Ngaio Marsh - Died in the Wool

For the previous night, Markins the man-servant, hearing furtive noises in the old dairy that now served as a cellar, and imagining them to be made by a rat, had crept up and flashed his torch in at the window. Its beam darted moth-like about dusty surfaces of bottles. There was a brief sound of movement. Markins sought it out with his light. Cliff Johns’s face sprang out of the dark. His eyes were screwed up blindly and his mouth was open. Markins had described this very vividly. He had dipped the torch-beam until it discovered Cliff’s hands. They were long and flexible hands and they grasped a bottle of Arthur’s twenty-year-old whisky. As the light found them they opened and the bottle crashed on the stone floor. Markins, a taciturn man, darted into the dairy, grasped Cliff by his wrist and, without a word, lugged him unresisting into the kitchen. Mrs. Duck, outraged beyond measure, had instantly bustled off and fetched Mrs. Rubrick. The interview took place in the kitchen. It nearly broke Florence’s heart, Ursula said. Cliff, who of course reeked of priceless whisky, said repeatedly that he had not been stealing, but would give no further explanation. In the meantime Markins had discovered four more bottles in a sugar bag, dumped round the corner of the dairy. Florence, naturally, did not believe Cliff, and in a mounting scene called him a sneak-thief and accused him of depravity and ingratitude. He broke into a white rage and stammered out an extraordinary arraignment of Florence, saying that she had tried to buy him and that he would never rest until he had returned every penny she had spent on his schooling. At this stage Florence sent Markins and Mrs. Duck out of the kitchen. The scene ended by Cliff rushing away, while Florence, weeping and shaking, sought out Ursula and poured out the whole story. Arthur Rubrick had been very unwell and they decided to tell him nothing of this incident

Next morning — the day of her disappearance — Florence went to the manager’s cottage only to be told that Cliff’s bed had not been slept in and his town clothes were missing. His father had gone off in their car down the road to the Pass. At midday he returned with Cliff, whom he had overtaken at the cross-roads, dead-beat, having covered sixteen miles on the first stage down-country to the nearest army depot. Florence would tell Ursula nothing of her subsequent interview with Tommy Johns.

“So Uncle Arthur’s suggestion on that same evening that Cliff should play at the dance came at rather a grim moment,” said Ursula.

“The boy’s a damned conceited pup if he’s nothing worse,” said Douglas Grace.

“And he’s still here?” said Alleyn. Fabian looked round at him.

“Oh, yes. They won’t have him in the army. He has something wrong with his eyes and anyway is ranked as doing an essential job on the place. The police got the whole story out of Markins, of course,” said Fabian, “and, for want of a better suspect, concentrated on the boy. I expect he looms large in the files, doesn’t he?”

“He peters out about half-way through.”

“That’s because he’s the only member of the household who’s got a sort of alibi. We all heard him playing the piano until just before the diamond clip was found, which was at five to nine. When he’d just started, at eight o’clock it was, Markins saw him in the annex, playing, and he never stopped for longer than half a minute or less. Incidentally, to the best of my belief, that’s the last time young Cliff played on the piano in the annex, or on any other piano, for a matter of that. His mother, who was worried about him, went over to the annex and persuaded him to return with her to the cottage. There he heard the nine-o’clock news bulletin and listened to a program of classical music.

“You may think that was a bit thick,” said Fabian. “I mean a bit too much in character with the sensitive young plant, but it’s what he did. The previous night, you must remember, he’d had a snorting row with Flossie, and followed it up with a sixteen-mile hike and no sleep. He was physically and emotionally exhausted and dropped off to sleep in his chair. His mother got him to bed, and she and his father sat up until after midnight, talking about him. Before she turned in, Mrs. Johns looked at young Cliff and found him fathoms deep. Even the Detective-Sergeant saw that Flossie would have returned by midnight if she’d been alive. Sorry, Ursy dear, I interrupt continually. We are back on the lawn. Cliff’s playing Bach on a piano that misses on six notes and Flossie’s talking about the party in the shearing shed. Carry on.”

Ursula and Florence had steered Arthur Rubrick away from Cliff, though the piano in the annex continued to remind them of him. Flossie began to plan her speech on post-war land settlement for soldiers. “There’ll be no blunders this time,” she declared. “The bill we’re planning will see to that. A committee of experts.” The phrases drifted out over the darkling garden. “Good country, properly stocked… adequate equipment… Soldiers Rehabilitation Fund… I shall speak for twenty minutes before supper…” But from what part of the wool-shed should she speak? Why not from the press itself? There would be a touch of symbolism in that, Flossie cried, taking fire. It would be from the press itself with an improvised platform across the top. She would be a dominant figure there. Perhaps, some extra lighting? “We must go and look!” she cried, jumping to her feet. That had always been her way with everything — no sooner said than done. She had tremendous driving power and enthusiasm. “I’m going to try my voice there — now. Give me my coat, Douglas darling.” Douglas helped her into the diaphanous coat.

It was then that he discovered the loss of the diamond clip.

It had been a silver wedding present from Arthur, one of a pair. Its mate still twinkled on the left lapel of the coat. Flossie announced simply that it must be found, and Douglas organized her search party. “You’ll see it quite easily,” she told them, “by the glitter. I shall walk slowly to the shearing shed, looking as I go. I want to try my voice. Please don’t interrupt me, any of you. I shan’t get another chance and I must be in bed before ten. An early start in the morning. Look carefully, and mind you don’t tread on it. Off you go.”

To Ursula’s lot had fallen a long path running down the right-hand side of the tennis lawn between hedges of clipped poplars dense with summer foliage. This path divided the tennis lawn from a farther lawn which extended from the front along the south side of the house. This, also, was bordered by a hedged walk where Terence Lynne hunted, and beyond her again lay the kitchen gardens, allotted to Fabian. To the left of the tennis lawn Douglas Grace moved parallel with Ursula. Beyond him, Arthur Rubrick explored a lavender path that led off at right angles through a flower garden to a farther fence beyond which lay a cart track leading to the manager’s hut, the bunk-houses and the shearing shed.

“No gossiping, now,” said Flossie. “Be thorough.” She turned down the lavender path, moving slowly. Ursula watched her go. The hills beyond her had now darkened to a purple that was almost black, and, by the blotting out of nearer forms, Flossie seemed to walk directly into these hills until, reaching the end of the path, she turned to the left and suddenly vanished.

Ursula walked round the top of the tennis-court, past the front of the house, to her allotted beat between the two lawns. The path was flanked by scrubby borders of parched annuals amongst which she hunted assiduously. Cliff Johns now played noisily but she was farther away and only heard disjointed passages, strident and angry. She thought it was a polonaise. Tum , te-tum. Te tum-te-tum-te tum , te-tum. Tiddlytumtum. She didn’t know how he could proclaim himself like that after what had happened. Across the lawn, on her right, Fabian, making for the kitchen garden, whistled sweetly. Between them Terence Lynne hunted along the companion path to Ursula’s. The poplar fences completely hid them from each other but every now and then they would call out: “Any luck?” “Not so far.” It was now almost dark. Ursula had worked her way to the bottom of her beat and turned into the connecting path that ran right along the lower end of the garden. Here she found Terence Lynne. “It’s no good looking along here,” Terence had said. “We didn’t come here with Mrs. Rubrick. We crossed the lawn to the kitchen garden.” But Ursula reminded her that earlier in the evening, while Douglas and Fabian played an after-dinner singles, the girls had come this way with Florence. “But I’m sure she had the clip then,” Terence objected. “We should have noticed if one was missing. And in any case, I’ve looked along here. We’d better not be together. You know what she said.” They argued in a desultory way and then Ursula returned to her beat. She saw a light flash beyond the fence on the right side of the tennis lawn and heard Douglas call out: “Here’s a torch, Uncle Arthur.” It was not long after this that Arthur Rubrick found the clip in a clump of zinnias along the lavender walk.