Ngaio Marsh - Artists in Crime

“Yes, I know, Fox. According to Miss Lee, Garcia said: ‘All right. On Friday night then.’ And Sonia answered: ‘Yes, if it’s possible.’ But that may not have meant that they arranged to meet each other on Friday night. It might have meant a thousand and one things, damn it. Garcia may have talked about leaving on Friday night. Sonia may have said she’d do something for him in London on Friday night. It is true that the young Lee person got the impression that they arranged to meet her, but she may have been mistaken.”

“That’s so,” said Fox heavily. “We’ll have to get on to deceased’s movements from Friday afternoon till Sunday.”

“Did you get anything at all from the maids about Friday night?”

“Not a great deal, sir, and that’s a fact. There’s three servants living in the house, a Mr. and Mrs. Hipkin who do butler and cook, and a young girl called Sadie Welsh, who’s housemaid. They all went to a cinema in Baxtonbridge on Friday night and returned by the front drive. There’s another girl — Ethel Jones — who comes in as a daily from Bossicote. She leaves at five o’clock in the afternoon. I’ll get on to her tomorrow, but it doesn’t look promising. The Hipkins seem a very decent couple. Devoted to Miss Troy. They’ve not got much to say in favour of this crowd. To Mrs. Hipkin’s way of thinking they’re all out of the same box. She said she wasn’t surprised at the murder and expected worse.”

“What? Wholesale slaughter did she mean?”

“I don’t think she knew. She’s a Presbyterian — Auld Licht — maiden name McQumpha. She says painting from the figure is no better than living in open sin, and she gave it as her opinion that Sonia Gluck was fair soused in wickedness. That kind of thing. Hipkin said he always thought Garcia had bats in the belfry, and Sadie said he once tried to assault her and she gave him a smack in the chops. She’s rather a lively girl, Sadie is. They say Miss Seacliff’s no lady because of the way she speaks to the servants. The only one they seemed to have much time for was the Honourable Basil Pilgrim.”

“Good old snobs. What about Garcia’s evening meal on Friday?”

“Well, I did get something there, in a way. Sadie took it on a tray to the studio at seven-thirty. She tapped on the screen inside the door and Mr. Garcia called out to her to leave the tray there. Sadie said she didn’t know but what he had naked women exhibiting themselves on the platform, so she put it down. When she went to the studio on Saturday morning the tray was still there, untouched. She looked into the studio but didn’t do anything in the way of housework. She’s not allowed to touch anything on the throne and didn’t notice the drape. Garcia was supposed to make his own bed. Sadie says it’s her belief he just pulled the counterpane over it and that’s what we found, sir, isn’t it?”

“Garcia wasn’t there on Saturday morning?”

“No. Sadie says he’d gone and all his stuff as far as she could make out. She said the room smelt funny, so she opened the window. She noticed a queer smell there on Friday night, too. I wondered if it was the acid Bailey found the marks of, but she said no. She’s smelt the acid before, when they’ve been using it for etching, and it wasn’t the same.”

“Look here, Fox, I think I’d like a word with your Sadie. Be a good fellow and see if she’s still up.”

Fox went off and was away some minutes.

“He must have broken into the virgin fastness of Sadie’s bedroom,” said Nigel.

Alleyn wandered round the room and looked at the books.

“What’s the time?” he said.

“After twelve. Twelve-twenty-five.”

“Oh Lord! Here’s Fox.”

Fox came in shepherding an extraordinary little apparition in curling-pins and red flannel.

“Miss Sadie Welsh,” explained Fox, “was a bit uncomfortable about coming down, Mr. Alleyn. She’d gone to bed.”

“I’m so sorry to bring you out,” said Alleyn pleasantly. “We shan’t keep you here very long. Come over to the fire, won’t you?”

He threw a couple of logs on the fire and persuaded Miss Welsh to perch on the extreme edge of a chair with her feet on the fender. She was a girl of perhaps twenty-two, with large brown eyes, a button nose and a mouth that looked as though she constantly said: “Ooo.” She gazed at Alleyn as if he was a grand inquisitor.”

“You’re Miss Troy’s housemaid, aren’t you?” said Alleyn.

“Yes, sir.”

“Been with her long?”

“Ooo, yes, sir. I was a under-housemaid here when the old gentleman was alive; I was sixteen then, sir. And when Miss Troy was mistress I stayed on, sir. Of course, Miss Troy’s bin away a lot, sir, but when the house was opened up again this year, Miss Bostock asked me to come with Mr. and Mrs. Hipkin to be housemaid. I never was a real housemaid like before, sir, but Mr. Hipkin he’s training me now for parlourmaid. He says I’ll be called Welsh then, because Sadie isn’t a name for a parlourmaid, Mr. Hipkin says. So I’ll be ‘Welsh.’ ”

“Splendid. You like your job?”

“Well, sir,” said Sadie primly. “I like Miss Troy very much, sir.”

“Not so sure about the rest of the party?”

“No, I am not, sir, and that’s a fact. I was telling Mr. Fox, sir. Queer! Well, I mean to say! That Mr. Garcia, sir. Ooo! Well, I dare say Mr. Fox has told you. I complained to Miss Troy, sir. I asked Mrs. Hipkin what would I do and she said: ‘Go straight to Miss Troy,’ she said, ‘I would,’ she said. ‘I’d go straight to Miss Troy.’ Which I did. There was no trouble after that, sir, but I must say I didn’t fancy taking his dinner down on Friday.”

“As it turned out, you didn’t see Mr. Garcia then, did you?”

“No, sir. He calls out in a sort of drawly voice: ‘Is that you, Sadistic?’ which was what he had the nerve to call me, and Mr. Hipkin says he didn’t ought to have because Mr. Hipkin is very well educated, sir.”

“Astonishingly,” murmured Alleyn.

“And then I said: ‘Your dinner, Mr. Garcia,’ and he called out — excuse me, sir — he called out: ‘Oh Gawd, eat it yourself.’ I said: ‘Pardon?’ and he said ‘Put it down there and shove off.’ So I said: ‘Thank you ,’ I said, ‘Mr. Garcia,’ I said. And I put down the tray and as I told Mrs. Hipkin, sir, I said: ‘There’s something peculiar going on down there,’ I said, when I got back to the hall.”

“What made you think that?”

“Well, sir, he seemed that anxious I wouldn’t go in, and what with the queer perfume and one thing and another— well!”

“You noticed an odd smell?”

“Yes, I did that, sir.”

“Ever smelt anything like it before?”

“Ooo well, sir, that’s funny you should think of that because I said to myself: ‘Well, if that isn’t what Mr. Marziz’s room smells like of a morning sometimes.’”

“Mr. Malmsley?”

“Yes, sir. It’s a kind of — well, a kind of a bitterish sort of smell, only sort of thick and sour.”

“Not like whisky, for instance?”

“Oh no, sir. I didn’t notice the perfume of whisky till I went down next morning.”

“Hullo!” said Fox genially, “you never told me it was whisky you smelt on Saturday morning, young lady.”

“Didn’t I, Mr. Fox? Well, I must of forgotten, because there was the other smell, too, mixed up with it. Anyway, Mr. Fox, it wasn’t the first time I’ve noticed whisky in the studio since Mr. Garcia’s been there.”

“But you’d never noticed the other smell before?”asked Alleyn.

“Not in the studio, sir. Only in Mr. Marziz’s room.”

“Did you make the bed on Saturday morning?”

Sadie turned pink.

“Well, no, I didn’t, sir. I opened the window to air the room, and thought I’d go back later. Mr. Garcia’s supposed to make his own bed. It looked fairly tidy so I left it.”