Ngaio Marsh - Death in a White Tie

“Did you see much of him before Paddy died?”

“Yes. I’m afraid, poor Herbert, that he rather saw himself as the faithful, chivalrous friend who continued to adore me quite honourably after I was — married. You see, I still think of myself as Paddy’s wife. We used to ask Herbert to dine quite often. He bored Paddy dreadfully but — well, I’m afraid Paddy rather gloried in some of Herbert’s peculiarities. He almost dined out on them. It was very naughty of him, but he was so gay always and so charming that he was forgiven everything. Everything.”

“I know.”

“Herbert rather emphasized the sacrificial note in his friendship, and of course Paddy saw that, and used to tease me about him. But I was very attached to him. No, he wasn’t quite so touchy in those days, poor fellow. He was always very kind indeed. I’m afraid both Paddy and I rather got into the way of making use of him.”

“You are sure he suspected nothing?”

“Absolutely. In a way he was our greatest friend. I told you that I was staying with my mother when Paddy was hurt. She rang Herbert up when the news came through. Almost instinctively we turned to him. He was with us in a few minutes. Why, I suppose in a way I owe it to Herbert that I was in time to see Paddy before he died.”

Alleyn opened his mouth, and shut it again. Lady Carrados was staring into the fire, and gave no sign that she realized the significance of this last statement. At last Alleyn said: “How did that come about?”

“Didn’t I tell you this afternoon? It was Herbert who drove me down to the Vicarage at Falconbridge on the day Paddy died.”

It was one o’clock in the morning when Alleyn saw Lady Carrados, Bridget and Donald into a taxi, thankfully shut his door and went to bed. Less than twenty-four hours had passed since Robert Gospell met with his death, yet in that short time all the threads but one of the most complicated homicide cases he had ever dealt with had been put into his hands. As he waited for sleep, so long delayed, he saw the protagonists as a company of dancers moving in a figure so elaborate that the pattern of their message was almost lost in the confusion of individual gestures. Now it was Donald and Bridget who met and advanced through the centre of the maze; now Withers, marching on the outskirts of the dance, who turned to encounter Mrs Halcut-Hackett. Evelyn Carrados and her husband danced back to back into the very heart of the measure. Sir Daniel Davidson, like a sort of village master of ceremonies, with a gigantic rosette streaming from his buttonhole, gyrated slowly across and across. Dimitri slipped like a thief into the dance, offering a glass of champagne to each protagonist. Miss Harris skipped in a decorous fashion round the inner figure, but old General Halcut-Hackett, peering anxiously into every face, seemed to search for his partner. To and fro the figures swam more and more dizzily, faster and faster, until the confusion was intolerable. And then, with terrifying abruptness, they were stricken into immobility, and before he sank into oblivion, Alleyn, in a single flash, saw the pattern of the dance.

The inquest on Lord Robert Gospell was held at eleven o’clock the next morning. It was chiefly remarkable for the circumstance that more people were turned away from it than had ever been turned away from any previous inquest in the same building. The coroner was a cross-grained man with the poorest possible opinion of society with a small “s” and a perfectly venomous hatred of Society with a large one. He suffered from chronic dyspepsia and an indeterminate but savage conviction that somebody was trying to get the better of him. The proceedings were coloured by his efforts to belittle the whole affair when he thought of the fashionable spectators, and to make the very most of it when he reflected that this sort of thing was the direct outcome of the behaviour of those sorts of people. However, apart from this personal idiosyncrasy, he was a good coroner. He called Donald, who, very white-faced, gave formal evidence of identification. He then heard the evidence of the taxi-driver, was particular about time, place and route, and called Alleyn.

Alleyn described his first view and examination of the body. In formal phrases he gave a precise account of the injuries he had found on the body of his friend. Dr Curtis followed with his report on the post-mortem. One of Dimitri’s men gave evidence on the time Lord Robert left Marsdon House. The coroner with a vindictive glance at the audience said he saw no reason to call further evidence, addressed the jury in words that left them in no possible doubt as to the verdict they should return and when they had duly returned it, ordered an adjournment. He then fixed a baleful blue eye on the farthest wall and pronounced an expression of sympathy with the relatives. The whole proceedings had lasted twenty minutes.

“Swish!” said Fox when he met Alleyn in the street outside. “That’s old ‘Slap-Bang, Here-we-are-again.’ You can’t beat him for speed, can you, sir?”

“Mercifully, you can’t. Fox, we’re off to Barbicon-Bramley. I’ve borrowed my mother’s car and I’ve a hell of a lot to tell you, and I rather think the spell is wound up.”

“Sir?”

“You are quite right, Fox. Never quote, and if you do certainly not from Macbeth.”

Lady Alleyn’s car was parked in a side street. Fox and Alleyn got into it and headed for the Uxbridge Road. On the way Alleyn related Bridget’s and Donald’s and Lady Carrados’s stories. When he had finished Fox grunted and they were both silent for ten minutes.

“Well,” said Fox at last, “it all points to the same thing doesn’t it, Mr Alleyn?”

“Yes, Fox. In a dubious sort of way it does.”

“Still, I don’t see how we can exclude the others.”

“Nor do I unless we get something definite from these people. If necessary we’ll have to go on to Falconbridge and visit the hospital, but I’m in hopes that Miss Harris’s uncle will come out of his retirement and go back to his gay young rectorish days seventeen years ago.”

“What a hope!” said Fox.

“As you indicate, the chances are thin.”

“If they couldn’t find this chap O’Brien’s letter on the premises then how can we expect to trace it now, seventeen years later?”

“Well urged, Brer Fox, well urged. But I fancy we know something now that they didn’t know then.”

“Oh, well,” conceded Fox. “Maybe. But all the same I wouldn’t give you a tuppenny damn for our chances and that’s flat.”

“I’m a little more sanguine than that. Well, if we fail here we’ll have to peg away somewhere else.”

“There’s the missing cloak and hat.”

“Yes. Any report come in this morning from the postal people?”

“No. I’ve followed your suggestion and asked them to try to check yesterday’s overseas parcels post. Our chaps have gone into the rubbish-bin game and there’s nothing there. The Chelsea and Belgrave bins were emptied this morning and there’s no cloaks or hats in any of them. Of course something may come in from farther afield.”

“I don’t fancy the rubbish-bins, Fox. Too risky. For some reason he wanted those things to be lost completely. Hair oil, perhaps. Yes, it might be hair oil. I’m afraid, you know, that we shall have to ask all these people if we may search their houses.”

“Carrados is sure to object, sir, and you don’t want to have to get search warrants yet, do you?”

“I think we can scare him by saying that Dimitri, Withers, Davidson, Halcut-Hackett and Lady Potter are all going to be asked to allow a search of their houses. He’ll look a bit silly if he refuses on top of that.”