Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 5: Died in the Wool, Final Curtain, Swing Brother Swing. Ngaio Marsh
afraid. But of course you’ll have a free hand. I’ve told the men and Ducky and everybody, that you’ll be talking to them.’
‘How did they like that?’
‘Quite keen. It’s given a fillip to the ever-popular murder story. Damned ghouls! There’ll be one or two snags, though. Wilson, the wool-sorter, and Jack Merrywether, the presser, are not at all keen. Your friend Sub-Inspector Jackson got badly offside with both of them. And there’s Tommy Johns.’
‘The boy’s father?’
‘Yes. He’s a difficult chap, Tommy. I get on with him all right. He thinks for himself, does Tommy, and what’s more,’ said Fabian, with a grin, ‘he thinks much like me politically, so I consider him a grand guy. But he’s difficult. He resented Flossie’s handling of young Cliff arid small blame to him. And what he thinks of police methods! You won’t find him precisely come-toish.’
‘And the boy himself?’
‘He’s all right, really. He’s a likely lad, and he thinks for himself, too. We’re good friends, young Cliff and I. I lend him the New Statesman and he rebuilds the government, social customs and moral standards of mankind on a strictly non-economic basis two or three times a week. His music is really good, I believe, though I’m afraid it’s not getting much of a run these days. I’ve tried to induce him to practise on the Bechstein over here, but he’s an obstinate young dog and won’t.’
‘Why?’
‘It was Flossie’s.’
‘So the quarrel went deep?’
‘Yes. It’s lucky for young Cliff that he spent the crucial time screwing Bach out of that haggard old mass of wreckage in the outhouse. Everybody knew about the row and his bolt down-country afterwards. Your boy-friend, the Sub-Inspector, fastened on it like a limpet, but fortunately we could all swear to the continuous piano playing. Cliff’s all right.’
‘What’s the explanation of the whisky incident?’
‘I’ve not the slightest idea, but I’m perfectly certain he wasn’t pinching it. I’ve tried to get the story out of him, but he won’t come clean, blast him.’
‘Does he get on well with the other men?’
‘Not too badly. They were inclined at one time to look upon him as a freak. His schooling and tastes aroused their deepest suspicions, of course. In this country, young men are judged almost entirely on their ability to play games and do manual labour. However, Cliff set about his holiday jobs on the station with such energy that they overlooked his other unfortunate interests and even grew to encourage him in playing the piano in the evening. When he came home a good whole-hog Leftist, they were delighted, of course. They’re a good lot – most of them.’
‘Not all?’
‘The shearers’ cook is not much use. He only comes at shearing time. Mrs Johns looks after the regular hands at other times. Lots of the shearers wait until they’ve knocked up a good fat cheque and then go down-country and blue it all at the pub. That’s the usual routine and you won’t change it until you change the social condition of the shearer. But this expert keeps the stuff in his cook-house and if we get through the shearing season without a bout of DTs we’re lucky. He’s a nasty affair is Cookie but he’s unavoidable. They don’t dislike him, oddly enough. The rouseabout, Albie Black, is rather thick with him. He used to be quite matey with young Cliff, too, but they had a break of some sort. Fortunately, I consider. Albie’s a hopeless sort of specimen. Now, if it’d been Albie who pinched the whisky, I shouldn’t have been the least surprised. Or Perce. The cook’s name is Percy Gould, commonly called Perce. All Christian names are abbreviated in this country.’
‘How did Mrs Rubrick get on with the men?’
‘She thought she was a riotous success with them. She adopted a pose of easy jocularity that set my teeth on edge. They took it, with a private grin, I fancy. She imagined she had converted them to a sort of antipodean feudal system. She couldn’t have been more mistaken, of course. I heard the wool-sorter, a perfectly splendid old boy he is, giving a very spirited imitation of her one evening. I’m glad the men were fifteen miles away from the wool-shed that night. The Sub-Inspector is a very class-conscious man. His suspicions would have gravitated naturally to the lower orders.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Alleyn cheerfully.
‘It’s not. He brightened up no end when Douglas started off on his Markins legend. Markins, being a servant, might so much more easily be a murderer than any of us gentry. God, it makes you sick!’
Tell me,’ said Alleyn, ‘have you any suspicions?’
‘None! I think it’s odds on a swagger had strayed up to the wool-shed and decided to doss down for the night. Flossie may have surprised him and had a row with him. In the heat of the argument, he may have lost his temper and gone for her. Then when he found what he’d done, he put on Tommy Johns’ overalls, disposed of his mistake in the first place that suggested itself to him, and made off down-country. She hated swaggers. Most stations give them their tucker and a doss-down for the night in exchange for a job of work, but not Flossie. That’s my idea. It’s the only explanation that seems reasonable. The only type that fits.’
‘One of the lower orders, in fact?’
‘Yes,’ said Fabian, after a pause. ‘You got me there, didn’t you?’
‘It was a cheap score, I’m afraid. Your theory is reasonable enough, but no wandering tramp was seen about the district that day. I understand they stick to the road, and usually make themselves known at the homesteads.’
‘Not at Mount Moon with Flossie at home.’
‘Perhaps not. Still your swagger remains a figure that as far as the police investigations go, and they seem to have been painstaking and thorough, was seen by nobody, either before or after the night of the disappearance.’
‘I’ve no other contribution to offer, I’m afraid, and I’m keeping you up. Goodnight, sir. I’m still glad you came.’
‘I hope you’ll continue of that mind,’ said Alleyn. ‘Before you go, would you tell me how many of you played tennis on the night Mrs Rubrick disappeared?’
‘Now, this,’ said Fabian, with an air of gratification, ‘is the real stuff. Why should you want to know that, I wonder? Only Douglas and I played tennis.’
‘You wore rubber-soled shoes during the search, then?’
‘Certainly.’
‘And the others? Can you remember?’
‘Pin heels. They always did in the evenings.’
‘When, actually, did Mrs Rubrick first say she was going to the wool-shed?’
‘Soon after we sat down. Might have been before. She was all arch about it. “What do you suppose your funny old Floosie’s going to do presently?” That kind of thing. Then she developed her theme: the party and what-not.’
‘I see. Thank you very much. Goodnight.’
II
Fabian had gone and Alleyn was alone in the silent room. He stood motionless, a tall thin shape, dark in the candlelight. Presently he moved to the desk and opened one of the locked cases. From this he took a small tuft of cotton-wool and dropped it on the carpet. Even by candlelight it was conspicuous, unavoidable, a white accent on a dark green ground. So must the tuft of wool have looked when Ursula, on the morning after Florence disappeared, caught it up in the carpet sweeper. Yet she hadn’t noticed it. Or had she merely forgotten it? They were all agreed that Flossie would never have suffered it to lie there. She had been up to her room after dinner and before the walk through the garden. Presumably, there had been no wool on her carpet then. Alleyn heard again Ursula Harme’s voice: ‘I don’t care what anybody says. Somebody was about on the landing at five minutes to three that morning.’
Alleyn