Overture to Death

He saw that the hall was only a little way up on the other side from where this path came out on the lane. He returned, circled the rectory, perfectly aware that Dinah and Henry had watched him from the schoolroom window. As he got into the car Henry opened the window and leaned out.

“I say,” he shouted.

“Shut up,” said Dinah’s voice behind him. “Don’t, Henry.”

“What is it?” called Alleyn, squinting up through his driving-window.

“It’s nothing,” said Dinah. “He’s gone ravers, that’s all. Good-bye.”

Henry’s head shot out of sight and the window slammed.

“Now I wonder,” thought Alleyn, “if Master Henry has got the same idea as I have.”

He drove away.

At the Jernigham Arms he found Nigel, but no Fox.

“Where are you going?” Nigel demanded when Alleyn returned to the car.

“To call on a lady.”

“Let me come.”

“Why the devil?”

“I won’t go in with you if you’d rather not.”

“Naturally. All right. I can do with some comic relief.”

“Oh, God, your only jig-maker,” said Nigel and got in. “Now, who’s the lady?” he said. “Speak up, dearie.”

“Mrs. Ross.”

“The mysterious stranger.”

“Why do you call her that?”

“It’s the part she played in their show. I’ve got a programme.”

“So it is,” said Alleyn.

He turned the car up the Vale Road and presently he began to talk. He went over the history of the case from midday on Friday. As far as he could, he traced the movements of the murdered woman and each of her seven companions. He correlated their movements and gave Nigel a time-table he had jotted down in his note-book.

“I hate these damn’ things,” Nigel grumbled. “They shatter my interest; they remind me of a Bradshaw, and they are therefore completely unintelligible.”

“It’s a pity about you,” said Alleyn dryly. “Look at the list at the bottom.”

Nigel looked and read:

“Piano. Drawing-pin holes. Automatic. Branch. Onion. Chopsticks. Key. Letter. Creaky gate. Window. Telephone.”

“Thank you,” said Nigel. “Now, of course, I see the whole thing in a blinding flash. It’s as clear as the mud in your eye. The onion is particularly obvious, and as for the drawing-pins— It’s ludicrous that I didn’t spot the exquisite reason of the drawing-pins.”

He returned the paper to Alleyn.

“Go on,” he continued acidly. “Say it. ‘You have the facts, Bathgate. You know my methods, Bathgate. What of the little grey cells, Bathgate?’ Sling in a quotation; add: ‘Oh, my dear chap,’ and vanish in a fog of composite fiction.”

“This is Cloudyfold,” said Alleyn. “Cold, isn’t it? They had twelve degrees of frost on the pub thermometer last night.”

“Oh, Mr. Mercury, how you did startle me!”

“That must be Mrs. Ross’s cottage down there.”

“Can’t I come in as your stenographer?”

“Very well. I may send you out on an errand into the village.”

Duck Cottage stands in a bend of the road before it actually reaches Cloudyfold Village. It is a typical Dorset cottage, plain fronted, well proportioned, cold-grey and weather-worn. Mrs. Ross had smartened it up. The window sashes and sills and the front door were painted vermilion, and a vermilion tub with a Noah’s Ark tree stood on each side of the entrance which led straight off the road.

Alleyn gave a double rap on the shiny brass knocker.

The door was opened by a maid, all cherry-red and muslin. Mrs. Ross was at home. The maid took Alleyn’s card away with her and returned to usher them in.

Alleyn had to stoop his head under the low doorway, and the ceilings were not much higher. They walked through a tiny ante-room, down some uneven steps and into Mrs. Ross’s parlour. She was not there. It was a charming parlour looking out on a small formal garden. There were old prints on the walls, one or two respectable pieces of furniture, a deep carpet, some very comfortable chairs, and a general air of chintz, sparkle and femininity. It was a delicate little room. Alleyn looked at a bookcase filled with modern novels. He noticed one or two works by authors whose sole distinction had been conferred by the censor, and at three popular collections of famous criminal cases. They all had startling wrappers and photographic illustrations. Within their covers one would find the cases of Brown and Ke

She was the lady Alleyn had noticed in church. This did not surprise him much, but it made him feel wary. She greeted him with a sensible good-humoured air, shook hands and them gave him a slanting smile.

“This is Mr. Bathgate,” said Alleyn. He noticed that Nigel’s fingers had flown to his tie.

She settled them by the fire with the prettiest air in the world, and he saw her glance at the little cupid clock on the mantlepiece.

“I do think all this is too ghastly,” she said. “That poor wretched old creature! How anybody could!”

“It’s a bad business,” said Alleyn.

She offered them cigarettes. Alleyn refused and Nigel, rather unwillingly, followed suit. Mrs. Ross took one and leaned towards Alleyn for a light.

“Chanel, Numéro Cinq,” thought Alleyn.

“I’ve never been ‘investigated’ before,” said Mrs. Ross. “Dear me, that sounds rather peculiar, doesn’t it? I don’t mean what you mean.”

She chuckled. Nigel uttered rather a flirtatious laugh, caught Alleyn’s eye and was silent.

Alleyn said, “I shan’t bother you for long, I hope. We’ve got to try and find out where everybody was from about midday on Friday up to the moment of the disaster.”

“Heavens!” said Mrs. Ross. “I’ll never be able to remember that; and if I do, it’s sure to sound too incriminating for words.”

“I hope not,” said Alleyn sedately. “We’ve got a certain amount of it already. On Friday you went to a short five o’clock rehearsal at Pen Cuckoo, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Apart from that, I was at home all day.”

“And Friday evening?”

“Still at home. We aren’t very gay in Cloudyfold, Mr. Alleyn. I think I’ve dined out twice since I came here. The county is simply rushing me, as you see.”

“On Saturday evening I suppose you joined the others at the hall?”

“Yes. I carted down one or two things they wanted for the stage. We towed them in a trailer behind Dr. Templett’s Morris.”

“Did you go straight to the hall?”

“No. We called at Pen Cuckoo. I’d quite forgotten that. I didn’t get out of the car.”

“Dr. Templett went into the study?”

“He went into the house,” she said lightly. “I don’t know which room.”

“He didn’t return by the french window?”

“I don’t remember.” She paused and then added: “The squire, Mr. Jernigham, came and talked to me. I didn’t notice Dr. Templett until he was actually at the car window.”

“Ah, yes. You came back here for lunch?”

“Yes.”

“And in the afternoon?”

“Saturday afternoon. That’s only yesterday, isn’t it? Heavens, it seems a lifetime! Oh, I took the supper down to the hall.”

“At what time?”

“I think it was about half-past three when I got there.”

“Was the hall empty?”

“Yes. No, it wasn’t. Dr. Templett was there. He arrived just after I did. He’d brought down his clothes.”

“How long did you stay there, Mrs. Ross?”

“I don’t know. Not long. It might have been half an hour.”

“And Dr. Templett?”

“He left before I did. I was putting out sandwiches.”