Ngaio Marsh - Tied Up in Tinsel

“It seems possible.”

“It does?”

“And the body? If he’s dead?” Alleyn asked.

“Through the window too? Hang on. Don’t rush me.”

“Not for the world. Is the body wearing the wig when it takes the high jump?”

Wrayburn swallowed. “The bloody wig,” he said. “Leave the wig for the time being. Now. I know this bunch of domestic villains are supposed to have searched the area. I know that. But what say someone — all right, one of that lot for the sake of argument — had already removed the body? In the night? Will you buy that?”

“I’ll take it on approval. Removed the body and to confuse the issue returned the unmentionable wig to the cloakroom?”

“I quite like it,” said Wrayburn with a slight attempt at modesty. “Well, anyway, it does sort of fit. It snowed up here, last night. We won’t get anything from the ground, worse luck.”

“Until it thaws.”

“That’s right. That’s dead right.” Wrayburn cleared his throat. “It’s going to be a big one,” he said and after a considerable pause: “Like I said, it’s for our C.I.D. I’ll have to ring the Detective Chief Super about this one and I reckon I know what he’ll say. He’ll say we set up a search. Look, I’ll get onto this right away. You wait here. Will you?”

“Well—”

“I’d be obliged.”

“All right.”

So Wrayburn went off to telephone his Detective Chief Superintendent and Alleyn, a prey to forebodings, was left to contemplate the cloakroom.

Wrayburn came back, full of business. “There you are!” he said. “Just as I thought: He’s going to talk to his senior ’tecs and in the meantime I’m to carry on here. As from now. I’m to lay on a search party and ask Major Marchbanks for dogs. You’ll hang on, won’t you?” Alleyn promised and did so. When Wrayburn had gone he reexamined the wig, plucked a hair for himself, touched the still-damp robe, and fell into an abstraction from which Mr. Wrayburn’s return aroused him.

“No joy,” grumbled Wrayburn. “Breaking and entering with violence and Lord knows what else at the D.C.S.’s. He is calling up as many chaps as he can and the Major’s sending us what he can spare. They should be here within the hour. In the meantime—” he broke off, glanced at Alleyn, and made a fresh start. “There’ll have to be confirmation of all this stuff — statements from the party. The lot.”

“Big thing for you.”

“Are you joking? While it lasts, which will be until the C.I.D. comes waltzing in. Then back down the road smartly for me, to the drunks-in-charge. Look!” he burst out. “I don’t reckon our lot can handle it. Not on their own. Like the man said: we’re understaffed and we’re busy. We’re fully extended. I don’t mind betting the D.C.S.’ll talk to the C.C. before the hour’s out.”

“He’ll be able to call on the county for extra men.”

“He’d do better to go straight to the Yard. Now!”

Alleyn was silent.

“You know what I’m getting at, don’t you?”

“I do, but I wish you wouldn’t. The situation’s altogether too freakish. My wife’s a guest here and so am I. I’m the last person to meddle. I’ve told Bill-Tasman as much. Let them call in the Yard if they like, but not me. Leave me out. Get a statement from my wife, of course. You’ll want to do that. And then, unless there’s any good reason against it, I’ll take her away and damn’ glad to do so. And that’s final. I’ll leave you to it. You’ll want to lock up this place and then you can get cracking. Are there keys? Yes. There you are.”

“But —”

“My dear man, no. Not another word. Please.”

Alleyn went out, quickly, into the hall.

He encountered Hilary standing about six feet away with an air strangely compounded of diffidence flavoured with defiance.

“I don’t know what you’ll think of me,” said Hilary. “I daresay you may be very cross. You see, I’ve been talking to our local pundit. The Detective Chief-Superintendent. And to your boss-person at the C.I.D.”

“— It’s just,” Hilary blandly explained, “that I do happen to know him. Soon after I was first settled with the staff here, he paid a visit to the Vale, and Marchbanks brought him over for tea. He was interested in my experiment. But we mustn’t keep him waiting, must we?”

“He’s still on the line?”

“Yes. He’d like to have a word with you. There’s a telephone over there. I know you’re going to forgive me,” Hilary said to Alleyn’s back.

“Then you know a damn’ sight more than’s good for you,” Alleyn thought. He gave himself a second or two to regain his temper and lifted the receiver. Hilary left him with ostentatious tact. Alleyn wondered if he was going to have a sly listen in from wherever he had established the call.

The Assistant Commissioner was plaintive and slightly facetious. “My dear Rory,” he said, “what very odd company you keep: no holiday like a busman’s, I see.”

“I assure you, sir, it’s none of my seeking.”

“So I supposed. Are you alone?”

“Ostensibly.”

“Quite. Well, now your local D.C. Super rang me before Bill-Tasman did. It seems there’s no joy down your way: big multiple stores robbery, with violence, and a near riot following some bloody sit-in. They’re sending a few chaps out but they’re fully extended and can’t really spare them. As far as I can gather this show of yours —”

“It’s not mine.”

“Wait a minute. This show of yours looks as if it might develop into something, doesn’t it?” This was the Assistant Commissioner’s stock phrase for suspected homicide.

“It might, yes.”

“Yes. Your host would like you to take over.”

“But the D.C.S. is in charge, sir. In the meantime Wrayburn, the Div. Super from Downlow’s holding the fort.”

“Has the D.C.S. expressed his intention of going it alone?”

“I understand he’s bellyaching —”

“He is indeed. He wants the Yard.”

“But he’ll have to talk to his Chief Constable, sir, before —”

“His Chief Constable is in the Bermudas.”

“Damnation!”

“This is a very bad line. What was that you said?”

Alleyn repressed an impulse to say “you ’eard.”

“I swore,” he said.

“That won’t get you anywhere, Rory.”

“Look, sir — my wife — Troy — she’s a guest in the house. So am I. It’s a preposterous setup. Isn’t it?”

“I’ve thought of that. Troy had better come back to London, don’t you agree? Give her my best respects and tell her I’m sorry to visit the policeman’s lot upon her.”

“But, sir, if I held the other guests I’d have to — you see what a farcical situation it is.”

“Take statements and let ’em go if you think it’s O.K. You’ve got a promising field without them, haven’t you?”

“I’m not so sure. It’s a rum go. It’s worse than that, it’s lunatic.”

“You’re thinking of the homicidal domestics? An excellent if extreme example of rehabilitation. But of course you may find that somewhere among them there’s a twicer. Rory,” said the A.C., changing his tone, “I’m sorry but we’re uncommonly busy in the department. This job ought to be tackled at once, and it needs a man with your peculiar talents.”

“And that’s an order?”

“Well, yes. I’m afraid it is.”

“Very good, sir.”

“We’ll send you down Mr. Fox for a treat. Would you like to speak to him?”

“I won’t trouble him.” Alleyn said sourly. “But — wait a moment.”

“Yes?”

“I believe Wrayburn has a list of the domestic staff here. I’d like to get a C.R.O. report.”