Ngaio Marsh - A Man Lay Dead

He left his companion and returned to Mrs. Wilde’s, to Angela’s, and to Rosamund Grant’s rooms. On each of their dressing-tables he found collections of bottles and boxes. Mrs. Wilde seemed to travel with half a beauty parlour in tow. The Inspector, who had collected a case from downstairs, opened it and produced a number of small bottles into each of which he poured samples of liquid powder and of scent. These he carried back to Rankin’s room and, picking up the dinner jacket, nosed it reflectively.

“I rather fancy,” he said to Bailey, “I rather fancy it’s a mixture of ‘Milk of Gardenias’ and ‘Chanel 5.’ Mrs. Wilde and a hint of Miss Grant, in fact. But an analysis will correct me.”

“Someone,” said Bailey, “has dusted the outer rim of the stairs and not the inner. There’s a glove mark on the knob. Did you notice, sir?”

“How you do dwell on those stairs,” said Alleyn.

And with that he finally left the bedroom and went downstairs. In the hall he found Nigel.

“You have finished your lunch early, Mr. Bathgate,” said Alleyn.

“I came out,” said Nigel. “Sir Hubert told me what was happening, and I thought if you didn’t mind that I would like to — to see Charles off.”

“Why, of course. I only thought that for the ladies it would be better to have it happen as unnoticeably as possible. Would you like to go into the study?”

“If I may, please.”

So Nigel stood and looked for the last time at Charles Rankin. He had never seen death before, but it seemed to him that it was not so very strange. Only he found it difficult to touch Charles, a gesture that obscurely he felt obliged to make. He put out his hand and met the cold heaviness of the forehead. Then he went back into the hall.

The mortuary car had arrived, and the men were already waiting. They brought Rankin out of the study, and in a very short time had driven him away. Inspector Alleyn stood by Nigel on the steps, watching until the car had disappeared down the drive. Nigel was conscious of him, and found that he liked his presence. When the sound of the car had died away, he turned to speak to the detective, but he had already gone. It was Angela who stood in the doorway.

“I know what’s been happening,” she said. “Come for a walk.”

“I’d like to,” said Nigel. “Where shall we go?”

“I think the best thing we could do would be to go right round the home fields rather fast, and then finish up with a good go at badminton.”

“Right,” said Nigel, and they set off.

“We need a good deal of this sort of thing,” remarked Angela firmly, after they had walked in silence for some time, “otherwise we’ll all get morbid.”

“I should have thought with you that was an impossibility.”

“Well, you’re wrong. There’s a stream at the bottom of this field. If it’s not too sloppy we can jump across. What were we saying? Oh, yes. Me and morbidness. I do assure you I could easily become as grim as a Russian novel. Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t let’s talk about Russians! Doctor Tokareff is positively deafening, I find.”

“He is rather fatiguing.”

“Nigel!” said Angela suddenly, “let’s make a pact. Let’s be honest with each other — about the murder, I mean. It’ll help such a lot. Do you agree? Or am I a nuisance?”

“I agree. I’m so glad you’ve suggested it, Angela; and how could you possibly be a nuisance!”

“Well, then, that’s all right. I don’t think you killed Charles. Do you think I did?”

“No,” said Nigel.

“Who do you think did it?”

“Honestly, I can’t think.”

“But,” insisted Angela, “you must have leanings— you must.”

“I suppose, then, I lean towards Vassily, although he did seem such an honest-to-God old chap.”

“Yes, I know,” agreed Angela. “I sort of think Vassily did it, but I don’t feel he did.”

“Who do you feel did it, Angela? Don’t answer if you’d rather not.”

“It’s part of the pact.”

“I know,” said Nigel, “but don’t if you’d rather not.”

They had reached the tiny stream that ran across the bottom of the field. The ground on either side was muddy and dappled with small puddles.

“I want to,” said Angela, “but it’ll be rather like crossing the stream to do it.”

“Let me carry you across.”

“I don’t mind getting muddy.”

“But I mind if you do. Let me carry you!”

Angela looked at him. “What’s all this?” thought Nigel confusedly. “I’ve only just met her. What’s happening?”

“Very well,” said Angela, and put one arm round his neck.

Liquid mud flowed into his brogues, and water struck like ice at his ankles. Neither of these discomforts did he resent, and when they reached firm ground he walked on delightedly until they had approached the trees.

“You may put me down,” said Angela, close to his ear.

“At once,” she added, rather loudly.

“Yes, certainly,” said Nigel, and obeyed.

“Now,” continued Angela, pink in the face, “having crossed the stream, I’ll tell you who I feel—”

“Wait a moment,” said Nigel suddenly.

From behind them on the home side of the field a voice was hailing him.

“Mr. Bath — gate!”

They turned and saw Mrs. Wilde waving energetically.

“There’s a telephone call come through for you from London,” shouted Mrs. Wilde.

“Damn!” muttered Nigel. “Thank you!” he shouted.

“You’ll have to go back,” said Angela. “I’ll go round the long way to the barn.”

“But you haven’t told me—”

“I don’t think, after all, that I will,” said Angela.

Nigel’s long-distance call turned out to be from Mr. Benningden, the family solicitor. Mr. Benningden was one of those small desiccated gentlemen so like the accepted traditional figure of a lawyer that they lose their individuality in their perfect conformation to type. He was greatly perturbed by Charles Rankin’s death. That Nigel, who knew him very well, could be sure of; but his dry voice and staccato phrases had lost nothing of their formal precision. He arranged to come down to Frantock the following afternoon. Nigel hung up the receiver, and went to the barn in search of Angela.

Half-way there he ran into Alleyn, who was talking to an under-gardener. Evidently the Inspector had extended his examination of the servants to the outdoor staff. Nigel remembered how yesterday the guests had wandered off in twos and threes. He had seen Mrs. Wilde and Rankin in the garden, and had wondered if Wilde and Rosamund were together. Would Alleyn try to trace the movements of each individual? Was there any significance in the grouping? What, wondered Nigel, not for the first time, what exactly was the Inspector up to? The under-gardener held by the hand a very small, very dirty, very red-faced child of undecipherable sex, whom Alleyn was regarding with a comical air of frustration.

“Mr. Bathgate,” ejaculated the Inspector. “One moment! Tell me, have you a way with children?”

“I really don’t know,” said Nigel.

“Well, don’t hurry away like that. This is Stimson, the third gardener, and this is his daughter — er — Sissy. Sissy Stimson. Stimson tells me that she returned yesterday from the woods full of some story of a weeping woman. I rather want to investigate, but she is a difficult witness. Do see if you can have a success with her. I want to settle the identity of this tearful lady, and also of a person who appears to have trotted along beside her. Sissy is not exactly a gossipy child. Er, Sissy— here’s Mr. Bathgate come to talk to you.”