Ngaio Marsh - Hand in Glove

“Ah — yesterday evening. I dined out. At Baynesholme. Before the party.”

“The treasure hunt?”

“You’ve heard about it? Yes. I saw them start and then I came home. He was in his room, then, walking about and talking to that — his dog. Great heavens!” Mr. Period suddenly exclaimed.

“What is it?”

“Désirée — his — Lady Bantling, you know! And Andrew! They must be told, I suppose. I wonder if Connie has thought of it — but no! No, she would hardly — My dear Alleyn, I beg your pardon, but it has only just struck me.” He explained, confusedly, the connection between Baynesholme and Mr. Cartell, and looked distractedly at his watch. “They will be here at any moment. My secretary — a delightful gel — and Andrew, who is to drive her. I suggested an eleven o’clock start as it was to be such a very late party.”

By dint of patient questioning, Alleyn got this sorted out. He noticed that Mr. Period kept feeling in his pockets. Then, apparently recollecting himself, he would look about the room. He opened a cigarette box, and when he found it empty ejaculated pettishly.

Alleyn said: “I wonder if you’ll let me give you a cigarette and smoke one myself? It’s all wrong, of course, for a policeman on duty—” He produced his case.

“My dear Alleyn! Thank you. Do. Do. So will I. But I should have offered you one long ago, only with all this upset Alfred hasn’t filled the boxes and — it’s too tiresome — I’ve mislaid my case.”

“Really? Not lost, I hope.”

“I–I hope not,” he said hurriedly. “It’s all very unfortunate, but never mind.” And again he showed great uneasiness.

“It’s infuriating to lose a good case,” Alleyn remarked. “I did myself, not long ago. It was a rather special and very old one and I regret it.”

“So is this,” Mr. Period said abruptly. “A cardcase.” He seemed to be in two minds whether to go on and then decided against it.

Alleyn said: “When you saw Mr. Cartell last evening was he his usual self? Nothing had happened to upset him at all?”

This question, also, produced a flurried reaction. “Upset? Well — it depends upon what one means by ‘upset.’ He was certainly rather put out, but it was nothing that could remotely be related…” Mr. Period fetched up short and appeared to summon all his resources. When he spoke again it was with very much more reserve and control. “You would not,” he said, “ask me a question of that sort, I think, unless you felt that this dreadful affair was not to be resolved by — by a simple explanation.”

“Oh,” Alleyn said lightly, “we needn’t put it as high as that, you know. If he was at all agitated or absent-minded, he might not be as careful as usual when he negotiated the bridge over the ditch. The dog—”

“Ah!” Mr. Period exclaimed. “The dog! Now, why on earth didn’t one think of the dog before! It is — she — I assure you, Alleyn, a most powerful and undisciplined dog. At the moment, I am given to understand, particularly so. May she not have taken one of those great plunging leaps of hers, possibly across the drain, and dragged him into it? May she not have done that?”

“She seems, at least, to have taken a great plunging leap.”

“There! You see?”

“She would also,” Alleyn said, “have had to dislodge a walloping big drainpipe and precipitate it into the ditch.”

Mr. Period put his hands over his eyes. “It’s so horrible!” he said faintly. “It’s so unspeakably horrible.” And then, withdrawing his hands, “But may she not have done precisely that very thing?”

“It’s — not very likely, I’m afraid.”

Mr, Period stared at him. “You don’t think it was an accident,” he said. “Don’t bother to say anything. I can see you don’t.”

“I’ll be very glad if I find reason to change my opinion.”

“But why? Why not accident? That dog, now: she is dangerous. I’ve told him so over and over again.”

“There are certain appearances: things that don’t quite tally. We must clear them up before we can come to any conclusion. There must, of course, be an inquest. And that is why,” Alleyn said, cheerfully, “I shall have to ask you any number of questions all of which will sound ridiculous and most of which, I daresay, will turn out to be just that and no more.”

It was at this juncture that Fox joined them, his excessively bland demeanour indicating, to Alleyn at least, that he had achieved his object and secured Pixie’s leash. The interview continued. Fox, as usual, managed to settle himself behind the subject and to take notes quite openly and yet entirely unnoticed. He had a talent for this sort of thing.

Mr. Period’s conversation continued to be jumpy and disjointed, but gradually a fairly comprehensive picture of his ménage emerged. Alleyn heard of Cartell’s sister, who was, of course, deeply shocked. “One of those red women who don’t normally seem to feel anything except the heat,” Mr. Period said oddly. “Never wear gloves. And look, don’t you know, as if they never sit on anything but their hats or a shooting-stick. But I assure you she’s dreadfully cut up, poor Connie.”

Alleyn felt that Mr. Period had invented this definition of Miss Cartell long ago and was so much in the habit of letting fly with it that it had escaped him involuntarily.

“I mustn’t be naughty,” Mr. Period said unhappily. “Poor Connie!” And looked exquisitely uncomfortable.

“Apart from Miss Cartell and Lady Bantling, who I suppose is in one sense a connection, or an ex-connection, are there any near relations?”

“None that one would call near. It’s an old family,” Mr. Period said with a pale glance at his ruling passion, “but going — going. Indeed, I fancy he and Connie are the last. Sad.”

Alleyn said: “I’m afraid I shall have to ask you for an account of yesterday’s activities. I really am very sorry to pester you like this when you’ve had such a shock, but there it is. Duty, duty must be done .”

Mr. Period brightened momentarily at this Gilbertian reference and even dismally hummed the tune, but the next second he was in the doldrums again. He worked backwards through the events of the previous day, starting with his own arrival in the lane, driven by Lady Bantling, at twenty past eleven. The plank bridge over the drain had supported him perfectly: the lamp was alight. As he approached the house he saw Mr. Cartell at his bedroom window, which was wide open. Mr. Cartell never, Mr. Period explained, went to bed before one o’clock, when he took Pixie out, but he often pottered about his room for hours before he retired. Alleyn thought he detected a note of petulance and also of extreme reticence.

“I think,” Mr. Period said restlessly, “that Hal must have heard me coming home. He was at his window. He seemed — ah — he seemed to be perfectly well.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“I — ah — I—ah — I did just call out something after I came upstairs. He replied…I don’t remember…However!”

Mr. Period himself, it transpired, had gone to bed, but not to sleep, as the arrival and departure of treasure hunters in the lane was disturbing. However, the last couple had gone before midnight and he had dozed off.

“Did you wake again?”

“That’s what’s so appalling to think of. I did. At one o’clock, when he took Pixie out. She made the usual disturbance, barking and whining. I heard it. I’m afraid I cursed it. Then it stopped.”

“And did you go to sleep again?”

“Yes. Yes, I did. Yes.”

“Were you disturbed again?”

Mr. Period opened his mouth and remained agape for some seconds and then said, “No.”