Ngaio Marsh - Overture to Death

“She’s a good child, really,” said the rector sadly.

“I’m sure she is. Mr. Copeland, you see what a strange position we are in, don’t you? If Miss Prentice was the intended victim we must trace her movements, her conversation — yes, and if we could, even her thoughts during these last days. We are in the extraordinary position of having, apparently, a living victim in a case of homicide. There is even the possibility that the murderer may make a second attempt.”

“No! No! That’s too horrible.”

“I am sure that, as your daughter says, you know a great deal about these two ladies — the actual and, as far as we know, the intended victim. Can you tell me anything, anything at all, that may throw a glint of light on this dark tangle of emotions?”

The rector clasped his hands and stared into the fire.

“I am very greatly troubled,” he said. “I cannot see my way.”

“Do you mean that you have got their confidence, and that under ordinary circumstances you would never speak of your knowledge?”

“Let me make myself clear. As no doubt you already know, I have heard the confessions of many of my parishioners. Under no condition will I break the seal of the confessional. That goes without saying. Moreover, it would serve no purpose if I did. I tell you this lest you should think I hold a key to the mystery.”

“I recognise the position,” said Alleyn, “and I shall respect it.”

“I’m glad of that. There are many people, I know, who regard the sacrament of confession in the Anglo-Catholic Church as an amateurish substitute for the Roman use. It is no such thing. The Romans say, ‘You must,’ the Protestant Nonconformists say, ‘You must not,’ the Catholic Church of England says, ‘You may!’ ”

But Alleyn was not there for doctrinal argument, and wouldn’t have welcomed it under any circumstances.

He said, “I realise that a priest who hears confession, no matter what faith he professes, must regard the confessional as inviolate. That, I take, is not what troubles you. Do you perhaps wonder if you should tell me something that you have heard from one of your penitents outside the confessional?”

The rector gave him a startled glance. He clasped his hands more tightly and said:

“It is not that I believe it would be any help. It’s only that I am burdened with the memory and with a terrible doubt. You say that this murderer may strike again. I don’t believe that is possible. I am sure it is not possible.”

“Why?” asked Alleyn in astonishment.

“Because I believe that the murderer is dead,” said the rector.

iii

Alleyn turned in his chair and regarded Mr. Copeland for some seconds before he answered.

At last he said: “You think she did it herself?”

“I am sure of it.”

“Will you tell me why?”

“I suppose I must. Mr. Alleyn, I am not, unfortunately, a man of strong character. All my life I have avoided unpleasantness. I know this very well and try to conquer my weakness. I have vacillated when I should have insisted; temporised when I should have taken definite action. Because of these veritable sins of omission I believe I am morally responsible, or at any rate in part responsible, for this terrible crime.”

He paused, still looking at the fire. Alleyn waited.

“On Friday night,” said Mr. Copeland, “the Reading Circle met in the rectory dining-room. It usually meets in St. Giles Hall; but because of the preparations for the play they all came here instead. It was Miss Campanula’s turn to preside. I went in for a short time. Dinah read a scene from Twelfth Night for them, and after that they went on with their book. It is G. K. Chesterton’s The Ball and the Cross , and Miss Campanula had borrowed my copy. When they had finished she came in here to return it. I was alone. It was about a quarter past ten.”

“Yes?”

“Mr. Alleyn, it is very difficult and disagreeable for me to tell you of this incident. Really, I–I—don’t know quite how to begin. You may not be familiar with parochial affairs, but I think many clergy find that there is an unfortunately rather common type of church worker who is always a problem to her parish priest. I don’t know if you will understand me when I say that one finds this type among — dear me — among ladies who are not perhaps very young and who have no other interests.”

The rector was now very pink.

“I think I understand,” said Alleyn.

“Do you? Well, I am sorry to say poor Miss Campanula was really an advanced — er — specimen of this type. Poor soul, she was lonely and she had a difficult temperament which I am sure she did her best to discipline, but at times I could not help thinking that she needed a doctor as well as a priest to help her. I have even suggested as much.”

“That was very wise advice, sir.”

“She didn’t take it,” said the rector wistfully. “She stuck to me, you see, and I’m afraid I failed her.”

“About Friday night?” Alleyn reminded him gently.

“Yes, I know. I’m coming to Friday night; but, really, it’s very difficult. There was a terrible scene. She — I think she had got it into her head that if Dinah married or went away again — Dinah is on the stage, you know — I should be as lonely as she was. She said as much. I was very much startled and alarmed and I was at a loss how to reply. I think she misunderstood my silence. I really can’t quite remember the order of events. It was rather like a bad dream, and still is. She was trembling dreadfully and looking at me with such a desperate expression in her eyes that I–I—I — ”

He shut his eyes tight and added in a great hurry: “I patted her hand.”

“That was quite a natural thing to do, wasn’t it?”

“You wouldn’t have said so if you’d seen the result.”

“No?”

“No, indeed. The next moment she was, to be frank, in my arms. It was without any exception the most awful thing that has ever happened to me. She was sobbing and laughing at the same time. I was in agony. I couldn’t release myself. We never draw our blinds in this room, and there was I in this appalling and even ludicrous situation. I was obliged actually to — to support her. And I was so sorry for her, too. It was so painfully evident that she had made a frightful mistake. I believe she was hysterically delighted. It makes me feel ashamed and, as we used to say when I was young, caddish to repeat all this.”

“It’s beastly for you,” said Alleyn; “but I’m sure you should tell me.”

“I would have preferred, before doing so, to take the advice of one of my brother clergy, but there is no one who — However, that is beside the point. You are being very patient.”

“How did it end?”

“Very badly,” said the rector, opening his eyes wide. “It couldn’t have ended worse. When she had quietened down a little — and it was a long time before she did — I hastened to release myself, and I am afraid the first thing I did was to draw the curtains. You see, some members of the Reading Circle might still have been about. Their young men come up to meet them. Worse than that, Miss Prentice rang up in the morning and said she wanted to speak to me that evening. While Miss Campanula was still with me she telephoned to say she was not coming. That was about 10.15. Dinah took the message and afterwards said she sounded upset. I–I’m afraid I had been obliged to be rather severe with her — I mean as her priest — that afternoon. I had given her certain instructions which would keep her at home, and in any case I think perhaps her finger was too painful. But at the time I expected her, and if she had seen, it would have been — well, really—”