Ngaio Marsh - Enter A Murderer

The coroner summed up at some length. He touched on the possibility of suicide, and rather belittled it. He directed the jury discreetly towards the verdict which, after an absence of twenty minutes, they ultimately returned — a verdict of murder against some person or persons unknown. As he left the court Nigel found himself walking behind Alleyn, and immediately in front of Janet Emerald and Saint. He was about to join the inspector when Miss Emerald pushed past him, and seized Alleyn by the arm.

“Inspector Alleyn,” she said.

Alleyn stopped and looked at her.

“ You were behind that.” She spoke quietly enough, but with a kind of suppressed violence. “ You told that man to treat me as he did. Why was I singled out to be insulted and suspected? Why was Felix Gardener let off so lightly? Why isn’t he arrested? He shot Arthur. It’s infamous.” Her voice rose hysterically. Several people who had passed them stopped and looked back.

“Janet,” said Saint hurriedly, “are you mad? Come away.”

She turned and staged at him, burst into a passion of the most hair-raising sobs, and allowed herself to be led off.

Alleyn looked after her thoughtfully.

“Not mad, Mr. Saint,” he murmured. “No. I don’t think the Emerald is mad. Shall we say venomous to the point of foolhardiness?”

He followed them out into the street, without noticing Nigel.

Nigel spent the afternoon in writing up his report of the inquest. He was greatly intrigued by the vast amount of information that had not come out. The coroner had skated nimbly over the Jacob Saint libel action, had made no comment at all on Surbonadier’s state of intoxication, and had walked like Aga in and out of Stephanie Vaughan’s dressing-room. The jury, an unusually docile one, had apparently felt no urge to ask independent questions. Their foreman, like the Elephant’s Child, had the air of saying “this is too buch for be.” Nigel imagined that, in their brief retirement, they had discussed the possibility of suicide, decided it wouldn’t wash, and agreed that the whole thing was too complex for any decision but the usual one, which they had given. He had sensed Alleyn’s extreme satisfaction; and now, once more, revised his own view of the case.

He found that he had made up his mind that Saint was responsible for the murder. Yet Saint’s was the best of all the alibis. He had been alone in the audience, but Blair had sworn positively that he had not seen the proprietor of the Unicorn return to the stage between the acts. Saint had been in a box, and it was just possible that he could have slipped out during the black-out. At this point Nigel got his brain-wave. Suppose Jacob Saint had left his box under cover of the black-out and had gone through the door in the proscenium, on to the stage. This door had been locked when Stavely and Nigel went through, but Saint might easily have got hold of a key. There he would be, before the lights went out, in his box facing the audience, as large as life. Then complete darkness. Saint had left the box, slipped through the door, which he had perhaps previously unlocked, gone straight to the desk, colliding with Gardener on the way, pulled out the drawers and replaced the dummies with the cartridges. When the lights went up again — there was Mr. Saint sitting in his box at the Unicorn. Nigel was thrilled with himself and rang up Scotland Yard. Alleyn was out, but had made an appointment for four o’clock. Nigel said he would be there at 4.30.

He felt fidgety and unable to settle down to anything. He was big with his theory. Presently he thought of Felix Gardener, and decided to walk round to Sloane Street and talk it over with him. He didn’t ring up. If Felix was out he would walk on down to Knightsbridge and take a bus to the Yard. He wanted exercise.

Sloane Square, that full stop between Eatonia and Chelsea, had a look of sunny friendliness. Nigel bought a carnation for his coat, sent a silly telegram to his Angela, and walked lightly onwards. Sloane Street, with its air of quality and hint of boredom, was busier than usual. Nigel felt a sudden inclination to run, to whistle, to twirl his stick round. He glanced jauntily at a shabby-genteel man, who stood looking into the furniture shop next the flat. Gardener’s windows on the first floor were open. He spoke blithely to the commissionaire, refused the lift, and ran two steps at a time up the thickly-carpeted stairs to Gardener’s door.

It was open and Nigel, without ringing, went into the little entrance hall that opened into the studio sitting-room. He was about to call out, cheerfully, and had actually drawn in his breath to do so, when he was brought up short by a woman’s voice coming from the studio room.

“If I did it,” it cried urgently, “it was for you — for you, Felix. He was your worst enemy.”

Nigel heard Gardener say slowly: “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it.”

The woman began to laugh.

“All for nothing!” she said, between paroxysms of choking. “Never mind — I don’t regret it. Do you hear that? But I don’t think you were worth it.”

Scarcely aware of what he did, and conscious only of cataclysmic panic, Nigel banged the front door, and heard himself shout:

“Hullo, Felix, are you at home?”

Dead silence and then a sound of footsteps, and the studio door was thrown open.

“Oh — it’s you, Nigel,” said Felix Gardener.

Nigel didn’t look at him, but beyond, into the studio, where he saw Stephanie Vaughan, very attractive, in an arm-chair by the window. She held a handkerchief to her lips.

“Why, it’s Nigel Bathgate,” she cried, with exactly the same inflexion as the one she used when she said: “Hullo, all you people,” in her first entrance in the play.

“You’ve — you’ve met before,” said Gardener.

Nigel managed to say something, even to take the hand she held out cordially towards him.

“I only came in for a second,” he told Gardener.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” said Miss Vaughan gaily. “You’ve come to have a boy friend chat — the sort that consists of drinks, cigarettes, long silences and a few risqué stories. I’m off, anyway, so you needn’t bother about me.”

She rose to her feet in one lithe movement. She looked Nigel full in the face, and gave him the three-cornered smile.

“Make Felix bring you to see me,” she commanded. “I rather like you, Nigel Bathgate. Felix — you hear? You’re to bring him to see me.”

“Is this your purse?” asked Gardener. Nigel saw him put it on a table near her, and knew he didn’t want to touch her hand. He opened the door to her and she floated out, still talking. Gardener followed her, shut the door, and Nigel heard her voice, very low, outside. In another second the outer door slammed, and Gardener came back into the room.

“It was decent of you to come, Nigel,” he said. “I’m all in.”

He looked it. He sat down in front of the fire and held his hands to it. Nigel saw he was shaking:

“I think you ought to see a doctor, Felix,” he ventured.

“No, no. It’s only the after-effects of shock, I imagine. I’ll be all right. Think I’ll turn in presently and try for a little sleep. I haven’t been able to sleep much.”

“Jolly sound idea. Why don’t you carry it out now? I’ll give you some aspirin and a stiff whisky, and leave you in peace.”

“Oh, in a minute. Any news?”

They had both managed to avoid speaking of Miss Vaughan. Nigel’s theory about Saint came into his mind. He smiled rather wryly to himself at the remembrance of his so recent enthusiasm. Did Gardener wonder if he had overheard anything? Nigel believed that idea had not entered his friend’s head. As Felix himself said, he was suffering from shock. Nigel forced himself to speak at random. It was hard to find anything to talk about. He who, hitherto, had barely impinged upon the edge of the theatrical world now found himself drawn into it. He felt, suddenly, as though he were surrounded by these people, as though, against his will, he was obliged to witness a play they had staged and as though he had been compelled to leave his seat in the auditorium and mingle confusedly with the action of the piece. The two men must have been silent for some time, for Nigel was startled to hear Gardener say suddenly: