Ngaio Marsh - Death In Ecstasy

Alleyn opened the wrong box.

“Do you?” he said. “What make is this? I don’t know the look of them.” He took one out and smelt it.

“They are hateful. Someone sent them. I meant to have them thrown away. I think the servants have upset… My cigarette, Mr. Alleyn. Mayn’t I have it?”

“I’m so sorry,” said Alleyn and brought the other box. He lit hers for her, stooping over the divan. She made a great business of it.

“You?” she murmured at last.

“Thank you. I prefer Virginians,” he said. “May I have one of these?”

“Oh, please don’t. They are disgusting. Quite unsmokable.”

“Very well,” said Alleyn and took out his case. “Do you remember the party?”

“At Sammy Ogden’s? Do I? Yes, I believe I do.”

“Do you remember that M. de Ravigne looked at one of the books?”

She closed her eyes and laid the tips of her thick fingers on the lids.

“Let me think. Yes!” She opened her eyes wide. “I remember. M. de Ravigne collects old books. He was browsing along the shelves. I can see it all now. I was talking to Father and poor Cara had joined us. Then Sammy came up. I remember that M. de Ravigne called to him: ‘Where did you find this?’ and he looked across and said: ‘On a bookstall. Is it worth anything?’ And Father went across and joined them. He adores books. They draw him like a magnet.”

“He has a remarkable collection,” said Alleyn. “Was he interested in this particular one?”

“Let me think. He went across and — What was the name of the book?” She gaped stupidly. “It wasn’t—! Oh, it was! You mean it was that book you showed us, on poisons. My God, is that what you mean?”

“Don’t distress yourself. Don’t be alarmed. Yes, that was it. You see we want to trace the book.”

“But if that was the one it belongs to Sammy Ogden. It’s his. And he never said so. When you showed it to us he simply sat there and—” Her eyes brightened; she was avid. “Don’t you see what that means? He didn’t own up.”

“Oh, yes,” said Alleyn. Her excitement was horrible. “Oh, yes, he told us it was his book. He hadn’t missed it.”

“But — Oh.” For a moment she looked disappointed. Then he could see an anticipation of deeper pleasure come into her eyes. Her lips trembled. “Then, of course, it was the Frenchman. Listen. I’ll tell you something. Listen.”

Alleyn waited. She lowered her voice and hitched herself nearer to him.

“He — Raoul de Ravigne I mean — made a fool of himself over Cara. She encouraged him. You know what foreigners are. If I had chosen to let him—” She laughed shrilly. “But I wasn’t having any. There was quite a scene once. I had a lot of bother with him. It was after that he turned to Cara. In pique, I always thought. And then — I hardly like to tell you. But Cara was dreadfully — you know. I’ve read quite a lot of psychoanalysis, and it was easy to see she was mad about Father Garnette. De Ravigne saw it. I watched him. I knew . He was furious. And when she got herself elected Chosen Vessel, he realised what that meant. You know what I mean?”

Alleyn really couldn’t manage more than an inclination of his head.

“Well, perhaps it was too much for him. He’s a very passionate sort of man. You know. The Celtic — I mean the Gallic temperament. Why didn’t he say he’d seen the book before? That’s what I’d like to know. I’m right. Don’t you think I am right?”

“Did he take the book away with him?” asked Alleyn.

She looked furtively at him.

“I don’t know, but he was very interested in it. You could see. He was very interested. He asked Sammy Ogden where he got it. He fossicked about till he found it.”

“Mr. Ogden said that he himself drew M. de Ravigne’s attention to the book and that M. de Ravigne showed little interest in it.”

“He may have pretended not to be interested,” she said. “He would do that. He makes a pose of being uninterested, the dirty beast.”

At this last vindictive descent into devastating vulgarity Alleyn must have shown some sort of distaste. A dull red showed through her make-up and for a moment she looked frightened.

“I expect you think I’m awful,” she said, “but you see I know what he’s like.”

“You tell me you had an unpleasant encounter with M. de Ravigne. May I hear a little more about that?”

But she would not tell him more. She was very uneasy and began to talk about self-respect. The encounter had no bearing on the case. She would rather not discuss it. She would not discuss it. He pressed a little further and asked when it had happened. She could not remember.

“Was it about the time you discontinued your visits to Miss Quayne?”

That shot went home. She now turned so white that he wondered if she would collapse. She seemed to shrivel back into the cushions as though she was scorched.

“What do you mean! Why are you talking like this? What are you thinking?”

“You mustn’t distress yourself in this way,” said Alleyn.

“How can I help it when you start— I’m not well. I told you I was ill. I must ask you to go.”

“Certainly,” said Alleyn. He got up. “I am sorry. I had no idea my question would have such an unfortunate effect.”

“It’s not that. It’s my nerves, I tell you. I’m a nervous wreck.”

She stammered, clenched her hands, and burst into a storm of ungracious tears. With a word of apology Alleyn turned and walked to the door.

“Stop!” cried Mrs. Candour. “Stop! Listen to me.” He turned.

“No, no,” she said wildly. “I won’t say any more. I won’t. Leave me alone.”

He went out.

Fox waited for him outside.

“Bit of a rumpus in there, seemingly,” said Fox.

“Heavens, yes! There’s been a loathsome scene. I’ll have a bad taste in my mouth for weeks. I’ll tell you about it in the car. We go to Ogden’s house now.”

On the way to York Square he related the details of his interview. “What do you make of all that?” he asked.

“Well, it sounds as if Mrs. Candour had tried to do a line with the French gentleman and failed. Then I suppose she turned round and took a dislike to him like these sort of women do. She wouldn’t feel too friendly towards Miss Quayne either, seeing Miss Quayne pinched the monsieur and the Reverend as well. No, she wouldn’t feel very friendly in that quarter.”

“No.”

“The point is,” continued Fox with a sort of dogged argumentativeness, “did she tell you anything that supports our theory or sets us off on another lay? That’s the point.”

“She said that de Ravigne found the book and that nobody drew his attention to it until Ogden asked him what it was worth. She was very emphatic about that.”

“Was she telling the truth?”

“I wish I knew,” said Alleyn.

“And Father Garnette?”

“He saw it too. For the matter of that they may all have glanced at it afterwards. But the question is—”

“Did any of them see enough of it to put ideas of sodium cyanide into their heads?”

“Exactly, Brer Fox, exactly. How did you get on with that remarkably frisky-looking soubrette who showed us in?”

“Oh, her! Rita’s her name. And the cook’s a Mrs. Bulsome. A very pleasant, friendly woman, the cook was. Made me quite welcome in the kitchen, and answered everything nice and straightforward. Rita took in the coffee at a quarter to two on Sunday. She went and got the cups about ten minutes later and Mrs.. Candour was then stretched out on the sofa, smoking and listening to the radio. She was still there when Rita took tea in at four-thirty and they heard the radio going all the afternoon.”