Ngaio Marsh - Overture to Death

“That’s all right,” said Alleyn. “What’s it all about?”

“Murder,” said Roper. “Will I show you?”

“Do.”

They walked up the centre aisle between rows of empty benches and chairs. The floor was littered with programmes.

“I’ll just turn on the other lights, sir,” said Roper. “Deceased’s behind the screen.”

He trudged up the steps to the stage. A switch clicked and Dinah’s foot- and proscenium-lights flooded the stage. Bailey and Thompson pulled the screen to one side.

There was Miss Campanula with her face on the keyboard of the piano, waiting for the expert, the camera, and the pathologist.

“Good Lord!” said Alleyn.

Rachmaninoff’s (and Miss Campanula’s) Prelude was crushed between her face and the keys. A dark crimson patch had seeped out towards the margin of the music, but the title showed clearly. A hole had been blown through the centre. Without touching the music, Alleyn could see several pencilled reminders. After the last of the opening chords was an emphatic “S.P.” The left hand had been pinned down by the face but the right had fallen, and hung inconsequently at the end of a long purple arm. The face itself was hidden. They stared down at the back of the head. Its pitiful knot of grey hair, broken and loosened, hung over a dark hole. Weepers of stained hair stuck to the thin neck.

“Through the back of the skull,” said Fox.

“That’s the wound of exit,” said Alleyn. “We shall have to find the bullet.”

Bailey turned away and began to search along the aisle.

Alleyn shone his torch on the tucked silk front of the piano. There was a rent exactly in the centre, extending above and below the central hole made by the bullet. Inside the hole, but quite close to the surface, the light picked up a shining circle. Alleyn leaned forward, peering, and uttered a soft exclamation.

“That’s the gun that did the job, sir,” said Roper. “Inside the piano.”

“Has it been touched?”

“No, sir, no. The super was in the audience and he took over immediately, did super. Except for doctor, not a soul’s been near.”

“The doctor. Where is he?”

“He’s gone home, sir. Dr. Templett it is, up to Chippingwood. He’s police surgeon. He was here when it happened. He said would I ring him up when you came and if you wanted him he’d be over. It’s only a couple of miles off.”

“I think he’d better come. Ring him up now, will you?”

When Roper had gone, Alleyn said, “This is a rum go, Fox.”

“Very peculiar, Mr. Alleyn. How’s it been worked?”

“We’ll take a look-see when we’ve got some pictures. Take every angle, Thompson.”

Thompson had already begun to set up his paraphernalia. Soon the flashlight threw Miss Campanula into startling relief. For the second and last time she was photographed, seated at the instrument

Roper came back from the telephone and watched the experts with avid interest.

“Funniest go you ever did see,” he said to Bailey, who had moved to the end of the aisle. “I was on the spot. The old lady sits down at the piano in her bold way and wades into it. Biff, biff, plonk, and before you know where you are the whole works go off like a packet of crackers and she’s lying there a corpse.”

“Cuh!” said Bailey and stooped swiftly to the floor. “Here we are, sir,” he said. “Here’s the bullet.”

“Got it? I’ll look at it in a minute.”

Alleyn marked the position of the head and arm and squatted on the floor to run a chalk line round the feet.

“Size eight,” he murmured. “The left foot looks as if it’s slipped on the soft pedal. Now, I wonder. Well, we’ll soon find out. Got gloves on, all of you? Good. Go carefully, I should, and keep away from the front. Will you, sergeant — what is your name, by the way?”

“Roper, sir.”

“Right. Will you clear the stuff off the top?”

Roper shifted the aspidistras and began to unpin the bunting. Alleyn went up to the stage and squatted over the footlights like a sort of presiding deity.

“Gently does it, the thing’s tottering. Look at that!”

He pointed at the inside of the top lid, which was turned back.

“Wood-rot. No wonder they wanted a new one. Good Lord!”

“What, sir?”

“Come and look at this, Fox.”

Alleyn shone his torch in at the top. The light glinted on a steel barrel. He slipped in his gloved fingers. There was a sharp click.

“I’ve just snicked over the safety-catch on a perfectly good automatic. Now, then.”

Roper pulled away the bunting.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” said Fox.

ii

“Very fancy, isn’t it?” said Alleyn. “A bit too fancy for me, sir. How does it work?”

“It’s a Colt. The butt’s jammed between the pegs, where the wires are made fast, and the front of the piano. The nozzle fits into a hole in this fretwork horror in front of the silk bib. The bib’s rotten with age and bulging. It could be tweaked in front of the nozzle. Anyway, the music would hide it. Of course the top was smothered in bunting and vegetables.”

“But what pulled the trigger?”

“Half a second. There’s a loop of string round the butt and over the trigger. The string goes on to an absurd little pulley in the back of the inner case. Then forward to another pulley on a front strut. Then it goes down.” He moved his torch. “Yes, now you can see. The other end of the string is fixed to the batten that’s part of the soft pedal action. When you use the pedal the batten goes backwards. Moves about two inches, I fancy. Quite enough to give a sharp jerk to the string. We’ll have some shots of this, Thompson. It’s a bit tricky. Can you manage?”

“I think so, Mr. Alleyn.”

“It looks like a practical joke,” said Fox.

Alleyn looked up quickly.

“Funny you should say that,” he said. “You spoke my thoughts. A small boy’s practical joke. The Heath Robinson touch with the string and pulleys is quite in character. I believe I even recognise those little pulleys, Fox. Notice how very firmly they’ve been anchored. My godson’s got their doubles in one of those building sets, an infernal dithering affair that’s supposed to improve the mind, and nearly sent me out of mine. ‘Twiddletoy,’ it’s called. Yes, and by George, Brer Fox, that’s the sort of cord they provide: thin green twine, very tough, like fishing line, and fits nicely into the groove of the pulley.”

“D’you reckon some kid’s gone wild and rigged this for the old girl?” asked Fox.

“A child with a Colt.32?”

“Hardly. Still, he might have got hold of one.”

Alleyn swore softly.

“What’s up, sir?” asked Fox.

“It’s the whole damn lay-out of the thing! It’s exactly like a contraption they give in the book of the words of these toys. ‘Fig. i. Signal.’ It’s no more like a signal than your nose. Less, if anything. But you build it on this principle. I made the thing for my godson. The cord goes up in three steps to pulleys that are fixed to a couple of uprights. At the bottom it’s tied to a little arm and at the top to a bigger one. When you push down the lower arm, the upper one waggles. I’ll swear it inspired this job. You see how there’s just room for the pulley in the waist of the Colt at the back? They’re fiddling little brutes, those pulleys, as I know to my cost. Not much bigger than the end of a cigarette. Hole through the middle. Once you’ve threaded the twine it can’t slip out. It’s guarded by the curved lips of the groove. You see, the top one’s anchored to the wires above that strip of steel. The bottom one’s tied to a strut in the fretwork. All right, Thompson, your witness.”

Thompson manœuvred his camera.