Ngaio Marsh - Artists in Crime

“What about us?” asked Valmai Seacliff of Basil Pilgrim.

“What do you think, darling?”

“ ‘Us?’ ” said Troy. “ ‘Darling’? What’s all this?”

“We may as well tell them, Basil,” said Valmai sweetly. “Don’t faint, anybody. We got engaged last night.”

Lady Alleyn knelt back on her gardening-mat and looked up at her son.

“I think we have done enough weeding for to-day, darling. You bustle off with that barrow-load and then we’ll go indoors and have a glass of sherry and a chat. We’ve earned it.”

Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn obediently trundled off down the path, tipped his barrow-load on the smudge fire, mopped his brow and went indoors for a bath. Half an hour later he joined his mother in the drawing-room.

“Come up to the fire, darling. There’s the sherry. It’s a bottle of the very precious for our last evening.”

“Ma’am,” said Alleyn, “you are the perfect woman.”

“No, only the perfect mamma. I flatter myself I am a very good parent. You look charming in a dinner jacket, Roderick. I wish your brother had some of your finish. George always looks a little too hearty.”

“I like George,” said Alleyn.

“I quite like him, too,” agreed their mother.

“This is really a superlative wine. I wish it wasn’t our last night, though. Three days with the Bathgates, and then my desk, my telephone, the smell of the Yard, and old Fox beaming from ear to ear, bless him. Ah well, I expect I shall quite enjoy it once I’m there.”

“Roderick,” said Lady Alleyn, “why wouldn’t you come to Tatler’s End House with me?”

“For the very good reason, little mum, that I should not have been welcomed.”

“How do you know?”

“Miss Troy doesn’t like me.”

“Nonsense! She’s a very intelligent young woman.”

“Darling!”

“The day I called I suggested she should dine with us while you were here. She accepted.”

“And put us off when the time came.”

“My dear man, she had a perfectly good excuse.”

“Naturally,” said Alleyn. “She is, as you say, a very intelligent young woman.”

Lady Alleyn looked at a portrait head that hung over the mantelpiece.

“She can’t dislike you very much, my dear. That picture gives the lie to your theory.”

“Aesthetic appreciation of a paintable object has nothing to do with personal preferences.”

“Bosh! Don’t talk pretentious nonsense about things you don’t understand.”

Alleyn grinned.

“I think you are being self-conscious and silly,” continued Lady Alleyn grandly.

“It’s the lady that you should be cross about, not me.”

“I’m not cross, Roderick. Give yourself another glass of sherry. No, not for me.”

“Anyway,” said Alleyn, “I’m glad you like the portrait.”

“Did you see much of her in Quebec?”

“Very little, darling. We bowed to each other at mealtimes and had a series of stilted conversations in the lounge. On the last evening she was there I took her to the play.”

“Was that a success?”

“No. We were very polite to each other.”

“Ha!” said Lady Alleyn.

“Mamma,” said Alleyn, “you know I am a detective.” He paused, smiling at her. “You look divine when you blush,” he added.

“Well, Roderick, I shan’t deny that I would like to see you married.”

“She wouldn’t dream of having me, you know. Put the idea out of your head, little mum. I very much doubt if I shall ever have another stilted conversation with Miss Agatha Troy.”

The head parlourmaid came in.

“A telephone call from London for Mr. Roderick, m’lady.”

“From London?” asked Alleyn. “Oh Lord, Clibborn, why didn’t you say I was dead?”

Clibborn smiled the tolerant smile of a well-trained servant, and opened the door.

“Excuse me, please, mamma,” said Alleyn, and went to the telephone.

As he unhooked the receiver, Alleyn experienced the little prick of foreboding that so often accompanies an unexpected long-distance call. It was the smallest anticipatory thrill and was succeeded at once by the unhappy reflection that probably Scotland Yard was already on his track. He was not at all surprised when a familiar voice said:

“Mr. Alleyn?”

‘That’s me. Is it you, Watkins?”

“Yes, sir. Very pleasant to hear your voice again. The Assistant Commissioner would like to speak to you, Mr. Alleyn.”

“Right!”

“Hullo, Mr. Alleyn?” said a new voice.

“Hullo, sir.”

“You can go, Watkins.” A pause, and then: “How are you, Rory?”

“Very fit, thanks, sir.”

“Ready for work?”

“Yes. Oh, rather!”

“Well now, look here. How do you feel about slipping into the saddle three days before you’re due? There’s a case cropped up a few miles from where you are, and the local people have called us in. It would save time and help the department if you could take over for us.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Alleyn, with a sinking heart. “When?”

“Now. It’s a homicide case. Take the details. Address, Tatler’s End House.”

“ What ! I beg your pardon, sir. Yes?”

“A woman’s been stabbed. Do you know the place, by any chance?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thrrree minutes.”

“Extend the call, please. Are you there, Rory?”

“Yes,” said Alleyn. He noticed suddenly that the receiver was clammy.

“It belongs to the artist, Miss Agatha Troy.”

“I know.”

“You’ll get the information from the local super— Blackman — who’s there now. The model has been killed, and it looks like murder.”

“I — can’t — hear.”

‘The victim is an artist’s model. I’ll send Fox down with the other people and your usual kit. Much obliged. Sorry to drag you back before Monday.“

“That’s all right, sir.”

“Splendid. I’ll expect your report. Nice to see you again. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, sir.”

Alleyn went back to the drawing-room.

“Well?” began his mother. She looked up at him, and in a moment was at his side. “What’s the matter, old man?”

“Nothing, ma’am. It was the Yard. They want me to take a case near here. It’s at Tatler’s End House.”

“But what is it?”

“Murder, it seems.”

“Roderick!”

“No, no. I thought that, too, for a moment. It’s the model. I’ll have to go at once. May I have the car?”

“Of course, darling.” She pressed a bell-push, and when Clibborn came, said: “Mr. Roderick’s overcoat at once, Clibborn, and tell French to bring the car round quickly.” When Clibborn had gone she put her hand on Alleyn’s. “Please tell Miss Troy that if she would like to come to me— ”

“Yes, darling. Thank you. But I must see what it’s all about first. It’s a case.”

“Well, you won’t include Agatha Troy among your suspects, I hope?”

“If there’s a question of that,” said Alleyn, “I’ll leave the service. Good night. Don’t sit up. I may be late.”

Clibborn came in with his overcoat.

“Finish your sherry,” ordered his mother. He drank it obediently. “And, Roderick, look in at my room, however late it is.”

He bowed, kissed her lightly, and went out to the car.

It was a cold evening with a hint of frost on the air. Alleyn dismissed the chauffeur and drove himself at breakneck speed towards Tatler’s End House. On the way, three vivid little pictures appeared, one after another, in his mind. The wharf at Suva. Agatha Troy, in her old smock and grey bags, staring out over the sea while the wind whipped the short hair back from her face. Agatha Troy saying good-bye at night on the edge of the St. Lawrence.