Ngaio Marsh - Overture to Death

“Was the box locked?”

“No, sir. But he said all the maids was warned about it.”

“Anybody else in the room?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Henry was there, and Miss Prentice, sitting quietly by the fire and smiling, pussy-like, same as she always does.”

“Don’t you like Miss Prentice?”

“I think she’s all right, but my missus says she’s proper sly. My missus is a great one for the institute and Miss Prentice is president of same.”

“I see. Any local gossip about Miss Prentice?”

Roper expanded. He placed his hands in his belt with the classic heaving movement of all policemen. He then appeared to remember he was in the presence of authority and rearranged himself in an attitude of attention,

“Aye,” he said, “they talk all right, sir. You see, Miss Prentice, she came along, new to the Vale, on three years back when Mrs. Jernigham died. I reckon the late Mrs. Jernigham was nigh-on the best liked lady in this part of Dorset. A Grey of Stourminster-Weston she was, Dorset born and bred, and a proper lady. Now, this Miss Prentice, for all she’s half a Jernigham, is a foreigner as you might say, and she doesn’t know our ways here. Mrs. Jernigham was welcome everywhere, cottage and big houses alike, and wherever she went she was the same. Never asking questions or if she did, out of real niceness and not nosey-parkishness. Now, folk about here say Miss Prentice is the other way round. Sly. Makes trouble between cottages and rectory, or would if she could. Cor!” said Roper, passing his ham of a hand over his face. “The way that old maiden got after rector! My missus says — well, my missus is an outspoken woman and come off a farm.”

Alleyn did not press for a repetition of Mrs. Roper’s agricultural similes.

“There was only one worse than her,” continued Roper, “and that was the deceased. She was a dragon after rector. And before Miss Prentice came, Miss Campanula had it all her own way, but I reckon Miss Campanula kind of lost driving power when t’other lady got going with her insinuating antics.”

“How did they get on together?”

“Fast as glue,” said Roper. “Thick as thieves. My missus says they knew too much about each other to be anything else. Cook up to Red House, she says Miss Campanula was jealous fair-to-bust of Miss Prentice, but she was no match for her, however, being the type of woman that lets her anger be seen and rages out in the open, whereas Miss Prentice, with her foxy ways, goes quiet to work. Cook told my missus that deceased was losing ground daily and well-nigh desperate over it.”

“How do you mean, losing ground?”

“With rector.”

“Dear me,” murmured Alleyn. “How alarming for the rector.”

“Reckon he picks his way like that chap in Bible,” said Roper. “He’s a simple sort of chap is rector but he’s a Vale man and he suits us. His father and grandfather were rectors here before him and he knows our ways.”

“Quite so, Roper,” said Alleyn, and lit a cigarette.

“No. But the rector met his match in those two ladies, sir, and it’s a marvel one of them hasn’t snapped him up by this time. Likely he holds them off with holy conversation, but I’ve seen the hunted look in the man’s eyes more than once.”

“I see,” said Alleyn. “Do you think it generally known that Mr. Jernigham kept this loaded automatic in the study?”

“I should say it was, sir. If I make so bold, sir, I’d say it was never squire that did this job. He’s peppery, is Mr. Jernigham, but I’d bet my last penny he’s not a murderer. Flares up and forgets all about it the next minute. Very outspoken. Mr. Henry, now, he’s deeper. A nice young fellow but quiet-like. You never know what he’s thinking. Still, he’s got no call to kill anybody, and wouldn’t if he had.”

“Who is Mrs. Ross of Duck Cottage, Cloudyfold?”

“Stranger to these parts. She only came here last April.” Roper’s blue eyes became hard and bright.

“Young?” asked Alleyn.

“Not what you’d say so very young. Thin. Pale hair, done very neat, and very neat in her dressing. Her clothes look different to most ladies. More like the females in the talkies only kind of simpler. Dainty. She’s dressed very quiet, always, but you notice her.” Roper paused, six-foot-two of dim masculine appreciation. “I reckon she’s got It,” he said at last. “It’s not my place to say so, but I suppose a chap always knows her sort. By instinct.”

There was an odd little silence during which the other five men stared at Sergeant Roper.

“Dr. Templett does, anyway,” he said at last.

“Oh,” said Alleyn. “More local gossip?”

“The women-folk. You know what they are, sir. Given it a proper thrashing, they have. Well, there’s a good deal of feeling on account of Mrs. Templett being an invalid.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Let me see, that’s all the cast of the play, isn’t it? Except Miss Copeland.”

“Miss Dinah? She’ll be in a taking-on, I make no doubt. After all the work she’s given to this performance for it to go up, as you might say, in a cloud of dust. Still, she’s courting, that’ll be a kind of comfort to the maid. Mr. Henry was watching over her after the tragedy, holding her hand for all to see. They’re well-matched and we’re hoping to hear it’s a settled matter any time now. My missus says it’ll be one in the eye for Miss Prentice.”

“Why on earth?”

“She won’t be fancying another lady at Pen Cuckoo. I saw her looking blue murder at them even while deceased was lying, you might say, a corpse at their feet. She’s lucky it wasn’t her. Should be thanking her Creator she’s still here to make trouble.”

“Miss Prentice,” said Nigel, “seems to be a very unpleasant cup of tea. Perhaps her sore finger was all a bluff and she rigged the tackle for the girl-friend.”

“Dr. Templett said it was no bluff, Mr. Bathgate,” said Fox. “He said she held out till the last moment that she was going to play.”

“That’s right enough, sir,” said Roper. “I went round to the back to see Miss Dinah just after it had happened and there was Miss Prentice crying her eyes out, with her finger looking that unwholesome it’d turn your stomach, and Miss Dinah telling her she was ruining the paint on her face and the doctor saying, ‘I absolutely forbid it. Your finger’s in a very nasty state and if you weren’t playing this part tonight,’ he said, ‘I’d open it up.’ Yes, he threatened her with the knife, did doctor. Mr. Henry says, ‘You’ll make a mess of Mr. Nevin’s ecstasies.’ Her piece was composed by a chap of that name as you’ll see in the programme. ‘You’ll never stay the course, Cousin Eleanor,’ says Mr. Henry. ‘I know it’s hurting you like stink,’ says Mr. Henry, ‘because you’re crying,’ he says. But no, she wouldn’t give in till Miss Dinah fetched her father. ‘Come,’ he says, ‘we all know how you feel about it, but there are times when generosity is better than heroism.’ She looked up at rector, then, and she said, ‘If you say so, Father,’ and with that Miss Campanula says, ‘Now, who’ll go and get my music? Where’s Gibson?’ Which is the name of her chauffeur. So she give in, but very reluctant.”

“A vivid enough picture of the rival performances, isn’t it?” said Alleyn. “Well, there’s the history of the case. It’s getting on for three o’clock. I think, on second thoughts, Fox, we won’t wait for the light of day. We’ll make a night of it. This place must be overhauled sometime and it looks as though we’ll have a busy day tomorrow. You can turn in if you like, Roper. Some one can relieve us at seven.”

“Are you going to search the premises, sir?”

“Yes.”