Ngaio Marsh - A Man Lay Dead

Alleyn was waiting for him downstairs.

“I plucked up my courage and asked Miss Angela if we three might have tea together in here,” said the Inspector. “She is bringing it in herself, as I thought it unnecessary to bother the servants.”

“Really?” Nigel wondered what was afoot now. “What an extraordinary incident that was just now.”

“Very.”

“I suppose it is not unusual for highly strung people to do that sort of thing — I did it myself.”

“So you did, but Wilde had a better reason, poor devil.”

“I admired him for it.”

“So did I, enormously.”

“Of course, his wife is innocent?”

Alleyn did not answer.

“Look at her alibi,” said Nigel.

“Yes,” said Alleyn, “I’m looking at it. It’s a lovely alibi, isn’t it?”

Angela came in with the tea.

“Well, Mr. Alleyn,” she said, setting the tray on a stool before the fire, “what are you up to now?”

“Sit down, Miss Angela,” invited Alleyn, “and give us some tea, if you please. Very strong and no milk for me. Do you know anyone called Sandilands?”

Angela paused, cup in hand.

“Sandilands? N-no. I don’t think so. Wait a moment, though. Is that strong enough?”

“Thank you so much. Perfect.”

“Sandilands?” repeated Angela meditatively. “Yes, now I do . Where have I met—?”

“Was it at—?” began Nigel.

“Take your tea and be tacit,” advised Alleyn curtly.

Nigel glared at him and was silent.

“I’ve got it,” said Angela. “There’s an old Miss Sandilands, a sewing maid. She sometimes does work for Marjorie.”

“That’s the one,” said Alleyn brightly; “she worked for them at Tunbridge, didn’t she?”

“At Tunbridge? The Wildes were never at Tunbridge.”

“Perhaps Mrs. Wilde stays there — visits there — takes a cure there? I may have got muddled.”

“I never heard of it,” said Angela decisively. “Marjorie is not at all like Tunbridge.”

“Oh well, never mind,” rejoined the Inspector. “Has Miss Grant told you where she was while you were bathing on Sunday evening?” Angela looked gravely at him, and then turned to Nigel.

“Oh, Nigel,” she said, “what is he thinking?”

“Search me,” said Nigel gloomily.

“Please, Miss Angela?” said Alleyn.

“She hasn’t told me. But — oh, am I right to go on?”

“Indeed, indeed you are.”

“Then — I believe… I think I know where she went.”

“Yes?”

“To Charles’ room!”

“What makes you think that?”

“The morning afterwards you asked me to have his room locked and to give you the key. I went to do it myself. Rosamund has a pair of bath slippers, mules, you know—”

“Yes, yes, with green fluffy stuff, marabout or something above the instep.”

“Yes,” agreed the astonished Angela. “Well, the key was on the inside so I had to enter the room to get it. I saw a wisp of the green fluff on the carpet.”

“Madam!” said Alleyn triumphantly, “you are superb. And you picked up your bit of green fluff and—? You didn’t throw it away?”

“I didn’t, but I will if you’re going to use it against Rosamund.”

“Here! Oi! No blackmailing, please. You kept it because you thought it might save her. That it?”

“Yes.”

“Well. Hang on to it. Now tell me this. What was the relationship between Rankin and Miss Grant?”

“I can’t discuss anything of that sort,” said Angela coldly.

“My dear child, this is no time for coming over all county with me. I quite appreciate your scruples, but they are not worth much when they are used to screen a murderer or to cast suspicion on an innocent person. I shouldn’t ask you unless I had to. Let me tell you what I think. There was an understanding between Rankin and Miss Grant. He wanted her to marry him. She had refused because of his relationship with another woman. Am I right?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“Was she fond of him?”

“Yes.”

“That was what I wanted to know. Was she jealous?”

“No, no! Not jealous, but she — she felt it very deeply indeed.”

Alleyn opened his note-book again, and drew out a fragment of blotting paper and passed it to Angela. “Take your handglass and look at that,” he said.

Angela obeyed him, and then passed the blotting paper and mirror to Nigel. He read without difficulty.

October 10th: Dear Joyce, I’m so sorry to muddle your pl…”

“Whose writing is that?” asked Alleyn.

“It is Rosamund’s,” said Angela.

“It was written after seven-thirty on Saturday night at the desk in the elbow of the drawing-room,” commented the Inspector, looking at Nigel. “At seven-thirty the excellent Ethel had tidied the desk and put out fresh blotting paper. On Sunday morning, noticing the stains on this sheet, she turned it under, putting a clean sheet on top.”

“So you imagine—?” Nigel began.

“I do not imagine; detectives aren’t allowed to imagine. They note probabilities. I am firmly of the opinion that Miss Grant overheard, with you, the duologue between Mrs. Wilde and Rankin. It was she who turned out the lights and nipped out ahead of you on your leaving the drawing-room.”

“I’m quite at sea,” complained Angela.

Nigel told her briefly of the conversation he had overheard from the gun-room. Angela was silent for a few minutes. Then she turned to Alleyn.

“There is one factor in this case,” she began in a quaintly pedantic manner, “that puzzles me above all others.”

“Will my learned friend propound?” asked Alleyn solemnly.

“I am about to do so. Why, oh why, did the murderer sound the gong? I can understand his turning out the lights. He knew that in doing so, by the rules of the murder game, he ensured himself a clear two minutes to get away. But why, oh why, did he bang the gong?”

“To keep up the illusion of the game?” Nigel speculated.

“It seems so incredible somehow — to make a proclamatory gesture like that. Darkness he would welcome, yes, but to start that clamour — it sounds so— so psychologically unsound.”

“My learned friend’s point is well urged,” said Alleyn. “But I put it to her that the murderer or murderess did not sound the gong.”

“Then,” said Nigel and Angela together, “who did?”

“Rankin.”

“What!” they shouted.

“Rankin sounded the gong.”

“What the devil do you mean?” ejaculated Nigel.

“I’m not going to give all my tricks away, and this is such a very simple one that you ought to have seen it yourselves.” Nigel and Angela merely stared blankly at each other.

“Well, we don’t,” said Nigel flatly.

“Later perhaps it may dawn,” commented the detective. “In the meantime, how about a run up to London to-night?”

“To London — what for?”

“I hear that you, Miss Angela, are the fastest thing known off the dirt track, and when I use the expression ‘the fastest thing’ I use it literally, not colloquially. Will you, without explaining your movements to anyone, drive this young ornament of the Press up to London in the Bentley and do a job of work for me? I will talk to your uncle about it for you.”

“Now — to-night?” said Angela.

“It is getting dark. I think you may start in half an hour. You must be back here when it gets light tomorrow morning, but I hope you may return long before dawn. On second thoughts I think I shall accompany you.”

He looked, apparently in some amusement, at the not conspicuously delighted faces of the other two.

“I shall sleep in the back seat,” he added vaguely. “I’ve had too many late nights.”