Ngaio Marsh - Night at the Vulcan

“On the other hand,” Alleyn repeated, “suppose this hypothetical planner was none other than Bennington himself?”

Their response to this statement had a delayed action. They behaved as actors do when they make what is technically known as a “double take.” There were a few seconds of blank witlessness followed by a sudden and violent reaction, Darcey and Percival shouted together that it would be exactly like Ben, Helena cried out inarticulately and Poole gave a violent ejaculation. The Doctor crackled his newspaper and Martyn’s thoughts tumbled about in her head like dice. Jacko alone stared incredulously at Alleyn.

“Do you mean,” Jacko asked, “that we are to understand that Ben killed himself in such a way as to throw suspicion of murder upon one of us? Is that your meaning?”

“No. For a time we wondered if this might be so, but the state of the dressing-room, as I’d hoped I’d made clear, flatly contradicts any such theory. No. I believe the planner based the method on Bennington’s preoccupation with the other case and hoped we would be led to some such conclusion. If powder had not been spilt on the overcoat we might well have done so.”

“So we are still — in the dark,” Helena said, and gave the commonplace phrase a most sombre colour.

“Not altogether. I needn’t go over the collection of near-motives that have cropped up in the course of our interviews. Some of them sound far-fetched, others at least possible. It’s not generally recognized that, given a certain temperament, the motive for homicide can be astonishingly unconvincing. Men have been killed from petty covetousness, out of fright, vanity, jealousy, boredom or sheer hatred. One or other of these motives lies at the back of this case. You all, I think, had cause to dislike this man. In one of you the cause was wedded to that particular kink which distinguishes murderers from the rest of mankind. With such beings there is usually some, shall I say, explosive agency — a sort of fuse — which, if it is touched off, sets them going as murder-machines. In this case I believe the fuse to have been a letter written by Otto Brod to Clark Bennington. This letter has disappeared and was probably burnt in his dressing-room. As the powder-pad may have been burnt By his murderer.”

Poole said: “I can’t begin to see the sense of all this,” and Helena said drearily: “Dark. In the dark.”

Alleyn seemed to be lost in thought. Martyn, alone of all the company, looked at him. She thought she had never seen a face as withdrawn and — incongruously the word flashed up again — compassionate. She wondered if he had come to some crucial point and she watched anxiously for the sign of a decision. But at this moment she felt Poole’s eyes upon her, and when she looked at him they exchanged the delighted smiles of lovers. “How can we,” she thought, and tried to feel guilty. But she hadn’t heard Alleyn speak and he was half-way through his first sentence before she gave him her attention.

“—so far about opportunity,” he was saying. “If there were two visits to the dressing-room during the last act I think probably all of you except Miss Hamilton could have made the earlier one. But for the second visit there is a more restricted field. Shall I take you in the order in which you are sitting? Miss Tarne, in that case, comes first.”

Martyn thought: “I ought to feel frightened again.”

“Miss Tarne has told us that after she left the stage, and she was the first to leave it, she stood at the entry to the dressing-room passage. She was in a rather bemused state of mind and doesn’t remember much about it until Mr. Percival, Mr. Darcey and Mr. Bennington himself came past. All three spoke to her in turn and went on down the passage. It is now that the crucial period begins. Mr. Doré was near by, and after directing the gun-shot took her to her dressing-room. On the way he looked in for a few seconds on Mr. Bennington, who had just gone to his own room. After Miss Tarne and Mr. Doré had both heard Mr. Darcey and Mr. Perdval return to the stage, they followed them out. They give each other near-alibis up to this point and the stagehands extend Miss Tarne’s alibi to beyond the crucial time. She is, I think, out of the picture.”

Gay Gainsford stared at Martyn. “That,” she said, “must be quite a change for you.”

“Miss Gainsford comes next,” Alleyn said as if he had not heard her. “She was in the Greenroom throughout the crucial period and tells us she was asleep. There is no witness to this.”

“George!” said Gay Gainsford wildly and turned to Darcey, thus revealing for the first time his Christian name. “It’s all right, dear,” he said. “Don’t be frightened. It’s all right.”

“Mr. Darcey and Mr. Percival are also in the list of persons without alibis. They left the stage and returned to it, together, or nearly so. But they went of course to separate rooms. Mr. Percival is the only one who noticed the smell of gas. Dr. Rutherford,” Alleyn went on, moving slightly in order to see the Doctor, “could certainly have visited the room during this period, as at any other stage of the performance. He could have come down from his box, passed unobserved round the back of the scenery, taken cover and gone in after these four persons were in their own rooms.”

He waited politely, but the Doctor’s newspaper rose and fell rhythmically. Alleyn raised his voice slightly. “He could have returned to his O.P. stairs when the rest of you were collected on the Prompt side and he could have made an official entry in the character of Author.” He waited for a moment. The others looked in a scandalized manner at the recumbent Doctor but said nothing.

“Mr. Poole has himself pointed out that he could have darted to the room during his brief period offstage. He could not, in my opinion, have effected all that had to be done, and if he had missed his re-entry he would have drawn immediate attention to himself.

“Mr. Doré is in a somewhat different category from the rest,” Alleyn continued. “We know he came away from her dressing-room with Miss Tarne, but although he was seen with the others on the Prompt side, he was at the back of the group and in the shadows. Everyone’s attention at this period was riveted on the stage. The call-boy checked over the players for the curtain-call and noticed Mr. Bennington had not yet appeared. Neither he nor anyone else had reason to check Mr. Doré‘s movements.”

Jacko said: “I remind you that Parry said he smelt gas while I was still with Miss Tarne in her room.”

“I have remembered,” Alleyn answered, “what Mr. Percival said.” He looked at Helena Hamilton. “And while all this was happening,” he concluded, “Miss Hamilton was on the stage holding the attention of a great cloud of witnesses in what I think must have been a most remarkable play.” There was a long silence.

“That’s all I have to say.” Alleyn’s voice changed its colour a little. “I’m going to ask you to return to your rooms. You’ll want to do so in any case to collect your coats and so on. If you would like to talk things over among yourselves you are quite free to do so. We shall be in the Greenroom. If each of you will come in and leave us an address and telephone number I’ll be grateful.” He looked round them for a moment. Perhaps deliberately he repeated the stage-manager’s customary dismissal: “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. That will be all.”

Alleyn stood in front of Adam Poole’s portrait and looked at his little group of fellow-policemen.

“Well,” he said, “I’ve done it.”

“Very unusual,” said Fox.

Bailey and Thompson stared at the floor.

Gibson blew out a long breath and wiped his forehead.