Overture to Death

“So we do,” agreed Fox. “But never you mind, Mr. Bathgate, you’re doing very nicely.”

“Well, to hell with you anyway,” said Nigel. “And moreover what about Gladys Wright putting her splay foot on the soft pedal an hour and a half before the tragedy?”

“Perhaps she wore goloshes.” said Fox, and for the first time in these records he broke into a loud laugh.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

According to Mr. Saul Tranter

i

Alleyn finished his report by nine o’clock. At a quarter-past nine they were back in the Biggins’s Ford, driving through pelting rain to the hall.

“I’ll have to go up to the Yard before this case is many hours older,” said Alleyn. “I telephoned the A.C. this morning but I think I ought to see him and there are a lot of odd things to be cleared up. Perhaps tomorrow night. I’d like to get to the bottom of that meeting between Master Henry, Dinah Copeland and Miss Prentice. I rather think Master Henry wishes to unburden himself and Miss Dinah won’t let him. Here we are.”

Once more they crunched up the gravel path to the front door. The shutters had been closed and they and the windows were all locked. P.C. Fife was on duty. He let them in and being an incurious fellow retired thankfully when Alleyn said he would not be wanted for two hours.

“I’ll ring up the Chipping station when we’re leaving,” said Alleyn.

The hall smelt of dying evergreens and varnish. It was extremely cold. The piano still stood in its old position against the stage. The hole in the faded silk gaped mournfully. The aspidistras drooped a little in their pots. A fine dust had settled over everything. The rain drove down steadily on the old building and the wind shook the shutters and howled desperately under the eaves.

“I’m going to light these heaters,” said Nigel.

“There’s a can of paraffin in one of the back rooms. This place smells of mortality.”

Alleyn opened his case and took out Georgie Biggins’s water-pistol. Fox wedged the butt between steel pegs in the iron casing. The nozzle fitted a hole in the fretwork front. They had left the cord and pulleys in position.

“On Friday,” said Alleyn, “there was only the long rent in the tucked silk. You see there are several of them. The material has rotted in the creases. No doubt Georgie arranged the silk tastefully behind the fretwork, so that the nozzle didn’t catch the light. We’ll have a practical demonstration from Mr. Bathgate, Fox. Now, if you fix the front pulley, I’ll tie the cord round the butt of the pistol. Hurry up. I hear him clanking in the background.”

They had just dropped a sheet of newspaper on the rack when Nigel reappeared with a large can.

“There’s some fairly good beer in that room,” said Nigel. He began to fill the tank of the heater from his can.

Alleyn sat down at the piano, struck two or three chords, and began to vamp “Il était une Bergère.”

“That’s odd, Fox,” he said.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Alleyn?”

“I can’t get the soft pedal to budge. You try. Don’t force it.”

Fox seated himself at the piano and picked out “Three Blind Mice,” with a stubby forefinger.

“That’s right,” he said. “It makes no difference.”

“What’s all this?” demanded Nigel, and bustled forward.

“The soft pedal doesn’t work.”

“Good Lord!”

“It makes no difference to the sound,” said Fox.

“You’re not using it.”

“Yes, I am, Mr. Bathgate,” lied Fox.

“Here,” said Nigel, “let me try.”

Fox got up. Nigel took his place with an air of importance.

“Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C — Minor,” he said. He squared his elbows, raised his left hand and leant forward. The voice of the wind mounted in a thin wail and seemed to encircle the building. Down came Nigel’s left hand like a sledge-hammer.

“Pom. Pom. POM!”

Nigel paused. A violent gust shook the shutters so impatiently that, for a second, he raised his head and listened. Then he trod on the soft pedal.

The newspaper fell forward on his hands. The thin jet of water caught him between the eyes like a cold bullet. He jerked backwards, uttered a scandalous oath, and nearly lost his balance.

“It does work.” said Alleyn.

But Nigel did not retaliate. Above all the uneasy clamour of the storm, and like an echo of the three pretentious chords, sounded a loud triple knock on the front door.

“Who the devil’s that?” said Alleyn.

He started forward, but before he could reach the door it crashed open, and on the threshold stood Henry Jernigham with streaks of rain lacing his chalk-white face.

ii

“What the hell’s happening in here?” demanded Henry.

“Suppose you shut the door,” said Alleyn.

But Henry stared at him as if he had not heard. Alleyn walked past him, slammed the door, and secured the catch. Then he returned to Henry, took him by the elbow, and marched him up the hall.

Fox waited stolidly. Nigel wiped his face with his handkerchief and stared at Henry.

“Now what is it?” demanded Alleyn.

“My God!” said Henry, “who played those three infernal chords?”

“Mr. Bathgate. This is Mr. Bathgate, Mr. Jernigham, and this is Detective-Inspector Fox.” Henry looked dimly at the other two and sat down suddenly.

“Oh, Lord,” he said.

“I say,” said Nigel. “I’m most extraordinarily sorry if I gave you a shock, but I assure you I never thought — ”

“I’d come into the lane,” said Henry, breathlessly, “the rectory trees were making such a noise in the wind that you couldn’t hear anything else.”

“Yes?” said Alleyn.

“Don’t you see? I’d come up the path and just as I reached the door a great gust of wind and rain came screeching round the building like the souls of the damned. And then, when it dropped, those three chords on a cracked piano! My God, I tell you I nearly bolted.”

Henry put his hand to his face and then looked at his fingers.

“I don’t know whether it’s sweat or rain,” he said, “and that’s a fact. Sorry! Not the behaviour of a pukka sahib. No, by Gad, sir. Blimp wouldn’t think anything of it.”

“I can imagine it was rather trying,” said Alleyn. “What were you doing there, anyway?”

“Going home. I stayed on to supper at the rectory. Only just left. Mr. Copeland’s in such a hoo that he’s forgotten all about choking me off. When I occurred at cold supper he noticed me no more than the High Church blanc-mange. I say, sir, I am sorry I made such an ass of myself. Honestly! How I could!”

“That’s all right,” said Alleyn. “But why did you turn in here?”

“I thought if that splendid fellow Roper held the dog-watch, I might say, ‘Stand ho! What hath this thing appeared?’ and get a bit of gossip out of him.”

“I see.”

“Have a cigarette?” said Nigel.

“Oh, thank you. I’d better take myself off.”

“Would you like to wait and see a slight experiment?” asked Alleyn.

“Very much indeed, sir, if I may.”

“Before we begin, there’s just one thing I’d like to say to you, as you are here. I shall call on Miss Prentice to-morrow and I shall use every means within the law to get her to tell me what took place on that encounter in Top Lane on Friday. I don’t know whether you’d rather give me your version first.”

“I’ve told you already, she’s dotty,” said Henry with nervous impatience. “It’s my belief she is actually and literally out of her senses. She looks like death and she won’t leave her room except for meals, and then she doesn’t eat anything. She said at di

“Why not give us a sane version first?”