Ngaio Marsh - A Man Lay Dead

“From that moment I was certain of him, but I had to clear up the Russian element, and I had to make out a case. What a case!”

Alleyn hitched his long legs on to the seat and stared up at the luggage rack.

“When I found the left-hand dogskin glove at the back of the tallboy in her bedroom and learnt that the fastening corresponded with the one I had raked out of the hall grate, I knew I was on the right track. If he had worn both gloves and destroyed them, leaving only the half-burnt button, I should have traced it and should have been tempted to suspect his wife perhaps, although I had noted his small hands. But the left-hand glove was lost behind the drawer and the left-hand print was on the bannister.”

“Will they get a conviction?”

“How can I say? Remember he has already confessed once.”

“Gosh, yes! What bitter irony! But it seems to me a clever counsel—”

“Oh, quite possibly. Still, what will you all say, on oath, when questioned about his behaviour just now in my reconstruction?”

“As little as possible.”

“And how will Rosamund Grant answer when asked to say, on oath, if she told Wilde of his wife’s infidelity?”

“Did she do this?”

“I am certain of it. She went for a walk with Wilde the day following the conversation she overheard between Rankin and Mrs. Wilde. The gardener’s child passed them and remarked that she appeared to be very agitated. I believe she regretted this piece of work and went to make a clean breast of it to Rankin in his room that night. Counsel will be certain to press this and to ask her why she would not give an account of herself. She was frightened of Wilde, of course.”

“It will be a ghastly business,” said Nigel.

“It will be unpleasant, but he is not a suitable type for liberty.”

The train shot them through a plethora of suburban back-yards. Alleyn stood up and struggled into his overcoat.

“You are an extraordinary creature,” said Nigel suddenly. “You struck me as being as sensitive as any of us just before you made the arrest. Your nerves seemed to be all anyhow. I should have said you hated the whole game. And now, an hour later, you utter inhuman platitudes about types. You are a rum ’un.”

“Unspeakable juvenile! Is this your manner when interviewing the great? Come and dine with me tomorrow.”

“I say, I’d like to, but I can’t. I’m taking Angela to a show.”

“Keeping company like?”

“You go to hell!”

“Well, here’s Paddington.”

The End