Ngaio Marsh - Death in a White Tie

“Well!” ejaculated Fox. “Well!”

“Not another word,” said Alleyn, “until we get to that pub outside Barbicon-Bramley. Do you realize we’ve had no lunch? I refuse to utter another word until I’ve drunk a pint of bitter.”

“And some bread and cheese and pickles,” said Fox. “Pickles with plenty of onions in them.”

“Lord! Lord! Fox, what a choice! Now I come to think of it, though, it sounds damn good. ‘Bread and cheese and pickles,’ Fox, it’s what we need. New white bread, mouse-trap cheese, home-made pickles and bitter.”

“That’s the idea, Mr Alleyn. You’re a great gourmet,” said Fox who had taught himself French, “and don’t think I haven’t enjoyed some of those dinners you’ve given me when everything seemed to sort of slide into something else. I have. But when you’re famished and in the English countryside you can’t beat bread and cheese and pickles.”

The pub provided them with these delicacies. They took about a quarter of an hour over their meal and then set out again.

“Now then,” said Alleyn.

“The thing that beats me,” said Fox, wiping his short moustache with his handkerchief, “is little Violet. We knew she was a niece of this old gentleman’s but, by gum, we didn’t know she was staying there at the time, now, did we?”

“No, Brer Fox, we didn’t.”

“I suppose she may not know it herself,” continued Fox. “I mean to say, Miss Violet Harris may not realize that Lady Carrados was this Mrs O’Brien whose husband was brought into her uncle’s vicarage when she was a kid of fifteen.”

“Quite possible. I hope she remembers the bicycle ride. We’ll have to jog her memory, I dare say.”

“Yes. Now I reckon, on what we’ve heard, that it was Carrados who took that letter from little Violet. Carrados, sitting in the car outside the hospital, while the poor chap who’d got the letter from Australia was dying inside. And then, later on, when there’s all the fuss about a missing letter, what does he do?”

Alleyn knew this question was purely rhetorical and didn’t interrupt.

“He tells the widow,” said Fox; “he tells the widow that he’s made every inquiry and there isn’t a letter to be found.”

“Yes,” agreed Alleyn. “No doubt he tells her that.”

“Right. Now, why does he do that? I reckon it’s because Sir Herbert Carrados is what you might call a bit of a moral coward with a kind of mental twist. What these psycho-johnnies call a repression or some such thing. As I see it he didn’t want to admit to having seen the letter because he’d actually read it. This Australian bloke knew Captain O’Brien had married a loony and wrote to tell him he was now a widower. If what Lady Carrados told you was correct and he’d fancied her for a long time, that letter must have shaken him up a bit. Now perhaps he says to himself, being a proud, snobbish sort of chap and yet having set his heart on her, that he’ll let sleeping dogs lie.”

“Cut the whole thing dead? Yes. That’s sound enough. It’s in character.”

“That’s what I mean,” said Fox in a gratified voice. “But all the same he doesn’t destroy the letter. Or does he?”

“That,” said Alleyn, “is exactly what we’ve got to find out.”

“Well, sir, we’ve got our suspicions, haven’t we?”

“Yes. Before this evening, Fox, I want to make certainties of our suspicions.”

“By gum, Mr Alleyn, if we can do that we’ll have made a tidy job of this case. Don’t count your chickens, as well I know, but if we can get an arrest within two days after the crime, in a complicated case like this, we’re not doing too badly, now are we?”

“I suppose not, you old warrior, I suppose not.” Alleyn gave a short sigh. “I wish—” he said. ”Oh God, Fox, I do wish he hadn’t died. No good maundering. I also wish very much that we’d been able to find some trace of something, just something in the taxi. But not a thing.”

“The funeral’s at three o’clock tomorrow, isn’t it?” asked Fox.

“Yes. Lady Mildred has asked me to be one of the bearers. It’s pretty strange under the circumstances, but I’d like to do it. And I’d like to think we had our killer locked up before then. When we get back, Fox, we’ll have to arrange for these people to come round to the Yard. We’ll want Miss Harris, Bridget O’Brien, her mother, Carrados himself, Davidson, Withers, Dimitri and Mrs Halcut-Hackett. I’ll see Lady Carrados alone first. I want to soften the shock a little if it’s possible.”

“When shall we get them to come, sir?”

“It’ll be four o’clock by the time we’re back to the Yard. I think we’ll make it this evening. Say nine o’clock. It’s going to be devilish tricky. I’m counting on Dimitri losing his head. It’s a cool head, blast it, and he may keep his wits about him. Talking of wits, there’s the gallant Captain to be reckoned with. Unless I’m a Dutchman, Donald Potter’s given me enough in his statement to lock the gallant Captain up for a nice long stretch. That’s some comfort.”

They were silent until they got as far as the Cromwell Road and then Fox said: “I suppose we are right, Mr Alleyn. I know that seems a pretty funny thing to say at this stage, but it’s a worrying business and that’s a fact. It’s the trickiest line of evidence I’ve ever come across. We seem to be hanging our case on the sort of things you usually treat with a good deal of suspicion.”

“Don’t I know it. No, Fox, I think it’ll hold firm. It depends on what these people say in their second interviews tonight, of course. If we can establish the facts about the two cigarette-cases, the secret drawer, the telephone conversation and the stolen letter, we’re right. Good Lord, that sounds like a list of titles from the old Sherlock Holmes stories. I think part of the charm of those excellent tales lies in Watson’s casual but enthralling references to cases we never hear of again.”

“The two cigarette-cases,” repeated Fox slowly, “the secret drawer, the telephone conversation, and the stolen letter. Yes. Yes, that’s right. You may say we hang our case on those four hooks.”

“The word ‘hang,’ ” said Alleyn grimly, “is exceedingly apposite. You may.”

He drove Fox to the Yard.

“I’ll come up with you and see if anything fresh has come in,” he said.

They found reports from officers who were out on the job. Dimitri’s men reported that François had gone to the local stationers and bought a copy of this morning’s Times . The stationer had told the Yard man that Dimitri as a rule took the Daily Express .

Alleyn laid the report down.

“Beat up a Times , Brer Fox.”

Fox went out. He was away for some time. Alleyn brought his file up to date and lit his pipe. Then he rang up Lady Carrados.

“Evelyn? I’ve rung you up to ask if you and your husband and Bridget will come to my office at the Yard tonight. It’s some more tidying up of this affair. If possible I’d like to have a word with you first. Would you rather it was here or in your house?”

“In your office, please , Roderick. It would be easier. Shall I come now?”

“If you will. Don’t be fussed. I’m so sorry to bother you.”

“I’ll come at once,” said the faint voice.

Fox returned with a Times which he laid on Alleyn’s desk. He pointed a stubby finger at the personal column.

“What about the third from the top?” he said.

Alleyn read it aloud.

“ ‘Childie Darling. Living in exile. Longing. Only want Daughter. Daddy.’ ”

“Um,” said Alleyn. “Has daddy had anything else to say to Childie during the last week or so?”