Overture to Death

“Well, Miss Prentice,” he said, “we are trying to see daylight through a mass of strange circumstances. There is no reason why you shouldn’t be told that Miss Campanula was shot by the automatic that is kept in a box in this room.”

“Oh, Jocelyn!” said Miss Prentice, “how terrible! You know, dear, we have said it wasn’t really quite advisable, haven’t we?”

“You needn’t go rubbing it in, Eleanor.”

“Why wasn’t it advisable,” asked Henry. “Had you foreseen, Cousin Eleanor, that somebody might pinch the Colt and rig it up in a piano as a lethal booby-trap?”

“Henry dear, please! We just said sometimes that perhaps it wasn’t very wise.”

“Are you employing the editorial or the real ‘we’?”

Alleyn said, “One minute, please. Before we go any further I think, as a matter of pure police routine, I would like to see your finger, Miss Prentice.”

“Oh, dear! It’s very painful. I’m afraid — ”

“If you would rather Dr. Templett unwrapped it— ”

“Oh, no. No.”

“If you will allow me, I think I can do a fairly presentable bandage.”

Miss Prentice raised her eyes to Alleyn’s and a very peculiar expression visited her face, a mixture of archness and submission. She advanced her swathed hand with an air of timidity. He undid the bandage very quickly and lightly and exposed the finger with a somewhat battered stall drawn over a closer bandage. He peeled off the stall and completely unwrapped the finger. It was inflamed, discoloured and swollen.

“A nasty casualty,” said Alleyn. “You should have it dressed again. Dr. Templett — ”

“I do not wish Dr. Templett to touch it.”

“But he could give you fresh bandages and a stall that has not been torn.”

“I have a first-aid box. Henry, would you mind, dear?”

Henry was despatched for the first-aid box. Alleyn redressed the finger very deftly. Miss Prentice watched him with a sort of eager concentration, never lowering her gaze from his face.

“How beautifully you manage,” she said.

“I hope it will serve. You should have a sling, I fancy. Do you want the old stall?”

She shook her head. He dropped it in his pocket and was startled when she uttered a little coy murmur of protestation for all the world as if he had taken her finger-stall from some motive of gallantry.

“You deserve a greater reward,” she said.

“Lummy!” thought Alleyn in considerable embarrassment. He said, “Miss Prentice, I am trying to get a sort of timetable of everybody’s movements from Friday afternoon until the time of the tragedy. Do you mind telling me where you were on Friday afternoon?”

“I was in church.”

“All the afternoon?”

“Oh, no,” said Eleanor, softly.

“Between what hours were you there, please?”

“I arrived at two.”

“Do you know when the service was over?”

“It was not a service,” said Miss Prentice with pale forbearance.

“You were there alone?”

“It was confession,” said Henry impatiently.

“Oh, I see.” Alleyn paused. “Was anybody else there besides yourself and — and your confessor?”

“No. I passed poor Idris on my way out.”

“When was that?”

“I think I remember the clock struck half-past two.”

“Good; And then?”

“I went home.”

“Directly?”

“I took the top lane.”

“The lane that comes out by the church?”

“Yes.”

“Did you pass the parish hall?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t go in?”

“No.”

“Was any one there, do you think?”

“The doors were shut,” said Miss Prentice. “I think the girls only went in for an hour.”

“Were the keys in their place of concealment on Friday?” asked Alleyn.

Miss Prentice instantly looked grieved and shocked. Henry gri

“At what part of the top lane on Friday afternoon did you meet Mr. Henry Jernigham and Miss Copeland, Miss Prentice?”

Alleyn heard her draw in her breath and saw her turn white. She looked reproachfully at Henry and said:

“I’m afraid I do not remember.”

“I do,” said Henry. “It was at the sharp bend above the foot-bridge. You came round the corner from below.”

She bent her head. Henry looked as if he dared her to speak.

“There’s something damned unpleasant about this,” thought Alleyn.

He said, “How long did you spend in conversation with the others before you went on to Pen Cuckoo?”

An unlovely red stained her cheeks.

“Not long.”

“About five minutes, I should think,” said Henry.

“And you arrived home, when?”

“I should think at about half-past three. I really don’t know.”

“Did you go out again on Friday, Miss Prentice?”

“No,” said Miss Prentice.

“You were about the house? I’m sorry to worry you like this, but you see I really do want to know exactly what everybody did on Friday.”

“I was in my room,” she said. “There are two little offices that Father Copeland has given us for use after confession.”

“Oh, I see,” said Alleyn, in some embarrassment.

ii

Alleyn waded on. Miss Prentice’s air of patient martyrdom increased with every question, but he managed to get a good deal of information from her. On Saturday, the day of the performance, she had spent the morning in the parish hall with all the other workers. She left when the others left, and, with Jocelyn and Henry, returned to Pen Cuckoo for lunch. She had not gone out again until the evening but had spent the afternoon in her sitting-room. She remembered waking the squire at tea-time. After tea she returned to her room.

“During yesterday morning you were all at the hall?” said Alleyn. “Who got there first?”

“Dinah Copeland, I should think,” said Jocelyn promptly. “She was there when we arrived. She was always the first.”

Alleyn made a note of it and went on, “Did any of you notice the position and appearance of the piano?”

They all looked very solemn at the mention of the piano.

“I think I did,” said Miss Prentice in a low voice. “It was as it was for the performance. The girls had evidently arranged the drapery and pot-plants on Friday. I looked at it rather particularly as I was — I was to play it.”

“Good Lord!” ejaculated the squire, “you were strumming on the damned thing. I remember now.”

“Jocelyn, dear, please! I did just touch the keys, I believe, with my right hand. Not my left,” said Miss Prentice with her most patient smile.

“This was yesterday morning, wasn’t it?” said Alleyn. “Now, please, Miss Prentice, try to remember. Did you use the soft pedal at all when you tried the piano?”

“Oh, dear, now I wonder. Let me see. I did sit down for a moment. I expect I did use the soft pedal. I always think soft playing is so much nicer. Yes, I should think almost without doubt I used the soft pedal.”

“Was anybody by the piano at the time?” asked Alleyn.

Miss Prentice turned a reproachful gaze on him.

“Idris,” she whispered. “Miss Campanula.”

“Here, wait a bit,” shouted Jocelyn. “I’ve remembered the whole thing. Eleanor, you sat down and strummed about with your right hand and she came up and asked you why you didn’t try with your left to see how it worked.”

“So she did,” said Henry, softly. “And so, of course, she would.”

“And you got up and went away,” said the squire. “Old Camp — well, Idris Campanula — gave a sort of laugh and dumped herself down and — ”

“And away went the Prelude!” cried Henry. “You’re quite right, Father. ‘Pom. Pom! POM!! And then down with the soft pedal. That’s it, sir,” he added, turning to Alleyn. “I watched her. I’ll swear it.”

“Right,” said Alleyn. “We’re getting on. This was yesterday morning. At what time?”