“Why, of course. I only thought that for the ladies it would be better to have it happen as unnoticeably as possible. Would you like to go into the study?”
“If I may, please.”
So Nigel stood and looked for the last time at Charles Rankin. He had never seen death before, but it seemed to him that it was not so very strange. Only he found it difficult to touch Charles, a gesture that obscurely he felt obliged to make. He put out his hand and met the cold heaviness of the forehead. Then he went back into the hall.
The mortuary car had arrived, and the men were already waiting. They brought Rankin out of the study, and in a very short time had driven him away. Inspector Alleyn stood by Nigel on the steps, watching until the car had disappeared down the drive. Nigel was conscious of him, and found that he liked his presence. When the sound of the car had died away, he turned to speak to the detective, but he had already gone. It was Angela who stood in the doorway.
“I know what’s been happening,” she said. “Come for a walk.”
“I’d like to,” said Nigel. “Where shall we go?”
“I think the best thing we could do would be to go right round the home fields rather fast, and then finish up with a good go at badminton.”
“Right,” said Nigel, and they set off.
“We need a good deal of this sort of thing,” remarked Angela firmly, after they had walked in silence for some time, “otherwise we’ll all get morbid.”
“I should have thought with you that was an impossibility.”
“Well, you’re wrong. There’s a stream at the bottom of this field. If it’s not too sloppy we can jump across. What were we saying? Oh, yes. Me and morbidness. I do assure you I could easily become as grim as a Russian novel. Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t let’s talk about Russians! Doctor Tokareff is positively deafening, I find.”
“He is rather fatiguing.”
“Nigel!” said Angela suddenly. “let’s make a pact. Let’s be honest with each other—about the murder, I mean. It’ll help such a lot. Do you agree? Or am I a nuisance?”
“I agree. I’m so glad you’ve suggested it, Angela; and how could you possibly be a nuisance!”
“Well, then, that’s all right. I don’t think you killed Charles. Do you think I did?”
“No,” said Nigel.
“Who do you think did it?”
“Honestly, I can’t think.”
“But,” insisted Angela, “you must have leanings—you must.”
“I suppose, then, I lean towards Vassily, although he did seem such an honest-to-God old chap.”
“Yes, I know,” agreed Angela. “I sort of think Vassily did it, but I don’t feel he did.”
“Who do you feel did it, Angela? Don’t answer if you’d rather not.”
“It’s part of the pact.”
“I know,” said Nigel, “but don’t if you’d rather not.” They had reached the tiny stream that ran across the bottom of the field. The ground on either side was muddy and dappled with small puddles.
“I want to,” said Angela, “but it’ll be rather like crossing the stream to do it.”
“Let me carry you across.”
“I don’t mind getting muddy.”
“But I mind if you do. Let me carry you!”
Angela looked at him. “What’s all this?” thought Nigel confusedly. “I’ve only just met her. What’s happening?”
“Very well,” said Angela, and put one arm round his neck.
Liquid mud flowed into his brogues, and water struck like ice at his ankles. Neither of these discomforts did he resent, and when they reached firm ground he walked on delightedly until they had approached the trees.
“You may put me down,” said Angela, close to his ear.
“At once,” she added, rather loudly.
“Yes, certainly,” said Nigel, and obeyed.
“Now,” continued Angela, pink in the face, “having crossed the stream, I’ll tell you who I feel—”
“Wait a moment,” said Nigel suddenly.
From behind them on the home side of the field a voice was hailing him.
“Mr. Bath—gate!”
They turned and saw Mrs. Wilde waving energetically.
“There’s a telephone call come through for you from London,” shouted Mrs. Wilde.
“Damn!” muttered Nigel. “Thank you!” he shouted.
“You’ll have to go back,” said Angela. “I’ll go round the long way to the barn.”
“But you haven’t told me—”
“I don’t think, after all, that I will,” said Angela.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Following Information from a Baby
NIGEL’S LONG-DISTANCE CALL turned out to be from Mr. Benningden, the family solicitor. Mr. Benningden was one of those small desiccated gentlemen so like the accepted traditional figure of a lawyer that they lose their individuality in their perfect conformation to type. He was greatly perturbed by Charles Rankin’s death. That, Nigel, who knew him very well, could be sure of; but his dry voice and staccato phrases had lost nothing of their formal precision. He arranged to come down to Frantock the following afternoon. Nigel hung up the receiver, and went to the barn in search of Angela.
Half-way there he ran into Alleyn, who was talking to an under-gardener. Evidently the Inspector had extended his examination of the servants to the outdoor staff. Nigel remembered how yesterday the guests had wandered off in twos and threes. He had seen Mrs. Wilde and Rankin in the garden, and had wondered if Wilde and Rosamund were together. Would Alleyn try to trace the movements of each individual? Was there any significance in the grouping? What, wondered Nigel,not for the first time, what exactly was the Inspector up to? The under-gardener held by the hand a very small, very dirty, very red-faced child of undecipherable sex, whom Alleyn was regarding with a comical air of frustration.
“Mr. Bathgate,” ejaculated the Inspector. “One moment! Tell me, have you a way with children?”
“I really don’t know,” said Nigel.
“Well, don’t hurry away like that. This is Stimson, the third gardener, and this is his daughter—er—Sissy. Sissy Stimson. Stimson tells me that she returned yesterday from the woods full of some story of a weeping woman. I rather want to investigate, but she is a difficult witness. Do see if you can have a success with her. I want to settle the identity of this tearful lady, and also of a person who appears to have trotted along beside her. Sissy is not exactly a gossipy child. Er, Sissy—here’s Mr.Bathgate come to talk to you.”
“Hullo, Sissy,” said Nigel reluctantly.
Sissy flung herself at her father’s leg and buried her face in his unappetizing trousers.
“Cut that out,” said Stimson. “She’s a peculiar child, sir,” he continued, turning to Nigel. “A very peculiar nature she’s got.Now, if her Ma was present I don’t doubt but what she’d have the whole matter out of Sissy; but unluckily, sir, the wife’s away till Saturday, and I can’t say I’ve got the same light touch with the child. Here, give over, will ’ee, Sis.”
He moved his leg uneasily, but the little girl refused to detach herself.
“Sissy,” said Nigel, feeling inadequate and ridiculous, “would you like a nice silver penny?”
A baleful eye showed round a fold of the trousers. Nigel produced a shilling and held it up with an air of simulated ecstasy.
“Look what I’ve found,” he simpered.
A sort of falsetto growl rose from the truculent child. “Gatcha!” it said.
“Go on,” said Alleyn. “Splendid! Go on.”
“Would you like this silver penny?” enquired Nigel, squatting on his heels and holding the shilling very close to the child’s face.
Sissy made a sudden grab, and Nigel snatched back his hand.
“ ’Taint a penny—it’s a shillun,” said Sissy derisively.
“So it is!” agreed Nigel. “Well, look here, I’ll give it to you if you’ll tell this nice gentleman”—he shot a vindictive glanc
e at Alleyn—“what you saw in the woods yesterday.”
Dead silence.
“Oh!” squeaked the Inspector suddenly, “I’ve found a silver shilling, too. Fancy!”
Stimson showed signs of enthusiasm.
“Come on, carn’t ’ee!” he urged his daughter. “Speak up,Sis. Tell the gentleman all about that theer lady that was crying in the coppice; they’ll give you a coupla bob. There now!”
Sissy had come out of cover and was swinging her barrel-like body from side to side.
“Was she a big lady?” asked Alleyn.
“Nah!” whined Sissy.
“Was she a little lady?” asked Nigel.
“Nah!”
“Well, now, approximately—” began the Inspector, and checked himself. “Was she alone?” he inquired.
“I seen a loidy,” said Sissy.
“Yes, yes. Excellent. So far, so good. Now, was this lady alone? All alone!” chanted Alleyn in a sort of faraway croon. “All alone!”
Sissy stared at him.
“Was she—was she all by ’elf?” asked Nigel, trying baby talk.
“Nah!” said Sissy.
“There was someone else with the lady?”
“Yea-us.”
“Another lady?” suggested Nigel.
“Nah. Loidies don’t go wiv loidies in der coppus.”
Stimson laughed coarsely. “Isn’t she a masterpiece, sir?” he asked.
“Come now,” said Alleyn crisply. “We are getting on. The lady was with a gentleman?”
Nigel had to repeat this question.
“Yea-us,” conceded Sissy.
“What sort of gentleman?” began Alleyn.
Sissy made another grab at Nigel’s shilling and gave a sudden boisterous shout.
“Was he a big gentleman?” said Nigel, backing away from her.
“Gimme der shillun!” yelled Sissy. “Yah! Gimme der shillun!”
“No!” said Nigel. “Not if you aren’t a good girl.”
The child screamed piercingly and flung herself face downwards on the path, where she remained yelling and thrashing about with her legs.
“That’s tore it,” said Stimson gloomily.
“What are you doing to that poor baby?” cried an indignant voice, and Angela came hurrying down the path. In a moment she was kneeling on the ground and had gathered Sissy up in her arms. The child clung round Angela’s neck and buried her filthy little face in her blouse.
“Toike awoy the nasty gentlemen!” she sobbed, “and gimme der shilluns!”
“My poor darling,” crooned Angela. “Why have you been teasing her?” she demanded fiercely of Nigel and Alleyn.
“We haven’t been doing anything of the sort,” said Nigel crossly. “Have we, Stimson?”
“You didn’t go for to, sir,” agreed Stimson. “It’s like this, Miss,” he continued. “Sissy saw a lady and gentleman in the coppice, and the lady was crying, and this gentleman wants to know the rights of it. And young Sis, she’s turned rancid ous, Miss.”
“I don’t wonder,” said Angela. “Give me that money you’ve been tormenting her with.” Alleyn and Nigel handed over the shillings.
“There, my precious!” murmured Angela. “We won’t tell them anything about it. We’ll have it for a secret. You whisper to me what the silly old people in the woods were like. You needn’t wait, Stimson. I’ll bring her along to the cottage.”
“Very good, Miss,” said Stimson, and retired.
Sissy appeared to blow ferociously in Angela’s ear.
“A lady with a lovely red cap,” whispered Angela. “Poor lady! I expect a wopsie had bitten her, don’t you? Was it a big gentleman?”
Alleyn had whipped out his note-book. Sissy was breathing hard into Angela’s hair.
“It was a funny gentleman,” reported Angela. “Why was he funny? Just funny. You saw another lady this afternoon, did you? What was she doing, darling? Just walking. There now! That was a lovely secret, and now we’ll go home.”
“I’ve got a lovely secret, too,” said Detective-Inspector Alleyn astonishingly.
Sissy, who had detached herself from Angela, turned a watery eye on him. The Inspector suddenly squatted down by her and distorted his face slightly so that one slim black eyebrow shot up his forehead. Sissy chuckled. The eyebrow came back to normal.
“More!” said Sissy.
“It won’t do it again unless you whisper to it some more about the gentleman you saw in the coppice,” said Alleyn.
Sissy waddled across the path and placed a fat earthy paw on the Inspector’s face. He flinched slightly and shook his head. Sissy whispered. The eyebrow moved up.
“There! that’s how it works,” remarked Alleyn; “and if we went into the coppice there’s no knowing if it wouldn’t do it again.”
Sissy looked over her shoulder at Angela. “Doin’ to der coppus,” she said briefly.
Alleyn rose with the child in his arms.
“Leave to dismiss, Miss North?” he asked politely.
“Certainly, Inspector Alleyn,” said Angela stiffly.
The Inspector performed a guardsman’s salute with his free hand, and strode off down the path with Sissy’s arms entwined very lovingly about his neck.
“Extraordinary!” said Nigel.
“Not a bit,” rejoined Angela. “The child has got sense, that’s all.”
“Shall we play badminton?” asked Nigel.
“By all means,” responded Miss North.
Alleyn’s first action on returning to Frantock from his session with Miss Stimson was to wash himself very thoroughly in the downstairs cloakroom. He then looked up one of his notes made during what he called “wardrobe inspection” that morning, read a certain entry in reference to a red cap, and inquired of Ethel if he could speak to Miss Grant. He learned that Doctor Young was attending her in her room.
“I will wait for Doctor Young,” said Alleyn, and sat down in the hall.
He had not been there long before Wilde came in from the garden. He hesitated, as indeed they all did, at the sight of the Inspector, and then asked if he was waiting for anyone.
“I’m really waiting for Doctor Young,” said Alleyn, “but I also wanted to see Sir Hubert. I wonder, Mr. Wilde, if you know where he is?”
The archaeologist rubbed his hair up the wrong way—a characteristic gesture.
“He was—in there,” he said, pointing to the study door.
“In the study?”
“Yes.”
“Really? I must have missed him somehow,” remarked the Inspector ambiguously. “When did he go in?”
“Soon after they took—Charles—away,” said Wilde. “He may still be there. Would you like me to ask if he can see you, Inspector?”
“Thank you so much,” said Alleyn gratefully. Wilde opened the study door and looked inside. Evidently Handesley was still there, as Wilde went in and Alleyn heard their voices. He waited a couple of minutes, and then Wilde appeared again. Alleyn thought he looked faintly shocked.
“He is just coming,” he said, and with a nod to the Inspector went upstairs.
Handesley came out of the study. He had a sheet of note-paper in his hand.
“Ah, there you are, Inspector,” he said. “I have just been going through a few papers that I wanted.” He hesitated, and then went on with painful deliberation. “It was impossible for me to enter the room while Mr. Rankin’s body lay there.”
“I can well understand that,” said Alleyn.
“This,” continued Handesley, holding out the paper, “is the document I mentioned this morning. The will Mr. Rankin signed yesterday, bequeathing the dagger to me. You mentioned that you would like to see it.”
“You have made things easy for me, Sir Hubert,” said Alleyn. “It was in my mind to ask you for it.”
He took the paper and read it through impassively.
“I suppose,” said Handesley, who was staring out at the front door, “I suppose that, although the thing was drawn u
p more or less in fun, it does actually constitute a legal document?”
“I am no lawyer,” answered Alleyn, “but I should imagine that it was quite in order. May I keep it for the moment?”
“Yes, of course. I suppose later on I may have it again? I should like to keep it.” He paused, and then added quickly, “You see, it is the last thing he wrote.”
“Certainly,” said Alleyn imperturbably.
Doctor Young appeared and came downstairs.
“May I see your patient, Doctor Young?” asked Alleyn.
The doctor performed the feat known in Victorian nursery books as “looking grave.”
“She’s not so grand,” he said doubtfully. “Is it necessary?”
“Shouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t,” rejoined Alleyn quite amicably. “I won’t keep her long, and I’ve a beautiful bedside manner.”
“She’s in a very highly strung condition. I’d rather she was left to herself for a bit—but, of course—”
“Of course Mr. Alleyn must see her,” Handesley broke in. “This is no time for attacks of the vapours, Doctor Young.”
“Well, Sir Hubert—”
“I really feel rather strongly about it,” said Handesley emphatically. “Rosamund is a young woman of character; she is most unlikely to give in to her nerves. The sooner the Inspector gets through his job, the better for all of us.”
“I wish everyone else felt the same way about it,” said Alleyn. “I won’t be ten minutes, Doctor Young.” And he went upstairs without waiting for the little doctor to answer him.
In response to his knock at her door, Rosamund Grant called out in her usual strong, rather deep voice. He went in and found her lying in bed. Her face was terribly white, and all the colour seemed to have been drained out of her lips. But she was cool enough when she saw who her visitor was, and invited him to sit down.
“Thank you,” said Alleyn. He drew up a small armchair, and seated himself between the bed and the window.
“I’m sorry you are laid up, Miss Grant,” he said in his matter-of-fact way, “and sorrier still to disturb you. I have often wondered which is the more indecently preposterous job—a detective’s or a journalist’s.”
“You should compare notes with Nigel Bathgate,” rejoined Rosamund Grant. “Not,” she added wearily, “that he has been trying to get stories out of us. I suppose even the keenest journalist does not try to make copy out of his cousin’s murder, especially when he happens to be his cousin’s heir.”