Ngaio Marsh - Overture to Death

“Yes, sir.”

Roper went out.

“He’s got about as much tact as a cow,” said Blandish.

“I know, but at least he’ll keep an eye on Templett.”

“The lady let him down, did she?”

“With a thump that shook the crockery.”

“S-s-s-s!” said Blandish appreciatively. “Is that a fact?”

“He’s had two narrow escapes,” said Fox, “and that’s a fact. The lady’s let him down with a jerk and he’s lucky the hangman won’t follow suit.”

“Fox,” said Alleyn, “you have the wit of a Tyburn broadsheet, but there’s matter in it.”

“I don’t know where I am,” said Blandish. “Are we any nearer to an arrest?”

“A good step,” said Alleyn. “The pattern emerges.”

“What does that mean, Mr. Alleyn?”

“Well,” said Alleyn, apologetically, “I mean all these mad little things like the box, and the broken telephone, and the creaking gate — I’m not so sure of the onion—”

“The onion!” cried Fox, triumphantly. “I know all about the onion, Mr. Alleyn. Georgie Biggins is responsible for that, the young limb. I saw him this afternoon and asked him, as well as every other youngster in the village, about the box. He’s going round as pleased as punch, letting on he’s working at the case with the Yard. Answers me as cool as you please, and when I’m going he says, ‘Did you find an onion in the teapot, mister?’ Well, it seems that they had a tea-party on the stage, with Miss Prentice and Miss Campanula quarrelling about which should pour out. If the young devil didn’t go and put an onion in the pot. It seems they each had to take the lid off and look in the pot and this was another of George’s bright ideas. I suppose someone found it in time and threw it into the box on the floor, where you picked it up.”

“Dear little Georgie,” said Alleyn. “Dear little boy! We’ve had red herrings before now, Fox, but never a Spanish onion. Well, as I was saying, all these mad little things begin to bear some sort of relationship.”

“That’s nice, Mr. Alleyn,” said Fox, woodenly. “You’re going to tell us you know who did it, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes,” said Alleyn looking at him in genuine surprise. “I do now , Brer Fox. Don’t you?”

iii

When a man learns that his mistress, faced with putting herself in a compromising position, will quite literally see him hanged first, he is not inclined for conversation. Templett drove slowly back towards Chipping and was completely silent until the first cottage came into view. Then he said, “I don’t see how any one could have done it. The piano was safe at six-thirty. The girl used the soft pedal. It was safe.”

“Yes,” agreed Alleyn.

“I suppose, putting the pedal down softly, the pressure wasn’t enough to pull the trigger?”

“It’s a remarkably light pull,” said Alleyn. “I’ve tried.”

Templett brushed his hand across his eyes. “I suppose my brain won’t work.”

“Give the thing a rest.”

“But how could anybody fix that contraption inside the piano after half-past six when those girls were skylarking about in the front of the house? It’s impossible.”

“If you come down to the hall to-morrow night, I’ll show you.”

“All right. Here’s your pub. What time’s the inquest? I’ve forgotten. I’m all to pieces.” He pulled up the car.

“Eleven o’clock to-morrow.”

Alleyn and Fox got out. It was a cold windy evening. The fine weather had broken again and it had begun to rain. Alleyn stood with the door open and looked at Templett. He leaned heavily on the wheel and stared with blank eyes at the windscreen.

“The process of convalescence,” said Alleyn, “should follow the initial shock. Take heart of grace, you will recover.”

“I’ll go home,” said Templett. “Good-night.”

“Good-night.”

He drove away.

They went upstairs to their rooms.

“Let’s swap stories, Brer Fox,” said Alleyn. “I’ll lay my case, for what it’s worth, on the dressing-table. I want a shave. You can open your little heart while I’m having it. I don’t think we’ll unburden ourselves to Bathgate just yet.”

They brought each other up-to-date before they went downstairs again in search of a drink.

They found Nigel alone in the bar parlour.

“I’m not going to pay for so much as half a drink and I intend to drink a very great deal. I’ve had the dullest afternoon of my life and all for your benefit. Miss Wright smells. When I took her to her blasted cottage she made me go in to tea with her brother who turns out to be the village idiot. Yes, and on the way back from Duck Cottage, your lovely car sprang a puncture. Furthermore — ”

“Joe!” shouted Alleyn. “Three whiskies-and-sodas.”

“I should damn well think so. What are you ordering for yourselves?”

Nigel calmed down presently and listened to Alleyn’s account of the afternoon. Mrs. Peach, a large flowing woman, told them she had proper juicy steak for their dinner and there was a fine fire in the back parlour. They moved in, taking their drinks with them. It was pleasant, when the curtains were drawn and the red-shaded oil lamp was lit, to hear the rain driving against the leaded windows and to listen to the sound of grilling steak beyond the kitchen slide.

“Not so many places left like this,” said Fox. “Cosy, isn’t it? I haven’t seen one of those paraffin lamps for many a long day. Mrs. Peach says old Mr. Peach, her father-in-law, you know, won’t have electricity in the house. He’s given in as far as the tap-room’s concerned but nowhere else. Listen to the rain! It’ll be a wild night again.”

“Yes,” said Alleyn. “It’s strange, isn’t it, to think of the actors in this silly far-fetched crime, all sitting over their fires, as we are now, six of them wondering what the answer is, and the seventh nursing it secretly in what used to be known as a guilty heart.”

“Oo-er,” said Nigel.

Mrs. Peach’s daughter brought in the steak.

“Are you going out again?” asked Nigel after an interval.

“I’ve got a report to write,” answered Alleyn. “When that’s done I think I might go up to the hall.”

“Whatever for?”

“Practical demonstration of the booby-trap.”

“I might come,” said Nigel. “I can ring up the office from there.”

“You’ll have to square up with the Copelands if you do. The hall telephone is on an extension from the rectory. Great hopping fleas!” shouted Alleyn, “why the devil didn’t I think of that before!”

“What!”

“The telephone.”

“Excuse him,” said Nigel to Fox.

iv

“We’ll take half an hour’s respite,” said Alleyn, when the cloth had been drawn and a bottle of port, recommended by old Mr. Peach, had been set before them. “Let’s go over the salient features.”

“Why not?” agreed Nigel, comfortably.

Alleyn tried the port, raised an eyebrow, and lit a cigarette.

“It’s respectable,” he said. “An honest wine and all that. Well, as I see it, the salient features are these. Georgie Biggins rigged his booby-trap between two and three on Friday afternoon. Miss Campanula rattled on the door just before two-thirty. Georgie was in the hall, but must have hidden, because when Gibson looked through the window, the top of the piano was open and Georgie nowhere to be seen. Miss Campanula didn’t know that the key was hung up behind the outhouse. The rest of the company were told but they are vague about it. Now Georgie didn’t test his booby-trap because, as he says, ‘somebody came.’ I think this refers to Miss Campanula’s onslaught on the door. I’m afraid Miss Campanula is a nightmare to Georgie. He won’t discuss her. I’ll have to try again. Anvway, he didn’t test his booby-trap. But somebody did, because the silk round the hole made by the bullet was still damp last night. That means something was on the rack, possibly Miss Prentice’s ‘Venetian Suite’ which seems to have been down in the hall for the last week. It has a stain on the back which suggests that the jet of water hit it and splayed out, wetting the silk. Now, Georgie left the hall soon after the interruption, because he finished up by playing chopsticks with the loud pedal on, and Miss Campanula overheard this final performance. The next eighteen hours or so are still wrapped in mystery but, as far as we know, any of the company may have gone into the hall. Miss Prentice passed it on her way home from confession, the Copelands live within two minutes of the place. Master Henry says that after his meeting with Dinah Copeland he roamed the hills most of that unpleasantly damp afternoon. He may have come down to the hall. Jernigham senior seems to have hunted all day and so does Templett, but either of them may have come down in the evening. Miss Prentice says that she spent the evening praying in her room, Master Henry says he tinkered with a light plug in his room, the squire says he was alone in the study. It takes about eight minutes to walk down Top Lane to the hall and perhaps fifteen to return. On Friday night the rector had an agonising encounter in his own study. I’ll tell you about it.”