Overture to Death

He and Dinah came on the stage.

“Ah, yes. Good-evening, Miss Copeland.”

“Good-evening,” said Dinah faintly.

“Now,” said Blandish, looking round the stage, “this is the whole company of performers, I take it. With the exception of the deceased, of course.”

“Yes,” said Jocelyn.

“I’ll just make a note of the names.”

They sat round the stage while Blandish wrote in his note-book. A group of ushers and two youths were huddled on a bench at the far end of the hall under the eyes of Sergeant Roper. Dinah fixed her gaze on this group, on Blandish, on the floor, anywhere but on the top of the piano jutting above the footlights and topped with pots of aspidistra. For down through the aspidistras, heavily shadowed by the screen, and not quite covered by the green and yellow bunting they had thrown over it, was Miss Campanula’s body, face down on the keys of the piano. Dinah found herself wondering who was responsible for the aspidistras. She had meant to have them removed. They must mask quite a lot of the stage from the front rows.

“Don’t look at them,” said her mind. She turned quickly to Henry. He took her hands and pulled her round with her back to the footlights.

“It’s all right, Dinah,” he whispered, “it’s all right darling.”

“I’m not panicked or anything,” said Dinah.

“Yes,” said Blandish, “that’s all the names. Now, sir — Well, what is it?”

A uniformed constable had come in from the front door and stood waiting in the hall.

“Excuse me,” said Blandish, and went down to him. There was a short rumbling conversation. Blandish turned and called to the squire.

“Can you spare a moment, sir?”

“Certainly,” said Jocelyn, and joined them.

“Can you beat this, sir?” said Blandish, in an infuriated whisper. “We’ve had nothing better than a few old drunks and speed merchants in this place for the last six months or more, and now, to-night, there’s got to be a breaking and entering job at Moorton Park with five thousand pounds’ worth of her ladyship’s jewellery gone and Lord knows what else besides. Their butler rang up the station five minutes ago, and this chap’s come along on his motor bike and he says the whole place is upside down. Sir George and her ladyship and the party haven’t got back yet. It looks like the work of the gang that cleaned up a couple of jobs in Somerset a fortnight back. It’ll be a big thing to tackle. Now what am I to do, sir?”

Jocelyn and Blandish stared at each other.

“Well,” said Jocelyn at last, “you can’t be in two places at once.”

“That’s right, sir,” said Blandish. “It goes against the grain when we’ve scarcely got started, but it looks as if it’ll have to be the Yard.”

CHAPTER NINE

C. I. D

i

Five hours after Miss Campanula struck the third chord of the Prelude, put her foot on the soft pedal, and died, a police car arrived at the parish hall of Winton St. Giles. It had come from Scotland Yard. It contained Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, Detective-Inspector Fox, Detective-Sergeant Bailey, and Detective-Sergeant Thompson.

Alleyn, looking up from his road map, saw a church spire against a frosty, moonlit hill, trees against stars, and nearer at hand the lighted windows of a stone building.

“This looks like the hidden treasure,” he said to Thompson who was driving. “What’s the time?”

“One o’clock, sir.”

As if in confirmation a clock, outside in the night, chimed for the hour and tolled one.

“Out we get,” said Alleyn.

The upland air was cold after the stuffiness of the car. It smelt of dead leaves and frost. They walked up a gravelled path to the front door of the building. Fox flashed a torch on a brass plate.

“Winton St. Giles Parish Hall. The Gift of Jocelyn Jernigham Esquire of Pen Cuckoo, 1805. To the Glory of God. In memory of his wife Prudence Jernigham who passed away on May 7th, 1801.”

“This is the place, sir,” said Fox.

“Sure enough,” said Alleyn, and rapped smartly on the door.

It was opened by Sergeant Roper, bleary-eyed after a five hours’ vigil.

“Yard,” said Alleyn.

“Thank Gawd,” said Sergeant Roper.

They walked in.

“The super asked me to say, sir,” said Sergeant Roper, “that he was very sorry not to be here when you arrived, but seeing as how there’s been a first-class breaking and entering up to Moorton Park — ”

“That’s all right,” said Alleyn. “What’s it all about?”

“Murder,” said Roper. “Will I show you?”

“Do.”

They walked up the centre aisle between rows of empty benches and chairs. The floor was littered with programmes.

“I’ll just turn on the other lights, sir,” said Roper. “Deceased’s behind the screen.”

He trudged up the steps to the stage. A switch clicked and Dinah’s foot- and proscenium-lights flooded the stage. Bailey and Thompson pulled the screen to one side.

There was Miss Campanula with her face on the keyboard of the piano, waiting for the expert, the camera, and the pathologist.

“Good Lord!” said Alleyn.

Rachmaninoff’s (and Miss Campanula’s) Prelude was crushed between her face and the keys. A dark crimson patch had seeped out towards the margin of the music, but the title showed clearly. A hole had been blown through the centre. Without touching the music, Alleyn could see several pencilled reminders. After the last of the opening chords was an emphatic “S.P.” The left hand had been pi

“Through the back of the skull,” said Fox.

“That’s the wound of exit,” said Alleyn. “We shall have to find the bullet.”

Bailey turned away and began to search along the aisle.

Alleyn shone his torch on the tucked silk front of the piano. There was a rent exactly in the centre, extending above and below the central hole made by the bullet. Inside the hole, but quite close to the surface, the light picked up a shining circle. Alleyn leaned forward, peering, and uttered a soft exclamation.

“That’s the gun that did the job, sir,” said Roper. “Inside the piano.”

“Has it been touched?”

“No, sir, no. The super was in the audience and he took over immediately, did super. Except for doctor, not a soul’s been near.”

“The doctor. Where is he?”

“He’s gone home, sir. Dr. Templett it is, up to Chippingwood. He’s police surgeon. He was here when it happened. He said would I ring him up when you came and if you wanted him he’d be over. It’s only a couple of miles off.”

“I think he’d better come. Ring him up now, will you?”

When Roper had gone, Alleyn said, “This is a rum go, Fox.”

“Very peculiar, Mr. Alleyn. How’s it been worked?”

“We’ll take a look-see when we’ve got some pictures. Take every angle, Thompson.”

Thompson had already begun to set up his paraphernalia. Soon the flashlight threw Miss Campanula into startling relief. For the second and last time she was photographed, seated at the instrument

Roper came back from the telephone and watched the experts with avid interest.

“Fu

“Cuh!” said Bailey and stooped swiftly to the floor. “Here we are, sir,” he said. “Here’s the bullet.”

“Got it? I’ll look at it in a minute.”

Alleyn marked the position of the head and arm and squatted on the floor to run a chalk line round the feet.