Vintage Murder. Ngaio Marsh
was extremely smart, and their son, an early print of his father. They had called on Carolyn, who had instantly asked them to her party, forgotten she had done so, and neglected to warn anybody of their arrival. Gascoigne, who received them, looked nonplussed for a moment, and then, knowing his Carolyn, guessed what had happened. They were followed by Gordon Palmer, registering familiarity with backstage, and his cousin, Geoffrey Weston.
‘Hullo, George,’ said Gordon. ‘Perfectly marvellous. Great fun. Carolyn was too thrilling, wasn’t she? I must see her. Where is she?’
‘Miss Dacres is changing,’ said Ted Gascoigne, who had dealt with generations of Gordon Palmers.
‘But I simply can’t wait another second,’ protested Gordon in a high-pitched voice.
‘Afraid you’ll have to,’ said Gascoigne. ‘May I introduce Mr Gordon Palmer, Mr Weston, Mrs – mumble-mumble.’
‘Forrest,’ said the broad lady cheerfully. With the pathetic faith of most colonial ladies in the essential niceness of all young Englishmen, she instantly made friendly advances. Her husband and son looked guarded and her daughter alert.
More guests arrived, among them a big brown man with a very beautiful voice – Dr Rangi Te Pokiha, a Maori physician, who was staying at the Middleton.
Alleyn came in with Mason and Alfred Meyer, who had given him a box, and greeted him, after a final glance at the supper-table. They made a curious contrast. The famous Mr Meyer, short, pasty, plump, exuded box-office and front-of-the-house from every pearl button in his white waistcoat. The famous policeman, six inches taller, might have been a diplomat. ‘Magnificent appearance,’ Meyer had said to Carolyn. ‘He’d have done damn’ well if he’d taken to “the business”.’
One by one the members of the company came out from their dressing-rooms. Most actors have an entirely separate manner for occasions when they mix with outsiders. This separate manner is not so much an affectation as a persona, a mask used for this particular appearance. They wish to show how like other people they are. It is an innocent form of snobbishness. You have only to see them when the last guest has gone to realise how complete a disguise the persona may be.
Tonight they were all being very grown-up. Alfred Meyer introduced everybody, carefully. He introduced the New Zealanders to each other, the proprietor and proprietress of the Middleton to the station-holder and his family, who of course knew them perfectly well de haut en bas.
Carolyn was the last to appear.
‘Where’s my wife?’ asked Meyer of everybody at large. ‘It’s ten to. Time she was making an entrance.’
‘Where’s Carolyn?’ complained Gordon Palmer loudly.
‘Where’s Madame?’ shouted George Mason jovially.
Led by Meyer, they went to find out.
Alleyn, who, with Mason, had joined Hambledon, wondered if she was instinctively or intentionally delaying her entrance. His previous experience of leading ladies had been a solitary professional one, and he had very nearly lost his heart. He wondered if by any chance he was going to do so again.
At last a terrific rumpus broke out in the passage that led to the dressing-rooms. Carolyn’s golden laugh. Carolyn saying ‘O-o-oh!’ like a sort of musical train whistle. Carolyn sweeping along with three men in her wake. The double doors of the stage-set were thrown open by little Ackroyd, who announced like a serio-comic butler:
‘Enter Madame!’
Carolyn curtsying to the floor and rising like a moth to greet guest after guest. She had indeed made an entrance, but she had done it so terrifically, so deliberately, with a kind of twinkle in her eye, that Alleyn found himself uncritical and caught up in the warmth of her famous ‘personality’. When at last she saw him, and he awaited that moment impatiently, she came towards him with both hands outstretched and eyes like stars. Alleyn rose to the occasion, bent his long back, and kissed each of the hands. The Forrest family goggled at this performance, and Miss Forrest looked more alert than ever.
‘A-a-ah!’ said Carolyn with another of her melodious hoots. ‘My distinguished friend. The famous—’
‘No, no!’ exclaimed Alleyn hastily.
‘Why not! I insist on everybody knowing I’ve got a lion at my party.’
She spoke in her most ringing stage voice. Everybody turned to listen to her. In desperation Alleyn hurriedly lugged a small packet out of of his pocket and, with another bow, put it into her hands. ‘I’m making a walloping great fool of myself,’ he thought.
‘A birthday card,’ he said. ‘I hope you’ll allow me—’
Carolyn, who had already received an enormous number of expensive presents, instantly gazed about her with an air of flabbergasted delight that suggested the joy of a street waif receiving a five-pound note.
‘It’s for me!’ she cried. ‘For me, for me, for me.’ She looked brilliantly at Alleyn and at her guests. ‘You’ll all have to wait. It must be opened now. Quick! Quick!’ She wriggled her fingers and tore at the paper with excited squeaks.
‘Good lord,’ thought Alleyn, ‘how does she get away with it? In any other woman it would be nauseating.’
His gift was at last freed from its wrappings. A small green object appeared. The surface was rounded and graven into the semblance of a squat figure with an enormous lolling head and curved arms and legs. The face was much formalised, but it had a certain expression of grinning malevolence. Carolyn gazed at it in delighted bewilderment.
‘But what is it? It’s jade. It’s wonderful – but—?’
‘It’s greenstone,’ said Alleyn.
‘It is a tiki, Miss Dacres,’ said a deep voice. The Maori, Dr Rangi Te Pokiha, came forward, smiling.
Carolyn turned to him.
‘A tiki?’
‘Yes. And a very beautiful one, if I may say so.’ He glanced at Alleyn.
‘Dr Te Pokiha was good enough to find it for me,’ explained Alleyn.
‘I want to know about – all about it,’ insisted Carolyn.
Te Pokiha began to explain. He was gravely explicit, and the Forrests looked embarrassed. The tiki is a Maori symbol. It brings good fortune to its possessor. It represents a human embryo and is the symbol of fecundity. In the course of a conversation with Te Pokiha at the hotel Alleyn had learned that he had this tiki to dispose of for a pakeha— a white man – who was hard-up. Te Pokiha had said that if it had been his own possession he would never have parted with it, but the pakeha was very hard-up. The tiki was deposited at the museum where the curator would vouch for its authenticity. Alleyn, on an impulse, had gone to look at it and had bought it. On another impulse he had decided to give it to Carolyn. She was enthralled by this story, and swept about showing the tiki to everybody. Gordon Palmer, who had sent up half a florist’s shop, glowered sulkily at Alleyn out of the corners of his eyes. Meyer, obviously delighted with Alleyn’s gift to his wife, took the tiki to a lamp to examine it more closely.
‘It’s lucky, is it?’ he asked eagerly.
‘Well you heard what he said, governor,’ said old Brandon Vernon. ‘A symbol of fertility, wasn’t it? If you call that luck!’
Meyer hastily put the tiki down, crossed his thumbs and began to bow to it.
‘O tiki-tiki be good to little Alfie,’ he chanted. ‘No funny business, now, no funny business.’
Ackroyd said something in an undertone. There was a guffaw from one or two of the men. Ackroyd, with a smirk, took the tiki from Meyer. Old Vernon and Mason joined the group.
Their faces coarsened into half-smiles. The tiki went from hand to hand, and there were many loud gusts of laughter. Alleyn