothing and the operation therefore may prove to have been quite fruitless. But this is the theory.”

The Vicar listened.

“I think,” he said when Alleyn had finished, “that I’ve never heard anything more dreadful. And I have heard some very dreadful things. We do, you know.”

“I’m sure.”

“Even in quiet little parishes like this. You’d be surprised, wouldn’t he, Sergeant McGuiness?” asked the Vicar. He waited for a moment and then said: “I must ask you to allow me to be present. I would rather not, of course, because I am a squeamish man. But — I don’t want to sound pompous — I think it’s my duty.”

Alleyn said: “We’ll be glad to have you there. As far as possible we’ll try to avoid attracting notice. I’ve been wondering if by any chance there’s a less public way of going to the church than up those steps.”

“There is our path. Through the shrubbery and thicket. It will be rather damp but it’s short and inconspicuous. I would have to guide you.”