Ngaio Marsh - Death In Ecstasy

“Deferred cable for Australia,” he said, “and urgent to France. Read out the telegram, will you?”

The constable, with many strange sounds, spelt out a long message in French to the Comtesse de Barsac. As far as Nigel could make out, it broke the news of Miss Quayne’s death, said that a letter would follow, and gave an earnest assurance that the entire police force of Great Britain would be infinitely grateful if Madame la Comtesse would refrain from destroying any letters she received from Miss Cara Quayne. The constable went out looking baffled but impressed.

“What’s all that for?” asked Nigel.

Alleyn told him about the letter to Madame de Barsac and also about the new Will.

“I’ve got it here,” said Alleyn. “With the exception of the three hundred pounds a year to Nannie and the house to de Ravigne — everything to the glowing Garnette.”

“And it was done on Sunday?”

“Yes. At three-thirty. She actually has put the time.”

“That’s very significant,” pronounced Nigel.

“Very,” agreed Alleyn dryly.

“She had been back from the mysterious visit to the temple about half an hour,” continued Nigel with the utmost importance, “and had evidently made up her mind to alter the Will as a result of whatever had taken place in Garnette’s room.”

“True for you.”

“Had she learned about the commercial basis on which the House of the Sacred Flame was established? Or had she heard something derogatory about Garnette himself and wished to make a gesture that would illustrate her faith in Garnette? Doesn’t the note in the cigarette-box seem to point to that?”

“Am I supposed to answer these questions or are they merely rhetorical?”

“What do you think yourself? About the new Will?”

“ If we are right in supposing the interview with the unknown at two-forty-five on Sunday afternoon has got a definite bearing on the case and if the unknown was the murderer, then I think the alteration in the Will is the direct outcome of the interview. If this is so, then I believe the case narrows down to one individual. But all this is still in the air. Miss Quayne may have found Cyril swigging invalid port and written the note to let Garnette know about it. She may have altered the will simply because she wished to shower everything on Garnette. The whole of Sunday afternoon may be irrelevant. ’Morning, Fox.”

“Good morning, sir,” said Inspector Fox, who had come in during this speech. “What’s this about Sunday afternoon being irrelevant? Good morning, Mr. Bathgate.”

“Well, Fox, it’s possible, you know. We are still in the detestable realms of conjecture. I hope to heaven Mme de Barsac has not burned that letter. I wired to her last night and got no answer. I’ve just sent off another telegram. I could get on to the Sûreté, but I don’t want to do it that way. We badly needed that letter.”

“You’ve got a certain amount from the blotting-paper, haven’t you?” asked Fox.

“Bits and pieces. Luckily for us Miss Quayne used medium-sized sheets of notepaper and a thick nib. The result is lots of wet ink and good impressions on the blotting-paper. Here they are. No translation necessary for you, you old tower of Babel.”

“May I see?” said Nigel.

“Yes. But they’re not for publication.”

Fox took out his spectacles and he and Nigel read the sentences from the blotting-paper.

Raoul est tout-a-fait impitoyable —

Une secousse électrique me bouleversa —

Cette supposition me révoltait, mais que voul —

Alarme en me voyant —

— il pay — a—ses crimes .

— le placèrent en qualité d’administrateur d —’

“What’s ‘secousse’?” asked Fox.

“A shock, a surprise.”

“Does she mean she’s had an electric shock, sir?”

“It’s a figure of speech, Fox. She means she was much put out. The phraseology suggests a rather exuberant hysterical style. I do not advise you to adopt it.”

“What do you make of it, Mr. Bathgate?” asked Fox.

“It’s very exciting,” said Nigel. “The first bit is clear enough. Raoul — that’s de Ravigne — is completely indifferent — pitiless. She had a shock. Then she was horrified at her own — what’s the word?”

“This hypothesis revolted me,” suggested Alleyn.

“Yes. Then somebody took fright when he saw her. And somebody will — I suppose this was ‘payera’—will answer for his crimes. And somebody was made a trustee. That’s the last bit. That’s Garnette,” continued Nigel in high feather. “He’s a trustee in the first Will. By gum, it looks as if she was talking about Garnette all along.”

“Except when she wrote of de Ravigne?” said Alleyn mildly.

“Oh, of course,” said Nigel. “Good Lord! Do you suppose she confided in de Ravigne?”

“I refuse to speculate. But I don’t like your very free rendering of the last sentence. And now what’s all this about Miss Janey Jenkins?”

Nigel lanched into an account of his evening’s experiences. The two detectives listened in silence.

“You did very well,” said Allen when Nigel came to a stop. “Thank you, Bathgate. Now let me be quite sure of what you overheard from the perfumed depths of your clothes cupboard. Pringle asked Miss Jenkins to stick to their story about Sunday afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“And she asked if it had anything to do with his cigarettes?”

“Yes. That’s it.”

“Right! You arranged to visit her this morning?”

“Yes. Before the inquest.”

“Would you mind if I took your place?”

“Not if you’ll swear you’ll tell me what happens.”

“What’s the time?”

“Half-past nine,” said Fox.

“I’ll be off. See you at the inquest.”

Alleyn took a taxi to Yeoman’s Row. Janey’s studio was at the far end. It was a sort of liaison office between Bohemia and slumland. Five very grubby little boys and a baby were seated on the steps.

“Hullo,” said Alleyn. “What’s the game?”

“Ain’t no game. Just talkun,” said the grubbiest and smallest of the little boys.

“I know,” said Alleyn. “Who’s going to ring this bell for me?”

There was a violent assault upon the bell.

“I done it, Mister,” said the largest of the little boys.

The baby rolled off the second step and set up an appalling yell.

“Stan-lee!” screamed a voice from an upper window, “what are you doing to your little bruwer?”

“ ’Snot me; it’s ’im,” said Stanley, pointing to Alleyn.

“I’m frightfully sorry,” said Alleyn. “Here. Wait a moment. Is he hurt?”

“ ’E won’t leave ’is ’oller not without you picks ’im up,” said Stanley.

Alleyn picked the baby up. The baby instantly seized his nose, screamed with ecstasy, and beat with the other hand upon Alleyn’s face.

It was on this tableau that Janey opened her door.

The Chief Inspector hurriedly deposited the child on the pavement, gave Stanley a shilling for the party, took off his hat, and said:

“May I come in, Miss Jenkins?”

“Inspector Alleyn?” said Janey. “Yes. Of course.”

As she shut the door Stanley was heard to say “Coo! It’s a cop,” and the baby instantly began to roar again.

Without speaking Janey led the way upstairs to the studio. A solitary chair was drawn up to the gas fire. The room was scrupulously tidy and rather desolate.

“Won’t you sit down?” said Janey without enthusiasm.

“I’ll get another chair,” offered Alleyn and did so.

“I suppose Mr. Bathgate sent you here?” asked Janey.

“Yes. In effect he did.”