Ngaio Marsh - Death In Ecstasy

As he bathed he thought carefully about his instructions. In effect Alleyn had told him to cultivate these two with a view to spying on them. Nigel winced. Stated baldly it sounded unpleasant. He had had this sort of thing out with Alleyn on former occasions. The Chief Inspector had told him roundly that his scruples had merely pointed to a wish to have the ha’pence without the kicks, to follow round with the police, write special articles from first-hand experience, and turn squeamish when it came to taking a hand. Alleyn was right of course. If Maurice and Janey were innocent he would help to prove it. If they were guilty — But Nigel was quite sure neither Janey nor Maurice, for all his peculiar behaviour, was guilty of Cara Quayne’s death. He dressed hurriedly and went out into the little hall to get his overcoat. He dived into the cupboard. It was built in to the drawing room wall and the partition was thin. He heard Janey Jenkins’ voice, muffled and flat but distinct:

“But why can’t you tell me? I know quite well there’s something. Maurice, this can’t go on.”

“What do you mean? Are you going to turn me down? I don’t blame you.”

“You know I won’t turn you down. But why can’t you trust me?”

“I do trust you. I trust you to stick to what we’ve said.”

“About yesterday afternoon—?”

“Sst!”

“Maurice, is it anything to do with — with your cigarettes? You’re smoking one of them now, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

“Oh, for God’s sake don’t start nagging.”

“But—”

“When this is over I’ll give it up.”

“ ‘When.’ ‘When.’ It’s always ‘when.’ ”

“Will you shut up, Jane! I tell you I can’t stand it.”

“Ssh! He’ll hear you.”

Silence. Nigel stole out and back to his bedroom. In three minutes he rejoined them in the drawing room. Maurice had mixed their drinks, and Janey had turned on the radio. With an effort Nigel managed to sustain his role of cheerful host. Maurice suddenly became more friendly, mixed a second cocktail and began to talk loudly of modern novelists. It appeared that he was himself engaged on a first novel. Nigel was not surprised to learn that it was to be a satire on the upper middle classes. At six o’clock they took a taxi to Janey’s studio flat in Yeoman’s Row, and while she changed Maurice made more cocktails. Janey, it seemed, was at the Slade. Nigel found the studio very cold though they had put a match to the gas-heater. Shouting at them from the curtained-off recess that served as bedroom Janey explained that she meant to seek warmer quarters. Even the kitchenette-bathroom was cold, she said. She did her cooking over a gas-ring, and you couldn’t warm yourself at a bath-geyser. Some of her drawings were pinned up on the walls. She used an austere and wiry line, defined everything with uncompromising boundaries, and went in extensively for simplified form. The drawings had quality. Nigel wandered round the studio and into the kitchenette. Everything was very tidy, and rather like Janey herself.

“What are you doing?” called Janey. “You’re both very silent.”

“I’m looking at your bathkitchery,” said Nigel. “You haven’t got nearly enough saucepans.”

“I only have breakfast here. There’s a restaurant down below. One of ye olde brasse potte kind — all orange curtain and nut salads. Yes,” said Janey emerging in evening dress, “I must leave this place. The problem is, where to go.”

“Come to Chester Terrace and be neighbours. Angela and I are going to take a bigger flat in my building. It’s rather nice. You could have mine.”

“Your Angela might hate me at first sight.”

“Not she. Are we ready?”

“Yes. Come on, Blot.”

“I’m finishing my drink,” said Maurice. ”You’re right, Jane, this is an appalling place. I should go mad here. Come on.”

“We should have gone to you first,” said Janey. “He is in Lower Sloane Street, Mr. Bathgate. How silly! Maurice, why didn’t we go to you first?”

“You can drop me there now. I don’t think I’ll join the party.”

“Maurice! Why ever not?”

“I’m hopelessly inadequate,” he muttered. He looked childishly obstinate, staring straight in front of him and smiling sardonically. Nigel could have kicked him.

“Your boy friend has a talent for quick changes,” he said to Janey and hailed a taxi. Janey spoke to Maurice in an urgent undertone. Out of the corner of his eye Nigel saw him shrug his shoulders and give a gloomy assent. When they were in the taxi Janey said:

“Maurice is afraid he’s too much upset by last night to be much use to anybody, but I’ve decided to pay no attention to him. He’s coming.”

“Splendid!” cried Nigel.

“Marvellous, isn’t it?” said Maurice with a short laugh.

He was very restless in the taxi, complained that the man should have gone down Pont Street instead of through Cadogan Square, thought they were going to be run over in Sloane Street, insisted on paying the fare, and had a row with the driver over the charge. He lived in a small service flat at the top of Harrow Mansions in Lower Sloane Street — sitting room, bedroom, bathroom. It was comfortable enough, but characterless.

“At least it’s warm,” said Maurice, and switched on the heater. He opened a cupboard.

“We don’t want more drinks, do we?” ventured Janey.

“Isn’t this a party?” asked Maurice loudly, and dragged out half a dozen bottles.

He left them as soon as he had made the cocktails, carrying his own with him. The bathroom door slammed and a tap was turned on. Janey leant forward.

“There’s something I must tell you,” she said urgently.

Nigel found nothing to say and she went on, speaking nervously and quickly:

“It’s about Maurice. I know you must think him too impossible. He’s been poisonous”—She caught herself up with a gasp—“perfectly odious ever since you asked us up to your flat. It was nice of you to do that, and to take us out. But I want to tell you. Maurice can’t help himself. I suppose you know why?”

“Yes, I think so. It’s bad luck.”

“It’s frightful. Not only the cigarettes, but — worse than that. He’s taking it now, I know he is. You’ll see. When he comes back he’ll be excited and — and dreadfully friendly. He’s turning into a horrible stranger. You don’t know what the real Maurice is like.”

“How did he start?”

“It’s Father Garnette. He’s responsible. I think he must be the wickedest foulest beast that ever lived. You can tell your friend Alleyn that if you like. But he knows. Maurice told him last night. Mr. Alleyn could help Maurice if — He doesn’t think Maurice did it, does he? He can’t.”

“I honestly don’t believe he does. Honestly.”

“I know Maurice is — is innocent. But there’s something else. Something he knows and he won’t tell Mr. Alleyn. He won’t tell. He’s made me promise. Oh, what am I to do?”

“Break your promise.”

“I can’t, I can’t. He’d never trust me again and, you see, I can’t help him as long as he trusts me.” Her voice trembled. “It’s a shame to bother you with it.”

“Good Heavens, what nonsense. I’d like to help you both but — but look here, don’t tell me anything unless you want Alleyn to know. I ought to say that. I’m on his side, you see. But if you are hiding anything for Pringle’s sake — don’t, don’t, don’t. And if he’s hiding something for anybody else’s sake you must make him tell Alleyn. Do you remember the Unicorn Theatre case?”

“Yes, vaguely. It’s queer how one reads every word of murder trials and then forgets them. I’ll never forget this one, will I? We must speak softly. He’ll be back in a minute.”