Ngaio Marsh - Spinsters in Jeopardy

Ginny looked at Baradi. He caught her glance and walked across to her. “What is it?” he said.

“I thought I might go to old Marie’s shop,” Ginny said. “It’s away from the storm.”

“Why not?” he said. “What a good idea.”

“I thought I might,” Ginny repeated doubtfully.

For a split second lightning wrote itself across the sky in livid calligraphy. The voice on the balustrade had counted two when the heavens crashed together in a monstrous report. Ginny’s mouth was wide open. She ran into the tower and Robin followed her.

The initial clap was succeeded by a prolonged rattle and an ambiguous omnipotent muttering. Above this rumpus Glande could be heard saying: “What I mean to say: do we know we can trust them? After all, they’re comparative strangers and I must say I don’t like the boy’s manner.”

Baradi, who was watching Annabella Wells, said: “There’s no need to disturb yourself on their account. Robin is much too heavily involved and as for Ginny, can we not leave her safely to Ra? In any case, she knows nothing.”

“The boy does. He might blurt out something to those other two — Troy and her bloody high-hat husband.”

“If Mr. and Mrs. Allen should arrive there need be no meeting.”

“How do you know they don’t suspect something already?”

“I have told you. The girl Teresa reports that having recovered the boy, they have retired to their hotel in high glee.”

“There was a bungle over the kid. There might be another bungle. Suppose Allen hangs about like he did last time asking damn-fool esoteric questions?”

“They were not as silly as you think, my dear Carbury. The man is an intelligent man. He behaved intelligently during the operation. He would make a good anaesthetist.”

“Well — there you are!”

“Please don’t panic. He is both intelligent and inquisitive. That is why we thought it better to remove him, if possible, to St. Céleste, until the Truebody has been disposed of.” Baradi’s teeth gleamed under his moustache.

“I can see no cause for amusement.”

“Can you not? You must cultivate a taste for irony. Annabella,” Baradi continued, looking at her motionless figure against the steel-dark sky, “Annabella tells us that Mr. Allen, as far as she knows, is the person he appears to be: a dilettante with a taste for mysticism, curious literature and big-game hunting. The latter, I may add, in the generally accepted sense of the expression.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Glande cried out. The voice from the balustrade broke into undisciplined laughter. “Shut up!” he shouted. “Shut up, Sati! You of all people to laugh. It’s so damned undignified. Remember who you are!”

“Yes, Grizel dear,” Annabella Wells said, “pray do remember that.”

It had grown so dark that the lightning darted white on their faces. They saw one another momentarily as if by a flash-lamp, each wearing a look of fixity. The thunder-clap followed at once. One might have imagined the heavens had burst outward like a gas-filled cylinder.

Mr. Oberon, wearing his hooded gown, stepped out of the tower door and contemplated his followers.

“ Cher maître ,” shouted Baradi, waving his hand, “you come most carefully upon your hour. What an entrance! Superb!”

The volley rolled away into silence. Mr. Oberon moved forward and, really as if he had induced it, rain struck down in an abrupt deluge.

“You will get wet, dear Sati,” said Mr. Oberon.

Glande said: “What’s happened?”

They all drew near to Mr. Oberon. The rain made a frightful din, pelting like bullets on water and earth and stone and on the canvas awning above their heads. Landscape and seascape were alive with its noise. The four guests, with the anxious air of people who are hard-of-hearing, inclined their heads towards their host.

“What’s happened?” Glande repeated, but with a subdued and more deferential manner.

“All is well. It is arranged for tomorrow afternoon. An Anglican ceremony,” said Oberon, smiling slightly. “I have spoken to the — should I call him priest? I was obliged to call on him. The telephone is still out of order. He is a dull man but very obliging. A private funeral, of course.”

“But the other business-the permit or whatever it is?”

“I’ve already explained,” Baradi cut in irritably, “that my authority as a medical man is perfectly adequate. The appropriate official will be happy to receive me tomorrow when the necessary formalities will be completed.”

“Poor old Truebody,” said Annabella Wells.

“The name is, by the way, to be Halebory. Pronounced Harber. So English.”

“They’ll want to see the passport,” Glande said instantly.

“They shall see it. It has received expert attention.”

“Sati,” said Mr. Oberon gently, “you have been smoking, I think.”

“Dearest Ra, only the least puff.”

“Yet, there is our rule. Not until tonight.”

“I was upset. It’s so difficult. Please forgive me. Please.”

Mr. Oberon looked blankly at her. “You will go to your room and make an exercise. The exercise of the Name. You will light your candle and looking at the flame without blinking you will repeat one hundred times: ‘I am Sati who am Grizel Locke!’ Then you will remain without moving until it is time for the Rites. So.”

She touched her forehead and lips and chest with a jerky movement of her hand and went at once.

“Where is Ginny?” Mr. Oberon asked.

“She was nervous,” said Baradi. “The storm upset her. She went down to the shop where one buys those rather vulgar figurines.”

“And Robin?”

“He went with her,” said Annabella loudly.

Mr. Oberon’s mouth parted to show his teeth. “She must rest,” he said. “You are, of course, all very careful to say nothing of an agitating nature in front of her. She knows the lady has died as the result of a perforated appendix. Unfortunately it was unavoidable that she should be told so much. There must be no further disturbance. When she returns send her to her room. It is the time of meditation. She is to remain in her room until it is time for the Rites. There she will find the gift of enlightenment.”

He moved to the tower door. The rain drummed on the awning above their heads but they heard him repeat: “She must rest,” before he went indoors.

iii

Old Marie’s shop was a cave sunk in the face of the hill and protected at its open end by the Chèvre d’Argent, which at this point straddled the passage. Ginny and Robin were thus hidden from the lightning and even the thunder sounded less formidable in there. The walls of the cave had been hewn out in shelves and on these stood Marie’s figurines. She herself sat at a table over an oil lamp and wheezed out praises of her wares.

“She’s got lots of goats,” Ginny pointed out, speaking English.

“Cunning old cup-of-tea,” Robin said. “Thought you needed gingering up, I suppose. By the way,” he added, “Miss Troy or Mrs. Allen or whatever she should be called, wanted a set of nativity figures — don’t you call it a crib? — for the little boy. Marie wasn’t here when they left yesterday. I promised I’d get one and take it down this afternoon. How awful! I entirely forgot.”

“Robin! How could you! And they’ll want it more than ever after losing him like that.”

“She thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind choosing one.”

“Of course I will,” Ginny said, and began to inspect the groups of naïve little figures.

Old Marie shouted: “Look, Mademoiselle, the Holy Child illuminates himself. And the beasts! One would say the she-ass almost burst herself with good milk. And the lamb is infinitely touching. And the ridiculous price! I cannot bring myself to charge more. It is an act of piety on my part.”