Ngaio Marsh - Dead Water

The neck was rigid. He had to raise the body by the shoulders before exposing the back of the head.

“Well, well,” said Coombe. “Just fancy that, now. Knocked out, fell forward into the pool and drowned. That the story?”

“Looks like it, doesn’t it? And, see here.”

Alleyn lifted a fold of the dripping skirt. He exposed Miss Cost’s right hand, bleached and wrinkled. It was rigidly clenched about a long string of glittering beads.

“Cor!” said Coombe.

“The place is one solid water of footprints, but I think you can pick hers: leading up to the shelf. The girl dropped the beads yesterday from above, I remember. They dangled over this ledge, half in the pool. In the stampede, nobody rescued them.”

“And she came back? To fetch them?”

“It’s a possibility, wouldn’t you think? There’s her handbag on the shelf.”

Coombe opened it. “Prayerbook and purse,” he said.

“When’s the first service?”

“Seven, I think.”

“There’s another at nine. She was either going to church, or had been there. That puts it at somewhere before seven for the first service, or round about 8:15 if she had attended it, or was going to the later one. When did it stop raining? About 8:30, I think. If those are her prints, they’ve been rained into, and she’d got her umbrella open. Take a look at it.”

There was a ragged split in the wet cover, which was old and partly perished. Alleyn displayed the inside. It was stained round the split, and not with rain water. He pointed a long finger. “That’s one of her hairs,” he said. “There was a piece of rock in the pool. I fished it out and left it on the ledge. It looked as if it hadn’t been there long, and I think you’ll find it fits.”

He fetched it and put it down by the body. “Any visual traces have been washed away,” he said. “You’ll want to keep these exhibits intact, won’t you?”

“You bet I will,” said Coombe.

There was a sound of footsteps and a metallic rattle. They turned and saw Dr. Mayne letting himself in at the turnstile. Coombe went down to meet him.

“What’s it all about?” he asked. “ ’Morning, Coombe.”

“See for yourself, Doctor.”

They joined Alleyn, who was introduced. “Mr. Alleyn made the discovery,” said Coombe and added: “Rather a coincidence.”

Dr. Mayne, looking startled, said: “Very much so.”

Alleyn said: “I’m on a visit. Quite unofficial. Coombe’s your man.”

“I wondered if you’d been produced out of a hat,” said Dr. Mayne. He looked towards the spring. The umbrella, still open, masked the upper part of the body. “Good God!” he ejaculated. “So it has happened, after all!”

Coombe caught Alleyn’s eye and said nothing. He moved quickly to the body and exposed the face. Dr. Mayne stood stock-still. “ Cost !” he said. “Old Cost ! Never!”

“That’s right, Doctor.”

Dr. Mayne wasted no more words. He made his examination. Miss Cost’s eyes were half-open and so was her mouth. There were flecks of foam about the lips and the tongue was clenched between the teeth. Alleyn had never become completely accustomed to murder. This grotesque shell, seconds before its destruction, had been the proper and appropriate expression of a living woman. Whether here, singly, or multiplied to the monstrous litter of a battlefield, or strewn idiotically about the wake of a nuclear explosion or dangling with a white cap over a cyanosed, tongue-protruding mask — the destruction of one human being by another was the unique offense. It was the final outrage.

Dr. Mayne lowered the stiffened body on its back. He looked up at Alleyn. “Where was she?”

“Face down and half-submerged. I got her out in case there was a chance, but obviously there was none.”

“Any signs of rigour?”

“Yes.”

“It’s well on its way, now,” said Dr. Mayne.

“There’s the back of the head, Doctor,” said Coombe. “There’s that too.”

Dr. Mayne turned the body and looked closely at the head. “Where’s the instrument?” he asked. “Found it?”

Alleyn said: “I think so.”

Dr. Mayne glanced at him. “May I see it?”

Alleyn gave it to him. It was an irregular, jagged piece of rock about the size of a pineapple. Dr. Mayne turned it in his hands and stooped over the head. “Fits,” he said.

“What’s the verdict, then, Doctor?” Coombe asked.

“There’ll have to be a p.m., of course. On the face of it: Stunned and drowned .” He looked at Alleyn. “Or, as you would say, Asphyxia following cranial injury .”

“I was attempting to fox the hotel porter.”

“I see. Good idea.”

“And when would it have taken place?” Coombe insisted.

“Again, you’ll have to wait before you get a definite answer to that one. Not less than an hour ago, I’d have thought. Possibly, much longer.”

He stood up and wiped his hands on his handkerchief. “Do you know,” he said, “I saw her. I saw her — it must have been about seven o’clock. Outside the church, with Mrs. Carstairs. She was going in to early service. I’d got a confinement on the Island, and was walking down to the foreshore. Good Lord!” said Dr. Mayne. “I saw her!”

“That’s a help, Doctor,” said Coombe. “We were wondering about church. Now, that means she couldn’t have got over here until eight at the earliest, wouldn’t you say?”

“I should say so. Certainly. Rather later, if anything.”

“And Mr. Alleyn found her after nine. I suppose you didn’t notice anyone about the cottages or anything of the sort, Doctor?”

“Not a soul. It was pouring heavens-hard…Wait a moment, though.”

“Yes?”

He turned to Alleyn. “I’ve got my own launch and jetty, and there’s another jetty straight opposite on the foreshore by the cottages. I took the launch across. Well, the baby being duly delivered. I returned by the same means and I do remember that when I’d started up the engine and cast off I saw that fantastic kid — Wally Trehern — dodging about on the road up to the spring.”

“Did you watch him?” Coombe asked.

“Good Lord, no. I turned the launch and had my back to the Island.”

“When would that be, now, Doctor?”

“The child was born at 7:30. Soon after that.”

“Yes. Well. Thanks,” said Coombe, glancing rather selfconsciously at Alleyn. “Now: any ideas about how it happened?”

“On what’s before us, I’d say that if this bit of rock is the instrument, it struck the head from above. Wait a minute.”

He climbed to the higher level above the shelf, and Coombe followed him.

Alleyn was keeping a tight rein on himself. It was Coombe’s case, and Alleyn was a sort of accident on the scene. He thought of Patrick Ferrier’s ironical remark: “Matter of protocol”—and silently watched the two men as they scrambled up through bracken to the top level.

Dr. Mayne said: “There are rocks lying about up here. And, yes… But this is your pigeon, Coombe. You’d better take a look.”

Coombe joined him.

“There’s where it came from,” said Mayne, “behind the boulder. You can see where it was prized up.”

Coombe at last said, “We’d better keep off the area, Doctor.” He looked down at Alleyn: “It’s clear enough.”

“Any prints?”

“A real mess. People from above must have swarmed all over it when the rain came. Pity.”

“Yes,” Alleyn said. “Pity.”

The other two men came down.

“Well,” Dr. Mayne said. “That’s that. The ambulance should be here by now. Glad you suggested it. We’ll have to get her across. How’s the tide?” He went through the exit gate and along the footpath to a point from where he could see the causeway.