Ngaio Marsh - Overture to Death

“For instance, Brer Fox?”

“Well, Mr. Alleyn, to Mary’s way of thinking, Miss C. was a bit queer on the subject of Mr. Copeland. Potty on him is the way Mary puts it. She says that about the time the rector walks through the village of a morning, deceased used to go and hang about under one pretext or another until she could meet him.”

“Oh Lord!” said Alleyn distastefully.

“Yes, it’s kind of pitiful, sir, isn’t it? Mary says she’d dress herself up, very particularly, walk up to Chipping, and go into the little shop. She’d keep the woman there talking, while she bought some trifle or another, and. all the time she’d be looking through the glass door. If the rector showed up, Miss Campanula would be off like lightening. She was a very uncertain tempered lady, and when things went wrong she used to scare the servants by the wild way she talked, saying she’d do something violent, and so on.”

“This is getting positively Russian,” said Alleyn, “and remarkably depressing. Go on.”

“It wasn’t so bad till Miss Prentice came. She had it her own way in the parish till then. But Miss Prentice seems to have put her in the shade, as you might say. Miss Prentice beat her to all the top places. She’s president of this Y.P.F.C. affair and Miss C. was only secretary. Same sort of thing with the Girl Guides.”

“She’s never a Girl Guide!” Alleyn ejaculated.

“Seems like it, and she beat Miss C. hands down, teaching the kids knots and camp cookery. Got herself decorated with badges and so on. Started at the bottom and swotted it all up. The local girls didn’t faney it much, but she kind of got round them; and when Lady Appleby gave up the Commissioner’s job Miss Prentice got it. Same sort of thing at the Women’s Circle and all the other local affairs. Miss P. was too smart for Miss C. They were as thick as thieves; but Mary says sometimes Miss C. would come back from a Friendly meeting or something of the sort, and the things she’d say about Miss Prentice were surprising.”

“Oh, Lord!”

“She’d threaten suicide and all the rest of it. Mary knew all about the will. Deceased often talked about it, and as short time back as last Thursday, when they had their dress rehearsal, she said it’d serve Miss Prentice right if she cut her out, but she was too charitable to do that, only she hoped if she did go first the money would be like scalding water on Miss Prentice’s conscience. On Friday, Mary says, she had one of her good days. Went off to confession and came back very pleased. Same thing after the five o’clock affair at Pen Cuckoo, and in the evening she went to some Reading Circle or other at the rectory. She was in high feather when she left, but she didn’t get back until eleven — very much later than usual. Gibson says she didn’t speak on the way back, and Mary says when she came in she had a scarf pulled round her face and her coat collar turned up and — ”

“It wasn’t her,” said Nigel. “Miss Prentice had disguised herself in Miss C’s clothes in order.to have a look at the will.”

“Will you be quiet, Bathgate. Go on, Fox.”

“Mary followed her to her room; but she said she didn’t want her, and Mary swears she was crying. She heard her go to bed. Mary took in her first tea first thing yesterday morning, and she says Miss Campanula looked shocking. Like an Aunt Sally that had been left out in the rain, was the way Mary put it.”

“Graphic! Well?”

“Well, she spent yesterday morning at the hall with the others, but when she came back she wrote a note to the lawyers and gave it to Gibson to post; but she stayed in all yesterday afternoon.”

“I knew you had something else up your sleeve,” said Alleyn. “Where’s the blotting paper?”

Fox smiled blandly.

“It’s all right, as it turns out, sir. Here it is.”

He took a sheet of blotting paper from the writing-table and handed it to Alleyn. It was a clean sheet with only four lines of writing. Alleyn held it up to an atrocious mirror and read:

“De S

K dly dn our presentative to ee me at our arliest on enience

ours faithfully ris C mp nula.”

“Going to alter her will,” said Nigel over Alleyn’s shoulder.

“Incubus!” said Alleyn. “Miserable parasite! I wouldn’t be surprised if you were right. Anything else, Fox?”

“Nothing else, sir. She seemed much as usual when she went down to the performance. She left here at seven. Not being wanted till the second act, she didn’t need to be so early.”

“And they know of nobody, beyond the lawyers, whom she should inform?”

“Nobody, Mr. Alleyn.”

“We’ll have some lunch and then visit the rectory. Come on.”

When they returned to the Jernigham Arms they found that the representative of the Chipping Courier had been all too zealous. A crowd of young men wearing flannel trousers and tweed coats greeted Nigel with a sort of wary and suspicious cordiality, and edged round Alleyn. He gave them a concise account of the piano and its internal arrangements, said nothing at all about the water-pistol, told them the murder appeared to be motiveless, and besought them not to follow him about wherever he went.

“It embarrasses me and it’s no use to you. I’ll see that you get photographs of the piano.”

“Who’s the owner of the Colt, chief inspector?” asked a pert young man wearing enormous glasses.

“It’s a local weapon, thought to have been stolen,” said Alleyn. “If there’s anything more from the police, gentlemen, you shall hear of it. You’ve got enough in the setting of the thing to do your screaming worst. Off you go and do it. Be little Pooh Bahs. No corroborative details required. The narrative is adequately unconvincing, and I understand, artistic verisimilitude is not your cup of tea.”

“Try us,” suggested the young man.

“ Pas si bête ,” said Alleyn, “I want my lunch.”

“When are you going to be married, Mr. Alleyn?”

“Whenever I get a chance. Good-morning to you.”

He left them to badger Nigel.

Alleyn and Fox finished their lunch in ten minutes, left the inn by the back door, and were off in Biggins’s car before Nigel had exhausted his flow of profanity. Alleyn left Fox in the village. He was to seek our Friendly Young People, garner more local gossip, and attend the post-mortem. Alleyn turned up the Vale Road, and in five minutes arrived at the rectory.

iv

Like most clerical households on Sunday, the rectory had a semi-public look about it. The front door was wide open. On a hall table Alleyn saw a neat stack of children’s hymn-books. A beretta lay beside them. In a room some way down the hall they heard a female voice.

“Very well, Mr. Copeland. Now the day is over.”

“I think so,” said the rector’s voice.

“Through the night of doubt and sorrow,” added the lady brightly.

“Do they like that?”

“Aw, they love it, Mr. Copeland.”

“Very well,” said the rector wearily. “Thank you, Miss Wright.”

A large village maiden came out into the hall. She gathered the hymn-books into a straw bag and bustled out, not neglecting to look pretty sharply at Alleyn.

Alleyn rang the bell again, and presently an elderly maid appeared.

“May I see Mr. Copeland?”

“I’ll just see, sir. What name, please?”

“Alleyn. I’m from Scotland Yard.”

“Oh! Oh, yes, sir. Will you come this way, please?”

He followed her through the hall. She opened a door and said:

“Please, sir, the police.”

He walked in.

Mr. Copeland looked as if he had sprung to his feet. At his side was the girl whom Alleyn had recognised as his daughter. They were indeed very much alike, and at this moment their faces spoke of the same mood: they looked startled and alarmed.