Ngaio Marsh - Death In Ecstasy

“Yes. The curtain was hiding her, of course, but she raised her voice and, being in the front, I heard her. Indeed, I felt a little annoyed with dear Cara. The altar door should never be used in meditation hours. Except, of course, by Father himself. And it was well after meditation began. I glanced at my watch. A quarter to three it was.”

“Miss Wade can you repeat exactly what you overheard Miss Quayne say?”

“Her very words. ‘I don’t believe you are speaking the truth’ was what dear Cara said, ‘and I shall tell Father Garnette what you have done.’ ”

Here Miss Wade paused and drew herself up with a little quiver.

“To whom did she speak?”

“I haven’t a notion,” said Miss Wade cosily.

Alleyn stifled a groan.

“No,” she went on, “ that I do not know. Not Father, naturally.”

“Naturally,” repeated poor Alleyn.

“Whoever it was, was quite inaudible. And then she came hurrying down into the temple with a great lack of reverence, poor thing. She rushed past me without seeing me, though I remained kneeling and gave her a reproachful glance. There were some neophytes in the back pews. It really was naughty of Cara. Such a bad example.”

“Did she seem much upset?”

“Dis — tracted,” said Miss Wade.

“Did anybody come out after her?”

“On the contrary. Father Garnette came in at this door about five minutes later. He had been to lunch with M. de Ravigne. He spoke a few words to me. I had quite given up my meditation.”

“Did you mention the incident to him?”

“Now did I?” mused Miss Wade with her head on one side. “No! Definitely not. I would have done so, but he spoke of Higher Things.”

“Have you told anybody else?”

“No, I think not.”

“Then let me implore you not to do so, Miss Wade. What you have just told me is of the greatest importance. Please promise me you will not repeat it.”

Miss Wade bridled.

“Really, officer,” she said. “I am not accustomed…”

“No, no. Never mind all that. Please don’t think me overbearing, but unless you will give me your word that you will keep this incident to yourself I–I shall be obliged to take very drastic measures. Miss Wade, it is for your own sake I insist on this silence. Do you understand?”

“That I don’t,” said Miss Wade with spirit.

Alleyn took one of the little black kid claws in his hand, and he bent his head and smiled at Miss Wade.

“Please,” he said, “to oblige a poor policeman. Do promise.”

She blinked up at him. Something rather youthful came back into her faded eyes. Her cheeks were pink.

“It is a pity you have come down to this sort of work,” said Miss Wade. “You have what my dear Mama used to call quite an air. Very well, I promise.”

Alleyn made her a bow. She tossed her head and went off down the alley-way at a brisk trot.

He stood there and looked thoughtfully after her, his hat in his hand. At last, with a shrug, he went out to where Inspector Fox waited for him in a police car.

“What’s wrong with the old lady?” asked Fox.

“Nothing much. She just felt chatty.”

“Anything of interest?”

“Merely that she overheard Cara Quayne telling her murderer she’d speak to Garnette about him or her as the case may be.”

“Lor’!” said Fox. “When, for Gawd’s sake?”

“At about quarter to three yesterday afternoon.”

“In the hall?”

“Naturally,” said Alleyn promptly. “Listen.”

He repeated Miss Wade’s statement. Fox stared solemnly out of the window.

“Well, that’s very interesting, sir,” he said when Alleyn had finished. “That’s very interesting indeed. Do you think she caught him red-handed with the bonds?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Or else he (or she, you know, Fox) refused to let her see them. There’s been some talk of her adding to those bonds. She may have wanted to do so on the eve of her first innings as Chosen Vessel.”

“That’s right, sir. D’you think she was poisoned to keep her quiet?”

“I think she was killed, in the end, to keep her quiet. But he meant to do it anyway.”

“How do you make that out?”

“If it’s sodium cyanide he couldn’t make it between three and eight o’clock. He must have had it ready.”

“Then what was the motive?”

“Same as before, Fox. Why are we sitting in this car?”

“I dunno, sir.”

“Tell him to drive yes, tell him to drive to M. de Ravigne’s house.”

Fox gave the order.

“What happened to Mr. Bathgate?” asked Alleyn.

“He went up to his flat, sir. I think he took Miss Jenkins and Mr. Pringle with him.”

“He’s a great hand at cultivating suspects,” said Alleyn.

“It’s been useful before now.”

“So it has.”

They relapsed into silence. At a telephone-box Alleyn stopped for a moment to ring the Yard. A message had come through from Bailey who was at Cara Quayne’s house. The blotting-paper in her bedroom desk had proved to be interesting. Lots of writing but in some foreign lingo. Alleyn could hear Bailey’s disparagement in this phrase. They had made out yesterday’s date and an address: “Madame la Comtesse de Barsac, Chateau Barsac, La Loupe, E. et L., France.” This had been checked up from an address book. They had also found evidence on the blotting-paper and on a crumpled sheet in the wastepaper basket of something that looked very much like a Will. Mr. Rattisbon had rung up and would ring again.

“So put that on your needles and knit it,” said Alleyn when he had told Fox.

The car turned into Lowndes Square and drew up by M. de Ravigne’s flat.

Branscombe Chambers proved to be a set of small bachelor flats, and M. de Ravigne appeared to live in the best of them. This was on the fourth floor. They went up in the lift.

“Any flats vacant here?” asked Alleyn of the liftman.

“Yes, sir. One. Top floor.”

“How many rooms?”

“Three recep., one bed, one servant’s bed, bath and the usual, sir,” said the liftman. “These are service flats you know. Food all sent up.”

“Ah, yes. Central heating throughout the building, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I can’t do without an open fire,” said Alleyn.

“No, sir? These electric grates are very convincing though. There’s a blazing log effect in No. 5.”

“Really? That’s not M. de Ravigne’s, is it?”

“No, sir. He’s just got the usual heaters. Here you are, sir.”

“Oh, yes. Sorry. Thank you.”

“Thank you very much, sir.”

A discreet dark man with a bluish chin opened the door to them. The voice of a piano came softly from within the flat. Monsieur was at home? He would inquire. He took Alleyn’s card and returned in a moment. Monsieur was at home and would they come in? The flat proved to be, if anything, overheated. The little hall where they left their hats was as warm as a conservatory and smelt like one. An enormous bowl of freesias stood on a very beautiful Louis Seize table. From here the servant showed them into a long low drawing room panelled in cream and very heavily carpeted. It was not overfurnished, indeed, the general effect was one of luxurious restraint. The few pieces were “period” and beautiful. Three Tang ceramics stood alone in a magnificent lacquer cabinet. The only modern note was struck by the pictures — a Van Gogh, a Paul Nash and a Gerald Brockhurst. Seated at a baby grand piano was M. Raoul de Ravigne.

M. de Ravigne greeted them with a suavity so nicely tempered that it could not be called condescension. He looked very grand seigneur , standing with one long white hand on the piano, grave, polite, completely at his ease.