Death in Ecstasy (8 page)

Well, Brer Fox,” said Alleyn when that gentleman returned, “has the lady been looked at?”

“Mrs. Beken went through her bag and pockets,” replied Fox.

“And what was the trophy you waved at me just now?”

“Bailey found something up in the chancel. It was simply lying on the floor. It had been ground into the carpet by somebody’s heel. We thought it was the article you wanted.”

“I hope it is. Let’s see it.”

“It wasn’t the same bit I showed you,” explained Fox. “That was just, as you might say, a hint. There’s the original.”

He produced a small box. Nigel drew near. Alleyn opened the box and discovered a tiny piece of very grubby reddish paper. It had been pressed flat and was creased by a heavy indentation.

“M’m.” grunted Alleyn, “wait a bit.”

He went to his bag and got a pair of tweezers. Then he carried the paper in the box to one of the side lights and looked closely at it. He lifted it a little with the tweezers, holding it over the box. He smelt it.

“That’s it, sure enough,” he said. “Look — it’s an envelope. A cigarette-paper gummed double. By Jove, Fox, he took a risk. It’d need a bit of sleight-of-hand.” He touched it very delicately with the tip of his fingers.

“Wet!” said Alleyn. “So that’s how it was done.”

“What do you mean?” asked Nigel. “It’s red. Is it drenched in somebody’s life-blood? Why must you be so tiresomely enigmatic?”

“Nobody’s being enigmatic. I’m telling you, as Mr. Ogden would say. Here’s a bit of cigarette-paper. It’s been doubled over and gummed into a tiny tube. One end has been folded over several times making the tube into an envelope. It has been dyed — I
think
with red ink. It’s wet. It smells. It’s a clue, damn your eyes, it’s a clue.”

“It will have to be analysed, won’t it, sir?” asked Fox.

“Oh, rather, yes. This is the real stuff. ‘The Case of the Folded Paper.’ ‘Inspector Fox sees red.’ ”

“But, Alleyn,” complained Nigel, “if it’s wet do you mean it’s only recently been dipped in red ink? Oh — wait a bit. Wait a bit.”

“Watch our little bud unfolding,” said Alleyn.

“It’s wet with wine,” cried Nigel triumphantly.

“Mr. Bathgate, I do believe you must be right.”

“Facetious ass!”

“Sorry. Yes, it floated upon the wine when it was red. Bailey!”

“Hullo, sir?”

“Show us just where you found this. You’ve done very well.” A faint trace of mulish satisfaction appeared on Detective-Sergeant Bailey’s face. He crossed over to the chancel steps, stooped, and pointed to a six-penny piece.

“I left that to mark the place,” he said.

“And it is precisely over the spot where the cup lay. There’s my chalk mark. That settles it.”

“Do you mean,” asked Nigel, “that the murderer dropped the paper into the cup?”

“Just that.”

“Purposely?”

“I think so. See here, Bathgate. Suppose one of the Initiates had a pinch of cyanide in this little envelope. He — or she — has it concealed about his or her person. In a cigarette-case, perhaps, or an empty lipstick holder. Just before he goes up with the others he takes it out and holds it right end up — wait a moment — like this perhaps.”

“No,” said Nigel, “like this.” He folded his hands like those of a saint in a medieval drawing. “I notice they all did that.”

“Excellent. The flat open end would be slipped between two fingers, and the thing would be held snug. When he — call it he for the moment — takes the cup, he manages to let the little envelope fall in. Not so difficult as it sounds. We’ll experiment later. The paper floats. The folded end uppermost, the open end down. The powder falls out.”

“But,” objected Fox, “he’s running a big risk, sir. Suppose somebody notices the paper floating about on the top of the wine. Suppose, for the sake of argument, Miss Jenkins or Mr. Ogden say they saw it, and Mr. Pringle and the rest don’t mention it — well, that won’t look too good for Mr. Pringle. If he’s the murderer he’ll think of that. I mean—”

“I know what you’re driving at, Inspector,” said Nigel excitedly. “But the gentleman says to himself that if anyone notices the paper he’ll notice it too. That will switch it back a place to the one before him.”

“Um,” rumbled Fox doubtfully.

“I don’t think they would see it,” Alleyn murmured. “You say, Bathgate, that during the ceremony of the cup the torch was the only light?”

“Yes.”

“Quite so. It’s nearly burnt out now, but I think you will find that when it’s going full blast there will be a shadow immediately beneath it where they knelt, a shadow cast by its own sconce.”

“I think there was,” agreed Nigel. “I remember that they seemed to be in a sort of pool of gloom.”

“Exactly. And in addition, their own heads, bent over the cup, would cast a further shadow. All the same, you’re right, Fox. He
is
taking a big risk. Unless—“ Alleyn stopped short, stared at his colleague, and then for no apparent reason made a hideous grimace at Nigel.

“What’s that for?” demanded Nigel suspiciously.

“This is all pure conjecture,” said Alleyn abruptly. “When the analyst finds traces of cyanide we can start talking.”

“I can’t see why he’d drop the paper in,” complained Nigel. “It must have been accidental.”

“I don’t know, Mr. Bathgate,” said Fox in his slow way. “There are points about it. No fingerprints. Nothing to show if he’s searched.”

“That’s right,” said Bailey suddenly. “And he’d reckon the lady’d be sure to drop the cup. He’d reckon on it falling out and getting tramped into the carpet like it was.”

“Say it stuck to the side?” objected Fox.

“Well, say it did,” said Bailey combatively. “What’s to stop him getting it out when they’re all looking at the lady throwing fancy fits and passing in her checks?”

“Say it slid out on to her lips.” continued Fox monotonously.

“Say she drank it! You make me tired, Mr. Fox. It wouldn’t slide out, it’d slide back on the top of the wine. Isn’t that right?”

“Um,” said Fox again.

“What d’yer mean ‘Um’! That’s fair enough, isn’t it, sir?” He appealed to Alleyn.

“Conjecture,” said Alleyn. “Surmise and conjecture.”

“You started it,” remarked Nigel perkily.

“So I did. That’s all the thanks I get for thinking aloud. Come on, Fox. It grows beastly late. Shut up your find. We’ll know more about it when the analyst has spoken his piece.”

Fox took the little box from him, shut it, and put it into the bag.

“What’s next, sir?” he asked.

“Why, Mr. Garnette’s little bottle. Where is Mr. Garnette?”

“In his rooms. Dr. Curtis is there and one of our men.”

“I wonder if he has converted them. Let us join the cosy circle. You can tackle the vestry now, Bailey.”

Fox, Alleyn and Nigel went up to Father Garnette’s rooms, leaving Bailey and his satellites to continue their prowling.

Father Garnette sat at his desk which, with its collection of
objets de pieté
, so closely resembled an altar. Dr. Curtis sat at the table. A uniformed constable with a perfectly expressionless face stood by Father Garnette’s prie-dieu, furnishing a most fantastic juxtaposition of opposites. They all had the look of persons who have not spoken for a considerable time. Father Garnette was pallid and a little too dignified; Dr. Curtis was wan and puffed with surpressed yawning; the constable was merely pale by nature.

“Ah, Mr. Garnette,” said Alleyn cheerfully, “here we are at last. You must long for your bed.”

“No, no,” said Father Garnette. “No, no.”

“We shan’t keep you very much longer. I wonder if you will allow me to make an inspection of these rooms? I’m afraid it ought to be done.”

“An inspection! But really, Inspector, is that necessarah? I must confess I—” Father Garnette stopped and then added a throaty sound suggestive of sweet reasonableness coupled with distress.

“You object?” said Alleyn briskly. “Then I shall have to leave my men here for the time being. I’m so sorry.”

“But — I cannot understand—”

“You see I’m afraid there is little doubt that this is a case of homicide. That means there is a certain routine that we are obliged to follow. A search of the premises is part of this routine. Of course, if you object—”

“I — no— I—”

“You don’t?”

“Not if — no. It is merely that this little dwelling is very precious to me. It is filled with the thoughts — the meditations of a specially dedicated life. One shrinks a little from the thought of — ah—”

“Of fools stepping in where — but no, of course this is one of the places where angels tread all over the place. We’ll be as quick as we can. You can help us if you will. The bedroom is through there, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“Any other rooms?”

“The usual offices,” said Father Garnette grandly: “bathroom, etceterah, etceterah.”

“Any back door?”

“Ah — yes.”

“Is it locked?”

“Invariablah.”

“Have a look, will you, Fox? I’ll take this room.”

Fox dived past a black velvet portiere. The constable, at a nod from Alleyn, followed him.

“Would you rather stay here?” asked Alleyn of Father Garnette. Father Garnette cast a somewhat distracted glance round the room and said he thought he would.

“Finished with me, Alleyn?” asked Dr. Curtis.

“Yes, thanks, Curtis. Inquest on Tuesday, I suppose. They’ll want a post-mortem, of course.”

“Of course. I’ll be off.”

“Lucky creature. Good night.”

“Good night. Good night, Father Garnette.”

“Good night, my dear doctor,” ejaculated Father Garnette on a sudden gush of geniality.

The little divisional surgeon hurried away. Nigel attempted to make himself inconspicuous by standing in a corner and was at once told to come out of it and give a hand.

“Make a note of anything I tell you about. Now, Mr. Garnette, I understand that in preparing the wine for tonight’s ceremony Mr. Wheatley used two ingredients. Where did he find the bottles?”

Father Garnette pointed to a very nice Jacobean cupboard. It was unlocked. Alleyn opened the doors and revealed an extremely representative cellar. All the ingredients for the more elaborate cocktails, some self-respecting port, the brandy that had been recommended by Dr. Curtis, and a dozen bottles of an aristocrat in hocks. On a shelf by themselves stood four bottles of dubious appearance—“Le Comte’s Invalid Port.” One was empty.

“That will be the one broached to-night? asked Alleyn.

“Ah — yes,” said Father Garnette.

Alleyn moved the others to one side and discovered a smaller label-less bottle, half full. He took it out carefully, holding it by the extreme end of the neck. The cork came out easily. Alleyn sniffed at the orifice and raised an eyebrow.

“Big magic, Mr. Garnette,” he remarked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Did this provide the second ingredient in the potion mixed by Mr. Wheatley?”

“Ah — broomp,” said Father Garnette, clearing his vocal passage, “yes. That is so.”

Alleyn drew a pencil from his pocket, dipped it into the bottle and then sucked it pensively.,

“How much of this was used?” he asked.

Father Garnette inclined his head.

“The merest
soupçon
,” he said. “It is perfectly pure.”

“The best butter,” murmured Alleyn. He put the bottle in his bag, which Fox had left on the table.

“You have a complete cellar without it, I see,” he said coolly.

“Ah yes. Will you take something, Inspector? This has been a trying evening — for all of us.”

“No, thank you so much.”

“Mr. — ah — Bathgate?”

Nigel’s tongue arched longingly but he too refused a drink.

“I am very much shaken,” said Father Garnette. “I feel wretchard. Quite wretchard.”

“You had better have a peg yourself, perhaps,” suggested Alleyn. Father Garnette passed his hand wearily across his forehead and then let his arm flop on the desk.

“Perhaps I had, perhaps I had,” he said with a sort of brave smile. He poured himself out a pretty stiff nip, took a pull at it, and sat down at the table.

Alleyn went on with his investigation of the room. He moved to the desk. Father Garnette watched him.

“I wonder if you would mind moving into the next room, Mr. Garnette,” said Alleyn placidly.

“I — but — I—Surely, Inspector, I may at least watch this distasteful proceeding.”

“I think you should spare yourself the pain. I want Inspector Fox to search you.”

“I have already been searched.”

“That was before you changed, I think. I expect Fox will have almost finished in there. I suggest you go to bed.”

“I do not want to go to bed,” complained Father Garnette. He took another resolute pull at his drink.

“Don’t you? It would be simpler. However, I’ll get Fox to look you over now. You will have to strip, I’m afraid. Fox.”

“Sir?” Inspector Fox thrust a large bland face round the curtain.

Father Garnette suddenly leapt to his feet.

“I refuse,” he said very loudly. “This is too much. You exceed your duty. I refuse.”

“What’s up, sir?” asked Fox.

“Mr. Garnette doesn’t want to be searched again, Fox. Did he object the first time?”

“He did not.”

“Curious. Ah well!”

“I just thought I’d mention it, sir. The back door is not locked.”

“Oh,” said Alleyn. “I thought, Mr. Garnette, that you said it was invariably locked.”

“So it is, Inspectah. I cannot understand — I locked it myself, this afternoon.”

Alleyn took out his notebook and wrote in it. Then he handed it to Fox, who came through the curtain, put on a pair of spectacles, and read solemnly. Father Garnette’s eyes were glued on the notebook.

“That’s very peculiar, sir,” said Fox. “Look here.” He swung round with his back to Alleyn and held up a tightly clenched paw. Father Garnette stared at Fox wildly.

“Very peculiar,” repeated Fox.

Nigel could have echoed his words, for Alleyn with amazing swiftness whipped the bottle from his bag and, holding it delicately, tipped a handsome proportion of its contents into Father Garnette’s glass. He returned the bottle to the bag and strolled over to Fox.