Overture to Death

“Billy! Are you there?”

“Yes,” he said, “yes. It’s all right. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll look in some time to-day.”

“Do, for God’s sake.”

“All right. Good-bye.”

He hung up the receiver and lay staring at the ceiling. What had he done with that letter?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Sunday Morning

i

Alleyn and Fox were at breakfast and Nigel was still asleep when Superintendent Blandish walked in. He was blue about the chin and his eyes and nose were watery.

“You must wonder if there is anybody except that jabbering chap Roper in the Great Chipping Constabulary,” he said as he shook hands. “I’m sorry to have neglected you like this; but we’re in for a picnic, and no mistake, with this case up at Moorton Park.”

“Damn’ bad luck, the two cases cropping up at the same time,” said Alleyn. “Of course, you’d have liked to handle our business yourself. Have you had breakfast?”

“Haven’t taken a look at food since six o’clock yesterday.”

Alleyn went to the hatch and shouted:

“Mrs. Peach! Another lot of eggs and bacon, if you can manage it.”

“Well, I won’t say no,” said Blandish, and sat down. “And I won’t say I wouldn’t have liked to try my hand at this business. But there you are: never rains but it pours, does it?”

“That’s right,” agreed Fox. “We get the same thing at the Yard. Though lately it’s been quietish — hasn’t it, Mr. Alleyn?”

Blandish chuckled. “Maybe that’s why we’ve been honoured with the top-notchers,” he said. “Well, Mr. Alleyn, it will be quite an experience for us to see you working. Needless to say, we’ll give you all the help we can.”

“Thank you,” said Alleyn. “We’ll need it. This is a remarkably rum business. You were in the audience, weren’t you?”

“I was, and I can give you my word I got a fright. Thought the whole place had exploded. The old piano went on buzzing for Lord knows how long. By gum, it took all my self-control not to have a peep inside the lid before I went off to Moorton. But, ‘No,’ I thought. ‘You’re handing over, and you’d better not meddle.’ ”

“Extraordinarily considerate. We breathed our fervent thanks, didn’t we, Fox? I suppose that conversation piece you’ve got for a sergeant has told you all about it?”

Blandish pulled an expressive grimace.

“I shut him up after the second recital,” he said. “He wants sitting on, does Roper, but he’s got his wits about him. I’d like to hear your account.”

While he devoured his eggs and bacon, Alleyn gave him the history of the night. When he came to the discovery of the message in Dr. Templett’s coat, Blandish laid down his knife and fork and stared at him.

“Glory!” he said.

“I know.”

“This is hell,” said Blandish. “I mean to say, it’s awkward.”

“Yes.”

“Not to put too fine a point on it, Mr. Alleyn, it’s bloody awkward.”

“It is.”

“By gum, I’m not so sure I do regret being out of it. It may not be anything, of course, but it can’t be overlooked. And I’ve been associated with the doctor I don’t know how many years.”

“Like him?” asked Alleyn.

“Do I like him? Well, now, yes. I suppose I do. We’ve always got on very pleasantly, you know. Yes, I — well, I’m accustomed to him.”

“You’ll know the questions we’re going to ask. In this sort of affair we have to batten on local gossip.”

Alleyn went to the corner of the dining-room, got his case and took from it the anonymous letter. It was flattened between two sheets of glass joined, at the edges, with adhesive tape. The corner, back and sides of the paper bore darkened impressions of fingers.

“There it is. We brought up three sets of latent prints. One of them corresponds with a print taken from a powder box in the dressing-room used by the victim and Miss Prentice. It has been identified as the victim’s. A second has its counterpart on a new japa

“Written by deceased, sent to Mrs. Ross and handed by her to the doctor?”

“It seems indicated. Especially as two of Mrs. Ross’s prints, if they are hers, appear to be superimposed on the deceased prints, and one of Dr. Templett’s lies across two of the others. Well get more definite results when Bailey develops his photographs.”

“This is an ugly business. You mentioned local gossip, Mr. Alleyn. There’s been a certain amount in this direction, no denying it, and the two ladies in question were mainly responsible, I fancy.”

“But is it a motive for murder?” asked Fox of nobody in particular.

“Well, Brer Fox, it might be. A doctor, in a country district especially, doesn’t thrive on scandal. Is Templett a wealthy man, do you know. Blandish?”

“No, I wouldn’t say he was,” said Blandish. “They’re an old Vale family, and the doctor’s a younger son. His elder brother was a bit of a rip. Smart regiment before the war, and expensive tastes. It’s always been understood the doctor came in for a white elephant when he got Chippingwood. I’d say he needs every pe

“What about Mrs. Ross?”

“Well, there you are! If you’re to believe everything you hear, they are pretty thick. But gossip’s not evidence, is it?”

“No, but it’s occasionally based on some sort of foundation, more’s the pity. Ah, well! It indicates a line and we’ll follow the pointer. Now, about the automatic. It’s Mr. Jernigham’s all right.”

“I’ve heard all about that, Mr. Alleyn, and that’s not too nice either, though I wouldn’t believe, if I saw the weapon smoking in his hand, that the squire would shoot a woman, let alone plan to murder his own flesh and blood. Unlikely enough people have turned out to be murderers, as we all know, and I suppose that it is not beyond the possibilities that Mr. Jernigham might kill his man in hot blood; but I’ve known him all my life, and I’d stake my reputation he’s not the sort to do an underhand fantastic sort of job like this. The man’s not got it in him. That’s not evidence, either — ”

“It’s expert opinion, though,” said Alleyn, “and to be respected as such.”

“The squire’s acting Chief Constable while Sir George Dillington’s away.”

“We seem to be on official preserves wherever we turn,” said Alleyn. “I’ll call at Pen Cuckoo later in the morning. The mortuary van came before it was light. Dr. Templett’s doing the post-mortem this afternoon. Either Fox or I will be there. I think our first job now is to call on Mr. Georgie Biggins.”

“Young limb of Satan! You’ll find him in the last cottage on the left, going out of Chipping. The station’s in Great Chipping, you know — only five miles from here. Roper and a P-c. enjoy their midday snooze at a substation in this village. Both are at your service.”

“Is there a car of sorts I could hire for the time being? You’ll need the official bus for your own work, of course.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m afraid we shall. It’s a tidy stretch over to Moorton Park, and we’ll be going backwards and forwards. No doubt about our men being Posh Jimmy & Co. Typical job. Fu

“Splendid. An admirable method of approaching Mr. Georgie. How old is he?”

“In years,” said Blandish, “he’s about thirteen. In sin he’s a hundred. A limb, if ever there was one. Nerve of a rhinoceros.”

“Well see if we can shake it,” said Alleyn.

The superintendent departed, lamenting the amount of work that lay before him.

ii

Alleyn and Fox lit their pipes and walked through Chipping. By daylight it turned out to be a small hamlet with a row of stone cottages on each side of the road, a general store, a post office, and the Jernigham Arms. Even the slope of Cloudyfold, rising steeply above it from the top of Pen Cuckoo Vale, did not rob Chipping of its upland character. It felt high in the world, and the cold wind blew strongly down the Vale road.