Miss Marple and Mystery (36 page)

The forceful personality of Merrilees caused the inspector to waver. His suspicions swung round to James. He whispered something to the constable, and the latter went out.

‘Now then, gentlemen,’ said the inspector, ‘let me have your statements please, one at a time.’

‘Certainly,’ said James. ‘I was walking along the beach, when I met this gentleman, and he pretended he was acquainted with me. I could not remember having met him before, but I was too polite to say so. We walked along together. I had my suspicions of him, and just when we got opposite the police station, I found his hand in my pocket. I held on to him and shouted for help.’

The inspector transferred his glance to Merrilees. ‘And now you, sir.’

Merrilees seemed a little embarrassed.

‘The story is very nearly right,’ he said slowly; ‘but not quite. It was not I who scraped acquaintance with him, but he who scraped acquaintance with me. Doubtless he was trying to get rid of the emerald, and slipped it into my pocket while we were talking.’

The inspector stopped writing.

‘Ah!’ he said impartially. ‘Well, there will be a gentleman here in a minute who will help us to get to the bottom of the case.’

Merrilees frowned.

‘It is really impossible for me to wait,’ he murmured, pulling out his watch. ‘I have an appointment. Surely, inspector, you can’t be so ridiculous as to suppose I’d steal the emerald and walk along with it in my pocket?’

‘It is not likely, sir, I agree,’ the inspector replied. ‘But you will have to wait just a matter of five or ten minutes till we get this thing cleared up. Ah! here is his lordship.’

A tall man of forty strode into the room. He was wearing a pair of dilapidated trousers and an old sweater.

‘Now then, inspector, what is all this?’ he said. ‘You have got hold of the emerald, you say? That’s splendid, very smart work. Who are these people you have got here?’

His eyes ranged over James and came to rest on Merrilees. The forceful personality of the latter seemed to dwindle and shrink.

‘Why – Jones!’ exclaimed Lord Edward Campion.

‘You recognize this man, Lord Edward?’ asked the inspector sharply. ‘Certainly I do,’ said Lord Edward dryly. ‘He is my valet, came to me a month ago. The fellow they sent down from London was on to him at once, but there was not a trace of the emerald anywhere among his belongings.’

‘He was carrying it in his coat pocket,’ the inspector declared. ‘This gentleman put us on to him.’ He indicated James.

In another minute James was being warmly congratulated and shaken by the hand.

‘My dear fellow,’ said Lord Edward Campion. ‘So you suspected him all along, you say?’

‘Yes,’ said James. ‘I had to trump up the story about my pocket being picked to get him into the police station.’

‘Well, it is splendid,’ said Lord Edward, ‘absolutely splendid. You must come back and lunch with us, that is if you haven’t lunched. It is late, I know, getting on for two o’clock.’

‘No,’ said James; ‘I haven’t lunched – but –’

‘Not a word, not a word,’ said Lord Edward. ‘The Rajah, you know, will want to thank you for getting back his emerald for him. Not that I have quite got the hang of the story yet.’

They were out of the police station by now, standing on the steps. ‘As a matter of fact,’ said James, ‘I think I should like to tell you the true story.’

He did so. His lordship was very much entertained.

‘Best thing I ever heard in my life,’ he declared. ‘I see it all now. Jones must have hurried down to the bathing-hut as soon as he had pinched the thing, knowing that the police would make a thorough search of the house. That old pair of trousers I sometimes put on for going out fishing, nobody was likely to touch them, and he could recover the jewel at his leisure. Must have been a shock to him when he came today to find it gone. As soon as you appeared, he realized that you were the person who had removed the stone. I still don’t quite see how you managed to see through that detective pose of his, though!’

‘A strong man,’ thought James to himself, ‘knows when to be frank and when to be discreet.’

He smiled deprecatingly whilst his fingers passed gently over the inside of his coat lapel feeling the small silver badge of that little-known club, the Merton Park Super Cycling Club. An astonishing coincidence that the man Jones should also be a member, but there it was!

‘Hallo, James!’

He turned. Grace and the Sopworth girls were calling to him from the other side of the road. He turned to Lord Edward.

‘Excuse me a moment?’

He crossed the road to them. ‘We are going to the pictures,’ said Grace. ‘Thought you might like to come.’

‘I am sorry,’ said James. ‘I am just going back to lunch with Lord Edward Campion. Yes, that man over there in the comfortable old clothes. He wants me to meet the Rajah of Maraputna.’

He raised his hat politely and rejoined Lord Edward.

‘Swan Song’ was first published in Grand Magazine, September 1926.

It was eleven o’clock on a May morning in London. Mr Cowan was looking out of the window, behind him was the somewhat ornate splendour of a sitting-room in a suite at the Ritz Hotel. The suite in question had been reserved for Mme Paula Nazorkoff, the famous operatic star, who had just arrived in London. Mr Cowan, who was Madame’s principal man of business, was awaiting an interview with the lady. He turned his head suddenly as the door opened, but it was only Miss Read, Mme Nazorkoff’s secretary, a pale girl with an efficient mïïanner.

‘Oh, so it’s you, my dear,’ said Mr Cowan. ‘Madame not up yet, eh?’ Miss Read shook her head. ‘She told me to come round at ten o’clock,’ Mr Cowan said. ‘I have been waiting an hour.’

He displayed neither resentment nor surprise. Mr Cowan was indeed accustomed to the vagaries of the artistic temperament. He was a tall man, clean-shaven, with a frame rather too well covered, and clothes that were rather too faultless. His hair was very black and shining, and his teeth were aggressively white. When he spoke, he had a way of slurring his ‘s’s’ which was not quite a lisp, but came perilously near to it. It required no stretch of imagination to realize that his father’s name had probably been Cohen. At that minute a door at the other side of the room opened, and a trim, French girl hurried through.

‘Madame getting up?’ inquired Cowan hopefully.

‘Tell us the news, Elise.’ Elise immediately elevated both hands to heaven.

‘Madame she is like seventeen devils this morning, nothing pleases her! The beautiful yellow roses which monsieur sent to her last night, she says they are all very well for New York, but that it is
imbecile
to send them to her in London. In London, she says, red roses are the only things possible, and straight away she opens the door, and precipitates the yellow roses into the passage, where they descend upon a monsieur,
très comme il faut
, a military gentleman, I think, and he is justly indignant, that one!’

Cowan raised his eyebrows, but displayed no other signs of emotion. Then he took from his pocket a small memorandum book and pencilled in it the words ‘red roses’.

Elise hurried out through the other door, and Cowan turned once more to the window. Vera Read sat down at the desk, and began opening letters and sorting them. Ten minutes passed in silence, and then the door of the bedroom burst open, and Paula Nazorkoff flamed into the room. Her immediate effect upon it was to make it seem smaller, Vera Read appeared more colourless, and Cowan retreated into a mere figure in the background.

‘Ah, ha! My children,’ said the prima donna, ‘am I not punctual?’

She was a tall woman, and for a singer not unduly fat. Her arms and legs were still slender, and her neck was a beautiful column. Her hair, which was coiled in a great roll half-way down her neck, was of a dark, glowing red. If it owed some at least of its colour to henna, the result was none the less effective. She was not a young woman, forty at least, but the lines of her face were still lovely, though the skin was loosened and wrinkled round the flashing, dark eyes. She had the laugh of a child, the digestion of an ostrich, and the temper of a fiend, and she was acknowledged to be the greatest dramatic soprano of her day. She turned directly upon Cowan.

‘Have you done as I asked you? Have you taken that abominable English piano away, and thrown it into the Thames?’

‘I have got another for you,’ said Cowan, and gestured towards where it stood in the corner.

Nazorkoff rushed across to it, and lifted the lid. ‘An Erard,’ she said, ‘that is better. Now let us see.’

The beautiful soprano voice rang out in an arpeggio, then it ran lightly up and down the scale twice, then took a soft little run up to a high note, held it, its volume swelling louder and louder, then softened again till it died away in nothingness.

‘Ah!’ said Paula Nazorkoff in naïve satisfaction. ‘What a beautiful voice I have! Even in London I have a beautiful voice.’

‘That is so,’ agreed Cowan in hearty congratulation. ‘And you bet London is going to fall for you all right, just as New York did.’

‘You think so?’ queried the singer.

There was a slight smile on her lips, and it was evident that for her the question was a mere commonplace.

‘Sure thing,’ said Cowan.

Paula Nazorkoff closed the piano lid down and walked across to the table, with that slow undulating walk that proved so effective on the stage.

‘Well, well,’ she said, ‘let us get to business. You have all the arrangements there, my friend?’

Cowan took some papers out of the portfolio he had laid on a chair.

‘Nothing has been altered much,’ he remarked. ‘You will sing five times at Covent Garden, three times in
Tosca
, twice in
Aida
.’

‘
Aida!
Pah,’ said the prima donna; ‘it will be unutterable boredom.
Tosca
, that is different.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Cowan. ‘
Tosca
is
your
part.’

Paula Nazorkoff drew herself up.

‘I am the greatest Tosca in the world,’ she said simply.

‘That is so,’ agreed Cowan. ‘No one can touch you.’

‘Roscari will sing “Scarpia”, I suppose?’

Cowan nodded.

‘And Emile Lippi.’

‘What?’ shrieked Nazorkoff. ‘Lippi, that hideous little barking frog, croak – croak – croak. I will not sing with him, I will bite him, I will scratch his face.’

‘Now, now,’ said Cowan soothingly. ‘He does not sing, I tell you, he is a mongrel dog who barks.’

‘Well, we’ll see, we’ll see,’ said Cowan.

He was too wise ever to argue with temperamental singers.

‘The Cavardossi?’ demanded Nazorkoff. ‘The American tenor, Hensdale.’

The other nodded.

‘He is a nice little boy, he sings prettily.’

‘And Barrère is to sing it once, I believe.’

‘He is an artist,’ said Madame generously. ‘But to let that croaking frog Lippi be Scarpia! Bah – I’ll not sing with him.’

‘You leave it to me,’ said Cowan soothingly.

He cleared his throat, and took up a fresh set of papers.

‘I am arranging for a special concert at the Albert Hall.’

Nazorkoff made a grimace. ‘I know, I know,’ said Cowan; ‘but everybody does it.’

‘I will be good,’ said Nazorkoff, ‘and it will be filled to the ceiling, and I shall have much money.
Ecco!
ó8’

Again Cowan shuffled papers. ‘Now here is quite a different proposition,’ he said, ‘from Lady Ruston-bury. She wants you to go down and sing.’

‘Rustonbury?’

The prima donna’s brow contracted as if in the effort to recollect something.

‘I have read that name lately, very lately. It is a town – or a village, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right, pretty little place in Hertfordshire. As for Lord Rustonbury’s place, Rustonbury Castle, it’s a real dandy old feudal seat, ghosts and family pictures, and secret staircases, and a slap-up private theatre. Rolling in money they are, and always giving some private show. She suggests that we give a complete opera, preferably
Butterfly
.’

‘
Butterfly?
’

Cowan nodded.

‘And they are prepared to pay. We’ll have to square Covent Garden, of course, but even after that it will be well worth your while financially. In all probability, royalty will be present. It will be a slap-up advertisement.’

Madame raised her still beautiful chin.

‘Do I need advertisement?’ she demanded proudly.

‘You can’t have too much of a good thing,’ said Cowan, unabashed.

‘Rustonbury,’ murmured the singer, ‘where did I see –?’

She sprang up suddenly, and running to the centre table, began turning over the pages of an illustrated paper which lay there. There was a sudden pause as her hand stopped, hovering over one of the pages, then she let the periodical slip to the floor and returned slowly to her seat. With one of her swift changes of mood, she seemed now an entirely different personality. Her manner was very quiet, almost austere.

‘Make all arrangements for Rustonbury, I would like to sing there, but there is one condition – the opera must be
Tosca
.’

Cowan looked doubtful.

‘That will be rather difficult – for a private show, you know, scenery and all that.’

‘
Tosca
or nothing.’

Cowan looked at her very closely. What he saw seemed to convince him, he gave a brief nod and rose to his feet.

‘I will see what I can arrange,’ he said quietly.

Nazorkoff rose too. She seemed more anxious than was usual, with her, to explain her decision.

‘It is my greatest rôle, Cowan. I can sing that part as no other woman has ever sung it.’

‘It is a fine part,’ said Cowan. ‘Jeritza made a great hit in it last year.’

‘Jeritza!’ cried the other, a flush mounting in her cheeks. She proceeded to give him at great length her opinion of Jeritza.

Cowan, who was used to listening to singers’ opinions of other singers, abstracted his attention till the tirade was over; he then said obstinately:

‘Anyway, she sings “Vissi D’Arte” lying on her stomach.’

‘And why not?’ demanded Nazorkoff. ‘What is there to prevent her? I will sing it on my back with my legs waving in the air.’

Cowan shook his head with perfect seriousness. ‘I don’t believe that would go down any,’ he informed her. ‘All the same, that sort of thing takes on, you know.’

‘No one can sing “Vissi D’Arte” as I can,’ said Nazorkoff confidently. ‘I sing it in the voice of the convent – as the good nuns taught me to sing years and years ago. In the voice of a choir boy or an angel, without feeling, without passion.’

‘I know,’ said Cowan heartily. ‘I have heard you, you are wonderful.’

‘That is art,’ said the prima donna, ‘to pay the price, to suffer, to endure, and in the end not only to have all knowledge, but also the power to go back, right back to the beginning and recapture the lost beauty of the heart of a child.’

Cowan looked at her curiously. She was staring past him with a strange, blank look in her eyes, and something about that look of hers gave him a creepy feeling. Her lips just parted, and she whispered a few words softly to herself. He only just caught them.

‘At last,’ she murmured. ‘At last –
after all these years
.’

Lady Rustonbury was both an ambitious and an artistic woman, she ran the two qualities in harness with complete success. She had the good fortune to have a husband who cared for neither ambition nor art and who therefore did not hamper her in any way. The Earl of Rustonbury was a large, square man, with an interest in horseflesh and in nothing else. He admired his wife, and was proud of her, and was glad that his great wealth enabled her to indulge all her schemes. The private theatre had been built less than a hundred years ago by his grandfather. It was Lady Rustonbury’s chief toy – she had already given an Ibsen drama in it, and a play of the ultra new school, all divorce and drugs, also a poetical fantasy with Cubist scenery. The forthcoming performance of
Tosca
had created wide-spread interest. Lady Rustonbury was entertaining a very distinguished houseparty for it, and all London that counted was motoring down to attend.

Mme Nazorkoff and her company had arrived just before luncheon. The new young American tenor, Hensdale, was to sing ‘Cavaradossi’, and Roscari, the famous Italian baritone, was to be Scarpia. The expense of the production had been enormous, but nobody cared about that. Paula Nazorkoff was in the best of humours, she was charming, gracious, her most delightful and cosmopolitan self. Cowan was agreeably surprised, and prayed that this state of things might continue.

After luncheon the company went out to the theatre, and inspected the scenery and various appointments. The orchestra was under the direction of Mr Samuel Ridge, one of England’s most famous conductors. Everything seemed to be going without a hitch, and strangely enough, that fact worried Mr Cowan. He was more at home in an atmosphere of trouble, this unusual peace disturbed him.

‘Everything is going a darned sight too smoothly,’ murmured Mr Cowan to himself. ‘Madame is like a cat that has been fed on cream, it’s too good to last, something is bound to happen.’

Perhaps as the result of his long contact with the operatic world, Mr Cowan had developed the sixth sense, certainly his prognostications were justified. It was just before seven o’clock that evening when the French maid, Elise, came running to him in great distress.

‘Ah, Mr Cowan, come quickly, I beg of you come quickly.’

‘What’s the matter?’ demanded Cowan anxiously. ‘Madame got her back up about anything – ructions, eh, is that it?’

‘No, no, it is not Madame, it is Signor Roscari, he is ill, he is dying!’

‘Dying? Oh, come now.’

Cowan hurried after her as she led the way to the stricken Italian’s bedroom. The little man was lying on his bed, or rather jerking himself all over it in a series of contortions that would have been humorous had they been less grave. Paula Nazorkoff was bending over him; she greeted Cowan imperiously.

‘Ah! there you are. Our poor Roscari, he suffers horribly. Doubtless he has eaten something.’

‘I am dying,’ groaned the little man. ‘The pain – it is terrible. Ow!’ He contorted himself again, clasping both hands to his stomach, and rolling about on the bed.

‘We must send for a doctor,’ said Cowan.

Paula arrested him as he was about to move to the door.

‘The doctor is already on his way, he will do all that can be done for the poor suffering one, that is arranged for, but never never will Roscari be able to sing tonight.’

‘I shall never sing again, I am dying,’ groaned the Italian.

‘No, no, you are not dying,’ said Paula. ‘It is but an indigestion, but all the same, impossible that you should sing.’

‘I have been poisoned.’

‘Yes, it is the ptomaine without doubt,’ said Paula. ‘Stay with him, Elise, till the doctor comes.’

The singer swept Cowan with her from the room.

‘What are we to do?’ she demanded.

Cowan shook his head hopelessly. The hour was so far advanced that it would not be possible to get anyone from London to take Roscari’s place. Lady Rustonbury, who had just been informed of her guest’s illness, came hurrying along the corridor to join them. Her principal concern, like Paula Nazorkoff’s, was the success of
Tosca
.