Ngaio Marsh - Overture to Death

“Mrs. Ross’s supper arrangements all laid out on the table. Lord, Fox, those sandwiches look good.”

“There’s a lot more in this basket,” said Fox. “Dr. Templett did say — ”

“And beer under the table,” murmured Alleyn. “Brer Fox?”

“A keg of it,” said Fox, who was exploring. “Dorset draught beer. Very good, Dorset draught.”

“You’re right,” said Alleyn after an interval. “It’s excellent. Hullo!”

He stooped and picked something out of a box on the floor.

“Half a Spanish onion. Any onion in your sandwiches?”

“No.”

“Nor in mine. It’s got flour or something on it.” He put the onion on the table and began to examine the plates of sandwiches. “Two kinds only, Fox. Ham and lettuce on the one hand, cucumber on the other. Hullo, here’s a tray all set out for a stage tea. Nobody eats anything. Wait a bit.”

He lifted the lid of the empty silver teapot and sniffed at the inside.

“The onion appears to have lived in the teapot. Quaint conceit, isn’t it? Very rum, indeed. Come on.”

They explored the dressing-rooms. There were two on each side of the supper-room.

“Gents to the right, ladies to the left,” said Alleyn. He led the way into the first room on the left. He and Fox began a methodical search through the suitcases and pockets.

“Not quite according to Cocker, perhaps,” Alleyn remarked, peering at Miss Prentice’s black marocain on the wall. “But I think we’ll ask afterwards. Anyway, I’m provided with a blank search-warrant so we’re all right. Damn this onion, my hand stinks of it. This must be the two spinsters’ rooms, judging by the garments.”

“Judging by the pictures,” said Fox, “it’s a Bible classroom in the ordinary way.”

“Yes. The Infant Samuel. What about next door? Ah, rather more skittish dresses. This will be Dinah Copeland and Mrs. Ross. Dr. Templett seemed rather self-conscious about Mrs. Ross, I thought. Miss Copeland’s grease paints are in a cardboard box with her name on it. They’ve been used a lot. Mrs. Ross’s, in a brand new japanned tin affair and brand new themselves, from which, inspired by Dorset draught, I deduce that Miss Copeland may be a professional, but Mrs. Ross undoubtedly is not. Here’s a card in the new tin box. ‘Best luck for to-night, B.’ A present, by gum! Who’s B., I wonder. Now for the men’s rooms.”

They found nothing of interest in the men’s rooms until Alleyn came to a Donegal tweed suit.

“This is the doctor’s professional suit,” he said. “It reeks of surgery. Evidently the black jacket is not done in a country practice. I suppose, in the hubbub, he didn’t change but went home looking like a comic-opera Frenchman. He must have — ”

Alleyn stopped short. Fox looked up to see him staring at a piece of paper.

“Found something, sir?”

“Look.”

It was a piece of plain blue paper. Fox read the lines of capitals:

“YOU ARE GIVEN NOTICE TO LEAVE THIS DISTRICT. IF YOU DISREGARD THIS WARNING YOUR LOVER SHALL SUFFER.”

“Where did you find this, Mr. Alleyn?”

“In a wallet. Inside breast pocket of the police surgeon’s suit,” said Alleyn. He dropped it on the dressing-table and then bent down and sniffed at it. “It smells of eucalyptus,” he said.

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That’s awkward,” granted Fox, after a pause.

“Couldn’t be more awkward.”

“ ‘Your lover shall suffer,’ ” quoted Fox. “That looks as if it was written to a woman, doesn’t it?”

“It’s not common usage nowadays the other way round, but it’s English. Common enough in the mixed plural.”

“He’s a married man,” Fox remembered.

“Yes, it sounded as if his wife’s an invalid, didn’t it? This may have been written to his mistress or possibly to him, or it may have been shown him by a third person who is threatened and wants advice.”

“Or he may have done it himself.”

“Yes, it’s possible, of course. Or it may be the relic of a parlour game. Telegrams, for instance. You made a sentence from a string of letters. He’d hardly carry that about next to his heart, though, would he? Damn! I’m afraid we’re in for a nasty run, Brer Fox.”

“How did the doctor strike you, Mr. Alleyn?”

“What? Rather jumpy. Bit too anxious to please. Couldn’t stop talking.”

“That’s right,” agreed Fox.

“We’ll have to flourish the search-warrant a bit if we work on this,” said Alleyn. “It’ll be interesting to see if he misses it before we tackle him about it.”

“He’s doing the P.M.”

“I know. We shall be present. Anyway, the lady was shot through the head. We’ve got the weapon and we’ve got the projectile. The post-mortem is not likely to be very illuminating. Hullo, Bailey, what is it?”

Bailey had come down the steps from the stage.

“I thought you’d better know, sir. This chap Roper’s recognised the automatic. Mr. Bathgate ran him down to the station and they’ve checked up the number.”

“Where is he?”

“Out in the hall.” A reluctant grin appeared on Bailey’s face. “I reckon he still thinks it’s great to be a policeman. He wants to tell you himself.”

“Very touching. All right. Bailey, I want you to test this paper for prints. Do it at once, will you, and put it between glass when you’ve finished. And, Bailey, have a shot at the teapot out there. Inside and out.”

“Teapot, sir?”

“Yes. Also the powdered onion on the table. I dare say it’s quite immaterial, but it’s queer, so we’d better tackle it.”

They returned to the hall where they found Roper standing over the automatic with something of the air of a clever retriever.

“Well, Roper,” said Alleyn, “I hear you’ve done a bit of investigation for us.”

“Yes, sir, I have so. I’ve recognised the lethal weapon, sir.”

“Well, whose is it?”

“I says to myself when I see it,” said Roper, “I know you, my friend, I’ve had you in my hands, I said. And then I remembered. It was when we checked up on firearms licences six months ago. Now, I suppose a hundred weapons must have passed under my notice that time, this being a sporting part of the world, so I reckon it’s not surprising I didn’t pick this affair so soon as I clapped eyes on her. I reckon that’s not surprising, and yet she looked familiar, you understand?”

“Yes, Roper, I quite understand. Who is the owner?”

“This weapon, sir, is a Colt.32 automatic, the property of Jocelyn Jernigham, Esquire, of Pen Cuckoo.”

“Is it, indeed?” murmured Alleyn.

“This gentleman, Mr. Bathgate, ran me down to the station, sir, and it didn’t take me over and above five minutes to lay my finger on the files. You can take a look at the files, sir, and — ”

“I shall do so. Now, Roper, see if you can give me some model answers. Short, crisp, and to the point. When did you see the automatic? Can you give me the date?”

“In the files!” shouted Sergeant Roper, triumphantly. “May 31st of the current year.”

“Where was it?”

“In the study at Pen Cuckoo, sir, that being the room at the extreme end of the west wing facing the Vale.”

“Who showed it to you?”

“Squire, himself, showed it to me. We’d checked up all the weapons in the gun-room, of which there was a number, and squire takes me into his study and says, “There’s one more,” he says, and he lays his hand on a wooden box on the table and opens the lid. There was this lethal masterpiece laying on her side, with a notice written clear in block letters. ‘Loaded.’ ‘It’s all right,’ says Mr. Jernigham, seeing me step aside as he takes her out. ‘The safety catch is on,’ he says. And he showed me. And he says, ‘It went all through the war with me,’ he says, ‘and there’s half a clip left in it. I’d fired two shots when I got my Blighty one,’ he says, ‘and I’ve kept it like this ever since. I let it be known there’s a loaded automatic waiting at Pen Cuckoo for anybody that feels like coming in uninvited.’ We’d had some thieving in the district at that time, same as we’ve got it now. He told me this weapon had lain loaded in that box for twenty years, did squire.”