Ngaio Marsh - Dead Water

Patrick said quickly: “Of course. Much the best way.”

He stood up. “I was late for lunch,” he said, “because I was having a drink with George Pender in the bar. I went direct from the bar to the dining-room. I didn’t go near the office. What about you, Mama?”

Mrs. Barrimore twisted her fingers together and looked up at her son. She answered him as if it were a matter private to them both. “Do you mean, what did I do when I left the dining-room? Yes, I see. I–I went into the hall. There was a crowd of people from the bus. Some of them asked about — oh, the usual things. One of them seemed — very unwell — and I took her into the lounge to sit down. Then I went across to the old house. And—”

Dr. Mayne said: “I met Mrs. Barrimore as she came in. I was in the old house. I’d called to have a word with her about Miss Pride. To learn if she was”—he glanced at her—“if she was behaving herself,” he said drily. “I went into the old bar-parlour. Major Barrimore was there. I spoke to him for a minute or two, and then had a snack lunch in the new bar. I then visited a patient who is staying in the hotel, and at 2:30 I called on Miss Pride. I found her busy at the telephone, summoning this meeting. At her request I have attended it.”

He had spoken rapidly. Mr. Coombe said: “Just a minute, if you please, Doctor,” and they were all silent while he completed his notes. “Yes,” he said at last. “Well, now. That leaves His Worship, doesn’t it, and—”

“I must say,” Mr. Nankivell interrupted, “and say it I do and will — I did not anticipate, when called upon at a busy and inconvenient time, to be axed to clear myself of participation in a damn fool childish prank. Further, I take leave to put on record that I look upon the demand made upon me as one unbecoming to the office I have the honour to hold. Having said which, I’ll thank you to make a note of it, Alf Coombe. I state further that during the first part of the period in question I was in the Mayoral Chambers at the execution of my duties, from which I moved to the back office of my butchery, attending to my own business, which is more than can be said of persons who shall, for purposes of this discussion, remain nameless.”

Mr. Coombe made a short note: “In his butchery,” and turned to the Rector.

“I’ve been trying to think,” said Mr. Carstairs. “I’m not at all good at times and places, I fear, and it’s been a busy day. Let me see. Oh, yes! I visited the cottages this morning. Actually, the main object was to call on that wretched Mrs. Trehern — things have been very much amiss, there, it’s a sad case — and one or two other folk on the Island. I don’t know when I walked back, but I believe I was late for lunch. My wife, I daresay, could tell you.”

“Did you come up to the Boy-and-Lobster, sir?”

“Did I? Yes, I did. As a matter of fact, Miss Pride, I intended to call on you, to see if you were quite recovered, but the main entrance was crowded and I saw that luncheon had begun so — I didn’t, you see.”

“You went home, sir?” asked the Superintendent.

“Yes. Late.”

Mr. Coombe shut his notebook. “All right,” he said, “so far as it goes. Now, in the normal course of procedure these statements would be followed up; and follow them up I shall, which takes time. So unless anyone has anything further to add — Yes, Miss Pride?”

“I merely observe, Superintendent, that I shall be glad to support you in your investigations. And to that end,” she added, in the absence of any sign of enthusiasm, “I shall announce at once that I have arrived at my own conclusion. There is, I consider, only one individual to whom these outrages may be attributed, and that person, I firmly believe, is—”

The telephone rang.

It was at Miss Emily’s elbow. She said, “ T’ch !” and picked it up. “Yes? Are you there?” she asked.

A treble voice, audible to everybody in the room, asked:

“ Be that Miss Emily Pride ?”

“Speaking.”

“ You leave us be, Miss Emily Pride, or the Lady will get you. You’ll be dead as a stone, Miss Emily Pride .”

“Who is that?”

The telephone clicked and began to give the dial tone.

Patrick said: “That was a child’s voice. It must have been—”

“No,” said Miss Emily. “I think not. I have an acute ear for phonetics. It was an assumed accent. And it was not a child. It was the voice of Miss Elspeth Cost.”

The persons taking part in the Festival celebrations assembled at four o’clock on Saturday at the foot of the hill in Fisherman’s Bay. There were a company of little girls wearing green cheesecloth dresses and stars in their hair, about a dozen larger girls, similarly attired, and a few small boys in green cotton smocks. In the rear of this collection came Wally Trehern, also smocked, with his hair sleeked down and a bewildered expression on his face. His hands were noticeably clean. The Mayor and City Councillors and other local dignitaries were yet to come.

Miss Cost marshalled and re-marshalled her troupe. She wore a mobcap and handwoven cloak of the prevailing green, over a full skirt, and an emerald velveteen bodice. The afternoon was sultry and her nose and eyebrows glittered. She carried a camera and a sheaf of papers clipped to a board and exhibited signs of emotional stress.

Thunderclouds were massed in the northwest and everybody eyed them with distrust. Not a breath of air stirred. An ominous hot stillness prevailed.

The enclosure was packed. An overflow of spectators had climbed the hill above the spring, and sat or lay in the blinding heat. The route, from the foreshore to the spring—“Wally’s Way,” in the programme — was lined with spectators. Seats in the enclosure were provided for the ailing and for the official party and other persons of importance. These included the Barrimores, Jenny, Dr. Mayne, and Mr. and Mrs. Carstairs. The Rector, preserving his detachment, had declined any official part in the ceremony. “Though I must say,” he confided to his wife, “it sounds innocuous enough, in a way, from what I’ve heard. I’m afraid Miss Cost’s verse is really pretty dreadful, poor dear.”

“Tell me the moment you see Miss Pride.”

“I can’t help hoping that in the event we shan’t see her at all.”

“I suppose that chair by Mrs. Barrimore is reserved for her.”

“Let us hope she occupies it and doesn’t return to her original plan. She would look too out of place on the ledge.”

“It would put Wally off his poetry, I have no doubt,” Mrs. Carstairs agreeed.

“Not only that, but I understand they use it in their pageant or whatever it is.”

“Then it would be very inconsiderate if she insisted.”

“Mind you, Dulcie, I maintain that in principle she is right.”

“Yes, dear, I’m sure you do,” said Mrs. Carstairs. She gave a little sigh and may have been thinking that things had been a good deal easier over the last two years.

Patrick said to Jenny: “Did you see her before we left?”

“Yes. She’s agreed not to sit on the ledge.”

“How did you do it, you clever girl?”

“I told her I thought it would be unbecoming, and that the children would giggle and the gentlemen look at her legs.”

“Do you suppose she’ll cut up rough at any stage?”

“I’ve no idea.…Listen.…”

“What?”

“Wasn’t that thunder?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Look, there’s Coombe coming in now. Who’s that with him, I wonder — the tall chap?”

“Jolly good-looking,” said Jenny.

“Jolly good tailor, anyway.”

“P’raps it’s one of Miss Pride’s smart chums. She’s got masses, it appears, nearly all diplomats of the first water, she told me.”