Ngaio Marsh - Dead Water

On the way back to the hotel they planned out the rest of the day. Coombe would ring the Yard from the station. Alleyn, in the meantime, would start inquiries at the hotel. They would meet in an hour’s time. It was now half past ten.

They had rounded the first spur along the path and come up with an overhanging outcrop of rock when Alleyn stopped.

“Half a minute,” he said.

“What’s up?”

Alleyn moved to the edge of the path and stooped. He picked something up and walked gingerly round behind the rock. “Come over here,” he called. “Keep wide of those prints, though.”

Coombe looked down and then followed him.

“There’s a bit of shelter, here,” Alleyn said. “Look.”

The footprints were well defined on the soft ground and, in the lee of the outcrop, fairly dry. “Good, well-made boots,” he said. “And I don’t think the owner was here so very long ago. Here’s where he waited; and there, a little gift for the industrious officer, Coombe, is his cigar ash.” He opened his hand. A scarlet paper ring lay on the palm. “Very good make,” he said. “The Major smokes them. Sells them, too, no doubt, so what have you? Come on.”

They continued on their way.

As soon as Alleyn went into the Boy-and-Lobster he realized that wind of the catastrophe was abroad. People stood about in groups with a covert, anxious air. The porter saw him and came forward.

“I’m very sorry, sir. It bean’t none of my doing. I kept it close as a trap. But the ambulance was seen, and the stretcher party, and there you are. I said I supposed it was somebody took ill at the cottages, but there was Sergeant Pender, sir, and us — I mean, they — be all wondering why it’s a police matter.”

Alleyn said ambiguously that he understood. “It’d be a good idea,” he suggested, “if you put up a notice that the spring will be closed today.”

“The Major’ll have to be axed about that, sir.”

“Very well. Where is he?”

“He’ll be in the old house, sir. He bean’t showed up round hereabouts.”

“I’ll find him. Would you ring Miss Pride’s rooms and say I hope to call on her within the next half-hour? Mr. Alleyn.”

He went out and in again by the old pub door. There was nobody to be seen, but he heard voices in what he thought was probably the former bar-parlour and tapped on the door. It was opened by Patrick Ferrier.

“Hullo. Good morning, sir,” said Patrick and then: “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Alleyn said. “Very wrong. May I see your stepfather?”

“Well — yes, of course. Will you come in?”

They were all seated in the parlour — Mrs. Barrimore, Jenny Williams and the Major, who looked very much the worse for wear but assumed a convincing enough air of authority and asked Alleyn what he could do for him.

Alleyn told them in a few words what had happened. Margaret Barrimore turned white and said nothing. Jenny and Patrick exclaimed together: “ Miss Cost ! Not Miss Cost !”

Major Barrimore said incredulously: “Hit on the head and drowned? Hit with what?”

“A piece of rock, we think. From above.”

“You mean it was an accident? Brought down by the rains, what?”

“I think not.”

“Mr. Alleyn means she was murdered, Keith,” said his wife. It was the first time she had spoken.

“Be damned to that!” said the Major furiously. “Murdered! Old Cost! Why?”

Patrick gave a sharp exclamation.

“Well!” his stepfather barked at him. “What’s the matter with you ?”

“Did you say, sir, that she was under an umbrella?”

“Yes,” Alleyn said and thought: This is going to be everybody’s big inspiration.

He listened to Patrick as he presented the theory of mistaken identity.

Jenny said: “Does Miss Pride know?”

“Not yet.”

“It’ll be a shock for her,” said Jenny. “When will you tell her?”

“As soon as I’ve left you.” He looked round at them. “As a matter of form,” he said. “I must ask you all where you were between half past seven and nine this morning. You will understand, won’t you—”

“That it’s purely a matter of routine,” Patrick said, “Sorry. I couldn’t help it. Yes, we do understand.”

Mrs. Barrimore, Jenny and Patrick had got up and bathed, in turn, round eight o’clock. Mrs. Barrimore did not breakfast in the public dining-room but had toast and coffee by herself in the old kitchen which had been converted into a kitchen-dining-room. Jenny had breakfasted at about nine and Patrick a few minutes later. After breakfast they had gone out of doors for a few minutes, surveyed the weather and decided to stay in and do a crossword together. Major Barrimore, it appeared, slept in and didn’t get up until half past nine. He had two cups of coffee but no breakfast.

All these movements would have to be checked; but at the moment there was more immediate business. Alleyn asked Major Barrimore to put up a notice that the spring was closed.

He at once objected. Did Alleyn realize that there were people from all over the country — from overseas, even — who had come with the express purpose of visiting the spring? Did he realize that it was out of the question coolly to send them about their business — some of them, he’d have Alleyn know, in damned bad shape?

Alleyn said that the spring could probably be reopened in two days’ time.

“ Two days , my dear fellah, two days ! You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve got one draft going out tonight and a new detachment coming in tomorrow. Where the hell d’you suppose I’m going to put them? Hey?”

Alleyn said it was no doubt extremely inconvenient

“Inconvenient! It’s outrageous.”

“So,” Alleyn suggested, “is murder.”

“I’ve no proof of where you get your authority and I’ll have you know I won’t act without it. I refuse point-blank,” shouted the Major. “And categorically,” he added as if that clinched the matter.

“The authority,” Alleyn said, “is Scotland Yard and I’m very sorry, but you really can’t refuse, you know. Either you decide to frame an announcement in your own words and get it out at once or I shall be obliged to issue a police notice. In any case, that will be done at the spring itself. It would be better, as I’m sure you must agree, if intending visitors were stopped here rather than at the gates.”

“Of course it would,” said Patrick impatiently.

“Yes, Keith. Please,” said Mrs. Barrimore.

“When I want your suggestions, Margaret, I’ll ask for them.”

Patrick looked at his stepfather with disgust. He said to Alleyn: “With respect, sir, I suggest that my mother and Jenny leave us to settle this point.”

Mrs. Barrimore at once rose.

“May we?” she asked. Jenny said: “Yes, please, may we?”

“Yes, of course,” said Alleyn, and to Patrick, “Let the court be cleared of ladies, by all means, Mr. Ferrier.”

Patrick gave him a look and turned pink. All the same, Alleyn thought, there was an air of authority about him. The wig was beginning to sprout and would probably become this young man rather well.

“Here. Wait a bit,” said the Major. He spread his hands. “All right. All right ,” he said. “Have it your own way.” He turned on his wife. “You’re supposed to be good at this sort of rot, Margaret. Get out a notice and make it tactful. Say that owing to an accident in the area — no, my God, that sounds bloody awful. Owing to unforeseen circumstances — I don’t know. I don’t know. Say what you like. Talk to them. But get it done .” Alleyn could cheerfully have knocked him down.