Death in a White Tie (9 page)

“In respect of malicious tittle-tattle,” said Dimitri virtuously, “our firm is in the well-known position of Caesar’s wife.” He glanced at his servant’s face. It wore a puzzled expression. “She did not appear in gossip columns,” explained Dimitri.

Miss Harris finished her cup of tea but her bread and butter remained untasted on her plate. She told herself she did not fancy it. Miss Harris was gravely upset. She had encountered a question to which she did not know the answer and she found herself unable to stuff it away in one of her pigeon-holes. The truth was Miss Harris’s heart was touched. She had seen Lord Robert several times in Lady Carrados’s house and last night Lord Robert had danced with her. When Lady Carrados asked Miss Harris if she would like to come to the ball she had never for a moment expected to dance at it. She had expected to spend a gratifying but exceedingly lonely night watching the fruits of her own labours. Her expectations had been realized until the moment when Lord Robert asked her to dance, and from then onwards Miss Harris had known a sort of respectable rapture. He had found her on the upper landing where she was sitting by herself outside the little green boudoir. She had just come out of the “Ladies” and had had an embarrassing experience practically in the doorway. So she had sat on a chair on the landing to recover her poise and because there did not seem to be anywhere else much to go. Then she had pulled herself together and gone down to the ballroom. She was trying to look happy and not lost when Lord Robert came up and remembered his request that they should dance. And dance they did, round and round in the fast Viennese waltz, and Lord Robert had said he hadn’t enjoyed himself so much for ages. They had joined a group of dizzily “right” people and one of them, Miss Agatha Troy the famous painter it was, had talked to her as if they had been introduced. And then, when the band played another fast Viennese waltz because they were fashionable, Miss Harris and Lord Robert had danced again and had afterwards taken champagne at the buffet. That had been quite late — not long before the ball ended. How charming he had been, making her laugh a great deal and feel like a human young woman of thirty and not a dependent young lady of no age at all.

And now, here he was, murdered.

Miss Harris was so upset that she could not eat her breakfast. She glanced automatically at her watch. Twelve o’clock. She was to be at Lady Carrados’s house by two in case she was needed. If she was quick she would have time to write an exciting letter home to the Buckinghamshire vicarage. The girl-friend with whom she shared the flatlet was still asleep. She was a night operator in a telephone exchange. But Miss Harris’s bosom could contain this dreadful news no longer. She rose, opened the bedroom door and said:

“Smithy!”

“Uh!”

“Smithy, something awful has happened. Listen!”

“Uh?”

“The girl has just brought in a paper. It’s about Lord Gospell. I mean Lord Robert Gospell. You know. I told you about him last night—”

“For God’s sake!” said Miss Smith. “Did you have to wake me up again to hear all about your social successes?”

“No, but Smithy,
listen
! It’s simply frightful! He’s murdered.”

Miss Smith sat up in bed looking like a sort of fabulous goddess in her mass of tin curling-pins.

“My dear, he isn’t,” said Miss Smith.

“My dear, he is!” said Miss Harris.

When Alleyn had finished his examination of the study he sat at Lord Robert’s desk and telephoned to Marsdon House. He was answered by one of his own men.

“Is Mr Fox there, Bailey?”

“Yes, sir. He’s upstairs. I’ll just tell him.”

Alleyn waited. Before him on the desk was a small, fat notebook and upon the opened page he read again in Lord Robert’s finicky writing the notes he had made on his case:

Fox’s voice came through the receiver.

“Hullo, sir?”

“Hullo, Fox. Have you seen the room where he telephoned to me?”

“Yes. It’s a room on the top landing. One of Dimitri’s waiters saw him go in. The room hasn’t been touched.”

“Right. Anything else?”

“Nothing much. The house is pretty well as it was when the guests left. You saw to that, sir.”

“Is Dimitri there?”

“No.”

“Get him, Fox. I’ll see him at the Yard at twelve o’clock. That’ll do him for the moment. Tell Bailey to go all over the telephone room for prints. We’ve got to find out who interrupted that call to the Yard. And, Fox—”

“Sir?”

“Can you come round here? I’d like a word with you.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Thank you,” said Alleyn, and hung up the receiver.

He looked again at the document he had found in the central drawer of Lord Robert’s desk. It was his will. A very simple little will. After one or two legacies he left all his possessions and the life interest on £40,000 to his sister, Lady Mildred Potter, to revert to her son on her death and the remainder of his estate, £20,000, to that same son, his nephew, Donald Potter. The will was dated January 1st of that year.

“His good deed for the New Year,” thought Alleyn.

He looked at the two photographs in leather frames that stood on Lord Robert’s desk. One was of Lady Mildred Potter in the presentation dress of her girlhood. Mildred had been rather pretty in those days. The other was of a young man of about twenty. Alleyn noted the short Gospell nose and wide-set eyes. The mouth was pleasant and weak, the chin one of those jutting affairs that look determined and are too often merely obstinate. It was rather an attractive face. Donald had written his name across the corner with the date, January 1st.

“I hope to God,” thought Alleyn, “that he can give a good account of himself.”

“Good morning,” said a voice from the doorway.

He swung round in his chair and saw Agatha Troy. She was dressed in green and had a little velvet cap on her dark head and green gloves on her hands.

“Troy!”

“I came in to see if there was anything I could do for Mildred.”

“You didn’t know I was here?”

“Not till she told me. She asked me to see if you had everything you wanted.”

“Everything I wanted,” repeated Alleyn.

“If you have,” said Troy, “that’s all right. I won’t interrupt.”

“Please,” said Alleyn, “could you
not
go just for a second?”

“What is it?”

“Nothing. I mean, I’ve no excuse for asking you to stay, unless, if you will forgive me, the excuse of wanting to look at you and listen for a moment to your voice.” He held up his hand. “No more than that. You liked Bunchy and so did I. He talked about you the last time I saw him.”

“A few hours ago,” said Troy. “I was dancing with him.”

Alleyn moved to the tall windows… They looked out over the charming little garden to the Chelsea reaches of the Thames.

“A few hours ago” — he repeated her words slowly — “the river was breathing mist. The air was threaded with mist and as cold as the grave. That was before dawn broke. It was beginning to get light when I saw him. And look at it now. Not a cloud. The damned river’s positively sparkling in the sunlight. Come here, Troy.”

She stood beside him.

“Look down there into the street. Through the side window. At half-past three this morning the river mist lay like a pall along Cheyne Walk. If anybody was awake at that mongrel hour or abroad in the deserted streets they would have heard a taxi come along Cheyne Walk and stop outside this gate. If anybody in this house had had the curiosity to look out of one of the top windows they would have seen the door of the taxi open and a quaint figure in a cloak and wide-brimmed hat get out.”

“What do you mean?
He got out
?”

“The watcher would have seen this figure wave a gloved hand and heard him call to the driver in a shrill voice: “Sixty-three Jobbers Row, Queens Gate.” He would have seen the taxi drive away into the mist — and then — what? What did the figure do? Did it run like a grotesque with flapping cloak towards the river to be swallowed up in vapour? Or did it walk off sedately into Chelsea? Did it wait for a moment, staring after the taxi? Did Bunchy’s murderer pull off his cloak, fold it and walk away with it over his arm? Did he hide his own tall hat under the cloak before he got out of the taxi, and afterwards change back into it? And where are Bunchy’s cloak and hat, Troy? Where are they?”

“What did the taxi-driver say?” asked Troy. “There’s nothing coherent in the papers. I don’t understand.”

“I’ll tell you. Fox will be here soon. Before he comes I can allow myself a few minutes to unload my mind, if you’ll let me. I’ve done that before — once — haven’t I?”

“Yes,” murmured Troy. “Once.”

“There is nobody in the world who can listen as you can. I wish I had something better to tell you. Well, here it is. The taxi-driver brought Bunchy to the Yard at four o’clock this morning, saying he was murdered. This was his story. He picked Bunchy up at three-thirty some two hundred yards from the doors of Marsdon House. There was a shortage of taxis and we suppose Bunchy had walked so far, hoping to pick one up in a side street, when this fellow came along. The unnatural mist that hung over London last night was thick in Belgrave Square. As the taximan drove towards Bunchy he saw another figure in an overcoat and top-hat loom through the mist and stand beside him. They appeared to speak together. Bunchy held up his stick. The cabby knew him by sight and addressed him:

“ ‘ ’Morning, m’lord. Two hundred Cheyne Walk?”

“ ‘Please,’ said Bunchy.

“The two men got into the taxi. The cabby never had a clear view of the second man. He had his back turned as the taxi approached and when it stopped he stood towards the rear in shadow. Before the door was slammed the cabby heard Bunchy say: ‘You can take him on.’ The cabby drove to Cheyne Walk by way of Chesham Place, Cliveden Place, Lower Sloane Street and Chelsea Hospital and across Tite Street. He says it took about twelve minutes. He stopped here at Bunchy’s gate and in a few moments Lord Robert, as he supposed him to be, got out and slammed the door. A voice squeaked through a muffler: ‘Sixty-three Jobbers Row, Queens Gate,’ and the cabby drove away. He arrived at Jobbers Row ten minutes later, waited for his fare to get out and at last got out himself and opened the door. He found Bunchy.”

Alleyn waited for a moment, looked gravely at Troy’s white face. She said:

“There was no doubt—”

“None. The cabby is an obstinate, opinionated, cantankerous old oddity, but he’s no fool. He satisfied himself. He explained that he once drove an ambulance and knew certain,things. He headed as far as he could for the Yard. A sergeant saw him; saw everything; made sure it was — what it was, and got me. I made sure, too.”

“What had been done to Bunchy?”

“You want to know? Yes, of course you do. You’re too intelligent to nurse your sensibilities.”

“Mildred will ask me about it. What happened?”

“We think he was struck on the temple, stunned and then suffocated,” said Alleyn, without emphasis. “We shall know more when the doctors have finished.”

“Struck?”

“Yes. With something that had a pretty sharp edge. About as sharp as the back of a thick knife-blade.”

“Did he suffer?”

“Not very much. Hardly at all. He wouldn’t know what happened.”

“His heart was weak,” said Troy suddenly.

“His heart? Are you sure of that?”

“Mildred told me the other day. She tried to persuade him to see a specialist.”

“I wonder,” said Alleyn, “if that made it easier — for both of them.”

Troy said:

“I haven’t seen you look like that before.”

“What do you mean, Troy?”

He turned to her a face so suddenly translated into gentleness that she could not answer him.

“I — it’s gone now.”

“When I look at you I suppose all other expression is lost in an effect of general besottedness.”

“How can I answer that?” said Troy.

“Don’t. I’m sorry. What
did
you mean?”

“You looked savage.”

“I feel it when I think of Bunchy.”

“I can understand that.”

“The hunt is up,” said Alleyn. “Have you ever read in the crime books about the relentless detective who swears he’ll get his man if it takes him. the rest of his life? That’s me, Troy, and I always thought it rather a bogus idea. It is bogus in a way, too. The real heroes of criminal investigation are Detective-Constables X, Y and Z — the men in the ranks who follow up all the dreary threads of routine without any personal feeling or interest, who swear no full round oaths, but who, nevertheless,
do
get their men in the end; and with a bit of luck and the infinite capacity for taking pains. Detective-Constables X, Y and Z are going to be kept damned busy until this gentleman is laid by the heels. I can promise them that.”

“I don’t feel like that,” said Troy. “I mean, I don’t feel anything in particular about this murderer except that I think he must be mad. I know he should be found but I can’t feel savage about him. It’s simply Bunchy who did no harm in this world; no harm at all, lying dead and lonely. I must go now, and see what I can do for Mildred. Has Donald come in?”

“Not yet. Do you know where he is staying?”

“He wouldn’t tell Mildred because he thought she would tell Bunchy, and he wanted to be independent. She’s got the telephone number. I’ve seen it written on the memorandum in her room. I suppose you heard about the difference?”

“Yes, from Mildred. It was his debts, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Mildred has always spoilt Donald. He’s not a bad child really. He will be terribly upset.” Alleyn looked at the photograph. “Did you see him at the dance?”

“Yes. He danced a lot with Bridgie O’Brien.”

“Did he stay until the end, do you know?”

“I didn’t stay till the end myself. Mildred and I left at half-past one. She dropped me at my club. Bunchy — Bunchy — was seeing us home, but he came and asked us if we’d mind going without him. He said he was feeling gay.”

“Did you see much of him, please?”

“I danced three times with him. He
was
very gay.”

“Troy, did you notice anything? Anything at all?”

“What sort of things?”

“Did there seem to be any hint of something behind his gaiety? As if, do you know, he was thinking in the back of his head?”

Troy sat on the edge of the desk and pulled off her cap. The morning sun came through the window and dappled her short dark hair with blue lights. It caught the fine angle of her jaw and her cheek-bone. It shone into her eyes, making her screw them up as she did when she painted. She drew off her green gloves and Alleyn watched her thin intelligent hands slide out of their sheaths and lie delicately in the fur of her green jacket. He wondered if he would ever recover from the love of her.

He said: “Tell me everything that happened last night while you were with Bunchy. Look back into your memory before it loses its edge and see if there is anything there that seemed a little out of the ordinary. Anything, no matter how insignificant.”

“I’ll try,” said Troy. “There was nothing when we danced except — yes. We collided once with another couple. It was a Mrs Halcut-Hackett. Do you know her?”

“Yes. Well?”

“It’s a tiny thing, but you say that doesn’t matter. She was dancing with a tall coarse-looking man. Bunchy apologized before he saw who they were. He danced very bouncily, you know, and always apologized when there were collisions. Then we swung round and he saw them. I felt his hand tighten suddenly and I looked over his shoulder at them. The man’s red face had gone quite pale and Mrs Halcut-Hackett looked very odd. Frightened. I asked Bunchy who the man was and he said: ‘Feller called Withers,’ in a queer frozen little voice. I said: ‘Don’t you like him?’ and he said: ‘Not much, m’dear,’ and then began to talk about something else.”

“Yes,” said Alleyn. “That’s interesting. Anything more?”

“Later on, Bunchy and I went to chaperones’ corner. You know, the end of the ballroom where they all sit. Your mother was there. Mrs Halcut-Hackett came up with her husband and then the girl she’s bringing out arrived with that old ass Carrados. The girl had toothache, she said, but I’m afraid the wretched child was really not having a great success. There’s something so blasted cruel and barbaric about this season game,” said Troy vigorously.