Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 1: A Man Lay Dead, Enter a Murderer, The Nursing Home Murder. Ngaio Marsh
agreed Angela. She turned to Nigel. ‘Afterwards, will you wait for me?’
‘I’ll wait for you, Angela,’ said Nigel.
In the study Inspector Alleyn bent over the silent heaviness of Rankin’s body. He stared at it for a full two minutes, his lips closed tightly and a sort of fastidiousness wringing the corners of his mouth, his nostrils, and his eyes. Then he stooped, and turning the body on to its side, closely examined, without touching, the dagger that had been left there, still eloquent of the gesture that had driven it through Rankin’s bone and muscle into the citadel of his heart.
‘You can be no end of a help to me here,’ said Alleyn. ‘The blow, of course, came from above. Looks beastly, doesn’t it? The point entered the body as you see—here. Surely something of an expert’s job.’
The little doctor, who had been greatly chastened by the official rebuke on the subject of the removal of the body, leapt at the chance of re-establishing himself.
‘Great force and, I should have thought, a considerable knowledge of anatomy are indicated. The blade entered the body to the right of the left scapula and between the third and fourth ribs, avoiding the spine and the vertebral border of the scapula. It lies at an acute angle and the point has penetrated the heart.’
‘Yes, I rather imagined it had done that,’ said Alleyn sweetly, ‘but mightn’t this have been due to—shall we say luck, possibly?’
‘Possibly,’ said the doctor stiffly. ‘I think not!’
The faintest hint of a smile crept into Alleyn’s eyes.
‘Come on, Doctor Young,’ he said quietly, ‘you’ve got your own ideas, I see. What are they?’
The little doctor looked down his little nose and a glint of mild defiance hardened his uneventful face.
‘I realize, of course, that under such very grave circumstances one should put a guard upon one’s tongue,’ he said, ‘nevertheless, perhaps in camera, as it were…’
‘Every detective,’ remarked Alleyn, ‘has to acquire something of the attitude of the priest. “In camera” let it be, Doctor Young.’
‘I have only this to say. Before I arrived last night the body had been turned over and—and—gone over by a Russian gentleman who appears to be a medico. This in spite of the fact—’ here Doctor Young’s accent became more definitely Northern—‘that I was summoned immediately after the discovery. Possibly in Soviet Russia the finer shades of professional etiquette are not considered.’
Inspector Alleyn looked at him. ‘A considerable knowledge of anatomy, you said,’ he murmured vaguely. ‘Ah, well, we shall see what we shall see. How extraordinary it is,’ he went on, gently laying Rankin down; ‘his face is quite inscrutable. If only something could be written there. I should like to see Sir Hubert now if that is possible.’
‘I will ascertain,’ said Doctor Young formally, and left Rankin and Alleyn alone in the study.
Handesley was already waiting in the hall. Nigel and Angela were with him. Nigel was perhaps more shocked by the change in his host and more alive to it than to anything else that had happened since Rankin’s death. Handesley looked ghastly. His hands were tremulous and he moved with a kind of controlled hesitancy.
Alleyn came into the hall and was formally introduced by little Doctor Young, who seemed to be somewhat nonplussed by the inspector’s markedly Oxonian voice.
‘I am sorry to have kept you waiting,’ said Handesley. ‘I am quite ready to answer any questions that you would like to put to me.’
‘There are very few at the moment,’ returned Alleyn.’ ‘Miss North and Mr Bathgate have given me a clear account of what happened since yesterday afternoon. Could we, do you think, go into some other room?’
‘The drawing-room is just here,’ answered Handesley. ‘Do you wish to see us there in turn?’
‘That will do splendidly,’ agreed Alleyn.
‘The others are in the library,’ said Nigel. Handesley turned to the detective. ‘Then shall we go into the drawing-room?’
‘I think I can ask you the few questions I want to put immediately. The others can come in there afterwards. I understand, Sir Hubert, that Mr Rankin was an old friend of yours?’
‘I have known him all his life—I simply cannot take it in—this appalling tragedy. It is incredible. We—we all knew him so well. It must have been someone from outside. It must.’
‘How many servants do you keep? I should like to see them later on. But in the meantime if I may have their names.’
‘Yes, of course. It is imperative that everyone should—should be able to give an account of himself. But my servants! I have had them for years, all of them. I can think of no possible motive.’
‘The motive is not going to be one of the kind that socks you on the jaw. If I may have a list.’
‘My butler is a Little Russian. He was my servant twenty years ago in Petersburg, and has been with me ever since.’
‘He was well acquainted with Mr Rankin?’
‘Very well acquainted. Rankin has stayed here regularly for many years and has always been on excellent terms with my servants.’
‘They tell me the dagger is of Russian origin.’
‘Its history is Russian, its origin Mongolian,’ said Sir Hubert. He briefly related the story of the knife.
‘H’m,’ said Alleyn. ‘Scratch a Russian and you use a Mongolian knife. Had your servant seen this delightful museum piece?’
‘Yes. He must have seen it. Now I come to think of it, he was in the hall when Rankin first produced it.’
‘Did he comment on it in any way?’
‘Vassily? No,’ Handesley hesitated and turned to Nigel and Angela. ‘Wait a moment, though. Didn’t he say something when Tokareff was holding forth about the knife and its association with a bratsvo?’
‘I think he did,’ said Nigel slowly. ‘He made some remark in Russian. Doctor Tokareff said, “This peasant agrees with me,” and you, sir, told Vassily he could go.’
‘That is how it was,’ agreed Angela.
‘I see. Rum coincidence that the knife, your butler, and your guest should all be of the same nationality.’
‘Not very odd,’ said Angela. ‘Uncle Hubert has always kept up his interest in Russia—especially since the war. Charles was familiar with his collection of weapons and brought this horrible thing down specially for Uncle Hubert to see.’
‘Yes. Is the dagger interesting from the point of view of the collector?’
Handesley winced and glanced at Angela. ‘It interested me enormously,’ he said. ‘I offered to buy it.’
‘Really? Did Mr Rankin want to sell?’
There was a very uncomfortable pause. Nigel miserably cast about in his mind for something to say. Suddenly Angela broke the silence.
‘You are very tired, Uncle Hubert,’ she said gently; ‘let me tell Mr Alleyn.’ Without waiting for his reply, she turned to the detective.
‘Charles Rankin, in fun, wrote out a statement last night willing the knife to my uncle. Mr Bathgate here and Mr Arthur Wilde, another of our guests, signed the paper. It was all a joke.’
Alleyn, without any comment, made a note in his pocket-book. ‘Perhaps I may see this paper later on,’ he said; ‘and now for the other servants.’
‘All English,’ said Angela, ‘except the cook, who is a Frenchman. There are three maids, two housemaids, and a little Cockney—she’s a tweeney really—a sort of pantryman