Overture to Death

Bailey had come down the steps from the stage.

“I thought you’d better know, sir. This chap Roper’s recognised the automatic. Mr. Bathgate ran him down to the station and they’ve checked up the number.”

“Where is he?”

“Out in the hall.” A reluctant grin appeared on Bailey’s face. “I reckon he still thinks it’s great to be a policeman. He wants to tell you himself.”

“Very touching. All right. Bailey, I want you to test this paper for prints. Do it at once, will you, and put it between glass when you’ve finished. And, Bailey, have a shot at the teapot out there. Inside and out.”

“Teapot, sir?”

“Yes. Also the powdered onion on the table. I dare say it’s quite immaterial, but it’s queer, so we’d better tackle it.”

They returned to the hall where they found Roper standing over the automatic with something of the air of a clever retriever.

“Well, Roper,” said Alleyn, “I hear you’ve done a bit of investigation for us.”

“Yes, sir, I have so. I’ve recognised the lethal weapon, sir.”

“Well, whose is it?”

“I says to myself when I see it,” said Roper, “I know you, my friend, I’ve had you in my hands, I said. And then I remembered. It was when we checked up on firearms licences six months ago. Now, I suppose a hundred weapons must have passed under my notice that time, this being a sporting part of the world, so I reckon it’s not surprising I didn’t pick this affair so soon as I clapped eyes on her. I reckon that’s not surprising, and yet she looked familiar, you understand?”

“Yes, Roper, I quite understand. Who is the owner?”

“This weapon, sir, is a Colt.32 automatic, the property of Jocelyn Jernigham, Esquire, of Pen Cuckoo.”

“Is it, indeed?” murmured Alleyn.

“This gentleman, Mr. Bathgate, ran me down to the station, sir, and it didn’t take me over and above five minutes to lay my finger on the files. You can take a look at the files, sir, and — ”

“I shall do so. Now, Roper, see if you can give me some model answers. Short, crisp, and to the point. When did you see the automatic? Can you give me the date?”

“In the files!” shouted Sergeant Roper, triumphantly. “May 31st of the current year.”

“Where was it?”

“In the study at Pen Cuckoo, sir, that being the room at the extreme end of the west wing facing the Vale.”

“Who showed it to you?”

“Squire, himself, showed it to me. We’d checked up all the weapons in the gun-room, of which there was a number, and squire takes me into his study and says, “There’s one more,” he says, and he lays his hand on a wooden box on the table and opens the lid. There was this lethal masterpiece laying on her side, with a notice written clear in block letters. ‘Loaded.’ ‘It’s all right,’ says Mr. Jernigham, seeing me step aside as he takes her out. ‘The safety catch is on,’ he says. And he showed me. And he says, ‘It went all through the war with me,’ he says, ‘and there’s half a clip left in it. I’d fired two shots when I got my Blighty one,’ he says, ‘and I’ve kept it like this ever since. I let it be known there’s a loaded automatic waiting at Pen Cuckoo for anybody that feels like coming in uninvited.’ We’d had some thieving in the district at that time, same as we’ve got it now. He told me this weapon had lain loaded in that box for twenty years, did squire.”

“Was the box locked?”

“No, sir. But he said all the maids was warned about it.”

“Anybody else in the room?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Henry was there, and Miss Prentice, sitting quietly by the fire and smiling, pussy-like, same as she always does.”

“Don’t you like Miss Prentice?”

“I think she’s all right, but my missus says she’s proper sly. My missus is a great one for the institute and Miss Prentice is president of same.”

“I see. Any local gossip about Miss Prentice?”

Roper expanded. He placed his hands in his belt with the classic heaving movement of all policemen. He then appeared to remember he was in the presence of authority and rearranged himself in an attitude of attention,

“Aye,” he said, “they talk all right, sir. You see, Miss Prentice, she came along, new to the Vale, on three years back when Mrs. Jernigham died. I reckon the late Mrs. Jernigham was nigh-on the best liked lady in this part of Dorset. A Grey of Stourminster-Weston she was, Dorset born and bred, and a proper lady. Now, this Miss Prentice, for all she’s half a Jernigham, is a foreigner as you might say, and she doesn’t know our ways here. Mrs. Jernigham was welcome everywhere, cottage and big houses alike, and wherever she went she was the same. Never asking questions or if she did, out of real niceness and not nosey-parkishness. Now, folk about here say Miss Prentice is the other way round. Sly. Makes trouble between cottages and rectory, or would if she could. Cor!” said Roper, passing his ham of a hand over his face. “The way that old maiden got after rector! My missus says — well, my missus is an outspoken woman and come off a farm.”

Alleyn did not press for a repetition of Mrs. Roper’s agricultural similes.

“There was only one worse than her,” continued Roper, “and that was the deceased. She was a dragon after rector. And before Miss Prentice came, Miss Campanula had it all her own way, but I reckon Miss Campanula kind of lost driving power when t’other lady got going with her insinuating antics.”

“How did they get on together?”

“Fast as glue,” said Roper. “Thick as thieves. My missus says they knew too much about each other to be anything else. Cook up to Red House, she says Miss Campanula was jealous fair-to-bust of Miss Prentice, but she was no match for her, however, being the type of woman that lets her anger be seen and rages out in the open, whereas Miss Prentice, with her foxy ways, goes quiet to work. Cook told my missus that deceased was losing ground daily and well-nigh desperate over it.”

“How do you mean, losing ground?”

“With rector.”

“Dear me,” murmured Alleyn. “How alarming for the rector.”

“Reckon he picks his way like that chap in Bible,” said Roper. “He’s a simple sort of chap is rector but he’s a Vale man and he suits us. His father and grandfather were rectors here before him and he knows our ways.”

“Quite so, Roper,” said Alleyn, and lit a cigarette.

“No. But the rector met his match in those two ladies, sir, and it’s a marvel one of them hasn’t snapped him up by this time. Likely he holds them off with holy conversation, but I’ve seen the hunted look in the man’s eyes more than once.”

“I see,” said Alleyn. “Do you think it generally known that Mr. Jernigham kept this loaded automatic in the study?”

“I should say it was, sir. If I make so bold, sir, I’d say it was never squire that did this job. He’s peppery, is Mr. Jernigham, but I’d bet my last pe

“Who is Mrs. Ross of Duck Cottage, Cloudyfold?”

“Stranger to these parts. She only came here last April.” Roper’s blue eyes became hard and bright.

“Young?” asked Alleyn.

“Not what you’d say so very young. Thin. Pale hair, done very neat, and very neat in her dressing. Her clothes look different to most ladies. More like the females in the talkies only kind of simpler. Dainty. She’s dressed very quiet, always, but you notice her.” Roper paused, six-foot-two of dim masculine appreciation. “I reckon she’s got It,” he said at last. “It’s not my place to say so, but I suppose a chap always knows her sort. By instinct.”

There was an odd little silence during which the other five men stared at Sergeant Roper.

“Dr. Templett does, anyway,” he said at last.

“Oh,” said Alleyn. “More local gossip?”

“The women-folk. You know what they are, sir. Given it a proper thrashing, they have. Well, there’s a good deal of feeling on account of Mrs. Templett being an invalid.”