Ngaio Marsh - Artists in Crime

“Is there any possibility that they repeated this performance for some reason on Friday and forgot to withdraw the dagger?”

“I thought of that at once, naturally. I asked them. I begged them to tell me.” Troy moved her long hands restlessly. “Anything,” she said, “anything rather than the thought of one of them deliberately — there’s no reason. I–I can’t bear to think of it. As if a beastly unclean thing was in one of their minds, behind all of us. And then, suddenly, crawled out and did this.”

He heard her draw in her breath sharply. She turned her head away.

Alleyn swore softly.

“Oh, don’t pay any attention to me,” said Troy impatiently. “I’m all right. About Friday. We had the morning class as usual from ten o’clock to twelve-thirty, with that pose. We all lunched at one. Then we went up to London. The private view of the Phoenix Group Show was on Friday night, and several of us had things in it. Valmai Seacliff and Basil Pilgrim, who are engaged to be married, left in his two-seater immediately after lunch. Neither of them was going to the private view. They were going to his people’s place, to break the engagement news, I imagine. Katti Bostock and I left in my car at about half-past two. Hatchett, Phillida Lee and Ormerin caught the three o’clock bus. Malmsley wanted to do some work, so he stayed behind until six, went up in the six-fifteen bus and joined us later at the show. I believe Phillida Lee and Hatchett had a meal together and went to a show. She took him to her aunt’s house in London for the week-end, I fancy.”

“And the model?”

“Caught the two-thirty bus. I don’t know where she went or what she did. She came back with Malmsley, Ormerin, Katti Bostock, Hatchett and Phillida Lee by yesterday evening’s bus.”

“When Friday’s class broke up, did you all leave the studio together and come up to the house?”

“I — let me think for a moment. No, I can’t remember; but usually we come up in dribbles. Some of them go on working, and they have to clean up their palettes and so on. Wait a second. Katti and I came up together before the others. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Would the studio be locked before you went to London?”

“No.” Troy turned her head and looked squarely at him.

“Why not?” asked Alleyn.

“Because of Garcia.”

“Blackman told me about Garcia. He stayed behind, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“Yes,” said Troy unhappily. “Quite alone.”

There was a tap at the door. It opened and Blackman appeared, silhouetted against the brightly lit hall.

“The doctor’s here, Mr. Alleyn, and I think the car from London is just arriving.”

“Right,” said Alleyn. “I’ll come.”

Blackman moved away. Alleyn rose and looked down at Troy in her arm-chair.

“Perhaps I may see you again before I go?”

“I’ll be in here or with the others in the dining-room. It’s a bit grim sitting round there under the eye of the village constable.”

“I hope it won’t be for very long,” said Alleyn.

Troy suddenly held out her hand.

“I’m glad it’s you,” she said.

They shook hands.

“I’ll try to be as inoffensive as possible,” Alleyn told her. “Good-bye for the moment.”

When Alleyn returned to the hall he found it full of men. The Scotland Yard officials had arrived, and with their appearance the case, for the first time, seemed to take on a familiar complexion. The year he had spent away from England clicked back into the past at the sight of those familiar overcoated and bowler-hatted figures with their cases and photographic impedimenta. There, beaming at him, solid, large, the epitome of horse-sense, was old Fox.

“Very nice indeed to have you with us again, sir.”

“Fox, you old devil, how are you?”

And there, looking three degrees less morose, was Detective-Sergeant Bailey, and behind him Detective-Sergeant Thompson. A gruff chorus began:

“Very nice indeed— ”

A great shaking of hands, while Superintendent Blackman looked on amicably, and then a small, clean, bald man came forward. Blackman introduced him.

“Inspector Alleyn, this is Dr. Ampthill, our divisional surgeon.”

“How d’you do, Mr. Alleyn? Understand you want to see me. Sorry if I’ve kept you waiting.”

“I’ve not long arrived,” said Alleyn. “Let’s have a look at the scene of action, shall we?”

Blackman led the way down the hall to a side passage at the end of which there was a door. Blackman unlocked it and ushered them through. They were in the garden. The smell of box borders came up from their feet. It was very dark.

“Shall I lead the way?” suggested Blackman.

A long pencil of light from a torch picked up a section of flagged path. They tramped along in single file. Tree trunks started up out of the darkness, leaves brushed Alleyn’s cheek. Presently a rectangle of deeper dark loomed up.

Blackman said: “You there, Sligo?”

“Yes, sir,” said a voice close by.

There was a jangle of keys, the sound of a door opening.

“Wait till I find the light switch,” said Blackman. “Here we are.”

The lights went up. They walked round the wooden screen inside the door, and found themselves in the studio.

Alleyn’s first impression was of a reek of paint and turpentine, and of a brilliant and localised glare. Troy had installed a high-powered lamp over the throne. This lamp was half shaded, so that it cast all its light on the throne, rather as the lamp above an operating-table is concentrated on the patient. Blackman had only turned on one switch, so the rest of the studio was in darkness. The effect at the moment could scarcely have been more theatrical. The blue drape, sprawled across the throne, was so brilliant that it hurt the eyes. The folds fell sharply from the cushion into a flattened mass. In the middle, stupidly irrelevant, was a spike. It cast a thin shadow irregularly across the folds of the drape. On the margin of this picture, disappearing abruptly into shadow, was a white mound.

“The drapery and the knife haven’t been touched since the victim died,” explained Blackman. “Of course, they disarranged the stuff a bit when they hauled her up.”

“Of course,” said Alleyn. He walked over to the throne and examined the blade of the knife. It was rather like an oversized packing-needle, sharp, three-edged, and greatly tapered towards the point. It was stained a rusty brown. At the base, where it pierced the drape, there was the same discoloration, and in one or two of the folds small puddles of blood had seeped through the material and dried. Alleyn glanced at Dr. Ampthill.

“I suppose there would be an effusion of blood when they pulled her off the knife?”

“Oh yes, yes. The bleeding would probably continue until death. I understand that beyond lifting her away from the knife, they did not move her until she died. When I arrived the body was where it is now.”

He turned to the sheeted mound that lay half inside the circle of light.

“Shall I?”

“Yes, please,” said Alleyn.

Dr. Ampthill drew away the white sheet.

Troy had folded Sonia’s hands over her naked breast. The shadow cut sharply across the wrists so that the lower half of the torso was lost. The shoulders, hands and head were violently lit. The lips were parted rigidly, showing the teeth. The eyes were only half closed. The plucked brows were raised as if in astonishment.

“Rigor mortis is well established,” said the doctor. “She was apparently a healthy woman, and this place was well heated. The gas fire was not turned off until some time after she died. She has been dead eleven hours.”