Ngaio Marsh - Overture to Death

While he devoured his eggs and bacon, Alleyn gave him the history of the night. When he came to the discovery of the message in Dr. Templett’s coat, Blandish laid down his knife and fork and stared at him.

“Glory!” he said.

“I know.”

“This is hell,” said Blandish. “I mean to say, it’s awkward.”

“Yes.”

“Not to put too fine a point on it, Mr. Alleyn, it’s bloody awkward.”

“It is.”

“By gum, I’m not so sure I do regret being out of it. It may not be anything, of course, but it can’t be overlooked. And I’ve been associated with the doctor I don’t know how many years.”

“Like him?” asked Alleyn.

“Do I like him? Well, now, yes. I suppose I do. We’ve always got on very pleasantly, you know. Yes, I — well, I’m accustomed to him.”

“You’ll know the questions we’re going to ask. In this sort of affair we have to batten on local gossip.”

Alleyn went to the corner of the dining-room, got his case and took from it the anonymous letter. It was flattened between two sheets of glass joined, at the edges, with adhesive tape. The corner, back and sides of the paper bore darkened impressions of fingers.

“There it is. We brought up three sets of latent prints. One of them corresponds with a print taken from a powder box in the dressing-room used by the victim and Miss Prentice. It has been identified as the victim’s. A second has its counterpart on a new japanned make-up box, thought to be the property of Mrs. Ross. The third is repeated on other papers in the wallet, and is obviously Dr. Templett’s.”

“Written by deceased, sent to Mrs. Ross and handed by her to the doctor?”

“It seems indicated. Especially as two of Mrs. Ross’s prints, if they are hers, appear to be superimposed on the deceased prints, and one of Dr. Templett’s lies across two of the others. Well get more definite results when Bailey develops his photographs.”

“This is an ugly business. You mentioned local gossip, Mr. Alleyn. There’s been a certain amount in this direction, no denying it, and the two ladies in question were mainly responsible, I fancy.”

“But is it a motive for murder?” asked Fox of nobody in particular.

“Well, Brer Fox, it might be. A doctor, in a country district especially, doesn’t thrive on scandal. Is Templett a wealthy man, do you know. Blandish?”

“No, I wouldn’t say he was,” said Blandish. “They’re an old Vale family, and the doctor’s a younger son. His elder brother was a bit of a rip. Smart regiment before the war, and expensive tastes. It’s always been understood the doctor came in for a white elephant when he got Chippingwood. I’d say he needs every penny he earns. He’s a hunting man, too, and that costs money.”

“What about Mrs. Ross?”

“Well, there you are! If you’re to believe everything you hear, they are pretty thick. But gossip’s not evidence, is it?”

“No, but it’s occasionally based on some sort of foundation, more’s the pity. Ah, well! It indicates a line and we’ll follow the pointer. Now, about the automatic. It’s Mr. Jernigham’s all right.”

“I’ve heard all about that, Mr. Alleyn, and that’s not too nice either, though I wouldn’t believe, if I saw the weapon smoking in his hand, that the squire would shoot a woman, let alone plan to murder his own flesh and blood. Unlikely enough people have turned out to be murderers, as we all know, and I suppose that it is not beyond the possibilities that Mr. Jernigham might kill his man in hot blood; but I’ve known him all my life, and I’d stake my reputation he’s not the sort to do an underhand fantastic sort of job like this. The man’s not got it in him. That’s not evidence, either — ”

“It’s expert opinion, though,” said Alleyn, “and to be respected as such.”

“The squire’s acting Chief Constable while Sir George Dillington’s away.”

“We seem to be on official preserves wherever we turn,” said Alleyn. “I’ll call at Pen Cuckoo later in the morning. The mortuary van came before it was light. Dr. Templett’s doing the post-mortem this afternoon. Either Fox or I will be there. I think our first job now is to call on Mr. Georgie Biggins.”

“Young limb of Satan! You’ll find him in the last cottage on the left, going out of Chipping. The station’s in Great Chipping, you know — only five miles from here. Roper and a P-c. enjoy their midday snooze at a substation in this village. Both are at your service.”

“Is there a car of sorts I could hire for the time being? You’ll need the official bus for your own work, of course.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m afraid we shall. It’s a tidy stretch over to Moorton Park, and we’ll be going backwards and forwards. No doubt about our men being Posh Jimmy & Co. Typical job. Funny how they stick to their ways, isn’t it? About a car. As a matter of fact, the Biggins have got an old Ford they hire.”

“Splendid. An admirable method of approaching Mr. Georgie. How old is he?”

“In years,” said Blandish, “he’s about thirteen. In sin he’s a hundred. A limb, if ever there was one. Nerve of a rhinoceros.”

“Well see if we can shake it,” said Alleyn.

The superintendent departed, lamenting the amount of work that lay before him.

ii

Alleyn and Fox lit their pipes and walked through Chipping. By daylight it turned out to be a small hamlet with a row of stone cottages on each side of the road, a general store, a post office, and the Jernigham Arms. Even the slope of Cloudyfold, rising steeply above it from the top of Pen Cuckoo Vale, did not rob Chipping of its upland character. It felt high in the world, and the cold wind blew strongly down the Vale road.

The Biggins’s cottage stood a little apart from the rest of the village, and had a truculent air. It was one of those bare-faced Dorset cottages, less picturesque than its neighbours, and more forbidding.

As Alleyn and Fox approached the front door, they heard a woman’s voice:

“Whatever be the matter with you, then, mumbudgeting so close to my apron strings? Be off with you!”

Silence.

“To be sure,” continued the voice, “if you wasn’t so strong as a young foal, Georgie Biggins, I’d think something ailed you. Stick out your tongue.”

Silence.

“As clean as a whistle. Stick it in again, then. Standing there like you was simple Dick with your tongue lolling! I never see! What ails you?”

“Nuthun,” said a small voice.

“Nuthun killed nobody.”

Alleyn tapped on the door.

Another silence was broken by a sharp whispering and an unmistakable scuffle.

“Do what I tell you!” ordered the voice. “Me in my working apron, and Sunday morning! Go on with you.”

There was a sound of rapid retreat and then the door opened three inches to disclose a pair of boot-button eyes and part of a very white face.

“Hullo,” said Alleyn. “I’ve come to see if I can hire a car. This is Mr. Biggins’s house, isn’t it?”

“Uh.”

“Have you got a car for hire?”

“Uh.”

“Well, how about opening the door a bit wider and we can talk about it?”

The door opened very slowly to another five inches. Georgie Biggins stood revealed in his Sunday suit. His moon-face was colourless and he had the look of a boy who may bolt without warning.

Alleyn said, “Now, what about this car? Is your father at home?”

“Along to pub corner,” said Georgie in a stifled voice. “Mum’s comeun.”

The cinema has made all little boys familiar with the look of a detective. Alleyn kept a change of clothes in the Yard in readiness for sudden departures. His shepherd’s plaid coat, flannel trousers and soft hat may have reassured George Biggins, but when the boot-button eyes ranged farther afield and lit on Inspector Fox, in his dark suit, mackintosh and bowler, their owner uttered a yelp of pure terror, turned tail and charged into his mother, who had at that moment walked out of the bedroom. She was a large woman, and she caught her son with a practised hand.