Ngaio Marsh - Dead Water

“We’ll go back to the pub,” Alleyn said.

The Tretheways’ cottage was across the lane from the Treherns’. Alleyn knocked at the back door and was invited in by the proud father: an enormous grinning fellow. The latest addition was screaming very lustily in the bedroom. The father apologized for this drawback to conversation.

“ ’Er be a lil’ maid, ’er be,” he said, “and letting fly with ’er vocal power according.”

They stood by the kitchen window, which looked across the lane toward the spring. Seeing this, Alleyn asked him if he’d happened to notice Wally in the lane at about the time the baby was born or soon after, and was given the reasonable answer that Mr. Tretheway’s attention was on other matters. The baby had indeed been born at 7:30, and Dr. Mayne had in fact left very soon afterwards.

Alleyn congratulated Tretheway, shook his hand, rejoined his colleagues and told them what he’d gleaned.

“So, why does Trehern say he saw the doctor leave about five past eight?” Fox asked. “There’s usually only one reason for that sort of lie, isn’t there? Trying to rig the time so that you look as if you couldn’t have been on the spot. That’s the normal caper.”

“So it is, then,” Alleyn agreed with a reasonable imitation of the local voice. “But there are loose ends here. Or are there?”

“Well, yes,” Fox said. “In a way.”

“Bailey — what did you get? Any fisherman’s boots superimposed on the general mess? Or boy’s boots? I couldn’t find any.”

“Nothing like that, Mr. Alleyn. But, as you said yourself, this flat slice of stone’s been used to cut out recent prints. We’ve picked up enough to settle that point,” Bailey said grudgingly. “Not much else. The only nice jobs are the ones left after this morning’s rain by a set of regulation tens, and another of brogues or gentleman’s country shoes, size nine and a half, ripple soles and in good repair.”

“I know. The Super, and the Doctor.”

“That’s right, sir, from what you’ve mentioned.”

“What about the stuff near the outcrop and behind it?”

“What you thought, Mr. Alleyn. They match. Handsewn, officer’s type. Ten and a half, but custom made. Worn but well kept.”

“In a sense you might be describing the owner. Did you tell Carey he could go off duty?”

“Yes sir. There seemed no call for him to stay. We’ve got all the casts and photographs we want. I used salt in the plaster, seeing how the weather was shaping. It was O.K. Nice results.”

“Good. It’s getting rougher. Look at that sea.”

In the channel between Island and village, the tide now rolled and broke in a confusion of foam and jetting spray. Out at sea there were whitecaps everywhere. The horizon was dark and broken. The causeway was lashed by breakers that struck, rose, fell across it and withdrew, leaving it momentarily exposed and blackly glinting in what remained of the daylight. The hotel launch bucketted and rolled at the jetty. A man in oilskins was mounting extra fenders. Above the general roar of sea and rain, the thud of the launch’s starboard side against the legs of the jetty could be clearly heard.

Light shone dimly behind the windows of Miss Cost’s Gifte Shoppe.

“P.C. Pender’s locked up in there with Miss Cissy Pollock on the switchboard,” Alleyn muttered. “I’ll just have a word with him.” He tapped on the door. After a moment, it was opened a crack and Pender said: “Bean’t no manner of use pesterin—” and then saw Alleyn. “Beg pardon, sir, I’m sure,” he said. “Thought you was one of they damned kids come back.” He flung open the door. Alleyn called to Fox and the others and they went in.

The shop smelt fustily of cardboard, wool and gum. In the postal section, Miss Cissy Pollock bulged at a switchboard: all eyes and teeth when she saw the visitors.

Pender said that a call had come through for Alleyn from Dunlowman. “Sir James Curtis, it were, sir,” he said with reverence. Curtis was the Home Office pathologist. “Wishful to speak with you. I intercepted the call, sir, and informed the station and the Boy-and-Lobster.”

“Where was he?”

“Dunlowman mortuary, sir, along with the body and the Doctor. I’ve got the number.”

“Aw, dear!” Miss Pollock exclaimed. “Bean’t it shocking though!” She had removed her headphones.

Alleyn asked if she could put him through. She engaged to do so and directed him to an instrument in a cubbyhole.

The mortuary attendant answered and said Sir James was just leaving but he’d try to catch him. He could be heard pounding off down a concrete passage. In a minute or two the great man spoke.

“Hullo, Rory, where the devil have you been? I’ve done this job for you. Want the report?”

“Please.”

It was straightforward enough. Death by drowning, following insensibility caused by a blow on the head. The piece of rock was undoubtedly the instrument. Contents of stomach, Sir James briskly continued, showed that she’d had a cup of tea and a biscuit about an hour and three quarters before she died. On Dr. Mayne’s evidence he would agree that she had probably been dead about an hour when Alleyn found her. Sir James had another case more or less on the way back to London and would like to get off before he himself was drowned. Would Alleyn let him know about the inquest? Dr. Mayne would tell him anything else he wanted to hear and was now on his way back to Portcarrow. “I’m told you’re on an island,” said Sir James, merrily. “You’ll be likely to stay there if the weather report’s to be trusted. What book will you choose if you can only have one?”

“ The Gentle Art of Making Enemies ,” said Alleyn and hung up.

He told Pender that he and Fox would return after dinner and asked him what he himself would do for a meal. Pender said that there was a cut loaf and some butter and ham in Miss Cost’s refrigerator, and would it be going too far if he and Cissy made sandwiches? There was also some cheese and pickle. They could, he said, be replaced.

“You can’t beat a cheese and pickle sandwich,” Fox observed, “if the cheese is tasty.”

Alleyn said that under the circumstances he felt Pender might proceed on the lines indicated, and left him looking relieved.

They climbed the hotel steps, staggering against the gale, and entered the Boy-and-Lobster. It was now five minutes to eight.

Alleyn asked the reception clerk if he could find rooms for his three colleagues and learned that the guests had dwindled to thirty. All incoming trains and buses had been met at Dunlowman and intending visitors told about the situation. Accommodation had been organized with various establishments over a distance of fifteen miles, and, in view of the weather forecast and the closing of the spring, most of the travellers had elected, as the clerk put it, to stay away. “We can be cut off,” he said, “if it’s really bad. It doesn’t often happen, but if this goes on it might.” The guests in residence had all come by car and were now at dinner.

Alleyn left the others to collect their suitcases and arranged to meet them in the dining-room. He went to his own room, effected a quick change and called on Miss Emily, who was four doors away.

She was finishing her dinner, sitting bolt upright peeling grapes. A flash of red wine was before her and a book was at her elbow with a knife laid across to keep it open. She was perfectly composed.

“I’ve only looked in for a moment,” he said. “We’re running late. How are you, Miss Emily? Bored to sobs, I’m afraid.”

“Good evening, Rodrigue. No, I am not unduly bored though I have missed taking my walk.”

“It’s no weather for walking, I assure you. How are they treating you?”