Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 5: Died in the Wool, Final Curtain, Swing Brother Swing. Ngaio Marsh
to, and that’s what I saw,’ said Terence.
‘But don’t you agree,’ Fabian persisted, ‘that along with that there was a definite – what shall I call it – why, damn it, she made advances. She was kittenish. She shook her curls and did the little devil number. Didn’t she, now?’
‘I didn’t watch her antics,’ said Terence coldly.
‘But you did, Terry. You watched. Listen to me, Terry,’ said Fabian very earnestly, ‘don’t get it into your head that I’m an enemy. I’m not. I’m sorry for you and I realize now that I’ve misjudged you. You see, I thought you were merely doing your line of oomph with Uncle Arthur out of boredom. I thought you just sat round being a cryptic woman at him to keep your hand in. I know this sounds insufferable but he was so very much older and, well, as I thought, so definitely not your cup of tea. It was perfectly obvious that he was losing his heart to you and I resented what I imagined was merely a bit of practice technique on your part. I don’t suppose you give two tuppenny damns for what I thought, Terry, but I am sorry. All right. Now, when I suggested that we should ask Mr Alleyn to come, we all agreed that rather than carry on as we were, with this unspeakable business festering in our minds, we would, each of us, risk becoming an object of suspicion. We agreed that none of us suspected any of the other three and, even with the terrifying example of the local detective force to daunt us, we said we didn’t believe that the truth, the whole truth, although it might be unpalatable, could do us any harm. Were we right in that, Mr Alleyn?’
Alleyn stirred a little in his armchair and joined his long fingers. ‘It’s a truism to say that if the whole facts of a case are known there can be no miscarriage of justice. It’s very seldom indeed, in homicide investigations, that the police arrive at the whole truth. Sometimes they get enough of the truth to enable them to build up a case and make an arrest. Most often they get a smattering of essential facts, a plethora of inessential facts and a maddening accumulation of lies. If you really do stick to your original plan of thrashing out the whole story here tonight, in this room, you will, I think, bring off a remarkable, indeed a unique performance.’
He saw that they were young enough to be flattered and stimulated by this assurance. ‘There, now!’ said Fabian triumphantly. ‘But,’ said Alleyn, ‘I don’t believe for a moment that you will succeed. How long does it take a psychoanalyst to complete his terrifying course of treatment? Months, isn’t it? His aim, as I understand it, is to get to the bottom, to spring-clean completely, to arrive, in fact, at the clinical truths. Aren’t you, Losse, attempting something of that sort? If so, I’m sure you cannot succeed, nor, as a policeman, would I want you to do so. As a policeman, I am not concerned with the whole clinical truth. Faced with it, I should probably find myself unable to make any arrest, ever. I am required only to produce facts. If your discussion of Mrs Rubrick’s character and that of her husband can throw the smallest ray of light along the path that leads to an unknown murderer who struck her from, behind, suffocated her, bound up her body, and concealed it in a wool-press, then from the official point of view it will have been valuable. If, at the same time, somewhere along that path, there is the trace of an enemy agent, then again from my point of view, as an investigator of espionage in this country, it will have been valuable. If finally, it relieves the burden of secrecy under which you have all suffered, you, also, may profit by it, though, as you have already seen, the process is painful and may be dangerous.’
‘We realize that,’ Fabian said.
‘Do you fully realize it? You told me at first that there was a complete absence of motive among you. Would you still say so? Look what has come out. Captain Grace was Mrs Rubrick’s heir. That circumstance, which suggests the most common of all motives, has of course always been recognized by the police and must have occurred to all of you. You, Losse, advanced a theory that you yourself in a condition of amnesia attacked Mrs Rubrick and killed her. What’s more, as you developed this theme you also revealed a motive, Mrs Rubrick’s opposition to your engagement to Miss Harme. Now, under this same process of self-revelation, Miss Lynne must also be said to have a motive. Most courageously she has told us that she had formed a deep attachment for the murdered woman’s husband and you, Losse, say that this attachment obviously was returned. The second most common motive appears in both your case and hers. You have said, bravely, that none of you has anything to fear from this discussion. Are you sure you have the right to make this statement? You are using this room as a sort of confessional, but I am bound by no priestly rule. What you tell me, I shall consider from the practical point of view and may afterwards use in the report I send to your police. I should neglect my duty if, before she goes any further, I didn’t remind Miss Lynne of all the circumstances.’ Alleyn paused and rubbed his nose. ‘That all sounds pompous,’ he said. ‘But there it is. The whole thing’s a departure from the usual procedure. I doubt if any collection of possible suspects has ever before decided to have what Miss Harme has aptly described as a verbal striptease before an investigating officer.’ He looked at Terence. ‘Well, now, Miss Lynne,’ he said, ‘if you don’t want to go on –’
‘It’s not because I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘I didn’t do it and any attempt to prove I did would fail. I suppose I ought to be afraid but I’m not. I don’t feel in the least anxious for myself.’
‘Very well. Losse has suggested that there is some significance in the change during the last week of Mrs Rubrick’s life in her manner towards her husband. He has suggested that you can explain this change. Is he right?’
She did not answer. Slowly and, as it seemed, reluctantly, she raised her eyes and looked at the portrait of Florence Rubrick.
‘Terry!’ said Ursula suddenly, ‘did she know? Did she find out?’
Fabian gave a sharp ejaculation and Terence turned, not upon Ursula but upon him.
‘You idiot, Fabian,’ she said. ‘You unutterable fool.’
III
The fire had burnt low, and the room was colder and stale with tobacco smoke.
‘I give it up,’ said Douglas loudly. ‘I never was any good at riddles and I’m damned if I know half the time what you’re all getting at. For God’s sake let’s have some air in this room.’
He went to the far end of the study, jerked back the curtains, and pushed open a french window. The night air came in, not as a wind, but stilly, with a tang of extreme cleanliness. The moon was up and, across the plateau, fifty miles away, it shone on the Cloud Piercer and his attendant peaks. Alleyn joined Douglas at the window. ‘If I spoke,’ he thought, ‘my voice would go out towards those mountains and between my moving lips and that distant snow there would be only clear darkness.’ He had noticed, on the drive up to Mount Moon, that the flats in front of the homestead were swampy and studded with a few desultory willows. Now, in the moonlight, he caught a glint of water and he heard the cry of wild duck and the beat of wings. Behind him in the room, someone threw wood upon the fire and Alleyn’s shadow flickered across the terrace.
‘Need we freeze?’ Ursula asked fretfully. Douglas reached out his hand to the french window, but before he shut it or drew the curtain a footfall sounded briskly and a man walked along the terrace towards the north side of the house. As he reached the part of the terrace that was lit from the room he was seen to be wearing a neat black suit and a felt hat. It was Markins, returning from his visit to the manager’s cottage. Douglas slammed the french window and pulled the curtain across it.
‘And there goes the expert,’ he said, ‘who runs about the place, scot-free, while we sit yammering a lot of high-falutin bilge about the character of the woman he may have killed. I’m going to bed.’
‘He’ll bring the drinks in a minute,’ said Fabian. ‘Why not wait and have one.’
‘If he’s got wind of this I wouldn’t put it past him to monkey with the decanter.’
‘Honestly, Douglas!’ Fabian and Ursula said together. ‘You are –!’
‘All right, all right,’ Douglas said angrily. ‘I’m a fool. Say no more.’ He flung himself down on the sofa again, but this time