Death in Ecstasy (20 page)

She spoke rapidly now as though it was a relief to speak and without any embarrassment or hesitation.

“It was like that on Sunday. He held my arm tight and kissed the inside. Just one place over and over again. When I told him to stop he wouldn’t. It was horrible. I can give you no idea. I struggled and when he still went on, I hit his face. Then there was the real scene. I told him he was ruining himself and degrading me and all because of the drugs. Then we quarreled about Father Garnette, desperately. I said he was to blame and that he was rotten all through. I spoke about Cara.” She stopped short.

“That made him very angry?”

“Terribly angry. Hatefully angry. For a moment I was frightened. He said if that was what
they
did — You understand?”

“Yes,” said Alleyn.

“Then he suddenly let me go. He had been almost screaming, but now he began to speak very quietly. He simply told me he would go to the church flat and get more of — more heroin. ‘A damn’ big shot of it,’ he said. He told me quite slowly and distinctly that Father Garnette had some in the bedroom and that he would take it. Then he laughed, gently, and went away. And then in the evening, when he’d had more of that stuff, I suppose, he met me as though nothing had happened. That’s a pretty good sample of the happy wooing we enjoy together.”

She still knelt on the rug at Alleyn’s feet. She had gone very white and now she began to tremble violently.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “It’s silly. I don’t know why — I can’t help it.”

“Don’t mind!” said Alleyn. “It’s shock, and thinking about it again.”

She laid her hand on his knee and after a second he put his lightly over it.

“Thank you,” said Janey. “I didn’t see him again until the evening. After you had finished with us I walked back with him to his door. He told me I was to say he had been here all the afternoon. I promised. I promised: that’s what is so awful.

He said: ‘If they go for the wrong man—’ and then he stopped. I came on here by myself. That’s all.”

“I see,” said Alleyn. “Have you got any brandy on the premises?”

“There’s some — over there.”

He got a rug off the couch and dropped it over her shoulders. Then he found the brandy and brought her a stiff nip.

“Down with it,” he ordered.

“All right,” answered Janey shakily. “Don’t bully.” She drank the brandy and presently a little colour came back into her face.

“I have made a fool of myself. I suppose it’s because I’d kept it all bottled up inside me.”

“Another argument in favour of confiding in the police,” said Alleyn.

She laughed and again put her hand on his knee.

“—who are only human,” Alleyn added and stood up.

“You’re a very aloof sort of person to confide in, aren’t you?” said Janey abruptly. “Still, I suppose you must be human or I wouldn’t have done it. Is it time we went to the inquest?”

“Yes. May I drive you there or do you dislike the idea of arriving in a police car?”

“No, but I think I’d better collect Maurice.”

“In that case I shall go. Are you all right?”

“I’m not looking forward to it. Mr. Alleyn, shall I have to repeat all — this — to the coroner?”

“The conduct of an inquest is on the knees of the coroner. Sometimes he has housemaid’s knees and then it’s all rather trying. This gentleman is not of that type, however. I think we shall have a quick show and an adjournment.”

“An adjournment? For what?”

“Oh,” said Alleyn vaguely, “for me to earn my wages, you know.”

The inquest was as Alleyn had said it would be. Only the barest bones of the case were exhibited to the jury. Owing, no doubt, to Nigel’s handling of a “scoop” the public interest was terrific. Alleyn himself had by this time become a big draw. It would be a diverting pastime to discuss how far homicide cases have gone to cater for the public that used to patronise stock “blood-and-thunder” at Drury Lane. In the days when women of breeding did not stand in queues to get a front seat at a coroner’s inquest or a murder trial, melodrama provided an authentic thrill. Nowadays melodrama is not good enough when with a little inconvenience one can watch a real murderer turn green round the gills, while an old gentleman in a black cap, himself rather pale, mumbles actor-proof lines about hanging by the neck until you are dead and may God have mercy on your soul. No curtain ever came down on a better tag. The inquest is a sort of curtain-raiser to the murder trial, and, in cases such as that of Cara Quayne, provides an additional kick. Which of these people did it? Which of these men or women will hang by the neck until he or she is dead? That priest, Jasper Garnette. Darling, such an incredible name, but rather compelling, don’t you think? A definite thrill? Or don’t you? He seems to have been… Can
anyone
go to the temple?… Chosen Vessel… My sweet, you
have
got a mind like a sink, haven’t you! The American?…
Too
hearty and wholesome…Still, one never knows, I must say… De Ravigne? My dear, I
know
him. Not frightfully well. His cousin…No, it was his sister… Of course one never knows. That Candour female… God, what a mess! The boy? Pringle? Wasn’t he one of the Essterhaugh, Browne-White lot? Of course one knows what they’re like. He looks as if he might be rather fun. Darling,
did
you ever see anything to
approach
Claude and Lionel? Still, one never knows. One never knows until the big show comes on. One never knows.

In all this undercurrent of conjecture Alleyn, little as he heeded it, played a star part. His was as popular a name as that of the learned pathologist, or the famous counsel who would be briefed if Alleyn did his bit and produced an accused to stand trial. Chief Inspector Alleyn himself, as he assembled the bare bones of the case before the coroner, glanced once round the court and thought vaguely: “All the harpies, as usual.”

Nigel Bathgate, Dr. Kasbek, Dr. Curtis and the pathologist were the first witnesses. Dr. Kasbek was asked by a very small juryman why he had not thought it worth while to send for remedies. He said dryly that there was no remedy for death. The ceremony of the cup was outlined and the finding of sodium cyanide described. Alleyn then gave a brief account of his subsequent investigations in the House of the Sacred Flame.

Father Jasper Garnette was called and gave a beautiful rendering of a saint among thieves. He was followed by the rest of the Initiates. Mr Ogden’s deportment was so elaborately respectful that even the coroner seemed suspicious. M. de Ravigne was aloof and looked as if he thought the court smelt insanitary. Mrs. Candour wore black and a stage make-up. Miss Wade wore three cardigans and a cairn-gorm brooch. She showed a tendency to enlarge on Father Garnette’s purity of soul and caused the solicitor who watched the proceedings on Father Garnette’s behalf to become very fidgety. Maurice Pringle was called on the strength of his being the first to draw attention to Cara Quayne’s condition. He instantly succeeded in antagonising the coroner. Claude Wheatley, who followed him, got very short commons indeed. The coroner stared at him as though he was a monster, asked him precisely what he
did
mean, and then said it seemed to be so entirely irrelevant that Mr. Wheatley might stand down. Janey merely corroborated the rest of the evidence. It was all over very quickly. The coroner, crisp man, glanced once at Alleyn and ordered an adjournment.

“He’s a specimen piece, that one,” said Alleyn to Fox as they walked away. “I only wish there were more like him.”

“What are the orders for this afternoon, sir?”

“Well, Fox, we must come all over fashionable and pay a round of calls. There are still two ladies and a gentleman to visit. I propose we have a bite of lunch and begin with Mrs. Candour. She’s expecting us.”

They had their bite of lunch and then made their way to Queen Charlotte flats, Kensington Square, where, in a setting of mauve and green cushions, long-legged dolls and tucked lampshades, Mrs. Candour received them. She seemed disappointed that Alleyn had not come alone, but invited them both to sit down. She herself was arranged on a low divan and exuded synthetic violets. She explained that she suffered from shock. The inquest had been too much for her. The room was stiflingly heated by two ornate radiators and the hot water pipes gurgled like a dyspeptic mammoth.

Alleyn engulfed himself in a mauve satin tub hard by the divan. Inspector Fox chose the only small chair in the room and made it look foolish.

“My doctor is coming at four o’clock,” said Mrs. Candour. “He tells me my nerves are shattered. But shattered!”

She gesticulated clumsily. The emeralds flashed above her knuckles. Alleyn realised that she wished him to see a hot-house flower, enervated, perhaps a little degenerate, but fatal, fatal. With a mental squirm he realised he had better play up. He lowered his deep voice, bent his gaze on her and said:

“I cannot forgive myself. You should rest.”

“Perhaps I should. It doesn’t matter. I must not think of myself.”

“That is wonderful of you,” said Alleyn.

She shrugged elaborately and sighed.

“It is all so ugly, I cannot bear ugliness. I have always surrounded myself with decorative things. I must have beauty or I sicken.”

“You are sensitive,” pronounced Alleyn with a strong man’s scowl.

“You feel that?” She looked restively at Inspector Fox. “That is rather clever of you, Mr. Alleyn.”

“My consciousness of it brought me here this afternoon. We want your help Mrs. Candour. It is the sensitive people who see things, who receive impressions that may be invaluable.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Candour with a sad smile.

“Before I ask you for this particular kind of help I just want to confirm your statement about your own movements on Sunday. It’s purely a matter of form. You were here all day, I think you said.”

“Yes, all day. How I wish it had been all the evening too!”

“I bet you do,” thought Alleyn. Aloud he said: “Perhaps your servants would be able to confirm this. No doubt they will remember that you were indoors all day.”

“There are only two maids. I–I expect they will remember.”

“Perhaps Inspector Fox might have a word with them.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Candour very readily indeed. “You would like to see them alone, I expect, Inspector? I’ll ring.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Fox. “I won’t keep them long.” A musical comedy parlourmaid who had shown them in, showed Fox out. His voice could be heard rumbling distantly in the flat.

“And now,” said Mrs. Candour turning intimately to Alleyn. “And now, Mr. Alleyn.”

Alleyn leant back in his chair and looked at her until she glanced down and up again. Then he said:

“Do you remember a party at Mr. Ogden’s four weeks ago, yesterday?”

“Just a moment. Will you get me a cigarette? On the table over there. No, not those,” said Mrs. Candour in a hurry. “The large box. The others are Virginian. I loathe Virginian cigarettes.”

Alleyn opened the wrong box.

“Do you?” he said. “What make is this? I don’t know the look of them.” He took one out and smelt it.

“They are hateful. Someone sent them. I meant to have them thrown away. I think the servants have upset… My cigarette, Mr. Alleyn. Mayn’t I have it?”

“I’m so sorry,” said Alleyn and brought the other box. He lit hers for her, stooping over the divan. She made a great business of it.

“You?” she murmured at last.

“Thank you. I prefer Virginians,” he said. “May I have one of these?”

“Oh, please don’t. They are disgusting. Quite unsmokable.”

“Very well,” said Alleyn and took out his case. “Do you remember the party?”

“At Sammy Ogden’s? Do I? Yes, I believe I do.”

“Do you remember that M. de Ravigne looked at one of the books?”

She closed her eyes and laid the tips of her thick fingers on the lids.

“Let me think. Yes!” She opened her eyes wide. “I remember. M. de Ravigne collects old books. He was browsing along the shelves. I can see it all now. I was talking to Father and poor Cara had joined us. Then Sammy came up. I remember that M. de Ravigne called to him: ‘Where did you find this?’ and he looked across and said: ‘On a bookstall. Is it worth anything?’ And Father went across and joined them. He adores books. They draw him like a magnet.”

“He has a remarkable collection,” said Alleyn. “Was he interested in this particular one?”

“Let me think. He went across and — What was the name of the book?” She gaped stupidly. “It wasn’t—! Oh, it was! You mean it was that book you showed us, on poisons. My God, is that what you mean?”

“Don’t distress yourself. Don’t be alarmed. Yes, that was it. You see we want to trace the book.”

“But if that was the one it belongs to Sammy Ogden. It’s his. And he never said so. When you showed it to us he simply sat there and—” Her eyes brightened; she was avid. “Don’t you see what that means? He didn’t own up.”

“Oh, yes,” said Alleyn. Her excitement was horrible. “Oh, yes, he told us it was his book. He hadn’t missed it.”

“But — Oh.” For a moment she looked disappointed. Then he could see an anticipation of deeper pleasure come into her eyes. Her lips trembled. “Then, of course, it was the Frenchman. Listen. I’ll tell you something. Listen.”

Alleyn waited. She lowered her voice and hitched herself nearer to him.

“He — Raoul de Ravigne I mean — made a fool of himself over Cara. She encouraged him. You know what foreigners are. If I had chosen to let him—” She laughed shrilly. “But I wasn’t having any. There was quite a scene once. I had a lot of bother with him. It was after that he turned to Cara. In pique, I always thought. And then — I hardly like to tell you. But Cara was dreadfully — you know. I’ve read quite a lot of psychoanalysis, and it was easy to see she was
mad
about Father Garnette. De Ravigne saw it. I watched him. I
knew
. He was furious. And when she got herself elected Chosen Vessel, he realised what
that
meant. You know what I mean?”

Alleyn really couldn’t manage more than an inclination of his head.

“Well, perhaps it was too much for him. He’s a very passionate sort of man. You know. The Celtic — I mean the Gallic temperament. Why didn’t he say he’d seen the book before? That’s what I’d like to know. I’m right. Don’t you think I am right?”

“Did he take the book away with him?” asked Alleyn.

She looked furtively at him.

“I don’t know, but he was very interested in it. You could see. He was very interested. He asked Sammy Ogden where he got it. He fossicked about till he found it.”

“Mr. Ogden said that he himself drew M. de Ravigne’s attention to the book and that M. de Ravigne showed little interest in it.”

“He may have
pretended
not to be interested,” she said. “He
would
do that. He makes a pose of being uninterested, the dirty beast.”

At this last vindictive descent into devastating vulgarity Alleyn must have shown some sort of distaste. A dull red showed through her make-up and for a moment she looked frightened.

“I expect you think I’m awful,” she said, “but you see I know what he’s like.”

“You tell me you had an unpleasant encounter with M. de Ravigne. May I hear a little more about that?”

But she would not tell him more. She was very uneasy and began to talk about self-respect. The encounter had no bearing on the case. She would rather not discuss it. She would not discuss it. He pressed a little further and asked when it had happened. She could not remember.

“Was it about the time you discontinued your visits to Miss Quayne?”

That shot went home. She now turned so white that he wondered if she would collapse. She seemed to shrivel back into the cushions as though she was scorched.

“What do you mean! Why are you talking like this? What are you thinking?”

“You mustn’t distress yourself in this way,” said Alleyn.

“How can I help it when you start— I’m not well. I told you I was ill. I must ask you to go.”

“Certainly,” said Alleyn. He got up. “I am sorry. I had no idea my question would have such an unfortunate effect.”

“It’s not that. It’s my nerves, I tell you. I’m a nervous wreck.”

She stammered, clenched her hands, and burst into a storm of ungracious tears. With a word of apology Alleyn turned and walked to the door.

“Stop!” cried Mrs. Candour. “Stop! Listen to me.” He turned.

“No, no,” she said wildly. “I won’t say any more. I won’t. Leave me alone.”

He went out.

Fox waited for him outside.

“Bit of a rumpus in there, seemingly,” said Fox.

“Heavens, yes! There’s been a loathsome scene. I’ll have a bad taste in my mouth for weeks. I’ll tell you about it in the car. We go to Ogden’s house now.”

On the way to York Square he related the details of his interview. “What do you make of all that?” he asked.

“Well, it sounds as if Mrs. Candour had tried to do a line with the French gentleman and failed. Then I suppose she turned round and took a dislike to him like these sort of women do. She wouldn’t feel too friendly towards Miss Quayne either, seeing Miss Quayne pinched the monsieur and the Reverend as well. No, she wouldn’t feel very friendly in that quarter.”

“No.”

“The point is,” continued Fox with a sort of dogged argumentativeness, “did she tell you anything that supports our theory or sets us off on another lay? That’s the point.”

“She said that de Ravigne found the book and that nobody drew his attention to it until Ogden asked him what it was worth. She was very emphatic about that.”

“Was she telling the truth?”