Ngaio Marsh - Death In Ecstasy

“Little leather box in desk,” he said. “And not only that. Safe.”

“Thank you,” said Alleyn. Father Garnette instantly fell asleep.

Alleyn, without another glance at him, returned to the desk and pulled out the bottom drawer.

“Lor’, sir,” said Fox, “you’ve doped the gentleman.”

“Not I,” Alleyn grunted. “He’s merely tight.”

“Tight!” ejaculated Nigel. “What was in the bottle?”

“Proof spirit. Over-proof as like as not.”

“Pure alcohol?”

“Something of the sort. That or rectified spirit, I imagine. Have to be analysed. This is a very exotic case. Thorndyke stuff. Not my cup of tea at all.”

“What,” asked Nigel, “did you write on that paper you gave Fox?”

“A suggestion that he should attract Mr. Garnette’s attention.”

“You bad old Borgia!”

“Stop talking. Can’t you see I’m detecting. What’s the back door like, Fox?”

“Ordinary key and bolts. Funny it was open.”

“Very funny. Go through that waste-paper basket, will you? And the grate.”

Fox knelt on the hearth-rug. The fire had almost burnt out. For some time the detectives worked in silence. Suddenly Fox grunted.

“How now, brown cow?” asked Alleyn.

“If you mean me, sir, here’s a bit of something.”

“What?”

Fox, using tweezers, drew two scraps of burnt paper from the ash-tray and laid them before Alleyn. Nigel got up to look. They were the merest fragments of paper, but there were one or two words printed on them in green pencil:

“Oh, Lord!” said Alleyn, “what now! Let’s see. Same paper as this stuff on his desk? No. I can’t see a green pencil anywhere. We’ll have to find out when that thing was last cleaned out. Any more bits?”

“That’s the lot,” said Fox.

“Put it away tenderly. We’ll have to brood over it. I want to get this desk cleaned up. Ah, here we are.” He drew out a purple suede case and examined the keys. Father Garnette uttered a stertorous snore. Fox, still looking scandalised, walked over to him.

“He’d be better in bed,” said Fox.

“So he would. Make it so, will you, Fox? Mr. Bathgate will help you. And from his fair and unpolluted breath may violets spring. Ugh, you horrid old man!” added Alleyn with sudden violence. He had taken a bundle of letters from the box and was reading one of them.

Fox, assisted by Nigel, heaved and hauled Father Garnette into the bedroom, which was draped in rose-coloured plush and satin. Here were more idols, more Nordic bijouterie, more cushions.

“Very classy, isn’t it, sir?” remarked Fox as he lowered Father Garnette on to the divan bed.

“It’s villainous, Fox,” said Nigel. He contemplated Father Garnette with distaste.

“Must we undress this unpleasant old blot?” he asked.

“I’m afraid so, sir. Can you find his pyjamas?”

From under a violently embroidered coverlet Nigel drew out a confection in purple silk.

“Look, Inspector, look! Really, it’s too disgusting.”

“Not quite my fancy, I will say, sir,” conceded Fox who had attacked Father Garnette’s right boot. “I believe in wool next the skin, summer and winter. I’d feel kind of slippery in that issue.”

Nigel tried to picture Inspector Fox in purple satin pyjamas, failed to do so and laughed himself into a good humour. They put Father Garnette to bed. He muttered a little, opened his eyes once, said: “Thank you, my son” in faultless English, showed signs of feeling very ill, but appeared to get over it, and finally sank again into the deepest slumber.

They rejoined Alleyn and found him poring over an array of letters.

“Something doing, sir?” asked Fox.

“Much. Most of it odious. These are all letters from women.”

“Any from the deceased?”

“Yes.” Alleyn grimaced. “There it is. Read it. A mixture of pseudo-mystic gibberish and hysterical adulation. Garnette seems actually to have persuaded her that the — the union— was blessed, had a spiritual significance — puh!” He made a violent gesture. “Read it. It’s important.”

Nigel read over Fox’s shoulder. The letter was written on mauve paper printed with Cara Quayne’s address in Shepherd Market. It was undated. It began:

BELOVED FATHER AND SPOUSE IN ECSTASY,

I know you will be out this afternoon, but I feel I must make oblation for the divine, glorious, ecstatic bliss that has been mine ever since last night. I am half frightened, tremulous. Am I worthy? I — the Chosen Vessel? How can I make oblation? With this you will find a parcel. It contains the bonds I told you of, £5,000. Oh, how hateful to speak of money, but — I know you will understand — it is a thank-offering. Tell them about it, and let them give too until we have enough for a new temple. I want you to find it when you come in — after I have gone. Oh, for a new temple. I want you to find it when you come in — after I have gone. Oh, beloved holy—

The letter ran on to eight pages.

“Very peculiar indeed, sir,” said Fox who read the whole thing through with a perfectly impassive demeanour. “That will be the money Mr. Ogden and monsieur talked about. In the safe here, they said.”

“They did. I’m about to tackle the safe.”

Alleyn moved across the room, pulled aside a strip of Javanese tapestry, and disclosed a small built-in safe. He found the key on the ring Father Garnette had given him, opened the safe and began, with great method, to remove the contents and array them neatly on the table.

“Bankbook. Let’s see. He paid in fifty pounds last Monday. I suppose we shan’t find much cash. Any offertory tonight, Bathgate?”

“No. I imagine we didn’t get so far.”

“I suppose not. There’s a bag of something. Petty cash, perhaps. What’s this? Cheque from Mr. Ogden. Twenty pounds. Dated last Wednesday.”

“How he gets it out of the gentlemen fairly beats me,” said Fox.

“Extraordinary, isn’t it? But you know, Fox, there is a kind of simple, shrewd business brain that’ll believe any tarra-diddle outside its own province.”

“Would you say Mr. Ogden’s was that sort, sir?” Alleyn flipped the cheque at him.

“Looks like it,” he said, and turned again to the safe. “Hullo! This is more the sort of thing.”

He pulled out a package and laid it on the table. It was a largish brown-paper parcel tied up with red ribbon. It was addressed to “The Reverend Father Jasper Garnette,” and the writing was undoubtedly Cara Quayne’s. Alleyn stared fixedly at the ribbon. He turned the parcel over once or twice.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” asked Nigel.

“Oh, yes. yes.” But he hesitated a little while longer and at last, laying the parcel on the table, slipped the ribbon very gingerly over one end, cautiously pulled out the folds of paper, and peered into the open end. He held the parcel under a lamp, and examined it even more closely. Then he dropped it back on to the table.

“Well?” asked Nigel.

“Well, Bathgate, I wish Mr. Garnette was not so sound asleep.”

“Why on earth?”

“I should like him to have a look at this.” Fox lifted the parcel by the open end and looked in.

“Cripes!” he said.

“Here!” Nigel ejaculated. “Let me look.”

“Don’t pick it up. Look inside.”

Nigel did so. Fox flashed his torch into the parcel. Nigel glanced up at the two policemen, peered again into the parcel, grinned, looked doubtful, and at last said:

“But is that all?”

“I think so, oh yes,” answered Alleyn.