Ngaio Marsh - Dead Water

Miss Emily dabbed her eyes.

“Very well,” she said. “I don’t believe you, of course, but very well.”

Alleyn put on his shoes.

“Where are you staying?” she asked.

“Coombe’s giving me a bed. The pubs are full. I must go. It’s seven o’clock.”

“You will dine with me, perhaps?”

“I don’t think—” He stopped. “On second thoughts,” he said, “I should be delighted. Thank you very much.”

“Are you going to ‘taste’ my wine?” she asked, ironically.

“And I might do that, too,” he said.

He left her at nine.

She had settled for the eleven o’clock train from Dunlowman in the morning. He had arranged to book a seat for her and drive her to the station. He had also telephoned her bonne-à-tout-faire , as she called the pugnacious cockney who, in spite of Miss Emily’s newly acquired riches, served her still. He saw that the outside doors to her apartment could be locked, and made certain that, on his departure, she would lock them. He bade her good night and went downstairs, wondering how big a fuss he might be making over nothing in particular.

Major Barrimore was in the office, smelling very strongly of whisky, smoking a large cigar and poring uncertainly over a copy of the Racing Supplement . Alleyn approached him.

“Major Barrimore? Miss Pride has asked me to tell you she will be leaving at ten in the morning and would like coffee and toast in her room at eight o’clock.”

“Would she, by God!” said the Major thickly and appeared to pull himself together. “Sorry,” he said. “Yes, of course. I’ll lay it on.”

“Thank you.”

Alleyn had turned away when the Major, slurring his words a little but evidently under a tight rein, said: “Afraid the lady hasn’t altogether enjoyed her visit.”

“No?”

“No. Afraid not. But if she’s been…” He swayed very slightly and leaned on the desk. “Hope she hasn’t been giving us a bad chit,” he said. “Dunno who I’m talking to, a’course. Have the advantage of me, there.”

“I’m a police officer,” Alleyn said. “Superintendent Alleyn, C.I.D.”

“Good God! She’s called in the Yard!”

“No. I’m an old friend of Miss Pride’s. The visit was unofficial.”

Major Barrimore leaned across the desk with an uncertain leer. “I say,” he said, “what is all this? You’re no damned copper, old boy. You can’t gemme t’ b’lieve that. I know my drill. ’F you ask me — more like a bloody guardee. What?”

Patrick and Jenny came into the hall from the old house.

“I think I’ll just run up, first, and see how Miss Pride is,” Jenny was saying.

“Must you?”

“She’s all right,” Major Barrimore said loudly. “She’s under police protection. Ask this man. M’ I introduce Miss Jenny Williams and my stepson? Superintendent — or so he tells me — Sorry, I forget your name, sir.”

“Alleyn.”

They murmured at each other. Patrick said to his stepfather: “I’ll take the office if you’d like to knock off.”

“The clerk fellah’s on in ten minutes. What d’you mean? I’m all right.”

“Yes, of course.”

Alleyn said to Jenny: “Miss Pride was thinking about a bath and bed when I left her.”

“She’s going. In the morning,” said the Major, and laughed.

“Going!” Jenny and Patrick exclaimed together. “Miss Pride?”

“Yes,” Alleyn said. “It seems a sensible move…I wonder if you can tell me whether the causeway’s negotiable, and if not, whether there’ll be a ferryman on tap.”

“It’ll be negotiable,” Patrick said, “but not very pleasant. Jenny and I are going down. We’ll row you across, sir. It won’t take ten minutes.”

“That’s very civil of you. Are you sure?”

“Perfectly. We’d thought of taking the boat out anyway.”

“Then in that case—” Alleyn turned to Major Barrimore. “Good night, sir.”

“G’night,” he said. When they had moved away he called after Alleyn: “If you put her up to it, you’ve done us a damn’ good turn. Have a drink on it, won’t you?”

“Thank you very much, but I really must be off. Good night.”

They went out of doors. The sky had cleared and was alive with stars. The air was rain-washed and fresh.

As they walked down the steps Patrick said abruptly: “I’m afraid my stepfather was not exactly in his best form.”

“No doubt he’s been rather highly tried.”

“No doubt,” said Patrick shortly.

“You were at the Festival, weren’t you?” Jenny asked. “With Mr. Coombe?”

“I was, yes.”

“You don’t have to be polite about it,” Patrick said. “The burning question is whether it was as funny as it was embarrassing. I can’t really make up my mind.”

“I suppose it depends upon how far one’s sympathies were engaged.”

They had reached the halfway bench. Alleyn halted for a moment and glanced up the dark slope above it.

“Yes,” Jenny said. “That was where she was.”

“You arrived on the scene, I think, didn’t you? Miss Emily said you were a great help. What did happen exactly?”

Jenny told him how she had come down the steps, heard the patter of stones, Miss Emily’s cry, and a high-pitched laugh. She described how she found Miss Emily with the cut on her neck. “Very much shaken,” said Jenny, “but full of fight.”

“A high-pitched laugh?” Alleyn repeated.

“Well, really more of a sort of squawk, like—” Jenny stopped short. “Just an odd sort of noise,” she said.

“Like Wally Trehern, for instance?”

“Why do you say that?”

“He gave a sort of squawk this afternoon when that regrettable Green Lady appeared.”

“Did he?”

“You taught him at school, didn’t you?”

“How very well informed you are, Mr. Alleyn,” said Patrick airily.

“Coombe happened to mention it.”

“Look,” Jenny said, “your visit isn’t really unofficial, is it?”

“To tell you the truth,” Alleyn said, “I’m damned if I know…Shall we move on?”

On the way across, Jenny said she supposed Alleyn must be worried on Miss Pride’s account and he rejoined cheerfully that he was worried to hell. After all, he said, one didn’t exactly relish one’s favourite old girl being used as a cockshy. Patrick, involuntarily it seemed, said that she really had rather turned herself into one, hadn’t she? “Sitting on her ledge under that umbrella, you know, and admonishing the pilgrims. It made every one feel so shy.”

“ Did she admonish them?”

“Well, I understand she said she hoped they’d enjoy a recovery but they oughtn’t to build on it. They found it very off-putting.”

Jenny said: “Will an effort be made to discover who’s behind all these tricks?”

“That’s entirely up to Superintendent Coombe.”

“Matter of protocol?” Patrick suggested.

“Exactly.”

The dinghy slid into deep shadow and bumped softly against the jetty. “Well,” Alleyn said. “I’m very much obliged to you both. Good night.”

“I can’t imagine why it should be so,” Jenny said, “but Miss Pride’s rather turned into my favorite old girl, too.”

“Isn’t it extraordinary? She doesn’t present any of the classic features. She is not faded or pretty; nor, as far as I’ve noticed, does she smell of lavender. She’s by no means gentle or sweet, and yet she doesn’t exude salty common sense. She is, without a shadow of doubt, a pigheaded, arrogant old thing.” Alleyn rose and steadied himself by the jetty steps. “Do you subscribe to the Wally-gingered-up-by-Miss Cost theory?” he asked.

“It’s as good as any other,” Patrick said. “I suppose.”