‘And of me,’ said Bimbo quickly.
Alleyn said: ‘In your case there might well be something we haven’t yet winkled out. Which is what I mean about the secondary importance of motive. However, I was coming to you. You had ample opportunity. You retired to a bathroom where you tell me you spent a long time bandaging your hand. You could equally well have spent it driving back to the ditch and arranging the trap. No, please don’t interrupt. I know you were bitten. That proves nothing. You may also remember that you took Mr Leiss’s overcoat to him. Were his gloves in the pocket?’
‘How the hell do I know! I didn’t pick his ghastly pockets,’ said Bimbo, turning very white.
‘A statement that at the moment can’t be checked. All the same, there’s this to be said for you: if you are both telling the truth about your movements this evening, you are unlikely to have chucked the paper-weight at Mr Period’s head. Although,’ Alleyn said very coolly, ‘the amorous dog-chase might well have led you into Mr Period’s garden.’
‘It might have,’ Desirée remarked, ‘but in point of fact it didn’t. Bimbo was never out of my sight.’
‘If that is so,’ Alleyn said, ‘it leads us to an inescapable conclusion.’
He waited, and across the stillness of the room there floated small, inconsequent sounds: the whisper of Fox’s pencil and his rather heavy breathing, the faint rasp of Moppett’s fingernails on the arms of her chair and from somewhere within the house a scarcely perceptible mechanical throb.
‘There remains,’ Alleyn said, ‘just one person to whom opportunity, behaviour and motive all point, inescapably. This person presents certain characteristics: a knowledge of Mr Cartell’s movements, the assurance that at one o’clock the Baynesholme guests would have long ago left the scene, and access to Mr Leiss’s gloves. So much for opportunity. Behaviour. There are certain reactions. Everybody knows about Mr Period’s propensity for writing letters of condolence; he’s famous for them. Now, suppose one of you gets a Period letter, couched in rather ambiguous terms but commiserating with you on the loss of somebody whom you saw fighting-fit the previous evening. What would you think? Either that he was dotty or that he had sent you the wrong letter. You might get an initial shock, but a few moments thought would reassure you. You would not, having gone to find out what it was all about and encountered a bewildered Mr Period, turn deadly white and almost faint. But if you had murdered the supposed subject of the letter, how would you react? Suppose you had awakened in the morning with the remembrance of your deed festering in your mind and then been presented with this letter. Suppose, finally, that when you were being interviewed by the police, a second letter arrived, couched in exactly the same phrases. Wouldn’t that seem like a nightmare? Wouldn’t it seem as if Mr Period knew what you’d done and was torturing you with his knowledge? What would you do then?’
Connie Cartell had risen to her feet. She made an extraordinary gesture with her weather-chapped bandaged hand.
‘You can’t prove it,’ she said. ‘You haven’t got the gloves.’
At that moment a loud and confused rumpus broke out in the garden. There was a cry of frustration and a yelp of pain. The Pekinese leapt from Connie’s embrace.
A body crashed against the French windows. They burst open to admit Pixie, immensely overwrought and carrying some object in her mouth. She was closely followed by Alfred Belt.
Alleyn shouted: ‘Shut those windows.’ Alfred did so and stood in front of them, panting noisily.
With an expertise borne of their early training, Alleyn and Fox seized, respectively, Pixie and Li. Alleyn thrust his thumbs into the corners of Pixie’s slavering mouth.
Her plaything dropped to the floor. Alfred, gasping for breath, stammered: ‘In the garden, sir. Here. Ran her to earth. Digging.’
Moppett cried out: ‘Lennie! Lennie! Look! They’re your gloves!’
Alleyn said to Bimbo: ‘Catch hold of this dog.’
‘I’ll be damned if I do.’
‘I do her,’ said Trudi.
She dragged Pixie from the room.
Alleyn stooped to retrieve the gloves. He unrolled them. The leather in the palms had been torn and fragments of string hung loose from the knitted backs. The thumb of the left hand glove was discoloured with blood. He began to turn it inside out. As he did so, Connie Cartell screamed.
It was a shocking sound, scarcely less animal than the canine outcry that had preceded it. Her mouth remained open and for a moment she looked like a mask for a Fury. Then she plunged forward and when Fox seized her, screamed again.
The lining of the thumb showed a fragment of blackened and blood-stained cotton-wool and smelt quite distinctly of the black ointment used for girth-gall.
CHAPTER 8
Period Piece
Mr Pyke Period reclined on his library sofa, nibbling calves’-foot jelly and giving audience to Alleyn, Nicola and Andrew. He had just prevailed upon Dr Elekton to allow him downstairs. Wan though he was, he might nevertheless have been suspected of enjoying himself.
‘It’s so utterly dreadful,’ he said. ‘One cannot believe it. Connie! One knows, of course, that she has the reputation of a thruster in the hunting field, but I’ve always thought of her as just another of those fatiguing women who shout and laugh. Rather stupid, in fact.’
‘She is,’ Alleyn conceded, ‘a very stupid woman. But she has the cunning of her stupidity, I’m afraid.’
‘And all for that wretched girl! I fear,’ Mr Period said, ‘that I may have precipitated matters, I mean, by suggesting that the girl should come and see me. The thing was, my dear fellow, I woke on that dreadful night and I heard that tune being whistled somewhere outside. And voices: hers and that appalling young man’s. And when you described what must have been done, I thought they were responsible.’
‘But,’ Alleyn pointed out, ‘you decided not to tell me about this?’
Mr Period changed colour. ‘Yes – for a number of reasons. You see – if it had only been intended as a trick – the consequences – so terrible for Connie. Oh, dear – Connie! And then I must confess –’
‘You couldn’t face the publicity?’
‘No,’ Mr Period whispered. ‘No – I couldn’t. Very wrong of me. There – there was a personal matter –’ He stopped and waved his hands.
‘I know about the baptismal register,’ Alleyn said gently.
Mr Period turned scarlet but said nothing.
Alleyn looked at Andrew and Nicola: ‘Perhaps,’ he suggested, ‘I might just have a word –’
‘Yes, of course,’ they both said and made for the door.
‘No!’ Mr Period quite shouted. They turned. His face was still red and his eyes were screwed up as if he expected a blow. ‘No!’ he repeated. ‘Don’t go! I am resigned. If I have to dree my weird I may as well dree it now. My nanny,’ Mr Period explained with a travesty of his family preoccupation, ‘was a Highlander. I prefer, I repeat, that you should remain. Nicola: you lunched here, you heard the conversation? About – about the baptismal register? You remember?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘’Nuff said. But I felt sure that Hal was going to tell Connie and Connie would tell the girl and – and if I—indeed, when I saw her, the girl threatened –’
‘Little beast,’ Nicola said heartily.
‘Worse than that! I gathered they were prepared to use blackmail. And then, dear Desirée came in that evening and said, Alleyn, she’d given you that unfortunate letter so –’
‘So you felt you had nothing to lose?’
‘Quite! Quite!’
‘So you told the girl that unless she could explain their presence in the lane you would report it to the police.’
‘Yes. I said I felt it my duty to speak, in case innocent people should be suspected. It was then she threatened to use – to make public – however! She was so impertinent and so brazen I lost my temper. I said I would ring you up at once. I quite shouted it after her as she went away. And then, you know, I
did ring up and—and then I don’t know what happened.’
Alleyn said: ‘What happened was this. Constance Cartell, on the hunt for her Pekinese, came into your garden. She probably caught a glimpse of her ward coming out by the French windows. She heard your final threat. She was terribly suspicious, indeed terrified, of you.’
‘Of Mr Period,’ Nicola exclaimed. ‘But why?’
‘Because of the identical letters of condolence. She thought he suspected her. She had let me see the second letter, hoping to anticipate anything he might tell me by throwing suspicion on him.’
‘But how dreadful of her!’ Mr Period faintly exclaimed.
‘She heard you shout that you were going to ring me up. You had your back to the window as you telephoned. The paper-weight was on the table, near to hand. In an ecstasy of rage and of fear for herself and her ward, she threw it at you and bolted. Everything she has done has been out of the unreasoning depths of her passion for that wretched girl. Her brother had threatened to bring a charge of theft against Mary, so Connie picked up Leiss’s gloves from wherever they had been dumped in her hall and laid the trap for him. Afterwards, because the gloves were torn and stained with the stuff she put on her thumb, she buried them in her rubbish heap, which was due to be lit next day. She didn’t wear gloves when she threw the paper-weight. Her prints were there, quite clearly, along with several others.’
‘But –’ Nicola began and then said: ‘Yes. Of course.’
‘Of course – why?’
‘I was just remembering. They would be, anyway, because Mr Period handed it round before lunch.’
‘I wonder if she’s thought of that,’ said Alleyn.
He went over to Mr Period. ‘You’ve had a horrid time of it,’ he said, ‘and I can’t say the sequel will be anything but very deeply distressing, but as far as your private affairs are concerned, I don’t think they will come into the case at all.’
Mr Period tried once or twice to speak. At last he said: ‘You are very kind. Too kind. I’m most grateful.’
Alleyn shook his hand and left him. Nicola and Andrew saw him out.
Nicola said: ‘I’ve often tried to imagine what you were like in action. Now, I know. It’s a bit sobering.’
‘I’ve been wondering,’ Andrew said. ‘Did you ever suspect me?’
‘You?’ Alleyn looked at the pair of them and grinned. ‘You didn’t, it appeared, leave Nicola for long enough. And I’m damned if I go any further with this recital. Goodbye to you both.’ He went a few paces down the drive and turned. ‘By the way,’ he said. ‘I’ve been talking to Troy. She seems to think you’re an acquisition as a pupil. I’ve seldom heard her so enthusiastic. Congratulations.’
He waved his hand and left them.
Nicola looked at Andrew. ‘Congratulations,’ she said.
‘Darling!’ Andrew began excitedly, but she backed away from him, ‘No! Not now! Not yet. Let’s wait. I must get back to Mr Period,’ said Nicola in a flurry.
‘I love you,’ said Andrew. ‘Isn’t it astonishing?’
‘It’s heaven,’ Nicola cried and ran into the house.
Mr Period was looking pensive and had the air of a man who has made up his mind.
‘Nicola, my love,’ he said, still in a slightly invalidish voice, ‘it’s just occurred to me that I really should explain about that business. In case there is any misunderstanding. The old rector at Ribblethorpe was a dear old boy but a leetle eccentric. He christened me, you know. But would you believe it, he forgot to put my name in the register? I was a twin. He became so ga-ga, poor darling, that I’m afraid that when I discovered the omission, I was very naughty and took things into my own hands. It seemed the simplest way out,’ Mr Period said, looking Nicola very straight in the eye. He gave a little titter. ‘But we won’t put it in the book.’
‘No?’
‘No,’ said Mr Period firmly. ’‘Nuff said.’
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dame Ngaio Marsh was born in New Zealand in 1895 and died in February 1982. She wrote over 30 detective novels and many of her stories have theatrical settings, for Ngaio Marsh’s real passion was the theatre. She was both actress and producer and almost single-handedly revived the New Zealand public’s interest in the theatre. It was for this work that the received what she called her ‘damery’ in 1966.
ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
A Man Lay Dead
Enter a Murderer
The Nursing Home Murder
Death in Ecstasy
Vintage Murder
Artists in Crime
Death in a White Tie
Overture to Death
Death at the Bar
Surfeit of Lampreys
Death and the Dancing Footman
Colour Scheme
Died in the Wool
Final Curtain
Swing, Brother, Swing
Opening Night
Spinsters in Jeopardy
Scales of Justice
Off With His Head
Singing in the Shrouds
False Scent
Hand in Glove
Dead Water
Death at the Dolphin
Clutch of Constables
When in Rome
Tied up in Tinsel
Black As He’s Painted
Last Ditch
Grave Mistake
Photo-Finish
Light Thickens
Black Beech and Honeydew (autobiography)
COPYRIGHT
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1962
Copyright © Ngaio Marsh Ltd 1962
Ngaio Marsh asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of these works
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780006512486
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Ngaio Marsh, Hand in Glove
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