Overture to Death

“Oo-er,” said Nigel.

Mrs. Peach’s daughter brought in the steak.

“Are you going out again?” asked Nigel after an interval.

“I’ve got a report to write,” answered Alleyn. “When that’s done I think I might go up to the hall.”

“Whatever for?”

“Practical demonstration of the booby-trap.”

“I might come,” said Nigel. “I can ring up the office from there.”

“You’ll have to square up with the Copelands if you do. The hall telephone is on an extension from the rectory. Great hopping fleas!” shouted Alleyn, “why the devil didn’t I think of that before!”

“What!”

“The telephone.”

“Excuse him,” said Nigel to Fox.

iv

“We’ll take half an hour’s respite,” said Alleyn, when the cloth had been drawn and a bottle of port, recommended by old Mr. Peach, had been set before them. “Let’s go over the salient features.”

“Why not?” agreed Nigel, comfortably.

Alleyn tried the port, raised an eyebrow, and lit a cigarette.

“It’s respectable,” he said. “An honest wine and all that. Well, as I see it, the salient features are these. Georgie Biggins rigged his booby-trap between two and three on Friday afternoon. Miss Campanula rattled on the door just before two-thirty. Georgie was in the hall, but must have hidden, because when Gibson looked through the window, the top of the piano was open and Georgie nowhere to be seen. Miss Campanula didn’t know that the key was hung up behind the outhouse. The rest of the company were told but they are vague about it. Now Georgie didn’t test his booby-trap because, as he says, ‘somebody came.’ I think this refers to Miss Campanula’s onslaught on the door. I’m afraid Miss Campanula is a nightmare to Georgie. He won’t discuss her. I’ll have to try again. Anvway, he didn’t test his booby-trap. But somebody did, because the silk round the hole made by the bullet was still damp last night. That means something was on the rack, possibly Miss Prentice’s ‘Venetian Suite’ which seems to have been down in the hall for the last week. It has a stain on the back which suggests that the jet of water hit it and splayed out, wetting the silk. Now, Georgie left the hall soon after the interruption, because he finished up by playing chopsticks with the loud pedal on, and Miss Campanula overheard this final performance. The next eighteen hours or so are still wrapped in mystery but, as far as we know, any of the company may have gone into the hall. Miss Prentice passed it on her way home from confession, the Copelands live within two minutes of the place. Master Henry says that after his meeting with Dinah Copeland he roamed the hills most of that unpleasantly damp afternoon. He may have come down to the hall. Jernigham senior seems to have hunted all day and so does Templett, but either of them may have come down in the evening. Miss Prentice says that she spent the evening praying in her room, Master Henry says he tinkered with a light plug in his room, the squire says he was alone in the study. It takes about eight minutes to walk down Top Lane to the hall and perhaps fifteen to return. On Friday night the rector had an agonising encounter in his own study. I’ll tell you about it.”

Alleyn told them about it.

“Now the remarkable thing about this is that I believe he spoke the truth, but his story is made so much nonsense if Dinah Copeland was right in thinking there was a third person present. Miss C. would hardly make passionate advances and hang herself round the rector’s neck, with a Friendly Helper to watch the fun. Dinah Copeland bases her theory on the fact that she heard the gate opposite the study window squeak, as if somebody had gone out that way. She tells us it couldn’t have been Miss Prentice because Miss Prentice rang up a few minutes later to say she wasn’t coming down. We know Miss Prentice was upset when she left confession that afternoon. The rector had ticked her off and given her a penance or something and he thinks that’s why she didn’t come. It wasn’t any of the readers. Who the devil was it?”

“The rector himself,” said Nigel promptly, “taking a short cut to the hall.”

“He says that after Miss C. left him he remained a wreck by his fireside.”

“That may not be true.”

“It may be as false as hell.” agreed Alleyn. “There are one or two points about this business. I’ll describe the lay-out again and repeat the rector’s story.”

When he had done this he looked at Fox.

“Yes,” said Fox. “Yes, I think I get you there, Mr. Alleyn.”

“Obviously, I’m right,” said Nigel, flippantly. “It’s the reverend.”

“Mr. Copeland’s refusing the money. Mr. Bathgate,” said Fox. “I was telling the chief, just now. I got that bit of information this afternoon. Mr. Henry told the squire in front of the servants and it’s all round the village.”

“Well, to finish Friday,” said Alleyn. “Dr. Templett spent the best part of the night on a case. That can be checked. Mrs. Ross says she was at home. To-morrow, Foxkin, I’ll get you to use your glamour on Mrs. Ross’s maid.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Now then. Some time before noon yesterday, the water-pistol disappeared, because at noon Miss P. strummed with her right hand and used the soft pedal. Nothing happened.”

“Perhaps George’s plan didn’t work,” suggested Nigel.

“We are going to see presently if Georgie’s plan works. Whether it works or not, the fact remains that somebody found the water-pistol, removed and hid it, and substituted the Colt.”

“That must have been later still.” said Nigel.

“I agree with you, but not, I imagine, for the same reason. Dr. Templett’s story seems to prove that the box was placed outside the window while he and Mrs. Ross were in the hall. He got the impression that someone dodged down behind the sill. Now this eavesdropper was not Miss Campanula because the servants agree that she didn’t go out yesterday afternoon. Miss Prentice, the squire, Dinah Copeland and her father were all in their respective houses, but any of them could have slipped out for an hour. Master Henry was again roving the countryside. None of them owns to the box outside the window. Fox has asked every soul in the place and not a soul professes to know anything about the box.”

“That’s right,” said Fox. “I reckon the murderer was hanging about with the Colt and had a look in to see who was there. He’d see the cars in the lane but he’d want to find out if the occupants were in the hall or had gone that way into the vicarage. On the far side of the hall he’d have been out of sight, and he’d have plenty of time to dodge if they sounded as if they were coming round that way. But they never would, of course, seeing it’s the far side. He’d be safe enough. Or she,” added Fox with a bland glance at Nigel.

“That’s how I read it,” agreed Alleyn. “Now, look here.”

He took an envelope from his pocket, opened it, and, using tweezers, took out four minute reddish-brown scraps, which he laid on a sheet of paper.

“Salvage from the box,” he said.

Nigel prodded at them with the tweezers.

“Rubber,” said Nigel.

“Convey anything?”

“Somebody wearing goloshes. Miss Prentice, by gosh. I bet she wears goloshes. Or Miss C. herself. Good Lord,” said Nigel, “perhaps the rector’s right. Perhaps it is a case of suicide.”

“These bits of rubber were caught on a projecting nail and some rough bits of wood inside the box.”

“Well, she might have trodden inside the box before she picked it up.”

“You have your moments,” said Alleyn. “I suppose she might.”

“Goloshes!” said Fox and chuckled deeply.

“Here!” said Nigel, angrily. “Have you got a case?”

“The makings of one,” said Alleyn. “We’re not going to tell you just yet, because we don’t want to lower our prestige.”

“We like to watch your struggles, Mr. Bathgate,” said Fox.

“We are, as it might be,” said Alleyn, “two experts on a watch-tower in the middle of a maze. ‘Look at the poor wretch,’ we say as we nudge each other, ‘there he goes into the same old blind alley. Jolly comical,’ we say, and then we laugh like anything. Don’t we, Fox?”