Ngaio Marsh - Died in the Wool

“I didn’t hurt him, Fabian,” Terence said at last. “I’m certain I didn’t. If he was hurt it was by her. She was atrociously possessive.”

“Because of you,” said Ursula.

“But we couldn’t help it. You talk as if I planned what happened. It came out of a clear sky. It wasn’t of my doing. And there wasn’t a sequel, Ursula. You needn’t think we had surreptitious scenes. We didn’t. We were both of us, I believe, a little happier in our knowledge of each other. That was all.”

“When he was ill,” said Fabian, “did you talk about it, Terry?”

“A little. Just to say we were glad we knew.”

“If he had lived,” said Ursula harshly, “would you have married him?”

“How can I tell?”

“Why shouldn’t you have married? Auntie Florence, who was such a bore to both of you, was out of the way. Wasn’t she?”

“That’s an extraordinary cruel thing to say, Ursula.”

“I agree,” said Douglas and Fabian muttered: “Pipe down, Ursy.”

“No,” said Ursula. “We undertook to finish our thoughts in this discussion. You’re all cruel to her memory. Why should any of us get off? Why not say what you all must have thought: with her death they were free to marry.”

A footfall sounded outside in the hall, accompanied by a faint jingle of glasses. It was Markins with the drinks.

With Markins’ arrival the discussion ended. It was as if he had opened the door to a wave of self-consciousness. Douglas fussed over the drinks, urging Alleyn to have whisky. Alleyn, who considered himself to be on duty, refused it and wondered regretfully if it was from the same matchless company as the bottle that Cliff Johns had smashed on the diary floor. Any suggestion that the discussion might be taken up again was dispelled by the entrance of Mrs. Aceworthy, who, with the two girls, drank tea, and who had many playful remarks to make about the lateness of the hour. It was high time, she said, that all her chickens were in their nests. And she asked Alleyn pointedly if he had brought a hot-water bottle. Upon this hint he bade them all good-night. Fabian brought in candles and offered to see him to his room.

They went upstairs together, their shadows mounting gigantically beside them. On the landing Fabian said: “You will realize now, of course, that you’re in Flossie’s room. It’s the best one, really, but we all preferred to stay where we were.”

“Ah, yes.”

“It’s got no associations for you, of course.”

“None.”

Fabian led the way through Florence’s door. He lit candles on the dressing-table and the room came into being, a large white room with gay curtains, a pretty desk, a fine bed and a number of flower prints on the walls. Alleyn’s pyjamas were laid out on the bed, by Markins, he supposed, and his locked dispatch and investigation cases were displayed prominently on the desk. He grinned to himself.

“Got everything you want?” Fabian asked.

“Everything, thanks. Before we say good-night, though, I wonder if I might take a look at your workroom.”

“Why not? Come on.”

It was the second door on the left along the passage. Fabian detached the key from about his neck. “On a bootlace, you see,” he said. “No deception practised. Here we go.”

The strong electric lamp over their working bench dazzled eyes that had become accustomed to candlelight. It shone down on a rack of tools and an orderly collection of drawing materials. A small precision lathe was established on a side bench which was littered with a heterogeneous collection of pieces of metal. A large padlocked cupboard was built into the right-hand wall and beside it Alleyn saw a good modern safe with a combination lock. Three capacious drawers under the bench also were locked.

“The crucial drawings and formulas have always been kept in the safe,” Fabian explained. “As you can see, everything is stowed away under lock and key. And pray spare a kind thought for my window shutter, so witheringly dismissed by dear old Douglas.”

It was, Alleyn thought, an extremely workmanlike job. “And, I can assure you,” Fabian added, “it has not been fiddled with.” He sat on the bench and began to talk about their work. “It’s a magnetic fuse for anti-aircraft shells,” he said. “The shell is made of non-ferrous metal and contains a magnetically operated fuse which will explode the shell when it approaches an aircraft engine, or other metallic object. It will, we hope, be extremly useful at high altitudes where a direct hit is almost impossible. Originally I got the idea from a magnetic mine which, as of course you know, explodes in the magnetic field surrounding steel ships. Now, even though it contains a good deal of alloy, an aeroplane engine must, of necessity, also contain an appreciable amount of steel and, in addition, there’s a magnetic field from ignition coils. Our fuse is very different from the fuse in a magnetic mine but it’s a kind of second cousin in that it’s designed to explode a shell in the aeroplane’s magnetic field. As a matter of fact,” said Fabian with a glint in his eye, ”if it comes off, and it will come off, I believe, it’ll be a pretty big show.”

“Of course it will. Very big indeed. There’s one question I’d like to ask. What about ‘prematures’ by attraction to the gun itself, or explosion in transit?”

“There’s a safety device incorporated in the doings and it sees to it that the fuse won’t do its stuff until the shell starts to rotate and after it leaves the gun barrel. The result, in effect, is an aerial magnetic mine. I’ll show you the blueprints on presentation of your official card,” Fabian ended with a grin.

“I should be enormously interested. But not to-night if you don’t mind. I’ve still a job of work to do.”

“In that case, I’ll escort you back to your room, first making sure that no adventuresses lurk under the benches. Shall we go?”

Back in Alleyn’s room Fabian lit a cigarette at a candle, and gave his guest one of his sidelong glances. “Any good,” he asked, “or rotten?”

“The discussion?”

“Yes. Post-mortem. Inquest. Was it hopelessly stupid to do it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“To-morrow, I suppose, you’ll talk to the Johns family and the men and so on.”

“If I may.”

“We’re crutching. You’ll be able to see the set-up. It’s pretty much the same. All except—”

“Yes?” asked Alleyn as he paused.

“The press is new. I couldn’t stomach that. It’s the same kind, though.”

“I’ll just turn up there if I may.”

“Yes. O.K. I don’t know if you’re going to keep our unearthly hours. Please don’t if you’d rather not. Breakfast at a quarter to six.”

“Of course.”

“Then I’ll take you over to the shed. You’ll ask me for anything you want?”

“I just want a free hand to fossick. I’d be grateful if I could be disregarded.”

“Not very easy, I’m afraid. But of course you’ll have a free hand. I’ve told the men and Ducky and everybody that you’ll be talking to them.”

“How did they like that?”

“Quite keen. It’s given a fillip to the ever-popular murder story. Damned ghouls! There’ll be one or two snags, though. Wilson, the wool sorter, and Jack Merrywether, the presser, are not at all keen. Your friend Sub-Inspector Jackson got badly offside with both of them. And there’s Tommy Johns.”

“The boy’s father?”

“Yes. He’s a difficult chap, Tommy. I get on with him all right. He thinks for himself, does Tommy, and what’s more,” said Fabian with a grin, “he thinks much like me, politically, so I consider him a grand guy. But he’s difficult. He resented Flossie’s handling of young Cliff and small blame to him. And what he thinks of police methods! You won’t find him precisely come-to-ish.”