Artists in Crime

“Yes. Why?” asked Pilgrim, looking surprised.

“Was the bottle of aspirins in your pocket?”

“What do you mean? I went upstairs and got it out of my suit-case. Look here, what are you driving at?”

“Please, Mr. Pilgrim, let us get this tidied up. When did you actually give Miss Seacliff the aspirins?”

“When she went to bed. I tell you I got them from my suit-case and took them downstairs and gave her three.”

“Did she take them?”

“Not then. We looked in after she was in bed and she said she could never swallow aspirins, and so I dissolved three in water and left the tumbler by her bedside.”

“Did you see her drink this solution?”

“No. I think I said, Inspector, that I left it at her bedside.”

“Yes,” said Alleyn, “I’ve got that. Where’s the bottle?”

“What bottle? Oh, the aspirin. I don’t know. I suppose it’s in my room upstairs.”

“After you left Miss Seacliff’s room on Friday night where did you go?”

“I had a drink with Pascoe and went to bed.”

“Did you get up at all during the night?”

“No.”

“You slept straight through the night?”

“Like the dead,” said Pilgrim. He was no longer restless. He looked steadily at Alleyn and he was extremely pale.

“It is strange you should have slept so soundly. There was a very severe thunderstorm that night,” lied Alleyn. “Lightning. Doors banging. Maids bustling about. Didn’t you hear it?”

“As a matter of fact,” said Pilgrim, after a pause, “it’s a fu

“I see. Now, Mr. Pilgrim, I want you to look at this, if you please.”

He nodded to one of his men, who came forward with a brown-paper parcel. He opened it and took out a most disreputable garment.

“Why,” said Pilgrim, “that’s my old car coat.”

“Yes.”

“What on earth do you want with that, Mr. Alleyn?”

“I want you to tell me when you burnt this little hole in the cuff. There, do you see.”

“I don’t know. How the devil should I know! I’ve had the thing for donkey’s years. It never comes out of the car. I’ve crawled under the car in it. It’s obviously a cigarette burn.”

“It’s an acid burn.”

“Acid? Rot! I mean, how could it be acid?”

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t tell you. Considering the use the thing’s had, I suppose it might have come in contact with acid some time or another.”

“This is a recent stain.”

“Is it? Well then, it is. So what?”

“Might it be nitric acid?”

“Why?”

“Do you do any etching, Mr. Pilgrim?”

“Yes. But not in my garage coat. Look here, Mr. Alleyn— ”

“Will you feel in the pockets?”

Pilgrim thrust a hand into one of the pockets and pulled out a pair of gloves.

“If you look on the back of the right-hand glove,” said Alleyn, “you will see among all the greasy stains and worn patches another very small mark. Look at it, please. There. It is exceedingly small, but it, too, was made by an acid. Can you account for it?”

“Quite frankly, I can’t. The gloves are always left in the pocket. Anything might happen to them.”

“I see. Have you ever lent this coat to anyone else? Has anyone else ever worn the gloves?”

“I don’t know. They may have.” He looked up quickly and his eyes were suddenly bright with terror. “I think it’s quite likely I’ve lent it,” he said. “Or a garage hand might have put it on some time — easily. It may be acid from a battery.”

“Have you ever lent it to Miss Seacliff, for instance?”

“Never.”

“It’s an old riding burberry, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t lend it to her to hack in at your father’s house — Ankerton — during the week-end?”

“Good Lord, no! Valami has got very smart riding clothes of her own.”

“Not even the gloves?”

Pilgrim achieved a laugh. “Those gloves! I had just given Valmai six pairs of coloured gloves which she tells me are fashionable. She was so thrilled she even lunched in purple gloves and dined in scarlet ones.”

“I mean to ride in?”

“She had her own hunting gloves. What is all this?”

“She goes well to hounds, doesn’t she?”

“Straight as the best.”

“Yes. What sort of horse did you mount her on?”

“A hunter — one of mine.”

“Clubbed mane and tail?”

“Yes.”

“Look inside the right-hand glove — at the base of the little finger. Do you see that bloodstain?”

“I see a small stain.”

“It has been analysed. It is a bloodstain. Do you remember recently cutting or scratching the base of your little finger?”

“I — yes — I think I do.”

“How did it happen?”

“I forgot. I think it was at Ankerton — on a bramble or something.”

“And you had these gloves with you at the time?”

“I suppose so. Yes.”

“I thought you said the gloves and coat always lived in the car?”

“It is rather absurd to go on with this,” Pilgrim said. “I’m afraid I must refuse to answer any more questions.”

“You are perfectly within your rights. Fox, ask Miss Seacliff if she will be good enough to come in. Thank you, Mr. Pilgrim; will you wait outside?”

“No,” said Pilgrim. “I’m going to hear what you say to her.

Alleyn hesitated.

“Very well,” he said at last. He dropped the coat and gloves behind the desk.

Valmai Seacliff arrived in her black slacks and magenta pullover. She made, as usual, a good entrance, shutting the door behind her and leaning against it for a moment to survey the men.

“Hallo,” she said. “More investigations? What’s the matter with you, Basil, you look as if you’d murdered somebody?”

Pilgrim didn’t answer.

Alleyn said: “I have sent for you, Miss Seacliff, to know if you can help us.”

“But I should adore to help you, Mr. Alleyn.”

“Did you drink the solution of aspirin that Mr. Pilgrim prepared for you on Friday night?”

“Not all of it. It was too bitter.”

“But you said, before, that you drank it.”

“Well, I did have a sip. I slept all right without it.”

“How is your cut hand?”

“My—? Oh, it’s quite recovered.”

“May I see it, please?”

She held it out with the same gesture that she had used on Monday night, but this time the fingers trembled. Below the base of the little finger there was still a very thin reddish scar.

“What’s this?” said Pilgrim violently. “Valmai — don’t answer any of their questions. Don’t answer!”

“But, why not, Basil?”

“You told me that you cut your hand on your horse’s mane,” said Alleyn.

“No. You told me that, Mr. Alleyn.”

“You accepted the explanation.”

“Did I?”

“How do you say, now, that you cut your hand?”

“I did it on the reins.”

“Mr. Pilgrim, did you see this cut on Saturday evening? It must have been quite sore then. A sharp, thin cut.”

“I didn’t see her hand. She wore gloves.”

“All through di

“Scarlet gloves. They looked lovely,” she said, “didn’t they, Basil?”

“Do you remember that on Monday night you told me you had no pretensions of being a good horsewoman?”

“Modesty, Mr. Alleyn.”

Alleyn turned aside. He moved behind the desk, stooped, and in a second the old raincoat and the gloves were lying on the top of the desk.

“Have you ever seen those before?” asked Alleyn.

“I — don’t know. Oh yes. It’s Basil’s, isn’t it?”

“Come and look at it.”

She walked slowly across the desk and looked at the coat and gloves. Alleyn picked up the sleeve and without speaking pointed a long forefinger to the acid hole in the cuff. He lifted the collar and turned it back, and pointed to a whitish stain. He dropped the coat, took up the left-hand glove and turned it inside out. He pointed to a small stain under the base of the little finger. And still he did not speak. It was Basil Pilgrim who broke the silence.