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Another solitary man came in and after a moment’s hesitation, sat down at the next table and ordered lager. The dance band was playing in the desultory ma
“Do you want to order, sir?” murmured Nigel’s waiter.
“No, thank you. I’ll wait until my — I’m waiting for someone — I’ll order when she comes.”
“Very good, sir.”
Nigel lit a cigarette and tried to picture the scene in Alleyn’s house. He wished very much that Angela would come. He wished he were with Sumiloff. He wished he were a detective.
“Excuse me,” said the man at the next table, “but can you tell me when the Hungarian band comes on?”
“Not until midnight”
“That’s a long time,” said the stranger fretfully. “I’ve come on purpose to hear it. Very good, I’m told.”
“Oh, frightfully,” said Nigel unenthusiastically.
“They tell me,” continued his neighbour, “that some Russian is to sing here to-night. Lovely voice. He sings a thing called The Death of Boris.”
Nigel gave a little hop, controlled himself and grunted darkly.
“Everything O.K. so far?” murmured the man.
This was too exciting! Nigel, with a still greater effort, muttered in the correct Sumiloff ma
“Yard?”
“Yes. On my way to the appointment. Inspector Boys. Just thought I’d like to hear the latest.”
“Sumiloff has done it,” said Nigel, bending down to fasten his shoe, “he should be there now.”
“Good enough! Waiter! Can I have my bill?”
A few minutes later he went away, passing Angela who, with an ill-concealed air of triumph, had appeared in the entrance. She waved to Nigel, wound her way through the tables and sank into the chair the waiter drew out for her.
“Eureka!” said Angela, slapping her handbag down on the table and patting it triumphantly.
“What have you got in there?” asked Nigel quietly.
“I’ve been to Tunbridge B.”
“Angela, what do you mean? Even you couldn’t drive to Tunbridge and back in two hours.”
“Order me some of that delicious-looking lager those people are drinking and I’ll reveal everything,” said Angela.
“Beer?” said Nigel in surprise.
“Why not? I adore it. Oceans and oceans of beer,” said Angela extravagantly. “And now let me tell you what happened. Oh, Nigel,” she continued with a complete change of tone. “I do hate being a spy. If it wasn’t for Rosamund I’d never, never have meddled. But I know Rosamund didn’t do it and — and she’s had such a hard row to hoe. Were you fond of Charles, Nigel?”
“I don’t know,” said Nigel soberly. “I’ve had an awful shock. I’ve kept on saying to myself ‘poor old Charles,’ but do you know, the only thing I can be certain of is that I didn’t really know him. I only accepted him. He was my cousin and all my life I have seen a lot of him. But I didn’t know him at all.”
“Rosamund did. She loved him and it was a terribly unhappy love. Charles behaved very badly. Rosamund has got a ghastly temper, you know. When she was at Newnham she got into no end of a row for — for attacking another undergraduate. There was a terrific scandal. It had started by a lot of them ragging Rosamund about Charles and some other girl, and she flew into a white-hot rage and picked up a knife — yes, a knife— they actually had to hold her back.”
“Good Lord!”
“Do you realize that in the dossier Mr. Alleyn is making about us all he will have included every shred of our past histories that can have any bearing at all on this case? Be sure there have been exhaustive inquiries into Rosamund’s record at Newnham. I know she didn’t kill Charles, and if it means stealing Marjorie Wilde’s letters to prove it — well, anyway I’ve got them.”
“Letters? You go so fast I can’t possibly follow you. Have you stolen some letters?”
“Yes. I guessed, and I’m sure Mr. Alleyn did too, that the parcel Marjorie wanted Sandilands to destroy was a bundle of letters. The ‘Tunbridge B.’ did puzzle me for a second, but I soon dropped to it. Arthur is very fond of collecting old boxes and I suddenly remembered him giving Marjorie a fu
“Indeed I don’t”
“Tunbridge boxes. I thought of it at once and in the taxi made up my mind what I should say. Masters, their butler, let me in and I told him that I had come up to London unexpectedly and was dining out and would he mind if I tidied up in Marjorie’s room. The other servants were all out and I was quite undisturbed there. It took me ten minutes to find the box — it was at the back of the top shelf in her wardrobe. Nigel, I–I picked the lock with a nail file. It was quite easy, I didn’t even break it. I felt like dirt, but I’ve got the letters. I left my leather coat there and Masters said if I came back quite late he would still be up as Mrs. Masters was returning from Uxbridge by the last bus. So I’ll let Mr. Alleyn see them and I hope he will say, ‘put them back.’ Oh, Lord, I do feel a swine!”
“I don’t think you need, my dear.”
“You’re being nice because you like me. Oh, I found out about Sandilands. She was to stay in Dulwich with an ancient aunt, but the aunt’s dead, suddenly, and Sandilands has gone to Ealing in a pique. Masters said would I tell Madam because he believed as how there was an arrangement for Madam to write to Sandilands at Dulwich about some garments she was making for Madam. So that fixed that. It was quite easy and Masters was so agonized with suppressed curiosity about ‘the unfortunate ’appenings’ as he called them, that I really believe he would have let me pocket family portraits without uttering. I don’t know why the letters should save Rosamund and I don’t know if they are going to involve Marjorie in a scandal, but I’ve done it.”
“Personally I don’t believe the Wildes or Rosamund Grant have anything to do with the murder. I think Tokareff is the man.”
“What about Mary, the pretty tweeny?”
“Well, she was the last to see him alive and she is pretty and Charles — well, anyway, it was an idea. But still I’m really all for the Russian element. Listen.”
Nigel related his adventures and Angela was satisfactorily impressed.
“And I actually passed,” she ejaculated, “a plain-clothes man as I came in. And the police are behind closed shutters in a deserted shop fitted with a telephone and I am to ring them up if Alleyn doesn’t arrive at midnight. How involved!”
“They are afraid to set a more exact watch on Alleyn’s house as the Russians are sure to be on the lookout and might suspect something. If Alleyn is there he will probably slip away by a window or — I don’t know. Anyway, them’s orders.”
“What’s the time now?”
“Quarter to eleven.”
“Heavens! And we can’t even dance. Why didn’t Mr. Alleyn give us notice of this trip? I could have pleased your eye with my best wisp of tulle. What shall we talk about, Nigel?”
“I should like to talk about love at first sight.”
“Nigel! How entrancing! Have you views on it, or do you rather feel that with such a long wait the only thing is a mild flirtation?”
“No. I have views. But if you are going to make them sound idiotic I’ll keep them to myself.”
“I’m sorry,” said Angela, in a small voice. “What shall I do?”
“Give me your hand to kiss. They will only think I’m a foreign gent and I’m so longing to do it.”
Her hand felt cool and rather hard, but his lips persuaded it to be gentle.
“I’ve got palpitations,” said Nigel suddenly, “it’s very uncomfortable.”
An imperceptible pink mist seemed to have gathered round the table. Angela and Nigel and the beer and the table floated about in the pink mist for half an hour while the band bounced them gently up and down on a delicious tune.
“Excuse me, please, sir, but are you Mr. Bathgate?” said a waiter suddenly.