Overture to Death

“Seems a true bill,” said Alleyn.

“How many rounds gone?” asked Jocelyn.

“Three,” answered Alleyn.

“I fired the first two in 1917,” said Jocelyn; “but I swear before God I’d nothing to do with the third.”

“I hope you’ll at least have the satisfaction of knowing who had,” said Alleyn. “Did you write this notice, ‘Loaded,’ sir?”

“Yes,” said Jocelyn. “What of it?”

Alleyn paused for a fraction of a second before he said, “Only routine, sir. I was going to ask if it always lay on top of the Colt.”

“Certainly.”

“Do you mind, sir, if I take this box away with me? There may be prints; but I’m afraid your housemaids are too well trained.”

“I hope to God you find something. Do take it. I tell you, I’m nearly worried to death by the whole thing. It’s a damned outrage that this blasted murderer — ”

The door opened and Henry came into the room.

“This is my son,” said Jocelyn.

ii

From an upstairs window Henry had watched the arrival of Alleyn’s car. Ever since his visit to the study at dawn and his subsequent interview with the abruptly awakened Jocelyn, Henry had been unable to think coherently, to stay still, or to do anything definite. It struck him that he was in very much the same condition as he had been last night while waiting in the wings for the curtain to go up. He had telephoned to Dinah and arranged to see her at the rectory. He had prowled miserably about the house. At intervals he had tried to reassure his father, who had taken the news well, but was obviously very shaken. He had wondered what they would do with Eleanor when she chose to appear. She had gone straight to her room on her return from church, and was reported to be suffering from a headache.

When Jocelyn went downstairs to meet Alleyn, Henry’s condition became several degrees more uncomfortable. He imagined his father making a bad job of the automatic story, getting himself further and further involved, and finally losing his temper. The Yard man would probably be maddeningly professional and heavy handed. Henry pictured him seated on the edge of one of the study chairs, staring at his father with sharp, inhuman eyes set in a massive policeman’s face. “He will carry his bowler in with him and his boots will be intolerable,” thought Henry. “A mammoth of officialdom!”

At last his own idleness became insupportable, and he ran downstairs and made for the study.

He could hear his father’s voice raised, as it seemed, in protest. He opened the door and walked in.

“This is my son,” said Jocelyn.

Henry’s first thought was that this was some stranger, or perhaps a friend of Jocelyn’s arrived with hideous inconvenience to visit them. He saw an extremely tall man, thin, and wearing good clothes, with an air of vague distinction.

“This is Mr. Alleyn,” said Jocelyn, “from Scotland Yard.”

“Oh,” said Henry.

He shook hands, felt suddenly rather young, and sat down. His next impression was that he had seen Mr. Alleyn before. He found himself looking at Alleyn in terms of a pencil drawing. A drawing that might have been done by Dürer with a sharp, hard pencil and then washed delicately with blue-blacks and ochres. “A grandee turned monk,” thought Henry, “but retaining some amusing memories.” And he sought to find a reason for this impression which seemed more like a recollection. The accents of the brows, the winged corners to, the mouth and eyes, the sharp insistence of the skull — he had seen them all before.

“Henry!” said his father sharply.

Henry realised that Alleyn had been speaking.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I didn’t — I’m very sorry.”

“I was only asking,” said Alleyn, “if you could help us with this business of the Colt. Your father says it was in its box last week. Can you get any nearer to it than that?”

“It was there on Friday afternoon at five,” said Henry.

“How d’you know?” demanded the squire.

“You’ll scarcely credit it,” said Henry slowly, “but I’ve only just remembered. It was before you came down. I was here with Cousin Eleanor waiting for the others to come in for Dinah’s run-through for words. They all arrived together, or within two or three minutes of each other. Somebody, Dr. Templett, I think, said something about the burglaries in Somerset last week. Posh Jimmy and his Boys, and all that. We wondered if they’d come this way. Miss Campanula talked about burglar alarms and what she’d do if she heard stealthy footsteps in the small hours. I told them about your war relic, Father, and we all looked at it. Mrs. Ross said she didn’t think it was safe to have a loaded firearm lying about. I showed her that the safety catch was on. Then we talked about something else. You came in and we started the rehearsal.”

“That’s a help,” said Alleyn. “It narrows the time down to twenty-seven hours. That was Friday evening. Now, did either of you go to the hall on Friday afternoon?”

“I was hunting,” said Jocelyn. “I didn’t get back till five, in time for this run-through.”

Alleyn looked at Henry.

“I went for a walk,” said Henry. “I left at about half-past two. I remember now. It was half-past two.”

“Did you go far?”

Henry looked straight before him.

“No. About half-way down to the church.”

“How long were you away?”

“About two hours.”

“You stopped somewhere, then?”

“Yes.”

“Did you speak to anybody?”

“I met Dinah Copeland.” Henry looked at his father. “Not by appointment. We talked. For some time. Then my cousin, Eleanor Prentice, came up. She had been to church. If it’s of any interest, I remember hearing the church clock strike three when she came up. After that Dinah went back to the rectory and I struck up a path to Cloudyfold. I came home by the hill path.”

“At what time did you get home?”

“Tea-time. About half-past four.”

“Thank you. Now for Friday at five, when the company met here and you showed them the automatic. Did they all leave together?”

“Yes,” said Henry.

“At what time?”

“Soon after six.”

“Nobody was alone in here at any time before they left?”

“No. We rehearsed in here. They all went out by the french window. It saves trailing through the house.”

“Yes. Is it always unlocked?”

“During the day it is.”

“I lock it before we go to bed,” said Jocelyn, “and fasten the shutters. Lock up the whole place.”

“You did this on Friday night, sir?”

“Yes. I was in here reading, all Friday evening.”

“Alone?”

“I was here part of the time,” Henry said. “Something had gone wrong with one of Dinah’s light plugs in the hall and I’d brought it up here to mend. I started in here, and then went to my own room where I had a screwdriver. I tried to ring Dinah up, but our telephone was out of order. A branch had fallen across it in Top Lane.”

“I see. Now, how about yesterday? Any visitors?”

“Templett came up in the morning to borrow an old four-in-hand tie of mine,” said Jocelyn. “He seemed to think he’d like to wear it in in the play. He offered to look at my cousin’s finger, but she wouldn’t come down.”

“She was afraid he’d tell her she couldn’t play her filthy ‘Venetian Suite,’ ” said Henry. “Do you admire the works of Ethelbert Nevin, Mr. Alleyn?”

“No,” said Alleyn.

“They’re gall and wormwood to me,” said Henry gloomily. “And I suppose we’ll have them here for the rest of our lives. Not that I like the bloody Prelude much better. Do you know what that Prelude is supposed to illustrate?”

“Yes, I think I do. Isn’t it — ”

“Burial,” said Henry. “It’s supposed to be a man buried alive. Bump, bump, bump on the coffin lid. Well, I suppose it’s not so frightfully inappropriate.”

“Not so frightfully,” agreed Alleyn rather grimly. “Now, about yesterday’s visitors.”

But Henry and his father were rather vague about yesterday’s visitors. The squire had driven into Great Chipping in the morning.