Ngaio Marsh - Death in a White Tie

A little runnel of sweat trickled down each side of his nose into that fine moustache.

“I am tolerably certain.”

“Do you remember sitting in your car outside the hospital while Lady Carrados was with Captain O’Brien?”

Carrados did not speak for a long time. Then he swung round in his chair, and addressed that silent figure in the green lamplight.

“I can see no possible reason for this extraordinary procedure. It is most distressing for my wife, and I may say, sir, it strikes me as being damnably offensive and outside the duties of your office.”

“I don’t think it is, Sir Herbert,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “I advise you to answer Mr Alleyn, you know.”

“I may tell you,” Carrados began, “that I am an intimate friend of your chiefs. He shall hear about this.”

“I expect so,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “Go on, Mr Alleyn.”

“Lady Carrados,” said Alleyn, “did you, in point of fact, leave Sir Herbert in the car when you went into the hospital?”

“Yes.”

“Yes. Now, Sir Herbert, while you waited there, do you remember a schoolgirl of fifteen or so coming up on her bicycle?”

“How the devil can I remember a schoolgirl on a bicycle eighteen years ago?”

“Only because she gave you the letter that we have been discussing.”

Evelyn Carrados uttered a stifled cry. She turned and looked at her husband, as though she saw him for the first time. He met her with what Alleyn thought one of the most extraordinary glances he had ever seen — accusation, abasement, even a sort of triumphant misery, were all expressed in it; it was the face of a mean martyr. “The mask of jealousy,” thought Alleyn. “There’s nothing more pitiable or more degrading. My God, if ever I—” He thrust the thought from him, and began again.

“Sir Herbert, did you take that letter from the schoolgirl on the bicycle?”

Still with a sort of smile on his mouth, Carrados turned to Alleyn.

“I have no recollection of it,” he said.

Alleyn nodded to Fox, who went out. He was away for perhaps two minutes. Nobody spoke. Lady Carrados had bent her head, and seemed to look with profound attention at her gloved hands, clasped tightly together in her lap. Carrados suddenly wiped his face with his palm, and then drew out his handkerchief. Fox came back.

He ushered in Miss Harris.

“Good evening, Miss Harris,” said Alleyn.

“Good evening, Mr Alleyn. Good evening, Lady Carrados. Good evening, Sir Herbert. Good evening,” concluded Miss Harris with a collected glance at the Assistant Commissioner.

“Miss Harris,” said Alleyn, “do you remember staying with your uncle, Mr Walter Harris, when he was vicar at Falconbridge? You were fifteen at the time I mean.”

“Yes Mr Alleyn, certainly,” said Miss Harris.

Carrados uttered some sort of oath. Lady Carrados said: “ But — what do you mean, Miss Harris?”

“Certainly, Lady Carrados,” said Miss Harris brightly.

“At that time,” said Alleyn, “there was a fatal motor accident.”

“To Captain O’Brien. Pardon me, Lady Carrados. Yes, Mr Alleyn.”

“Good Lord!” ejaculated Alleyn, involuntarily. “Do you mean to say that you have realized that—”

“I knew Captain ‘Paddy’ O’Brien was Lady Carrados’s first husband, naturally.”

“But,” said Alleyn, “did you never think of telling Lady Carrados that there was this, well, this link, between you?”

“Oh, no,” said Miss Harris, “naturally not, Mr Alleyn. It would not have been at all my place to bring it up. When I was given the list of vacant posts at the Friendly Cousins Registry Office I thought this seemed the most suitable, and I — please excuse me, Lady Carrados — I made enquiries, as one does, you know. And I said to my friend Miss Smith: ‘What an extraordinary coincidence,’ because when I learned of Lady Carrados’s former name I realized it must be the same, and I said to Smithy: ‘I think that must be an omen,’ so I applied for the post.”

“I see,” said Alleyn, “and do you remember Sir Herbert, too?”

“Oh, yes. At least, I wasn’t quite sure at first, but afterwards I was. Sir Herbert was the gentleman in the car. Perhaps I should explain?”

“Please do.”

“I had actually spoken to him.” She looked apologetically at Carrados. “I’m quite sure Sir Herbert has quite forgotten, because I was just a gawky schoolgirl at the time.”

“That will do, Miss Harris,” said Carrados violently. “You will please not answer any further questions.”

Miss Harris looked extremely startled, turned bright pink, and opened her eyes very wide indeed. She closed her lips in a prudent button.

“Go on, Miss Harris,” said Alleyn.

“Which do you wish me to do, Lady Carrados?” asked her secretary.

“I think you had better go on,” said the faint voice.

“Very well, Lady Carrados. You see, I had the pleasure of returning a letter that had been left behind at the vicarage.”

“That is an absolute lie,” said Carrados, loudly.

“Pardon me,” said Miss Harris, “but I cannot let that pass. I am speaking the truth.”

“Thank you, Miss Harris,” said Alleyn quickly. “Would you mind waiting outside for a moment? Fox.”

Fox shepherded her out.

“By God!” began Carrados. “If you take the word of a—”

“Wait a moment,” said Alleyn, “I think I shall go on with my story. Our case, Sir Herbert, is that you did, in fact, take this letter, and for some reason never gave it to the lady who afterwards married you. Our case is that, having read the letter, you kept it for eighteen years, in the drawer of a miniature writing-desk in your study.”

“I protest. I absolutely deny—”

“You deny this, too?”

“It is outrageous! I tell you this, sir, if I have any influence—”

“Just a moment,” said Alleyn, “Lady Carrados is speaking.”

The focus of attention shifted to the woman. She sat there as if she attended a meeting of some society in which she was interested. Her furs, her expensive, unnoticeable clothes, her gloves, her discreet make-up, might have been taken as symbols of controlled good breeding. It was the fierce rigidity of her figure that gave expression to her emotion. Her voice scarcely wavered. Alleyn realized that she was oblivious to her surroundings, and to the presence of other people in the room, and that seemed to him to be the most significant indication of her distress. She spoke directly to her husband.

“You knew! All these years you have watched me, and known how much I suffered. Why did you hide the letter? Why did you marry me, knowing my past history? It seems to me you must be mad. I understand now why you have watched me, why, since this awful business, you have never taken your eyes off me. You knew. You knew I was being blackmailed.” She caught her breath, and moved round stiffly until she faced her husband. “You’ve done it,” she whispered. “It’s you. You’re mad, and you’ve done it to torture me. You’ve always been jealous of Paddy. Ever since I told you it could never be the same with anyone else. You were jealous of dead Paddy.”

“Evelyn,” said Alleyn gently. She made a slight impatient gesture, but she spoke only to Carrados.

“You wrote those letters. It’s you.”

Carrados stared at her like an idiot. His mouth was open. His eyebrows were raised in a sort of imbecile astonishment. He shook his head from side to side.

“No,” he said. “No, Evelyn, no.”

“Make him tell you, Roderick,” she said, without turning her head.

“Sir Herbert,” said Alleyn. “Do you deny you kept this letter in the secret drawer of that desk?”

“Yes.”