Ngaio Marsh - Singing in the Shrouds

At half-past nine Mrs. Dillington-Blick arrived with the captain and Aubyn Dale. She really was, as Brigid pointed out to Tim, sensational. Everybody looked at her. A kind of religious gravity impregnated the deportment of the head waiter. Opulence and observance enveloped her like an expensive scent. She was terrific.

“I admire her,” Brigid said, “enormously. Don’t you?”

Brigid’s chin rested in the palm of her hand. Her forearm, much less opulent than Mrs. Dillington-Blick’s, shone in the candlelight and her eyes were bright.

Tim said, “She’s the most suffocatingly feminine job I’ve ever seen, I think. An all-time low in inhibitions and an all-time high in what it takes. If, of course, that happens to be your line of country. It’s not mine.”

Brigid found this answer satisfactory. “I like her,” she said. “She’s warm and uncomplicated.”

“She’s all of that. Hullo! Look who’s here!”

Alleyn came in with Father Jourdain. They were shown to a table at some distance from Tim’s and Brigid’s.

“ ‘Distinguished visitors’!” Brigid said, gaily waving to them.

“They are rather grand-looking, aren’t they? I must say I like Broderick. Nice chap, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I do,” Brigid said emphatically. “What about Father Jourdain?”

“I wouldn’t know. Interesting face; not typically clerical.”

“ Is there a typically clerical face or are you thinking of comic curates at the Players Theatre Club?”

“No,” said Tim slowly. “I’m not. But look at the mouth and the eyes. He’s a celibate, isn’t he? I bet it’s been a bit of a hurdle.”

“Suppose,” Brigid said, “you wanted advice very badly and had to go to one of those two. Which would it be?”

“Oh, Broderick. Every time. Do you by any chance want advice?”

“No.”

“If you did, I’d take it very kindly if you came to me.”

“Thank you,” said Brigid. “I’ll bear it in mind.”

“Good. Let’s trip a measure.”

“Nice young couple,” said Father Jourdain as they danced past him and he added, “I do hope you’re right in what you say.”

“About—?”

“About alibis.”

The band crashed and was silent. The floor cleared and two spotlights introduced a pair of tango dancers, very fierce, like game birds. They strutted and stalked, clattered their castanets, and frowned ineffably at each other. “What an angry woo,” Tim said.

When they had finished they moved among the tables followed by their spotlight.

“Oh, no !” Father Jourdain exclaimed. “Not another doll!”

It was an enormous and extraordinarily realistic one, carried by the woman dancer. Evidently it was for sale. She flashed brilliant smiles and proudly showed it off, while her escort stood moodily by. “ Señores y señoras, ” announced a voice over the loud-speaker and added, they thought, something about having the honour to present “La Esmeralda,” which was evidently the name of the doll.

“Curious!” Alleyn remarked.

“What?”

“It’s dressed exactly like Mrs. D-B.”

And so it was — in a flounced black lace dress and a mantilla. It even had a green necklace and earrings and lace gloves, and its fingers were clamped round the handle of an open fan. It was a woman-doll with a bold, handsome face and a flashing smile like the dancer’s. It looked terrifyingly expensive. Alleyn watched with some amusement as it approached the table where Mrs. Dillington-Blick sat with the captain and Aubyn Dale.

The dancers had of course noticed the resemblance and so had the headwaiter. They all smiled and ejaculated and admired as the doll waddled beguilingly towards Mrs. Dillington-Blick.

“Poor old Bannerman,” Alleyn said, “he’s sunk, I fear. Unless Dale—”

But Aubyn Dale extended his hands in his well-known gesture, and with a smile of rueful frankness was obviously saying it was no good them looking at him, while the captain, ruby-faced, stared in front of him with an expression of acute unconcern. Mrs. Dillington-Blick shook her head and beamed and shook it again. The dancers bowed, smiled and moved on, approaching the next table. The woman stooped and with a kind of savage gaiety induced the doll to walk. “Ma-ma!” squeaked the doll. “Ma-ma!”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the loud-speaker repeated and continued, this time in English, “we have the honour to present Mees Esmeralda, Queen of Las Palmas.”

From somewhere in the shadows at the back of the room a napkin fluttered. The woman snatched up the doll and swept between the tables, followed by her escort. The spotlight settled on them. Heads were turned. One or two people stood up. It was impossible to see the person at the distant table. After a short delay the dancer returned, holding the doll aloft.

“She hasn’t sold it,” Father Jourdain remarked.

“On the contrary,” Alleyn rejoined, “I think she has. Look.”

The doll was borne in triumph to the captain’s table and with a magnificent curtsey presented to Mrs. Dillington-Blick.

At the other side of the room Tim said, “Look at that, now!”

“What a triumph!” Brigid exclaimed delightedly.

“Who’s the poor fish, do you suppose?”

“I can’t see. It’ll be some superb grandee with flashing eyes and a crimson cummerbund. What fun for Mrs. Dillington-Blick.”

The dancers were making gestures in the direction of their customer. Mrs. Dillington-Blick, laughing and triumphant holding the doll, strained round to see. The spotlight probed into the distant corner. Somebody stood up.

“Oh, look !” cried Brigid.

“Well, blow me down flat!” said Tim.

“How very surprising,” observed Father Jourdain, “it’s Mr. McAngus!”

“He has made his reciprocal gesture,” said Alleyn.

The Cape Farewell sailed at two in the morning and the passengers were all to be aboard by half-past one. Alleyn and Father Jourdain had returned at midnight and Alleyn had gone to his cabin to have another look at his mail. It included a detailed report from the Yard of the attack that had been made upon Miss Bijou Browne on January fifth and a letter from his senior saying nothing had developed that suggested alteration in Alleyn’s plan of action. Alleyn had telephoned the Yard from police headquarters in Las Palmas and had spoken to Inspector Fox. Following Alleyn’s radiogram of the previous night, the Yard had at once tackled the passengers’ alibis. Father Jourdain was, Fox said, as good as gold. Mr. Merryman’s cinema had in fact shown The Lodger on the night in question as the first half of a double bill. The name of Aubyn Dale’s sweetie so far eluded the Yard, but Fox hoped to get it before long and would, he said, dream up some cock-and-bull story that might give him an excuse to question her about the night of the fifteenth. The rest of Dale’s statement had been proved. Fox had got in touch with Mr. Cuddy’s lodge and had told them the police were making enquiries about a valuable watch. From information received they believe it had been stolen from Mr. Cuddy near the lodge premises on the night of the fifteenth. A record of attendances showed that Mr. Cuddy had signed in but the secretary remembered that he left very early, feeling unwell. Apart from Mr. McAngus having perforated his appendix four days after the date in question, Fox dryly continued, it would be impossible to check his litter of disjointed reminiscence. They would, however, poke about and see if anything cropped up. An enquiry at Dr. Makepiece’s hospital gave conclusive evidence that he had been on duty there until midnight.

Captain Bannerman, it appeared, had certainly been in Liverpool on the night of the fifteenth and a routine check completely cleared the other officers. In any case it was presumed that the ship’s complement didn’t go aboard clutching passengers’ embarkation notices.