Ngaio Marsh - Hand in Glove

“Put it like this,” Alleyn said. “I don’t say you’ll ever have to, but suppose you were asked to swear on oath that the window was shut during the luncheon-Pixie episode, would you do it?”

Nicola said: “I’d have to, wouldn’t I? Because it was.”

“Not a shadow of doubt?”

“Not one. Alfred will say the same.”

“I dare say.”

“I wish I knew what you were up to,” Nicola said, staring out into the garden.

“I? I’m on my job.”

“Yes, but are you peering into petty larceny or mucking into a — I’m sure I don’t know why I’m trying to be facetious — into a murder? Or do they tie in together? Or what?”

“I don’t know. No more than you do.”

“I suppose,” Nicola said with some penetration, “you’re not very pleased to find me here.”

“Not as enchanted as I would be to find you elsewhere.”

“It’s funny. Because, before this blew up, I was thinking of Troy. I’m coming in tomorrow evening and I wondered if I could bring a young man with me.”

“My dear child, she’ll be delighted. Do I detect—”

“No!” Nicola said in a hurry. “You don’t detect anything. He paints.”

“Ah. Mr. Andrew Bantling?”

“I suppose you spotted the paint under his fingernail.”

“So I did. It reminded me of my wife.”

“That sounds human, anyway.”

Alleyn said: “Look here, Nicola, we’ll have to keep all this on an aseptically impersonal basis, you know. I’ve got to look into a case that may well involve something that is generally called a serious charge. You, unfortunately, may be a relevant witness. I wish it wasn’t like that, but it is. O.K.?”

“Do I have to call you Superintendent?”

“You needn’t call me anything. Now, let’s press on, shall we? I’m bringing Mr. Fox in to take notes.”

“Lor!” Nicola looked at him for a moment and then said: “Yes, O.K. I won’t be tiresome. I do see.”

“Of course you do.”

Fox came in and was introduced.

In great detail Alleyn led her through the events of the past twenty-four hours, and as he did so it seemed to Nicola that she grew physically colder. Her relationship with the Alleyns was something that she had taken for granted. Without realizing that she did so, she had depended upon them, as the young do with established friends, for a sort of anchorage. They were old enough to give her a feeling of security and young enough, she felt, to “understand.” She had been free to turn up at their London house when she felt like it and was one of the few people that Alleyn’s wife could endure in the studio when she was working. With Alleyn himself, Nicola had progressed by way of a schoolgirl crush, from which she had soon managed to recover, into solid affection. She called him “Le Cid,” shortened it into “Cid,” and by this time had forgotten the origin of the pun.

Now, here he was, C.I.D. in action, being friendly enough: considerate and impersonal, but she had to face it, quietly panic-striking. She began to see him in headline terms. “Superintendent Alleyn interviews Society Secretary.”

“Don’t,” Alleyn’s voice said, “go fussing yourself with unnecessary complications. Be as objective as you can and it’ll all pass off very quietly. Where had we got to? Ah, yes. You’ve arrived. You’ve started on your job. You’re assisting at the pre-luncheon-drinks party. This consists of Mr. Cartell; his sister, Miss Constance Cartell; his former wife, the soi-disante Lady Bantling; her present husband, Mr. Bimbo Dodds; her son by her first marriage, Mr. Andrew Bantling; Miss Cartell’s adopted niece or what-not, what’s she called — Miss Mary or Moppett — what?”

“Ralston, I think.”

“That’s right. And the Moppett’s boyfriend, Mr. Leonard Leiss. And of course, Mr. Period. So we have the piquant situation of a lady with two husbands, a young man with two stepfathers, and a brother and sister with a courtesy niece. How did the party go?”

“Not with a swing,” Nicola said.

“Because of the muddled relationships, would you say?”

“No. They seem to take those in their stride.”

“Because of what, then?”

“Well — Moppett and Leonard, principally. Leonard really is a monster.”

“What sort? Beatnik? Smart-alec? Bounder? Straight-out cad? Or just plain nasty?”

“All except the beatnik. He’s as clean as a whistle and smells dreadfully of lilies.”

“Not Period’s cup of tea. Or, I should have thought, Cartell’s.”

“Indeed not. He and Moppett were self-invited. Or rather, I think Moppett had bludgeoned poor Miss Cartell into getting them there.”

“Why ‘poor’?”

“Did I say ‘poor’?” Nicola exclaimed, surprised at herself. “I suppose because I sort of felt she was vulnerable.”

“Go on.”

“Well — she’s one of those clumsy women who sound arrogant but probably hoot and roar their way through life to cover up their shyness. I expect she’s tried to compensate for her loneliness by pouring all her affection into Moppett. What a hope, poor darling!”

“ O wise young judge ,” Alleyn murmured and Nicola wondered how much he was laughing at her.

“Can you remember,” he asked, “any of the conversation?”

“At lunch it was about Pixie and Miss Cartell saying she was a mongrel and Mr. Cartell turning huffy and about a car Leonard had seen in the local garage — I don’t remember—”

“We know about the car. What else?”

“Well: about poor Mr. Period’s favourite thing: family grandeur and blue blood and noblesse oblige . I’m sure he didn’t mean to have digs at Leonard and Moppett, but it came over like that. And then Mr. Cartell told a story about someone who cooked a baptismal record to pretend he was blue-blooded when he wasn’t, and that didn’t exactly ring out like a peal of joybells, although Leonard seemed quite interested. And then there was the Pixie episode and then the cigarette-case thing.” She elaborated on these themes.

“Plenty of incident throughout. What about the pre-luncheon party? Young Bantling, for instance? How did he fit in? Did he seem to get on quite well with his senior stepfather?”

Nicola was aware of silence: the silence of Mr. Period’s drawing-room, which had been given over to Alleyn. There was the alleged Cotman water colour in its brown paper wrappings. There were the unexceptionable chairs and curtains. Outside the windows was the drive, down which Andrew had walked so angrily, swinging his hat. And upstairs, somewhere, was dead Mr. Cartell’s room, where Andrew’s voice had shouted yesterday morning.

“What’s the matter?” Alleyn said.

“Nothing. He didn’t stay for lunch. He lunched at Baynesholme.”

“But he came here, with you, from the station, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And stayed here until his mother and her husband called for him?”

“Yes. At least—”

“Yes?”

“He went out for a bit. I saw him go down the drive.”

“What did he do while he was here?”

“I think he saw Mr. Cartell. Mr. Cartell’s his guardian and a trustee for his inheritance as well as his stepfather. And Mr. Period’s the other trustee.”

“Did you gather that it was a business call?”

“Something of the sort. He talked to both of them.”

“About what, do you know?”

Could Nicola hear or did she only feel, the thud of her heart?

“Do you know?” Alleyn repeated.

“Only roughly. He’d tell you himself.”

“You think he would?”

“Why not?”

“He told you about it?”

“A bit. But it was — it was sort of confidential. In a way.”

“Why are you frightened, Nicola?” Alleyn asked gently.