Ngaio Marsh - Death In Ecstasy

“An adjournment? For what?”

“Oh,” said Alleyn vaguely, “for me to earn my wages, you know.”

The inquest was as Alleyn had said it would be. Only the barest bones of the case were exhibited to the jury. Owing, no doubt, to Nigel’s handling of a “scoop” the public interest was terrific. Alleyn himself had by this time become a big draw. It would be a diverting pastime to discuss how far homicide cases have gone to cater for the public that used to patronise stock “blood-and-thunder” at Drury Lane. In the days when women of breeding did not stand in queues to get a front seat at a coroner’s inquest or a murder trial, melodrama provided an authentic thrill. Nowadays melodrama is not good enough when with a little inconvenience one can watch a real murderer turn green round the gills, while an old gentleman in a black cap, himself rather pale, mumbles actor-proof lines about hanging by the neck until you are dead and may God have mercy on your soul. No curtain ever came down on a better tag. The inquest is a sort of curtain-raiser to the murder trial, and, in cases such as that of Cara Quayne, provides an additional kick. Which of these people did it? Which of these men or women will hang by the neck until he or she is dead? That priest, Jasper Garnette. Darling, such an incredible name, but rather compelling, don’t you think? A definite thrill? Or don’t you? He seems to have been… Can anyone go to the temple?… Chosen Vessel… My sweet, you have got a mind like a sink, haven’t you! The American?… Too hearty and wholesome…Still, one never knows, I must say… De Ravigne? My dear, I know him. Not frightfully well. His cousin…No, it was his sister… Of course one never knows. That Candour female… God, what a mess! The boy? Pringle? Wasn’t he one of the Essterhaugh, Browne-White lot? Of course one knows what they’re like. He looks as if he might be rather fun. Darling, did you ever see anything to approach Claude and Lionel? Still, one never knows. One never knows until the big show comes on. One never knows.

In all this undercurrent of conjecture Alleyn, little as he heeded it, played a star part. His was as popular a name as that of the learned pathologist, or the famous counsel who would be briefed if Alleyn did his bit and produced an accused to stand trial. Chief Inspector Alleyn himself, as he assembled the bare bones of the case before the coroner, glanced once round the court and thought vaguely: “All the harpies, as usual.”

Nigel Bathgate, Dr. Kasbek, Dr. Curtis and the pathologist were the first witnesses. Dr. Kasbek was asked by a very small juryman why he had not thought it worth while to send for remedies. He said dryly that there was no remedy for death. The ceremony of the cup was outlined and the finding of sodium cyanide described. Alleyn then gave a brief account of his subsequent investigations in the House of the Sacred Flame.

Father Jasper Garnette was called and gave a beautiful rendering of a saint among thieves. He was followed by the rest of the Initiates. Mr Ogden’s deportment was so elaborately respectful that even the coroner seemed suspicious. M. de Ravigne was aloof and looked as if he thought the court smelt insanitary. Mrs. Candour wore black and a stage make-up. Miss Wade wore three cardigans and a cairn-gorm brooch. She showed a tendency to enlarge on Father Garnette’s purity of soul and caused the solicitor who watched the proceedings on Father Garnette’s behalf to become very fidgety. Maurice Pringle was called on the strength of his being the first to draw attention to Cara Quayne’s condition. He instantly succeeded in antagonising the coroner. Claude Wheatley, who followed him, got very short commons indeed. The coroner stared at him as though he was a monster, asked him precisely what he did mean, and then said it seemed to be so entirely irrelevant that Mr. Wheatley might stand down. Janey merely corroborated the rest of the evidence. It was all over very quickly. The coroner, crisp man, glanced once at Alleyn and ordered an adjournment.

“He’s a specimen piece, that one,” said Alleyn to Fox as they walked away. “I only wish there were more like him.”

“What are the orders for this afternoon, sir?”

“Well, Fox, we must come all over fashionable and pay a round of calls. There are still two ladies and a gentleman to visit. I propose we have a bite of lunch and begin with Mrs. Candour. She’s expecting us.”

They had their bite of lunch and then made their way to Queen Charlotte flats, Kensington Square, where, in a setting of mauve and green cushions, long-legged dolls and tucked lampshades, Mrs. Candour received them. She seemed disappointed that Alleyn had not come alone, but invited them both to sit down. She herself was arranged on a low divan and exuded synthetic violets. She explained that she suffered from shock. The inquest had been too much for her. The room was stiflingly heated by two ornate radiators and the hot water pipes gurgled like a dyspeptic mammoth.

Alleyn engulfed himself in a mauve satin tub hard by the divan. Inspector Fox chose the only small chair in the room and made it look foolish.

“My doctor is coming at four o’clock,” said Mrs. Candour. “He tells me my nerves are shattered. But shattered!”

She gesticulated clumsily. The emeralds flashed above her knuckles. Alleyn realised that she wished him to see a hot-house flower, enervated, perhaps a little degenerate, but fatal, fatal. With a mental squirm he realised he had better play up. He lowered his deep voice, bent his gaze on her and said:

“I cannot forgive myself. You should rest.”

“Perhaps I should. It doesn’t matter. I must not think of myself.”

“That is wonderful of you,” said Alleyn.

She shrugged elaborately and sighed.

“It is all so ugly, I cannot bear ugliness. I have always surrounded myself with decorative things. I must have beauty or I sicken.”

“You are sensitive,” pronounced Alleyn with a strong man’s scowl.

“You feel that?” She looked restively at Inspector Fox. “That is rather clever of you, Mr. Alleyn.”

“My consciousness of it brought me here this afternoon. We want your help Mrs. Candour. It is the sensitive people who see things, who receive impressions that may be invaluable.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Candour with a sad smile.

“Before I ask you for this particular kind of help I just want to confirm your statement about your own movements on Sunday. It’s purely a matter of form. You were here all day, I think you said.”

“Yes, all day. How I wish it had been all the evening too!”

“I bet you do,” thought Alleyn. Aloud he said: “Perhaps your servants would be able to confirm this. No doubt they will remember that you were indoors all day.”

“There are only two maids. I–I expect they will remember.”

“Perhaps Inspector Fox might have a word with them.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Candour very readily indeed. “You would like to see them alone, I expect, Inspector? I’ll ring.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Fox. “I won’t keep them long.” A musical comedy parlourmaid who had shown them in, showed Fox out. His voice could be heard rumbling distantly in the flat.

“And now,” said Mrs. Candour turning intimately to Alleyn. “And now, Mr. Alleyn.”

Alleyn leant back in his chair and looked at her until she glanced down and up again. Then he said:

“Do you remember a party at Mr. Ogden’s four weeks ago, yesterday?”

“Just a moment. Will you get me a cigarette? On the table over there. No, not those,” said Mrs. Candour in a hurry. “The large box. The others are Virginian. I loathe Virginian cigarettes.”