Ngaio Marsh - Tied Up in Tinsel

“Look here,” Alleyn said. “If you’ve got any kind of information that might have even a remote bearing on this business, do for Heaven’s sake let Wrayburn have it. You said, when we were in the other room, that there’s been a development.”

“I know I did. Cressida came in.”

“Yes — well, do let Wrayburn have it. It won’t go any further if it has no significance.”

“Hold on,” said Hilary. “Wait. Wait.”

He motioned Alleyn to sit down and, when he had done so, locked the door. He drew the window curtains close shut, returned to his desk, and knelt down before it.

“That’s a beautiful desk,” Alleyn said. “Hepplewhite?”

“Yes.” Hilary fished a key out of his pocket. “It’s intact. No restoration nonsense.” He reached into the back of the kneehole. Alleyn heard the key turn. Hilary seemed to recollect himself. With a curious half-sheepish glance at Alleyn, he wrapped his handkerchief about his hand. He groped. There was an interval of a few seconds and then he sat back on his heels.

“Look,” he said.

On the carpet, near Alleyn’s feet, he laid down a crumpled newspaper package.

Alleyn leant forward. Hilary pulled back the newspaper.

He disclosed a short steel poker with an ornate handle.

Alleyn looked at it for a moment. “Yes?” he said. “Where did you find it?”

“That’s what’s so — upsetting.” Hilary gave a sideways motion of his head towards the window. “Out there,” he said. “Where you were looking — I saw you — just now when I was on the telephone. In the tree.”

“The Christmas tree?”

“No, no, no. The growing tree. Inside it. Lying across the branches. Caught up, sort of, by the handle.”

“When did you find it?”

“This afternoon. I was in here wondering whether, after all, I should ring up Marchbanks or the police and hating the idea of ringing up anybody because of — you understand — the staff. And I walked over to the window and looked out. Without looking. You know? And then I saw something catching the light in the tree. I didn’t realize at once what it was. The tree’s quite close to the window — almost touching it. So I opened the window and looked more carefully and finally I stepped over the ledge and got it. I’m afraid I didn’t think of fingerprints at that juncture.”

Alleyn, sitting on the edge of his chair, still looked at the poker. “You recognize it?” he said. “Where it comes from?”

“Of course. I bought it. It’s part of a set. Late eighteenth century. Probably Welsh. There’s a Welsh press to go with it.”

“Where?”

“Uncle Flea’s dressing-room.”

“I see.”

“Yes, but do you? Did Troy tell you? About the Fleas’ tin box?”

“Mrs. Forrester says somebody had tried to force the lock?”

“Exactly! Precisely! With a poker. She actually said with a poker. Well: as if with a poker. And it wasn’t Moult because Moult, believe it or not, keeps the key. So why a poker for Moult?”

“Quite.”

“And — there are dark marks on it. At the end. If you look. Mightn’t they be stains of black japanning? It’s a japanned tin box. Actually, Uncle Flea’s old uniform case.”

“Have you by any chance got a lens?”

“Of course I’ve got a lens,” Hilary said querulously. “One constantly uses lenses in our business. Here. Wait a moment.”

He found one in his desk and gave it to Alleyn.

It was not very high-powered but it was good enough to show, at the business end of the poker, a dark smear hatched across by scratches: a slight glutinous deposit to which the needle from a conifer adhered. Alleyn stooped lower.

Hilary said, “Well? Anything?”

“Did you look closely at this?”

“No, I didn’t, I was expecting my aunt to come in. Aunt Bed is perpetually making entrances. She wanted to harry me and I didn’t want to add to her fury by letting her see this. So I wrapped it up and locked it away. Just in time, as it turned out. In she came with all her hackles up. If ladies have hackles.”

“But you did notice the marks then?”

“Yes. Just.”

“They’re not made by lacquer.”

“Oh?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Afraid? What do you mean — afraid?”

“See for yourself.”

Alleyn gave Hilary the glass. Hilary stared at him and then knelt by the crumpled paper with its trophy. Alleyn moved the desk lamp to throw a stronger light on the area. Hilary bent his body as if he performed some oriental obeisance before the poker.

“Do you see?” Alleyn said. “It’s not what you supposed, is it? Look carefully. The deposit is sticky, isn’t it? There’s a fir needle stuck to it. And underneath — I think Mr. Wrayburn would rather you didn’t touch it — underneath, but just showing one end, there’s a gold-coloured thread. Do you see it?”

“I — yes. Yes, I think — yes —”

“Tell me,” Alleyn asked. “What colour was the Druid’s wig?”

“Now, I tell you what,” Alleyn said to his wife. “This thing has all the signs of becoming a top-ranking nuisance, and I’m damned if I’ll have you involved in it. You know what happened that other time you got stuck into a nuisance.”

“If you’re thinking of bundling me off to a pub in Downlow, I’ll jib.”

“What I’m thinking of is a quick return by both of us to London.”

“Before the local force gets any ideas about you?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re a bit late for that, darling, aren’t you? Where’s Mr. Wrayburn?”

“In the study, I imagine. I left Bill-Tasman contemplating his poker and I told him it’d be better if he saw the Super alone. He didn’t much like the idea, but there it is.”

“Poor Hilary!”

“I daresay. It’s a bit of an earthquake under his ivory tower, isn’t it?”

“Do you like him, Rory?”

Alleyn said, “I don’t know. I’m cross with him because he’s being silly but — yes, I suppose if we’d met under normal conditions I’d have quite liked him. Why?”

“He’s a strange one. When I was painting him I kept thinking of such incongruous things.”

“Such as?”

“Oh — fauns and camels and things.”

“Which does his portrait favour?”

“At first, the camel. But the faun has sort of intervened — I mean the Pan job, you know, not the sweet little deer.”

“So I supposed. If he’s a Pan-job I’ll bet he’s met his match in his intended nymph.”

“She went in, boots and all, after you, didn’t she?”

“If only,” Alleyn said, “I could detect one pinch, one soupçon, of the green-eyed monster in you, my dish, I’d crow like a bloody rooster.”

“We’d better finish changing. Hilary will be expecting us. Drinks at seven. You’re to meet Mr. Smith and the Fleas.”

“I can wait.”

There was a tap at the door.

“You won’t have to,” said Troy. “Come in.”

It was Nigel, all downcast eyes, to present Mr. Bill-Tasman’s compliments to Mr. Alleyn and he would be very glad if Mr. Alleyn would join him in the study.

“In five minutes,” Alleyn said, and when Nigel had gone: “Which was that?”

“The one that killed a sinful lady. Nigel.”

“I thought as much. Here I go.”

He performed one of the lightning changes to which Troy was pretty well accustomed, gave her a kiss, and went downstairs.

Superintendent Wrayburn was a sandy man; big, of course, but on the bonier side. He was principally remarkable for his eyebrows, which resembled those of a Scotch terrier, and his complexion which, in midwinter, was still freckled like a plover’s egg.

Alleyn found him closeted with Hilary in the study. The poker, rewrapped, lay on the desk. Before Hilary was a glass of sherry and before Mr. Wrayburn, a pretty generous whisky and water, from which Alleyn deduced that he hadn’t definitely made up his mind what sort of job he seemed to be on. He was obviously glad to see Alleyn and said it was quite a coincidence, wasn’t it?