A Man Lay Dead. Ngaio Marsh
‘Singularly fortunate,’ said Inspector Alleyn drily.
‘Yes, sir. Here he is, sir.’
Angela came downstairs with the doctor and with Nigel. She was extremely white and had about her the pathetic dignity of the very young when they meet disaster with fortitude. Inspector Alleyn met her at the foot of the stairs.
‘I’m so sorry to have to bother you like this,’ he said, ‘but I understand from Doctor Young…’
‘Not a bit,’ said Angela. ‘We were expecting you. This is Mr Bathgate, who has been very kind about telegraphing and helping us. He is—he is Mr Rankin’s cousin.’
Nigel shook hands. Since he had seen Charles lying—empty, unmeaning, coldly remote—at his feet, he could feel neither sorrow nor horror—not even pity; and yet he supposed he had been fond of Charles.
‘I’m very sorry,’ said Inspector Alleyn; ‘this must have been distressing for you. May we go and talk somewhere?’
‘There’s no one in the drawing-room,’ said Angela. ‘Shall we go in there?’
They sat in the drawing-room where Charles Rankin had danced a tango with Mrs Wilde the previous afternoon. Between them Angela and Nigel recounted to the inspector the history of the Murder Game.
Angela had time for a good long stare at her first detective. Alleyn did not resemble a plain-clothes policeman, she felt sure, nor was he in the romantic manner—white faced and gimlet eyed. He looked like one of her Uncle Hubert’s friends, the sort that they knew would ‘do’ for house-parties. He was very tall, and lean, his hair was dark, and his eyes grey, with corners that turned down. They looked as if they would smile easily, but his mouth didn’t. ‘His hands and his voice are grand,’ thought Angela, and subconsciously she felt less miserable.
Angela told Nigel afterwards that she approved of Inspector Alleyn. He treated her with a complete absence of any show of personal interest, an attitude that might have piqued this modern young woman under less tragic circumstances. As it was, she was glad of his detachment. Little Doctor Young sat and listened, repeating every now and then his inarticulate, consolatory noise. Alleyn made a few notes in his pocket-book.
‘The parlour-game, you say,’ he murmured, ‘was limited to five and a half hours—that is to say, it began at five-thirty, and should have ended before eleven—ended with the mock trial. The body was found at six minutes to eight. Doctor Young arrived some thirty minutes later. Just let me get that clear—I’ve a filthy memory.’
At this unorthodox and slightly unconvincing statement Doctor Young and Angela started.
‘And now, if you please,’ said the inspector, ‘I should like to see the other members of the household—one by one, you know. In the meantime Doctor Young can take me into the study. Perhaps you and Miss North will find out if Sir Hubert is feeling up to seeing me.’
‘Certainly,’ 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