Ngaio Marsh - Hand in Glove

“What?”

“Traces of ash. Scuffed into the carpet, I reckon, by one of those pin-point heels.”

“Good man,” Alleyn said. “Carry on.” He let himself out and walked down the drive.

It was a dark night, overcast and rather sultry. As he approached the gates he became aware of a very slight movement in a patch of extremely black shadows cast by a group of trees. He stopped dead. Was it Thompson or Noakes, on to something and keeping doggo, or was it…? He listened and again there was a rustle and the sound of heavy breathing. At this moment a spot of torchlight danced about the drive and Sergeant Noakes himself appeared from the opposite direction, having apparently crossed the lawn and emerged through Mr. Period’s shrubs. He shone his light in Alleyn’s face and said: “Oh, beg pardon, sir. There’s nothing to be seen, sir, anywhere. Except dog prints. Two kinds.”

Alleyn gestured silently towards the shadows. “Eh?” said Noakes. “What?” And then comprehensively: “Cor!”

There being no point after this in attempting any further concealment Alleyn said: “Look out, you ass,” and switched on his own torchlight, aiming it at the shadows.

“On your toes, now,” he said and advanced, Noakes with him.

He walked past a lowish thicket of evergreens, pointed his light into the depths beyond, and illuminated Alfred Belt with Mrs. Mitchell, transfixed in his arms.

“I’m sure I beg your pardon, sir,” said Alfred.

Mrs. Mitchell said: “Oh dear; what a coincidence! What will the gentlemen be thinking,” and tittered.

“What we’ll be thinking,” Alleyn said, “depends to a certain extent on what you’ll be saying. Come out.”

Alfred looked at his arms as if they didn’t belong to him, released Mrs. Mitchell and advanced to the drive. “I should have thought, sir,” he said with restraint, “that the circumstance was self-explanatory.”

“We didn’t return by the side gate,” Mrs. Mitchell offered, “on account of my not fancying it after what has taken place.”

“A very natural feminine reaction, sir, if I may say so.”

“We were returning,” said Mrs. Mitchell, “from the Church Social.”

“Mrs. Mitchell has been presented with the long-service Girls’ Friendly Award. Richly deserved, I was offering my congratulations.”

“Jolly good,” Alleyn said. “May I offer mine?”

“Thank you very much, I’m sure. It’s a teapot,” Mrs. Mitchell said, exhibiting her trophy.

“And of course, a testimonial,” Alfred amended.

“Splendid. And you have spent the evening together?”

“Not to say together, sir. Mrs. Mitchell, as befitted the occasion, occupied the rostrum. I am merely her escort,” said Alfred.

“The whole thing,” Alleyn confessed, “fits together like a jigsaw puzzle. What are you going to do next?”

“Next, sir?”

“Next.”

“Well sir. As it’s something of an event, I hope to persuade Mrs. Mitchell to join me in a nightcap, after which we will retire,” Alfred said with some emphasis, “to our respective accommodations.”

“Dog permitting,” Mrs. Mitchell said abruptly.

“Dog?”

“Pixie, sir. She is still at large. There may be disturbances.”

“Alfred,” Alleyn said, “when did you leave Mr. Period?”

“Leave him, sir?”

“Tonight?”

“After I had served coffee, sir, which was at eight-thirty.”

“Do you know if he was expecting a telephone call?”

“Not that I was aware,” Alfred said. “He didn’t mention it. Is anything the matter, sir, with Mr. Period?”

“Yes,” Alleyn said, “there is. He has been the victim of a murderous assault, and is severely concussed.”

“Oh, my Gawd!” Mrs. Mitchell ejaculated and clapped a hand over her mouth.

“My gentleman? Where is he? Here,” Alfred said loudly, “let me go in!”

“By all means. You will find Dr. Elkington there and Superintendent Williams. Report to them, will you?”

“Certainly, sir,” said Alfred.

“One other thing. When did you empty the ashtrays in the library?”

“After dinner, sir. As usual.”

“Splendid. Thank you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Alfred said, automatically.

Alleyn saw them go in and himself crossed the Green to Miss Cartell’s house, A belated couple, closely entwined, was making its way home, presumably from the Social. Otherwise all was quiet.

He found Fox in Miss Cartell’s drawing-room with the household rounded up before him. On these occasions Fox always reminded Alleyn of a dependable sheepdog.

Connie herself was lashed into a dull purple robe, beneath the hem of which appeared the decent evidence of a sensible nightgown and a pair of extremely grubby slippers. Leonard Leiss was in trousers and shirt and Moppett in the négligé she had worn that morning. She was made up. Her pale lipstick had been smudged and her hair was dishevelled. She looked both sulky and frightened. Trudi, in a casque of hair curlers, but still fully dressed, seemed to be transfixed by astonishment.

Connie said: “Look here, this is all pretty ghastly, isn’t it? How is he?”

“He’s not conscious.”

“Yes, but I mean, how bad is it?”

Alleyn said they were not sure how bad it was.

“Well, but what happened?” Connie persisted, looking resentfully at Inspector Fox. “We don’t know anything. Turfing everybody out of bed and asking all these questions.”

“Oh, do pipe down, Auntie,” Moppett protested with some violence. “It’s perfectly obvious what it’s all about.”

“It’s not obvious to me.”

“Fancy!” Leonard remarked offensively.

Fox said with forbearance: “Well now, Mr.. Alleyn, we’re getting on slowly. I’ve tried to explain the necessity, as a purely routine affair, for checking-up these good people’s whereabouts.”

“Certainly.”

“Yes. Well it seems Miss Cartell has been at home this evening, apart from an interval when she took her little dog into the garden—”

“That’s right,” Connie interrupted indignantly. “And if it wasn’t for that damned bitch, I’d have been in my bed an hour ago. And where’s my Li? That’s what I want to know. He’s a valuable dog, and if anything’s happened to him, chasing after that mongrel, I’ll hold you responsible.” She wrung her hands distractedly.

“The little dog,” Fox explained, “has gone off for a romp.”

Moppett laughed shrilly.

“What happened exactly?”

“I’ll tell you what happened,” Connie shouted. “I was going to bed and he asked for outies. He’d already had them once, so I might have known, but he kept on asking. So I took him down. No sooner were we in the garden than I saw that brute, and so did he. She went floundering off and he was out of my arms and after her before I could stop him. I’m a bit clumsy because of my thumb. Otherwise,” she added, proudly, “he wouldn’t have made it.”

“Miss Cartell,” Fox explained, “was in the garden, calling the little dog, when I arrived.”

“There’ll have to be an organized search,” Connie blustered. “That’s all. An organized search. I’m jolly sorry about P.P., but I can’t help it.”

“How long ago did this happen?”

“Did what happen?”

“The Pekingese business.”

“How the hell should I know?” Connie said, rudely. “I seem to have been out there for hours. All over the village in this kit. Look at my feet! Nobody about, luckily. Not that I care. God knows where he’s got to.”

“What time did you go to bed?”

“I haven’t been to bed.”

“Well, when did you get ready to go to bed?”

“I don’t know. Yes, I do. About nine o’clock.”