Ngaio Marsh - Artists in Crime

“Have you examined the wound, Dr. Ampthill?”

“Superficially. The knife-blade was not absolutely vertical, evidently. It passed between the fourth and fifth ribs, and no doubt pierced the heart.”

“Let us have a look at the wound.”

Alleyn slid his long hands under the rigid body and turned it on its side. The patches of sunburn showed clearly on the back. About three inches to the left of the spine was a dark puncture. It looked very small and neat in spite of the traces of blood that surrounded it.

“Ah, yes,” said Alleyn. “As you say. We had better have a photograph of this. Bailey, you go over the body for prints. You’d better tackle the drape, and the knife, and the top surface of the throne. Not likely to prove very useful, I’m afraid, but do your best.”

While Thompson set up his camera, Alleyn turned up the working-lamps and browsed about the studio. Fox joined him.

“Funny sort of case, sir,” said Fox. “Romantic.”

“Good heavens, Fox, what a macabre idea of romance you’ve got.”

“Well, sensational,” amended Fox. “The papers will make a big thing of it. We’ll have them all down in hordes before the night’s over.”

“That reminds me — I must send a wire to the Bathgates. I’m due there to-morrow. To business, Brer Fox. Here we have the studio as it was when the class assembled this morning. Paint set out on the pallettes, you see. Canvases on all the easels. We’ve got seven versions of the pose.”

“Very useful, I dare say,” conceded Fox. “Or, at any rate, the ones that look like something human may come in handy. That affair over on your left looks more like a set of worms than a naked female. I suppose it is meant for the deceased, isn’t it?”

“I think so,” said Alleyn. “The artist is probably a surrealist or a vorticist or something.” He inspected the canvas and the paint-table in front of it.

“Here we are. The name’s on the paint-box. Phillida Lee. It is a rum bit of work, Fox, no doubt of it. This big thing next door is more in our line. Very solid and simple.”

He pointed to Katti Bostock’s enormous canvas.

“Bold,” said Fox. He put on his spectacles and stared blankly at the picture.

“You get the posture of the figure very well there,” said Alleyn.

They moved to Cedric Malmsley’s table.

“This, I think, must be the illustrator,” continued Alleyn. “Yes — here’s the drawing for the story.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Fox, greatly scandalised. “He’s made a picture of the girl after she was killed.”

“No, no. That was the original idea for the pose. He’s merely added the dagger and the dead look. Here’s the portfolio with all the drawings. H’m, very volup. and Beardsley, with a slap of modern thrown in. Hullo!” Alleyn had turned to a delicate watercolour in which three medieval figures mowed a charming field against a background of hayricks, pollard willows, and a turreted palace. “That’s rum!” muttered Alleyn.

“What’s up, Mr. Alleyn?”

“It looks oddly familiar. One half of the old brain functioning a fraction ahead of the other, perhaps. Or perhaps not. No matter. Look here, Brer Fox, I think before we go any farther I’d better tell you as much as I know about the case.” And Alleyn repeated the gist of Blackman’s report and of his conversation with Troy. “This, you see,” he ended, “is the illustration for the story. It was to prove the possibility of murdering someone in this manner that they made the experiment with the dagger, ten days ago.”

“I see,” said Fox. “Well, somebody’s proved it now all right, haven’t they?”

“Yes,” agreed Alleyn. “It is proved — literally, up to the hilt.”

“Cuh!” said Fox solemnly.

“Malmsley has represented the dagger as protruding under the left breast, you see. I suppose he thought he’d add the extra touch of what you’d call romance, Brer Fox. The scarlet thread of gore is rather effective in a meretricious sort of way. Good Lord, this is a queer show and no mistake.”

“Here’s what I call a pretty picture, now,” said Fox approvingly. He had moved in front of Valmai Seacliff’s canvas. Seacliff had used a flowing, suave line. The figure was exaggeratedly slender, the colour scheme a light sequence of blues and pinks.

“Very elegant,” said Fox.

“A little too elegant,” said Alleyn. “Hullo! Look at this.”

Across Francis Ormerin’s water-colour drawing ran an ugly streak of dirty blue, ending in a blob that had run down the paper. The drawing was ruined.

“Had an accident, seemingly.”

“Perhaps. This student’s stool is overturned, you’ll notice. Fox. Some of the water in his paint-pot has slopped over and one of his brushes is on the floor.”

Alleyn picked up the brush and dabbed it on the china palette. A half-dry smudge of dirty blue showed.

“I see him or her preparing to flood a little of this colour on the drawing. He receives a shock, his hand jerks sideways and the brush streaks across the paper. He jumps up, overturning his stool and jolting the table. He drops the brush on the floor. Look, Fox. There are signs of the same sort of disturbance everywhere. Notice the handful of brushes on the table in front of the big canvas — I think that must be Katti Bostock’s — I remember her work. Those brushes have been put down suddenly on the palette. The handles are messed in paint. Look at this very orderly array of tubes and brushes over here. This student has dropped a tube of blue paint and then trodden on it. Here are traces leading to the throne. It’s a man’s shoe, don’t you think? He’s tramped about all over the place, leaving a blue painty trail. The modern lady — Miss Lee — has overturned a bottle of turpentine, and it’s run into her paint-box. There are even signs of disturbance on the illustrator’s table. He has put a wet brush down on the very clean typescript. The place is like a first lesson in detection.”

“But beyond telling us they all got a start when the affair occurred, it doesn’t appear to lead us anywhere,” said Fox. “Not on the face of it.” He turned back to Seacliff’s canvas and examined it with placid approval.

“You seem very taken with Miss Seacliff’s effort,” said Alleyn.

“Eh?” Fox transferred his attention sharply to Alleyn. “Now then, sir, how do you make out the name of this artist?”

“Rather prettily, Fox. This is the only outfit that is quite in order. Very neat everything is, you’ll notice. Tidy box, clean brushes laid down carefully by the palette, fresh paint-rag all ready to use. I make a long guess that it belongs to Valmai Seacliff, because Miss Seacliff was with the model when she got her quietus. There is no reason why Miss Seacliff’s paraphernalia should show signs of disturbance. In a sense, Miss Seacliff killed Sonia Gluck. She pressed her naked body down on the knife. Not a very pleasant reflection for Miss Seacliff now, unless she happens to be a murderess. Yes, I think this painting is hers.”

“Very neat bit of reasoning, chief. Lor’, here’s a mess.” Fox bent over Watt Hatchett’s open box. It overflowed with half-used tubes of oil-colour, many of them without caps. A glutinous mess to which all sorts of odds and ends adhered spread over the trays and brushes. Cigarette-butts, matches, bits of charcoal, were mixed up with fragments of leaves and twigs, and filthy scraps of rag.

“This looks like chronic muck,” said Fox.

“It does, indeed.” From the sticky depths of a tin tray Alleyn picked out a fragment of a dried leaf and smelt it.

“Blue gum,” he said. “This will be the Australian, I suppose. Funny. He must have collected that leaf sketching in the bush, half the world away. I know this youth. He joined our ship with Miss Troy at Suva. Travelled second at her expense.”