Surfeit of Lampreys (17 page)

“Who dotted him one?” asked Patch, rubbing her hands slowly over her knees.

“It must have been someone—” Lord Charles waved his hand “—some lunatic who wandered up here. A wandering lunatic. Obviously. Don't think about it, Patch. The police will find out about it.”

“Golly, how thrilling,” said Patch. She had squatted down by Roberta who could feel her quivering like a puppy. “Daddy,” she said, “I've thought of something.”

“What is it?” asked her father wearily.

“You'll be able to get rid of the bum.”

“Be quiet, Patch,” said Henry. “You're not to talk about the bum.”

“Why not?”

“Because I tell you.”

Patch looked impertinently at Henry. “O.K., Rune,” she said.

“What!” cried Roberta.

“It's quite right,” said Patch. “Henry's to be called the Earl of Rune now. Isn't he, Daddy?”

“Good God!” said Henry slowly. “So I am.”

“Yes,” said Patch with a certain complacency, “you are. And I, for instance, am now the Lady Patricia Lamprey. Aren't I, Daddy?”

“Shut up, Patch,” said Colin.

“Yes, yes,” said Lord Charles hurriedly. “Never mind about it now, Patch.”

“And Daddy,” Patch persisted stubbornly, “you're now—”

The drawing-room door opened. Alleyn stood on the threshold with Fox behind him.

“May I come in, Lord Wutherwood?” asked Alleyn.

Afterwards, when Roberta had time to review the events of that incredible day, she remembered that until Alleyn appeared, an image of a fictitious detective had hung about at the back of all her thoughts; an image of a man coldly attentive, with coarse hands and a large, soapy-shining face. Alleyn was so little like this image that for a moment she thought he must be some visitor, fantastically
de trop
, who had dropped in to see the Lampreys. The sight of Fox disabused her of this idea. There was no mistake about Fox.

The new Lord Wutherwood put his glass in his waistcoat pocket and, with his usual air of punctilious courtesy, hurried forward. He shook hands, bending his elbow sharply and holding his hand out at a right angle to his fore-arm—a modish, diplomatic handshake.

“Do come in,” he said. “We have left you very much to yourselves out there but I hoped if there was anything we could do you would let us know.”

“There was nothing, thank you so much,” said Alleyn, “until now. I felt I should go over the information Fox had already got before I bothered all of you. But now—”

“Yes, yes, of course. My wife and my small son are not here at the moment but this is the rest of the family…My eldest son you have already met. My daughter…”

The introductions were solemnly performed. Alleyn bowed to each of the Lampreys. Roberta on her footstool was so much in shadow that Lord Charles forgot her, but Alleyn's dark eyes turned gravely to the small figure.

“I beg your pardon, Robin, my dear,” said Lord Charles. “Miss Grey is a New Zealand friend of ours, Mr. Alleyn.”

“How do you do,” said Roberta.

“New Zealand?” said Alleyn.

“Yes. I only got here yesterday,” said Roberta and wondered why he looked so gently at her before he turned to Lord Charles.

“This is a dreadful thing, Alleyn,” Lord Charles was saying. “We are quite bewildered and—and of course rather shaken. I hope you will forgive us if we are not very intelligent about remembering everything.”

“We know that it must have been a very grave shock,” agreed Alleyn. “I shall try to be as quick as possible but I am afraid that at the best it will be a long and unavoidably distressing business.”

“What happens?” asked Henry.

“First of all I want to get a coherent account of the events that preceded the moment when Lord and Lady Wutherwood entered the lift. I think I should tell you that Fox has seen the commissionaire downstairs. He was on duty in the hall all the afternoon and although he does not work the lift he can account for everybody who used it after Lord and Lady Wutherwood arrived. He also states very positively that no strangers used it earlier in the afternoon. There is of course the outside stairway, the iron fire-escape. To get into this flat by its aid you must pass through the kitchen. Your cook is prepared to make a definite statement that during the afternoon nobody came in by that entrance. Of course the commissionaire and the cook may be mistaken but, on the face of it, it appears that no strangers have been up here since lunch.”

“I see.”

“We shall, of course, make much more exhaustive inquiries on this point. But you will see that under the circumstances—”

“It m-must have been been someone in the flat,” said Stephen loudly.

“Yes,” said Alleyn, “it looks like that. I only stress this point to make it clear to you that we must have a very accurate picture of everybody's movements.”

The Lampreys all murmured “Yes.” Alleyn placed his hands palm down on the arms of his chair and looked round the circle of faces. Patch, huddled in her woollen dressing-gown, still sat by Roberta. The twins, long-legged and blond, were collapsed as usual on the sofa; Henry sat in a deep chair, his hands driven into his trousers pockets, his shoulders hunched, his head dipped a little to one side. Henry, thought Roberta, looks like a watchful bird. Lord Charles sat elegantly on a thin chair and swung his glass like a pendulum above his crossed knees. Frid still leant against the mantelpiece in an attitude that was faintly histrionic.

“Before all this business starts,” Alleyn began, “there is just one thing I would like to say. It is not very much use my pretending to avoid the implications in this case. It is scarcely possible that it can be a case of suicide or of accident. The word that must be in all your minds is one that, unfortunately, calls up all sorts of extravagant images. Detective fiction has made so much of homicide investigations that I'm afraid to most people they suggest official misunderstandings, dozens of innocent persons in jeopardy, red herrings by the barrowload, and surprise arrests. Actually, of course, the investigation in a case of homicide is a dull enough business and it is extremely seldom that any innocent person is in the smallest degree likely to suffer anything but the inconvenience of routine.”

He was sitting with his back to the hall door. His face was strongly lit and the attention of the Lampreys was fixed upon it. Roberta, watching them, wondered if his assurances brought them any sense of relief. The quiet voice went on, clearly and without emphasis.

“…so, if I may, I would just like to ask you all to remember that, apart from the distress and sorrow that are the consequences of this crime, innocent people have nothing to fear beyond an exacting and wearisome series of questions. Presently I shall ask to see each of you separately. At the moment I think we shall get along a little quicker if we discuss things together. If Lady Wutherwood and—” Alleyn hesitated, confronted by the embarrassment of twin titles.

“And Lady Wutherwood. Trap for young players,” said Frid in a sprightly manner.

“Frid!” said her father.

“Well, it is, Daddy. Aunt V. is the dowager now, isn't she? Violet, Lady Wutherwood. Or is she? Mr. Alleyn wants both the Ladies Wutherwood, I expect.”

“Please,” said Alleyn.

“I'll go and ask. I don't somehow think you'll have much luck, Mr. Alleyn. My mother will come, of course. I'd better get Nanny while I'm at it. What about Aunt Kit, Daddy?”

Fox, who had seated himself discreetly in the background, glanced up in surprise and Alleyn said: “Is there someone else?”

“I can't
imagine
,” said Lord Charles with an air of vexation, “why nobody can remember Aunt Kit.”

“Well, she just popped off,” said Frid. “We do remember her from time to time. Mummy said, about an hour ago, ‘For pity's sake, what's become of Aunt Kit?' Shall I ring her up?”

“It's my aunt, Alleyn,” explained Lord Charles apologetically. “Lady Katherine Lobe. She was here this afternoon but I'm afraid this terrible business put her out of our minds. She was with my wife just before it happened. I suppose she must have slipped away without realizing—I quite forgot to say anything about her. I'm so sorry. Shall we ring her up?”

“I think it might be as well,” said Alleyn. “Her name is Lady Katherine Lobe did you say?”

“Yes. Why?”

“The commissionaire saw her leave a few minutes before the accident was discovered.”

“Well,” said Lord Charles, “I call it very odd to go off like that without a word. I hope to heaven that nothing was the matter with her. We'd better ring her up. Frid, darling, will you?”

“Am I to tell her to come trundling in from Hammersmith?”

“I'll send the car,” said Lord Charles. “Tell her I'll send the car, Frid, and then you'd better ring up Mayling. Mayling's my chauffeur, Alleyn. He wasn't here this afternoon so I imagine—”

“That will do admirably.”

Frid knelt on a chair beside the desk and dialled a number.

“Aunt Kit,” said Henry, “is almost quite deaf and not very bright. Shall I go and fetch my mother?”

“If you please.”

“And Aunt V.,” Frid reminded Henry. She began talking into the telephone.

“Tell her about it gently, Frid,” said Lord Charles.

“She'll go into a flat spin anyway,” said Patch gloomily.

Henry went out into the hall. Colin said to nobody in particular: “Isn't it rather a shame to summon Aunt Kit? I know maiden aunts are fashionable as murderesses but Mr. Alleyn told us not to go by the detective novels. And honestly—Aunt Kit!”

“Even as a witness,” said Stephen, “she'll be quite hopeless. She n-never knows what's going on under her own n-nose even.”

“Shut up,” hissed Frid. “I can't hear. What did you say? What? But—oh well, thank you so much. Would you just say Miss Lamprey rang up. She knows our number. No, I'm afraid we don't but I expect it's quite all right really. Don't worry, Gibson. Good night.”

Frid replaced the receiver and gazed blankly at her father.

“It's a bit funny,” she said. “Aunt Kit said she'd be in to dinner and there's someone coming to see her by appointment and, well, she'd not telephoned or anything but she's simply not turned up.”

CHAPTER NINE

A
LLEYN HAD BEEN
confronted with the Lampreys for only some twenty minutes but already he had begun to feel a little as though they were handfuls of wet sand which, as fast as he grasped them, were dragged through his fingers by the action of some mysterious undertow. He sent Fox off to find out, if possible, from the commissionaire when Lady Katherine Lobe had left the flat and what direction she had taken. Privately he instructed Fox to set the machinery of the department at work. Hospitals would be rung up, street accidents reported. And in the end, thought Alleyn, Lady Katherine would arrive home at half past eleven after an impulsive visit to the cinema. In the meantime he concentrated on the Lampreys still in hand.

Henry came back, bringing his mother and his old nurse. Again there were vague, polite introductions for which Lady Charles did not wait. She advanced with a swift graciousness which Alleyn at once recognized as the fruit of an excellent social technique. They shook hands. Alleyn saw the small New Zealander give her hostess a startled glance and he wondered if Lady Charles Lamprey was usually so pale. But she greeted him with a perfection of manner that sketched with subtlety relief at his arrival, deference to his ability, and a delicate suggestion that they spoke the same language.

“Please forgive me,” she said, “for keeping you waiting. My sister-in-law—” she made a rueful grimace “—too terribly upset. Henry says you want to see her.”

“I'm so sorry,” said Alleyn. “I'm afraid I do.”

“At the moment she simply
can't
come. I mean I can't
move
her. Her maid may manage her better. She's going to try.”