Overture to Death

“You never know, Brer Fox. Have you noticed the back of the piano where the bunting’s pi

There was a loud knock at the front entrance.

“Will I see?” asked Sergeant Roper.

“Do.”

Roper tramped off down the centre aisle and threw open the doors.

“Good-morning,” said a man’s voice outside. “I wonder if I can come in for a moment. It’s raining like Noah’s half-holiday and I’d like to have a word with — ”

“Afraid not, sir,” said Roper.

“But I assure you I want to see the representative from Scotland Yard. I’ve come all the way from London,” continued the voice plaintively. “I have, indeed. I represent the Evening Mirror. He’ll be delighted to see me. Is it by any chance — ”

“Yes, it is,” said Alleyn loudly and ungraciously. “You can let him in, Roper.”

A figure in a dripping mackintosh and streaming hat made a quick rush past Roper, gave a loud exclamation expressive of delight, and hurried forward with outstretched hand.

“I am not pleased to see you,” said Alleyn.

“Good-morning, Mr. Bathgate,” said Fox. “Fancy it being you.”

“Yes, just fancy!” agreed Nigel Bathgate. “Well, well, well! I never expected to find the old gang. Bailey, too, and Thompson. It’s like the chiming of old bellses to see you all happily employed together.”

“How the blue hell did you get wind of this?” inquired Alleyn.

“The gentleman who does market and social notes for the Chipping Courier was in the audience to-night and like a bright young pressman he rang up the Central News. I was in the office when it came through and you couldn’t see my rudder for the foam. Down here in four hours with one puncture. God bless my soul, now, what’s it all about?”

“Sergeant Roger will perhaps spare a moment to throw you a bone or two. I’m busy. How are you?”

“Grand. Angela would send her love if she knew I was here, and your godson wants you to put him down for Hendon. He’s three on Monday. Is it too late?”

“I’ll inquire. Roper, you will allow Mr. Bathgate to sit quietly in a corner somewhere. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Coming, Fox?”

Alleyn and Fox went up on the stage, looked round the box-set, and explored the wings.

“We’ll have to go over this with a tooth-comb,” Alleyn said, “looking for Lord knows what, as usual. Miss Dinah Copeland seems to have gone to a lot of trouble. The scenery’s been patched up. Improvised footlights, you see, and I should think the two big overheads are introduced.”

He went into the prompt corner.

“Here’s the play. Shop Window, by Hunt. Rather a good comedy. Very professional, with all the calls marked and so on. A bicycle bell. Probably an adjunct of the telephone of the stage. Let’s have a look behind.”

A short flight of steps on each side of the back wall led down into a narrow room that ran the length of the stage.

“Mrs. Ross’s supper arrangements all laid out on the table. Lord, Fox, those sandwiches look good.”

“There’s a lot more in this basket,” said Fox. “Dr. Templett did say — ”

“And beer under the table,” murmured Alleyn. “Brer Fox?”

“A keg of it,” said Fox, who was exploring. “Dorset draught beer. Very good, Dorset draught.”

“You’re right,” said Alleyn after an interval. “It’s excellent. Hullo!”

He stooped and picked something out of a box on the floor.

“Half a Spanish onion. Any onion in your sandwiches?”

“No.”

“Nor in mine. It’s got flour or something on it.” He put the onion on the table and began to examine the plates of sandwiches. “Two kinds only, Fox. Ham and lettuce on the one hand, cucumber on the other. Hullo, here’s a tray all set out for a stage tea. Nobody eats anything. Wait a bit.”

He lifted the lid of the empty silver teapot and sniffed at the inside.

“The onion appears to have lived in the teapot. Quaint conceit, isn’t it? Very rum, indeed. Come on.”

They explored the dressing-rooms. There were two on each side of the supper-room.

“Gents to the right, ladies to the left,” said Alleyn. He led the way into the first room on the left. He and Fox began a methodical search through the suitcases and pockets.

“Not quite according to Cocker, perhaps,” Alleyn remarked, peering at Miss Prentice’s black marocain on the wall. “But I think we’ll ask afterwards. Anyway, I’m provided with a blank search-warrant so we’re all right. Damn this onion, my hand stinks of it. This must be the two spinsters’ rooms, judging by the garments.”

“Judging by the pictures,” said Fox, “it’s a Bible classroom in the ordinary way.”

“Yes. The Infant Samuel. What about next door? Ah, rather more skittish dresses. This will be Dinah Copeland and Mrs. Ross. Dr. Templett seemed rather self-conscious about Mrs. Ross, I thought. Miss Copeland’s grease paints are in a cardboard box with her name on it. They’ve been used a lot. Mrs. Ross’s, in a brand new japa

They found nothing of interest in the men’s rooms until Alleyn came to a Donegal tweed suit.

“This is the doctor’s professional suit,” he said. “It reeks of surgery. Evidently the black jacket is not done in a country practice. I suppose, in the hubbub, he didn’t change but went home looking like a comic-opera Frenchman. He must have — ”

Alleyn stopped short. Fox looked up to see him staring at a piece of paper.

“Found something, sir?”

“Look.”

It was a piece of plain blue paper. Fox read the lines of capitals:

“YOU ARE GIVEN NOTICE TO LEAVE THIS DISTRICT. IF YOU DISREGARD THIS WARNING YOUR LOVER SHALL SUFFER.”

“Where did you find this, Mr. Alleyn?”

“In a wallet. Inside breast pocket of the police surgeon’s suit,” said Alleyn. He dropped it on the dressing-table and then bent down and sniffed at it. “It smells of eucalyptus,” he said.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

According to Roper

i

That’s awkward,” granted Fox, after a pause.

“Couldn’t be more awkward.”

“ ‘Your lover shall suffer,’ ” quoted Fox. “That looks as if it was written to a woman, doesn’t it?”

“It’s not common usage nowadays the other way round, but it’s English. Common enough in the mixed plural.”

“He’s a married man,” Fox remembered.

“Yes, it sounded as if his wife’s an invalid, didn’t it? This may have been written to his mistress or possibly to him, or it may have been shown him by a third person who is threatened and wants advice.”

“Or he may have done it himself.”

“Yes, it’s possible, of course. Or it may be the relic of a parlour game. Telegrams, for instance. You made a sentence from a string of letters. He’d hardly carry that about next to his heart, though, would he? Damn! I’m afraid we’re in for a nasty run, Brer Fox.”

“How did the doctor strike you, Mr. Alleyn?”

“What? Rather jumpy. Bit too anxious to please. Couldn’t stop talking.”

“That’s right,” agreed Fox.

“We’ll have to flourish the search-warrant a bit if we work on this,” said Alleyn. “It’ll be interesting to see if he misses it before we tackle him about it.”

“He’s doing the P.M.”

“I know. We shall be present. Anyway, the lady was shot through the head. We’ve got the weapon and we’ve got the projectile. The post-mortem is not likely to be very illuminating. Hullo, Bailey, what is it?”