Ngaio Marsh - Death In Ecstasy

“I think so, sir. And I know how you feel about homicide cases. I’d put it down to your imagination. You’re a very imaginative man, I’d say. I’m not at all fanciful myself, but it does seem queer to me sometimes, how calm-like we get to work, grousing about the routine, pull out because our meals don’t come regular, and all the time there’s a trap and a rope and a broken neck at the end if we do our job properly. Well, there it is. It’s got to be done.”

“With which comfortable reflection,” said Alleyn, “let us consult Mr. Abberley on the subject of sodium cyanide.”

He picked the book out of his bag which had been brought back from the church, and once again it opened at the discourse on sodium cyanide.

“You see, Fox, it’s quite an elaborate business. List, list, oh list. You take equal weights of wool and dried washing-soda and iron filings. Sounds like Mrs. Beaton gone homicidal. Cook at red heat for three or four hours. Allow to cool. Add water and boil for several more hours. Tedious! Pour off clear solution and evaporate same to small volume. When cool, yellow crystals separate out. And are these sodium cyanide? They are not. To the crystals add a third of their weight of dried washing-soda. Heat as before for an hour or two. While still hot, pour off molten substance from black residue. It will solidify, on cooling to a white cake. Alley Houp ! Sodium cyanide as ordered. Serve a la Garnette with Invalid Port to taste. Loud cheers and much laughter. This man is clever.”

He re-read the passage and then shut the book.

“As far as one can see this could all be done without the aid of laboratory apparatus. That makes it more difficult, of course. A house-to-house campaign is indicated, and then we may not get much further. Still it will have to be done. I think this is an occasion for Mr. Bathgate, Fox. You tell me he went off with Pringle and Miss Jenkins.”

“That’s right. I saw them walk down Knocklatchers Row and go into his flat in Chester Terrace.”

“I wonder if I’d be justified — He can’t get into trouble over this. It’s so much better than going ourselves. He’s an observant youth, and if they’ve got all matey — What d’you think, Fox?”

“What are you driving at, sir?”

“Wait and see.”

He thought for a moment and then reached for his telephone. He dialled a number and waited, staring abstractedly at Fox. A small tinny quack came from the telephone. Alleyn spoke quietly.

“Is that you, Bathgate? Don’t say my name. Say ‘Hullo, darling.’ That’s right. Now just answer yes and no in a loving voice if your guests are still with you. Are they? Good. It’s Angela speaking.”

“Hullo, darling,” quacked the little voice.

“Is your telephone the sort that shouts or whispers? Does it shout?”

“No, my sweet. It’s too marvellous to hear your voice,” said Nigel in Chester Terrace. Without covering the receiver he addressed somebody in the room: “It’s Angela — my — I’m engaged to her. Excuse the raptures.”

“Are you sure it’s all right for me to talk?” continued Alleyn.

“Angela, darling. I can hardly hear you. This telephone is almost dumb.”

“That’s all right then. Now attend to me. Have you got very friendly?”

“Of course I have,” said Nigel rapturously.

“Well. Get yourself invited to either or both of their flats. Can you do that?”

“But Angel, I did all that ages ago. When am I going to see you?”

“Do you mean you have already been to their flats?”

“No, no. Of course not. How are you?”

“Getting bloody irritable. What do you mean?”

“Well, at the moment I am sitting looking at your photograph. As a matter of fact I’ve been showing it to somebody else.”

“Blast your eyes.”

“No, my sweet, nobody you know. I hope you will soon. They’re engaged like us. We’re all going to a show. Angela, where are you?”

“At the Yard.”

“Darling, how expensive! Yarborough! A toll call. Never mind. When are you coming to London? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes, there is. If you’re going to a show, can you engineer a round trip to their flats afterwards?”

“Rather! As a matter of fact I’d thought of doing that. Darling—”

“Shut up. Listen carefully now.”

“At Harrods? Must it be pink, my sweet?”

“Now don’t you be too clever. Miss Angela would cast you off for ever if you mooed at her like that. Pay attention. When you are there I want you to observe certain things.”

“All right, darling, I was only being facetious. Let me know the worst.”

“I will. This is what I want you to look for—” Alleyn talked on. Fox listened solemnly. Nigel, over in Chester Terrace, blew kisses into the receiver and smiled apologetically at Janey Jenkins and Maurice Pringle.

“It annoys Angela beyond endurance if I hold modern conversations with her on the telephone,” said Nigel hanging up the receiver on a final oath from Alleyn.

“If that was a sample, I’m not surprised,” said Janey Jenkins. “I absolutely forbid Maurice to call me his sweet. Don’t I, Blot?”

“Yes,” said Maurice unresponsively. He got up and moved restlessly about the room, fetching up at the window where he stood and stared out into the street, biting his finger.

“What is your Angela’s other name?” asked Janey.

“North. She’s darkish with a big mouth and thin.”

“When are you going to be married?”

“In April. When are you?”

Janey looked at Maurice’s back. “It’s not settled yet.”

“I’d better do something about getting seats for a show,” said Nigel. “Where shall we go? It’s such fun your coming here like this. We must make it a proper party. Have you seen ‘Fools Step In’ at the Palace?”

“No. We’d love to, but look here, we’re not dressed for a party.”

“Oh. No, you’re not, are you? Wait a moment. Let’s make it a real gala. I’ll change now and then we’ll take a taxi and go to your flat and then to Pringle’s. We’ll have a drink here first. Pringle, would you make drinks while I change? The things are all in that cupboard there. It’s only half-past five. I’ll have a quick bath — won’t be ten minutes. Do you mind? Will it amuse you? Not my bath, but everything else?”

“Of course it will,” said Janey.

Maurice swung around from the window and faced Nigel.

“Look here,” he said, “aren’t you rather rash to rush into parties with people that are suspected of murder?”

“Don’t, Maurice!” whispered Janey.

“My good ass,” said Nigel, “you embarrass me. You may of course be a homicidal maniac, but personally I imagine Alleyn had definitely ruled you out.”

“I suppose he’s told you to say that. You seem to be very thick with him.”

“Maurice, please!”

“My dear Jane, it’s not impossible.”

“No,” said Nigel calmly, “of course it’s not. Alleyn is by way of being my friend. I think your suspicions are perfectly reasonable, Pringle.”

“Oh, God, you are a little gentleman. I suppose you think I’m bloody unpleasant.”

“As a matter of fact I do, at the moment, but you’ll be better when you’ve had a cocktail. Get to work, there’s a good chap. And you might ring up the Palace for seats.”

“Look here, I’m damned sorry. I’m not myself. My nerves are all to hell. Janey, tell him I’m not entirely bogus. I can’t be if you say so.”

Janey went to him and held him firmly by one ear.

“Not entirely bogus,” she told Nigel.

“That’s all right then,” said Nigel hurriedly. “Look after yourselves.”