Artists in Crime

“He’s a wise old bird if he can do that,” said Alleyn. “Mamma, I’ve asked Miss Agatha Troy if she will lunch here with you to-morrow. She says she will. Do you mind? I shan’t be here.”

“But I’m delighted, darling. She will be charming company for me and for Mr. Bathgate.”

“What the devil—!”

“Mr. Bathgate is motoring down to-morrow to their cottage to see his wife. He asked if he might call in.”

“It’s forty miles off his course, the little tripe-hound.”

“Is it, darling? When I told him you would be here he said he’d arrive soon after breakfast.”

“Really, mum! Oh well, I suppose it’s all right. He’s well trained. But I’m afraid he’s diddled you.”

“He thinks he has, at all events,” said Lady Alleyn. “And now, darling, as you are going to make an arrest in the morning, don’t you think you ought to get a good night’s sleep?”

“Fox!”

“Mr. Fox has been fabulously discreet, Roderick.”

“Then how did you know we were going to arrest anybody?”

“You have just told me, my poor baby. Now run along to bed.”

At ten o’clock the next morning two police cars drove up to Tatler’s End House. They were followed by Nigel in a baby Austin. He noted, with unworthy satisfaction, that one or two young men in fla

The three cars drew up in the drive. Alleyn, Fox, and two plain-clothes men went up the steps to the front door. Nigel manoeuvred his baby Austin into a position of vantage. Alleyn glanced down at him and then turned away as Troy’s butler opened the front door.

“Will you come in, please?” said the butler nervously. He showed them into Troy’s library. A fire had been lit and the room would now have seemed pleasantly familiar to Alleyn if he had been there on any other errand.

“Will you tell Miss Troy of our arrival, please?”

The butler went out.

“I think, Fox, if you don’t mind—” said Alleyn.

“Certainly, sir. We’ll wait in the hall.”

Troy came in.

“Good morning,” said Alleyn, and his smile contradicted the formality of his words. “I thought you might prefer to see us before we go any further.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve realised from what I said last night on the telephone that as far as the police are concerned the first stage of this business may come to an end this morning?”

“Yes. You are going to make an arrest, aren’t you?”

“I think we shall probably do so. It depends a little on the interview we hope to have in a minute or two. This has been an abominable week for you. I’m sorry I had to keep all these people together here and station bluebottles at your doors and before your gates and so on. It was partly in your own interest. You would have been overrun with pressmen.”

“I know.”

‘’Do you want me to tell you—?”

“I think I know.”

“You know?”

“I think I do. Last night I said to myself: ‘Which of these people do I feel in my own bones is capable of this crime?’ There was only one — only one of whom it did not seem quite preposterous to think: ‘It might — it just might be you!’ I don’t know why — there seems to be no motive, but I believe I am right. I suppose woman’s instinct is the sort of phrase you particularly abominate.”

“That depends a little on the woman,” said Alleyn gravely.

“I suppose it does,” said Troy and flushed unexpectedly.

“I’ll tell you who it is,” he said after a moment. And he told her. “I can see that this time the woman’s instinct was not at fault.”

“It’s — so awful,” whispered Troy.

“I’m glad you decided to lunch with my mother,” said Alleyn. “It will be easier for you to get right away from everything. She asked me to say that she would be delighted if you would come early. I suggest that you drive over there now.”

Troy’s chin went up.

“Thank you,” she said, “but I’m not going to rat.”

“There’s no question of ratting— ”

“After all, this is my ship.”

“Of course it is. But it’s not sinking and, unfortunately, you can’t do anything about this miserable business. It may be rather particularly unpleasant. I should take a trip ashore.”

“It’s very kind of you to think of me, but, however illogically, I would feel as if I was funking something if I went away before — before you did. I’ve got my students to think of. You must see that. And even — even Pilgrim— ”

“You can do nothing about him— ”

“Very well,” said Troy angrily, “I shall stay and do nothing.”

“Don’t, please, be furious with me. Stay, then, but stay with your students.”

“I shan’t make a nuisance of myself.”

“You know perfectly well that ever since I met you, you have made a nuisance of yourself. You’ve made my job one hundred per cent more difficult, because you’ve taken possession of my thoughts as well as my heart. And now, you go off to your students and think that over. I want to speak to Pilgrim, if you please.”

Troy gazed bleakly at him. Then she bit her lips and Alleyn saw that her eyes were full of tears.

“Oh, hell and damnation, darling,” he said.

“It’s all right. I’m going. Shut up,” mumbled Troy, and went.

Fox came in.

“All right,” said Alleyn. “Tell them to get Pilgrim, and come in.”

Fox spoke to someone outside and joined Alleyn at the fire.

“We’ll have to go warily, Fox. He may give a bit of trouble.”

“That’s so, sir.”

They waited in silence until Basil Pilgrim came in with one of the Yard men. The second man walked in after them and stood inside the door.

“Good morning,” said Pilgrim.

“Good morning, Mr. Pilgrim. We would like to clear up one or two points relating to your former statement and to our subsequent investigations.”

“Certainly.”

Alleyn consulted his note-book.

“What does your car do to the gallon?” he asked.

“Sixteen.”

“Sure of that?”

“Yes. She may do a bit more on long runs.”

“Right. Now, if you please. We’ll go back to Friday evening during your visit to Captain and Mrs. Pascoe. Do you remember the procedure when coffee was brought in?”

“I suppose so. It was in the hall.”

He looked, with that curiously restless turn of his head. From Alleyn to Fox and back again.

“Can you tell us who poured out and who handed round the coffee?”

“I suppose so. Though what it can have to do with Sonia — or Garcia — Do you mean about Val’s coffee being bitter? Mine was bitter, too. Beastly.”

“We should like to know who poured the coffee out.”

“Mrs. Pascoe.”

“And who handed it round?”

“Well — I did.”

“Splendid. Can you remember the order in which you took it round?”

“I’m not sure. Yes, I think so. I took mine over with Val’s to where she was sitting, and then I saw Pascoe hadn’t got his, and I got it for him. Mrs. Pascoe had poured out her own. Then I went back and sat with Val and I had my coffee.”

“You both took black coffee?”

“Yes.”

“And sugar?”

“And sugar.”

“Who put the sugar in the coffee?”

“Good Lord! I don’t know. I believe I did.”

“You didn’t say anything about your coffee being bitter?”

“I didn’t like to. I gave Val a look and made a face and she nodded. She said: ‘Sybil, darling, your coffee is perfectly frightful.’ Mrs. Pascoe was—” he laughed —“well, she was a bit huffy, I think. Val is always terribly direct. They both appealed to me and I — well, I just said I thought the coffee wasn’t quite what one usually expects of coffee, or something. It was dashed awkward.”

“It must have been. Later on, when Miss Seacliff complained of feeling unwell, you gave her some aspirin, didn’t you?”