Ngaio Marsh - Clutch of Constables

“Sir. Having read them when he sat on the bank, sir, and torn them out as a consequence?”

“That’s it. Before the trial he ratted in the hope of reducing his sentence and will live in terror of the Jampot for the rest of his days. He told us the missing pages contained an account of the conversation Miss Rickerby-Carrick overheard in Tollardwark. Between—”

Carmichael’s boots became agitated.

“—between,” Alleyn loudly went on, “Foljambe, Lazenby and Pollock. About—All right, Carmichael, all right. You tell us.”

“About your leddy-wife maybe,” Carmichael said, “sir. And maybe they touched on the matter of the planted picture, sir. And their liaison with cyclists, and so on and so forth.”

“Perhaps. But according to the wretched Lazenby it was mostly about Andropulos. When Miss Rickerby-Carrick tried to confide in my wife, she was very agitated. She kept saying ‘And—And—’ and ‘Oh God. Wait’. I think—we shall never know, of course—she was trying to remember his name. Lazenby intervened as the Jampot did when Pollock became altogether too interested in my wife’s drawing and altogether too ready to assist. The Jampot let it appear that he resented Pollock’s over-familiarity. So he did, but not for reasons of gallantry.”

Carmichael resumed his seat.

“Any more? Yes?” It was the same man in the back row.

“I was wondering, sir, exactly what did happen on the night in question. At Crossdyke, sir?”

“The autopsy showed Miss Rickerby-Carrick had taken a pretty massive barbiturate. One of Miss Hewson’s pills no doubt. She slept on deck at the after-end behind a heap of chairs covered by a tarpaulin. Foljambe’s cabin, No. 1, was next to the companionway. When all was quiet he went up through the saloon to the deck and, because she knew too much, killed her, took the Fabergé jewel and handed it and the body over to the cyclist — his name by the way is Smith — who had been ordered to wait ashore for it and was given his instructions. My wife remembered that, at sometime in the night, she had heard the motor-bike engine. Yes?”

A man in the third row said, “Sir: Did they all know, sir? About the murder, sir. Except the doctor?”

“According to Lazenby (I’ll still call him that) not beforehand. When Lazenby told Foljambe about the diary Foljambe merely said he would deal with the situation and ordered Lazenby to keep his mouth shut, which he did. No doubt in the sequel they all knew or guessed. But he was not a confiding type, even with his closest associates.”

“And—the way they carried on, sir. Bickering and all that among themselves. Was that a put-up show, then, sir?”

“Ah!” Alleyn said. “That’s what my wife asked me the next night in Norminster.”

-1-

“It was all a put-up job, then?” Troy asked. “The way Caley — he — I still think of him as that — the way he blazed away at Pollock and the way those three seemed to dislike and fight shy of him and abuse him — well — the whole interrelationship as it was displayed to us? All an act?”

“My love, yes.”

“But, Hewson’s distress over his sister—” she turned to Dr Natouche. ”You said he was distressed, didn’t you?”

“I thought so, certainly.”

“He was distressed all right and he was deadly frightened into the bargain,” Alleyn grunted and after a moment he said: “You were among counterfeiters, darling, and very expert hands at that. Do fill up your glass, Natouche.”

“Thank you. I suppose,” Dr Natouche said, “they looked upon me as a sort of windfall. They could all combine to throw suspicion upon me. Bard was particularly adroit. I must apologise, by the way, for losing my temper. It was when he lied about my going below during the uproar. He knew perfectly well that I went below. We ran into each other at the stairhead. When he lied I behaved like the savage they all thought me.” He turned to Troy. “I am glad you did not see it,” he said.

Alleyn remembered the uplifted ebony arms, the curved hands and the naked fury of the face and he thought Troy might have seen an element in Dr Natouche’s rage that he would never suspect her of finding.

In some sort echoing, as she often did, Alleyn’s thoughts about her, she said to Dr Natouche. “You must say at once—you will, please, won’t you?—if it’s an unwelcome suggestion, but some day, when you can spare the time, will you let me paint you?”

“If you look closely,” he said with an air of astonishment, “you may be able to see that I am blushing.”

They finished their dinner and talked for a time and then Troy and Alleyn walked with Dr Natouche to the garage where he had left his car. The inquest was over and he was driving back to Liverpool that night. By a sort of tacit consent they did not discuss the sequel.

It was a sultry night and very still with a hint of thunder in the air. But there was no mist. They came to the top of Wharf Lane and looked down at The River. There was the Zodiac , quietly riding at her moorings with her cherry-coloured curtains glowing companionably. And there, on the right, were the offices of The Pleasure Craft and Riverage Company. Troy fancied she could make out a card stuck to the window and crossed the lane to see.

“They’ve forgotten to take it down,” she said and the men read it.

M.V. Zodiac. Last minute cancellation.

A single-berth cabin is available for

this day’s sailing. Apply within.

The End