Overture to Death

“But it’s nothing to do with the case,” said Henry, “and if you feel like saying ‘tra-la,’ I’d be grateful if you’d restrain yourselves.”

“If it turns out to be irrelevant,” said Alleyn, “it shall be treated as such. We don’t use irrelevant statements.”

“Then why ask for them?”

“We like to do the wi

“Nothing happened in Top Lane.”

“You mean Miss Prentice stood two feet away from you both, stared into your face until her heels sank an inch into the ground, and then walked away without uttering a word?”

“It was private business. It was altogether our affair.”

“You know,” said Alleyn, “that won’t do. This morning at Pen Cuckoo, and this afternoon at the rectory, frankness was the keynote of your conversation. You have said that you wouldn’t put it past Miss Prentice to do murder, and yet you boggle at repeating a single word that she uttered in Top Lane. It looks as though it’s not Miss Prentice whom you wish to protect.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hasn’t Miss Copeland insisted on your taking this stand because she’s nervous on your account? What were you going to call out to me this afternoon when she stopped you?”

“Well,” said Henry unexpectedly, “you’re quite right.”

“See here,” said Alleyn, “if you are i

“No, they don’t,” said Henry. “Of course, you’ve got to do it.”

“Very well, then.”

“I’ll tell you this much, and I dare say it’s no more than you’ve guessed: My Cousin Eleanor was thrown into a dither by finding us there together, and our conversation consisted of a series of hysterical threats and embarrassing accusations on her part.”

“And did you make no threats?”

“She’ll probably tell you I did,” said Henry; “but, as I have said six or eight times already, she’s mad. And I’m sorry, sir, but that’s all I can tell you.”

“All right,” said Alleyn with a sigh. “Let’s get to work, Fox.”

iii

They removed the water-pistol and set up the Colt in its place. Alleyn produced the “Prelude” from his case and put it on the rack. Henry saw the hole blown through the centre and the surrounding ugly stains. He turned away and then, as if he despised this involuntary revulsion, moved closer to the piano and watched Alleyn’s hands as they moved inside the top.

“You see,” said Alleyn, “all the murderer had to do was exactly what I’m doing now. The Colt fits into the same place, and the loose end of cord which was tied round the butt of the water-pistol is tied round the butt of the Colt. It passes across the trigger. It is remarkably strong cord, rather like fishing line. I’ve left the safety catch on. Now look.”

He sat on the piano stool and pressed the soft pedal. The two pulleys stood out rigidly from their moorings, the cord tautened as the dampers moved towards the strings and checked.

“It’s stood firm,” said Alleyn. “Georgie made sure of his pulleys. Now.”

“By gum!” ejaculated Nigel, “I never thought of—”

“I know you didn’t.”

Alleyn reached inside and released the safety catch. Again he trod lightly on the soft pedal. This time the soft pedal worked. The cord tightened in the pulleys and the trigger moved back. They all heard the sharp click of the striker.

“Well, there you are for what it’s worth,” said Alleyn lightly.

“Yes, but last night the top of the piano was smothered in bunting and six he-men aspidistras,” objected Henry.

“So you think it was done last night,” said Alleyn.

“I don’t know when it was done, and I don’t think it could have been done last night, unless it was before we all got to the hall.”

Alleyn scowled at Nigel, who was obviously pregnant with a new theory.

“It’s perfectly true,” said Nigel defiantly. “Nobody could have moved those pots after 6.30.”

“I so entirely agree with you,” said Alleyn. A bell pealed distantly. Henry jumped.

“That’s the telephone,” he said and started forward.

“I’ll answer it, I think,” said Alleyn. “It’s sure to be for me.”

He crossed the stage, found a light switch and made his way to the first dressing-room on the left. The old-fashioned manual telephone pealed irregularly until he lifted the receiver.

“Hullo?”

“Mr. Alleyn? It’s Dinah Copeland. Somebody wants to speak to you from Chipping.”

“Thank you.”

“Here you are,” said Dinah. The telephone clicked and the voice of Sergeant Roper said, “Sir?”

“Hullo?”

“Roper, sir. I thought I should find you, seeing as how Fife is still asleep here. I have a small matter in the form of a recent arrest to bring before your notice, sir.”

“In what form?”

“By name Saul Tranter, and by employment as sly a poacher as ever you see; but we’ve cotched him very pretty, sir, and the man’s sitting here at my elbow with guilt written all over him in the form of two fine cock-pheasants.”

“What the devil—?” began Alleyn, and checked himself. “Well, Roper, what about it?”

“This chap says he’s got a piece of information that’ll make the court think twice about giving him the month’s hard he’s been asking for these last two years. He won’t tell me, sir, but in his bold way he asks to be faced with you. Now, we’ve got to get him down to the lock-up some time and — ”

“I’ll send Mr. Bathgate down, Roper. Thank you.” Alleyn hung up the receiver and stared thoughtfully at the telephone.

“I’ll have to see about you,” he told it and returned to the front of the hall.

“Hullo,” he said, “where’s Master Henry?”

“Gone home,” said Fox. “He’s a fu

“Rather a bumptious infant, I thought,” said Nigel.

“He’s about the same age as you were when I first met you,” Alleyn pointed out, “and not half as bumptious. Bathgate, I’m afraid you’ll have to go into Chipping and get a poacher.”

“A poacher!”

“Yes. Treasure-trove of Roper’s. Apparently the gentleman wishes to make a blunderbuss about his impending sentence. He says he’s got a story to unfold. Bring Fife with him. Stop at the pub on the way back and get your own car, and let Fife drive the Ford here and he can use it afterwards to deliver this gentleman to the lock-up. We’ll clear up this place to-night.”

“Am I representative of a leading London daily or your odd-boy?”

“You know the answer to that better than I do. Away you go.”

Nigel went, not without further bitter complaint. Alleyn and Fox moved to the supper-room.

“All this food can be thrown away to-morrow,” said Alleyn. “There’s something else I want to see down here, though. Look, there’s the tea-tray ready to be carried on in the play. Mrs. Ross’s silver, I dare say. It looks like her. Modern, expensive and streamlined.”

He lifted the lid of the teapot.

“It reeks of onion. Dear little Georgie.”

“I suppose someone spotted it and threw it out. You found it lying on the floor here, didn’t you, Mr. Alleyn?”

“In that box over there. Yes. Bailey has found Georgie’s and Miss P’s prints in the pot, so presumably Miss P. hawked out the onion.

He stooped down and looked under the table.

“You went all over here last night, didn’t you, Fox? Last night! This morning! ‘Little Fox, we’ve had a busy day.’ ”

“All over it, sir. You’ll find the onion peel down there. Young Biggins must have ski

“Did you find any powder in here?”

“Powder? No. No, I didn’t. Why?”