Overture to Death

  They found nothing of interest in the men’s rooms until Alleyn came to a Donegal tweed suit.

  “This is the doctor’s professional suit,” he said. “It reeks of surgery. Evidently the black jacket is not done in a country practice. I suppose, in the hubbub, he didn’t change but went home looking like a comic-opera Frenchman. He must have—”

  Alleyn stopped short. Fox looked up to see him staring at a piece of paper.

  “Found something, sir?”

  “Look.”

  It was a piece of plain blue paper. Fox read the lines of capitals:

  YOU ARE GIVEN NOTICE

  TO LEAVE THIS DISTRICT.

  IF YOU DISREGARD

  THIS WARNING

  YOUR LOVER

  SHALL SUFFER.

  “Where did you find this, Mr. Alleyn?”

  “In a wallet. Inside breast pocket of the police surgeon’s suit,” said Alleyn. He dropped it on the dressing-table and then bent down and sniffed at it.

  “It smells of eucalyptus,” he said.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  According to Roper

  “THAT’S AWKWARD,” GRUNTED Fox, after a pause.

  “Couldn’t be more awkward.”

  “‘Your lover shall suffer,’” quoted Fox. “That looks as if it was written to a woman, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s not common usage nowadays the other way round, but it’s English. Common enough in the mixed plural.”

  “He’s a married man,” Fox remembered.

  “Yes, it sounded as if his wife’s an invalid, didn’t it? This may have been written to his mistress or possibly to him, or it may have been shown him by a third person who is threatened and wants advice.”

  “Or he may have done it himself.”

  “Yes, it’s possible, of course. Or it may be the relic of a parlour game. Telegrams, for instance. You made a sentence from a string of letters. He’d hardly carry that about next to his heart, though, would he? Damn! I’m afraid we’re in for a nasty run, Brer Fox.”

  “How did the doctor strike you, Mr. Alleyn?”

  “What? Rather jumpy. Bit too anxious to please. Couldn’t stop talking.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Fox.

  “We’ll have to flourish the search-warrant a bit if we work on this,” said Alleyn. “It’ll be interesting to see if he misses it before we tackle him about it.”

  “He’s doing the P.M.”

  “I know. We shall be present. Anyway, the lady was shot through the head. We’ve got the weapon and we’ve got the projectile. The post-mortem is not likely to be very illuminating. Hullo, Bailey, what is it?”

  Bailey had come down the steps from the stage.

  “I thought you’d better know, sir. This chap Roper’s recognised the automatic. Mr. Bathgate ran him down to the station and they’ve checked up the number.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Out in the hall.” A reluctant grin appeared on Bailey’s face. “I reckon he still thinks it’s great to be a policeman. He wants to tell you himself.”

  “Very touching. All right. Bailey, I want you to test this paper for prints. Do it at once, will you, and put it between glass when you’ve finished. And, Bailey, have a shot at the teapot out there. Inside and out.”

  “Teapot, sir?”

  “Yes. Also the powdered onion on the table. I dare say it’s quite immaterial, but it’s queer, so we’d better tackle it.”

  They returned to the hall where they found Roper standing over the automatic with something of the air of a clever retriever.

  “Well, Roper,” said Alleyn, “I hear you’ve done a bit of investigation for us.”

  “Yes, sir, I have so. I’ve recognised the lethal weapon, sir.”

  “Well, whose is it?”

  “I says to myself when I see it,” said Roper, “I know you, my friend, I’ve had you in my hands, I said. And then I remembered. It was when we checked up on firearms licences six months ago. Now, I suppose a hundred weapons must have passed under my notice that time, this being a sporting part of the world, so I reckon it’s not surprising I didn’t pick this affair so soon as I clapped eyes on her. I reckon that’s not surprising, and yet she looked familiar, you understand?”

  “Yes, Roper, I quite understand. Who is the owner?”

  “This weapon, sir, is a Colt .32 automatic, the property of Jocelyn Jernigham, Esquire, of Pen Cuckoo.”

  “Is it, indeed?” murmured Alleyn.

  “This gentleman, Mr. Bathgate, ran me down to the station, sir, and it didn’t take me over and above five minutes to lay my finger on the files. You can take a look at the files, sir, and—”

  “I shall do so. Now, Roper, see if you can give me some model answers. Short, crisp, and to the point. When did you see the automatic? Can you give me the date?”

  “In the files!” shouted Sergeant Roper, triumphantly. “May 31st of the current year.”

  “Where was it?”

  “In the study at Pen Cuckoo, sir, that being the room at the extreme end of the west wing facing the Vale.”

  “Who showed it to you?”

  “Squire, himself, showed it to me. We’d checked up all the weapons in the gun-room, of which there was a number, and squire takes me into his study and says, ‘There’s one more,’ he says, and he lays his hand on a wooden box on the table and opens the lid. There was this lethal masterpiece laying on her side, with a notice written clear in block letters. ‘Loaded.’ ‘It’s all right,’ says Mr. Jernigham, seeing me step aside as he takes her out. ‘The safety catch is on,’ he says. And he showed me. And he says, ‘It went all through the war with me,’ he says, ‘and there’s half a clip left in it. I’d fired two shots when I got my Blighty one,’ he says, ‘and I’ve kept it like this ever since. I let it be known there’s a loaded automatic waiting at Pen Cuckoo for anybody that feels like coming in uninvited.’ We’d had some thieving in the district at that time, same as we’ve got it now. He told me this weapon had lain loaded in that box for twenty years, did squire.”

  “Was the box locked?”

  “No, sir. But he said all the maids was warned about it.”

  “Anybody else in the room?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Henry was there, and Miss Prentice, sitting quietly by the fire and smiling, pussy-like, same as she always does.”

  “Don’t you like Miss Prentice?”

  “I think she’s all right, but my missus says she’s proper sly. My missus is a great one for the institute and Miss Prentice is president of same.”

  “I see. Any local gossip about Miss Prentice?”

  Roper expanded. He placed his hands in his belt with the classic heaving movement of all policemen. He then appeared to remember he was in the presence of authority and rearranged himself in an attitude of attention.

  “Aye,” he said, “they talk all right, sir. You see, Miss Prentice, she came along, new to the Vale, on three years back when Mrs. Jernigham died. I reckon the late Mrs. Jernigham was nigh-on the best liked lady in this part of Dorset. A Grey of Stourminster-Weston she was, Dorset born and bred, and a proper lady. Now, this Miss Prentice, for all she’s half a Jernigham, is a foreigner as you might say, and she doesn’t know our ways here. Mrs. Jernigham was welcome everywhere, cottage and big houses alike, and wherever she went she was the same. Never asking questions or if she did, out of real niceness and not nosey-parkishness. Now, folk about here say Miss Prentice is the other way round. Sly. Makes trouble between cottages and rectory, or would if she could. Cor,” said Roper, passing his ham of a hand over his face. “The way that old maiden got after rector! My missus says—well, my missus is an outspoken woman and come off a farm.”

  Alleyn did not press for a repetition of Mrs. Roper’s agricultural similes.

  “There was only one worse than her,” continued Roper, “and that was the deceased. She was a dragon after rector. And before Miss Prentice came, Miss Campanula had it all her own way, but I reckon Miss Campanula kind of lost drivi
ng power when t’other lady got going with her insinuating antics.”

  “How did they get on together?”

  “Fast as glue,” said Roper. “Thick as thieves. My missus says they knew too much about each other to be anything else. Cook up to Red House, she says Miss Campanula was jealous fair-to-bust of Miss Prentice, but she was no match for her, however, being the type of woman that lets her anger be seen and rages out in the open, whereas Miss Prentice, with her foxy ways, goes quiet to work. Cook told my missus the deceased was losing ground daily and well-nigh desperate over—”

  “How do you mean, losing ground?”

  “With rector.”

  “Dear me,” murmured Alleyn. “How alarming for the rector.”

  “Reckon he picks his way like that chap in Bible,” said Roper. “He’s a simple sort of chap is rector—but he’s a Vale man and he suits us. His father and grandfather were rectors here before him and he knows our ways.”

  “Quite so, Roper,” said Alleyn, and lit a cigarette.

  “No. But the rector met his match in those two ladies, sir, and it’s a marvel one of them hasn’t snapped him up by this time. Likely he holds them off with holy conversation, but I’ve seen the hunted look in the man’s eyes more than once.”

  “I see,” said Alleyn. “Do you think it generally known that Mr. Jernigham kept this loaded automatic in the study?”

  “I should say it was, sir. If I make so bold, sir, I’d say it was never squire that did this job. He’s peppery, is Mr. Jernigham, but I’d bet my last penny he’s not a murderer. Flares up and forgets all about it the next minute. Very outspoken. Mr. Henry, now, he’s deeper. A nice young fellow but quiet-like. You never know what he’s thinking. Still, he’s got no call to kill anybody, and wouldn’t if he had.”

  “Who is Mrs. Ross of Duck Cottage, Cloudyfold?”

  “Stranger to these parts. She only came here last April.” Roper’s blue eyes became hard and bright

  “Young?” asked Alleyn.

  “Not what you’d say so very young. Thin. Pale hair, done very neat, and very neat in her dressing. Her clothes look different to most ladies. More like the females in the talkies only kind of simpler. Dainty. She’s dressed very quiet, always, but you notice her.” Roper paused, six-foot-two of dim masculine appreciation. “I reckon she’s got It,” he said at last. “It’s not my place to say so, but I suppose a chap always knows her sort. By instinct.”

  There was an odd little silence during which the other five men stared at Sergeant Roper.

  “Dr. Templett does, anyway,” he said at last.

  “Oh,” said Alleyn. “More local gossip?”

  “The women-folk. You know what they are, sir. Given it a proper thrashing, they have. Well, there’s a good deal of feeling on account of Mrs. Templett being an invalid.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Let me see, that’s all the cast of the play, isn’t it? Except Miss Copeland.”

  “Miss Dinah? She’ll be in a taking-on, I make no doubt. After all the work she’s given to this performance for it to go up, as you might say, in a cloud of dust. Still, she’s courting, that’ll be a kind of comfort to the maid. Mr. Henry was watching over her after the tragedy, holding her hand for all to see. They’re well-matched and we’re hoping to hear it’s a settled matter any time now. My misses says it’ll be one in the eye for Miss Prentice.”

  “Why on earth?”

  “She won’t be fancying another lady at Pen Cuckoo. I saw her looking blue murder at them even while deceased was lying, you might say, a corpse at their feet. She’s lucky it wasn’t her. Should be thanking her Creator she’s still here to make trouble.”

  “Miss Prentice,” said Nigel, “seems to be a very unpleasant cup of tea. Perhaps her sore finger was all a bluff and she rigged the tackle for the girl-friend.”

  “Dr. Templett said it was no bluff, Mr. Bathgate,” said Fox. “He said she held out till the last moment that she was going to play.”

  “That’s right enough, sir,” said Roper. “I went round to the back to see Miss Dinah just after it had happened and there was Miss Prentice crying her eyes out, with her finger looking that unwholesome it’d turn your stomach, and Miss Dinah telling her she was ruining the paint on her face and the doctor saying, ‘I absolutely forbid it. Your finger’s in a very nasty state and if you weren’t playing this part tonight,’ he said, ‘I’d open it up.’ Yes, he threatened her with the knife, did doctor. Mr. Henry says, ‘You’ll make a mess of Mr. Nevin’s ecstasies.’ Her piece was composed by a chap of that name as you’ll see in the programme. ‘You’ll never stay the course, Cousin Eleanor,’ says Mr. Henry. ‘I know it’s hurting you like stink,’ says Mr. Henry, ‘because you’re crying,’ he says. But no, she wouldn’t give in till Miss Dinah fetched her father. ‘Come,’ he says, ‘we all know how you feel about it, but there are times when generosity is better than heroism.’ She looked up at rector, then, and she said, ‘If you say so, Father,’ and with that Miss Campanula says, ‘Now, who’ll go and get my music? Where’s Gibson?’ Which is the name of her chauffeur. So she give in, but very reluctant.”

  “A vivid enough picture of the rival performances, isn’t it?” said Alleyn. “Well, there’s the history of the case. It’s getting on for three o’clock. I think, on second thoughts, Fox, we won’t wait for the light of day. We’ll make a night of it. This place must be overhauled sometime and it looks as though we’ll have a busy day tomorrow. You can turn in if you like, Roper. Some one can relieve us at seven.”

  “Are you going to search the premises, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Reckon I’d like to give a hand if it’s agreeable to you.”

  “Certainly. Fox, you and Thompson make sure we’ve missed nothing in the dressing-rooms and supper-room. Bailey, you can take Roper with you on the stage. Go over every inch of it. I’ll tackle the hall and join you if I finish first.”

  “Are you looking for anything in particular?” asked Nigel.

  “The usual unconsidered trifles. Spare bits of Twiddletoy, for instance. Even a water-pistol.”

  “Not forgetting any kid’s annuals that happen to be lying round,” added Fox.

  “Poor things!” said Nigel. “Back to childhood’s day, I see. Is there a telephone here?”

  “In a dressing-room,” said Alleyn. ‘But it’s only an extension.”

  “I’ll ring up the office from a pub, then. In the meantime, may as well write up a pretty story.”

  He took out his pad and settled himself at a table on the stage.

  Police investigation is for the most part a dull business. Nothing could be more tedious than searching for things. Half a detective’s life is spent in turning over dreary objects, finding nothing, and replacing them. Alleyn started in the entrance porch of the parish hall and began a meticulous crawl over dusty surfaces. He moved like a snail, across and across, between the rows of benches. He felt cold and dirty and he smelt nothing but dust. He could not allow his thoughts to dwell pleasantly on his own affairs, his coming marriage, and the happiness that kept him company nowadays; because it is when his thoughts are abstracted from the business in hand that the detective misses the one small sign events have set in his path. Sometimes the men on the stage heard a thin whistling down in the hall. Sergeant Roper’s voice droned interminably. At intervals the church clock sweetly recorded the journey of the hours. Miss Campanula lay stealthily stiffening behind a red baize screen, and Nigel Bathgate recorded her departure in efficient journalese.

  Alleyn had passed the benches and chairs and was grovelling about in the corner with an electric torch. Presently he uttered a soft exclamation. Nigel looked up from his writing and Bailey, who had the loose seat of a chair in his hands, shaded his eyes and peered down into the corner,

  Alleyn stood, by the stage, on the audience’s left. He held a small shining object between finger and thumb.

  His hand was gloved. One of his eyebrows was raised and his lips were pursed in a soun
dless whistle. “Struck a patch, sir?” asked Bailey.

  “Yes, I rather think so, Bailey.”

  He walked over to the piano.

  “Look.”

  Bailey and Nigel came to the footlights.

  The shining object Alleyn held in his hands was a boy’s water-pistol.

  “As you said yourself, Bathgate, back to childhood days.”

  “What’s the idea, sir?” asked Bailey.

  “It seems to be a recurrent idea,” said Alleyn. “I found this thing stuffed away in a sort of locker under the stage over there. It was poked in a dark corner, but there’s little or no dust on it. The rest of the stuff in the locker’s smothered in dirt. Look at the butt, Bailey. Do you see that shiny scratch? It’s rather a super sort of water pistol, isn’t it? None of your rubber bulbs that you squeeze—but a proper trigger action. Fox!”

  Fox and Thompson appeared from the direction of the supper-room.

  Alleyn went to the small table where Bailey had placed the rest of the exhibits, lifted the covering cloth and laid his find beside the Colt automatic.

  “The length is the same to within a fraction of an inch,” he said; “and there’s a mark on the butt of the Colt very much like the mark on the butt of the water-pistol. That, I behave, is where it was rammed in the piano, between the steel pegs where the strings are fastened.”

  “But what the devil,” asked Nigel, “is the explanation?”

  Alleyn pulled off his gloves and fished in his pockets for his cigarette-case.

  “Where’s Roper?”

  “Out at the back, sir,” said Bailey. “He’ll be back shortly with a new set of reminiscences. His super ought to issue a gag to that chap.”

  “This is a rum go,” said Fox profoundly.

  “‘Jones Minor’ all over it,” said Alleyn. “You were right, Bailey, I believe, when you suggested the deathtrap in the piano was too elaborate to be true. It is only in books that murder is quite as fancy as all this. The whole thing carries the hall-mark of the booby-trap and the signature of the practical joker. It is somehow difficult to believe that a man or woman would, as Bailey has said, think up murder on these lines. But what if a man with murder in his heart came upon this booby-trap, this water-pistol aimed through a hole in the torn silk bib? What if this potential murderer thought of substituting a Colt for the water-pistol? It becomes less farfetched, then, doesn’t it? What’s more, there are certain advantages. The murderer can separate himself from his victim and from the corpus delicti. The spade-work has been done. All the murderer has to do is remove the water-pistol, jam in the Colt and tie the loose end of twine round the butt. It’s not his idea, it’s Jones Minor’s.”