Ngaio Marsh - Died in the Wool

“It’s me,” said Alleyn quietly.

Douglas’ door opened and he looked out. “Well, I wondered who it was,” he said, eyeing Alleyn dubiously. “I mean it seemed funny.”

“Another night prowler? Up to no good?”

“Well, I must say you sounded a bit stealthy. Anything you want, sir?”

“No,” said Alleyn. “Just sleuthing. Go to bed.”

Douglas grinned and withdrew his head. “Enjoy yourself,” Alleyn heard him say cheekily, and the door was shut.

Perhaps Fabian had left the cigarette case in his room and was already asleep. Odd, though, that he didn’t wait.

There was no cigarette case in his room. “Blast!” Alleyn muttered. “He can’t find it! The miserable Albert’s pinched it. Blast!”

He crept downstairs again. A faint glimmer of light showed at the end of the hall. A door into the kitchen passage was open. He went through it, and met Markins in the silver pantry, candle in hand.

“Just locking up, sir,” said Markins. “Were you wanting me?”

“I’m looking for Mr. Losse.”

“Wasn’t he up by the men’s quarters with you, Mr. Alleyn? About ten minutes ago.”

“He was probably there, but I wasn’t.”

“That’s funny,” Markins said, staring at him. “I’d ’ave sworn it was you.”

“He was wearing my coat.”

“Is that the case? Who was the other gentleman, then?”

“Not me. What other gentleman?”

Markins set his candle down and shut the door. “I was going up to the manager’s cottage,” he said. “I wanted to have a word with Mr. Johns. Cliff had just gone back there. The cottage is up the hill at the back of the annex, you know. When I came out of the back door here, I thought I saw you on the main track to the men’s quarters, going towards the annex. I thought I’d cut across and see you, and I started up the path from the back door. You lose sight of the other track for a bit. I heard you call out something and I sung out ‘Hullo, sir?’ Then I heard you run downhill. When I came up to where you can see the track, you weren’t in sight.”

Alleyn took the tip of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Not me,” he said. “Mr. Losse.”

“It sounded like you, sir. I thought you must have been talking to someone else.”

“And apparently, on the telephone, I sounded like Mr. Losse. Damn it then,” Alleyn said irritably, “where is he? If he ran downhill why didn’t he come in? And who was he singing out to? Young Cliff?”

“No, sir. Cliff was home by then. When I got up to the cottage I asked him if he’d seen you and he said he hadn’t seen anybody. What was Mr. Losse doing, sir?”

Alleyn told him, “Come on,” he said. “I don’t like this. Let’s hunt him out.”

“There’s half a dozen things he might be doing, Mr. Alleyn.”

“What sort of things? We’ll go through your kitchen, Markins. Lead the way. I’ve got a torch.”

“Well,” said Markins, moving off, “letting water out of the truck radiator. It’s going to be a hard frost.”

“Would he run downhill to do that?”

“Well, no. The garage is up by the sheds.”

“What was it he called out?” asked Alleyn, following Markins into a dark warm kitchen that smelt of pine wood and fat.

“I couldn’t say, really. He just shouted. He sounded surprised. Just a moment if you please, Mr. Alleyn. I’ve bolted the door. Ever since that young Cliff played up with the whisky, I’ve shut up careful.”

“Cliff didn’t play up. It was the unspeakable Albie.”

“I caught him with the bottle in his hand!”

“He was putting it back.”

“He never was!” Markins cried out with almost lady-like incredulity.

“Albie’s admitted it. The boy was saving his disgusting face for him.”

“Then why the hell couldn’t he say so?” Markins demanded in a high voice. “I’d better stick to valeting and cut out the special stuff,” he added disgustedly. “I can’t pick petty larceny when it’s under my nose. Come on, sir.”

It was pitch-dark outside and bitingly cold. Markins, using Alleyn’s torch, led the way up a steep path. Grass was crisp under their feet and frost scented the air. Ice seemed to move against their faces as they climbed. The sky was clear and full of winking stars.

“Where are we going, Mr. Alleyn?”

“To the annex.”

“This path comes out above the buildings, but we can cut across to the track. It’s not too rough, but it’s steepish.”

Clods of earth broke icily under Alleyn’s shoes. He and Markins skated and slithered. “Kick your heels in,” Markins said. A sense of urgency, illogically insistent, plagued Alleyn. “Where’s this cursed track?” he grunted.

They mounted a rise and a dim rectangular blackness showed against a hillside that must be white with frost. “Here we are,” Markins said. “There’s a wire fence, sir. No barbs.” The wire clanged as they climbed through. The flashlight played on frozen cart tracks.

“There’s no light in the annex,” Alleyn said.

“Shall we call out, sir?”

“No. If he was about he’d have heard us. We don’t want the men roused up. Is this where the branch track goes down to the shearing shed? Yes, there it goes. Downhill. Wait a moment .”

Markins turned quickly, flashing his light on Alleyn, who stood facing towards the shearing shed. “Give me the torch, Markins, will you?”

He reached out his hand, took the torch, and flashed it down the branch track. Points of frost glittered like tinsel. The circle of light moved on and came to rest on a sprawling mound.

“My God!” Markins said loudly. “What’s he bin and done to ’imself?”

“Keep off the track.” Alleyn stepped on the frozen turf beside it and moved quickly down towards the wool-shed. The torchlight now showed him the grey shepherd’s plaid of his own overcoat with Fabian’s legs, spread-eagled, sticking out from under the skirts, Fabian’s head, rumpled and pressed face downwards in a frozen rut, and his arms stetched out beyond it as if they had been raised to shield it as he fell.

Alleyn knelt beside him, giving the torch to Markins.

Fabian’s hair grew thick over the base of his head, which, like the nape of his thin and delicately grooved neck, looked boyish and vulnerable. Alleyn parted the hair delicately.

Behind him, holding the torch very steadily, Markins whispered a thin stream of blasphemy.

“A downward blow,” said Alleyn. He thrust one hand swiftly under the hidden face, raised the head, and with the other hand, like a macabre conjurer, pulled out of Fabian’s mouth a gaily coloured silk handkerchief.

“He’s not—?”

“No, no, of course not.” Alleyn’s hands were busy. “But we must get him out of this damnable cold. It’s not more than twelve yards to the wool-shed. There are no other injuries I fancy. Think we can do it? We mustn’t go falling about with him.”

“O.K., O.K.”

“Steady then. I’ll get that sacking door opened first.”

When they lifted him, Fabian’s breathing was thick and stertorous. Little jets of vapour came from his mouth. When they reached the open door and Alleyn lifted his shoulders to the level of the raised floor, he groaned deeply.

“Gently, gently,” Alleyn said. “That’s the way, Markins. Good. I’ve got his head. Slide him in. The floor’s like glass. Now, drop the door and I’ll get some of those bales.”

The light darted about the wool-shed, on the press, the packed bales, and the heap of empty ones. They bedded Fabian down in strong-smelling sacking.

“Now the hurricane lamp and that candle. I’ve a notion,” said Alleyn grimly as he hunted for them, “that they’ll be in order this time. Wrap his feet up, won’t you?”