Authors: Ngaio Marsh
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #det_classic, #Political, #Mystery & Detective, #Police Procedural, #Police, #Mystery fiction, #England, #Traditional British, #Police - England, #Alleyn; Roderick (Fictitious character)
Artists in Crime (24 page)
“It’s an acid burn.”
“Acid? Rot! I mean, how could it be acid?”
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t tell you. Considering the use the thing’s had, I suppose it might have come in contact with acid some time or another.”
“This is a recent stain.”
“Is it? Well then, it is. So what?”
“Might it be nitric acid?”
“Why?”
“Do you do any etching, Mr. Pilgrim?”
“Yes. But not in my garage coat. Look here, Mr. Alleyn— ”
“Will you feel in the pockets?”
Pilgrim thrust a hand into one of the pockets and pulled out a pair of gloves.
“If you look on the back of the right-hand glove,” said Alleyn, “you will see among all the greasy stains and worn patches another very small mark. Look at it, please. There. It is exceedingly small, but it, too, was made by an acid. Can you account for it?”
“Quite frankly, I can’t. The gloves are always left in the pocket. Anything might happen to them.”
“I see. Have you ever lent this coat to anyone else? Has anyone else ever worn the gloves?”
“I don’t know. They may have.” He looked up quickly and his eyes were suddenly bright with terror. “I think it’s quite likely I’ve lent it,” he said. “Or a garage hand might have put it on some time — easily. It may be acid from a battery.”
“Have you ever lent it to Miss Seacliff, for instance?”
“Never.”
“It’s an old riding burberry, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t lend it to her to hack in at your father’s house — Ankerton — during the week-end?”
“Good Lord, no! Valami has got very smart riding clothes of her own.”
“Not even the gloves?”
Pilgrim achieved a laugh. “Those gloves! I had just given Valmai six pairs of coloured gloves which she tells me are fashionable. She was so thrilled she even lunched in purple gloves and dined in scarlet ones.”
“I mean to ride in?”
“She had her own hunting gloves. What
is
all this?”
“She goes well to hounds, doesn’t she?”
“Straight as the best.”
“Yes. What sort of horse did you mount her on?”
“A hunter — one of mine.”
“Clubbed mane and tail?”
“Yes.”
“Look inside the right-hand glove — at the base of the little finger. Do you see that bloodstain?”
“I see a small stain.”
“It has been analysed. It is a bloodstain. Do you remember recently cutting or scratching the base of your little finger?”
“I — yes — I think I do.”
“How did it happen?”
“I forgot. I think it was at Ankerton — on a bramble or something.”
“And you had these gloves with you at the time?”
“I suppose so. Yes.”
“I thought you said the gloves and coat always lived in the car?”
“It is rather absurd to go on with this,” Pilgrim said. “I’m afraid I must refuse to answer any more questions.”
“You are perfectly within your rights. Fox, ask Miss Seacliff if she will be good enough to come in. Thank you, Mr. Pilgrim; will you wait outside?”
“No,” said Pilgrim. “I’m going to hear what you say to her.
Alleyn hesitated.
“Very well,” he said at last. He dropped the coat and gloves behind the desk.
Valmai Seacliff arrived in her black slacks and magenta pullover. She made, as usual, a good entrance, shutting the door behind her and leaning against it for a moment to survey the men.
“Hallo,” she said. “More investigations? What’s the matter with you, Basil, you look as if you’d murdered somebody?”
Pilgrim didn’t answer.
Alleyn said: “I have sent for you, Miss Seacliff, to know if you can help us.”
“But I should adore to help you, Mr. Alleyn.”
“Did you drink the solution of aspirin that Mr. Pilgrim prepared for you on Friday night?”
“Not all of it. It was too bitter.”
“But you said, before, that you drank it.”
“Well, I did have a sip. I slept all right without it.”
“How is your cut hand?”
“My—? Oh, it’s quite recovered.”
“May I see it, please?”
She held it out with the same gesture that she had used on Monday night, but this time the fingers trembled. Below the base of the little finger there was still a very thin reddish scar.
“What’s this?” said Pilgrim violently. “Valmai — don’t answer any of their questions. Don’t answer!”
“But, why not, Basil?”
“You told me that you cut your hand on your horse’s mane,” said Alleyn.
“No. You told me that, Mr. Alleyn.”
“You accepted the explanation.”
“Did I?”
“How do you say, now, that you cut your hand?”
“I did it on the reins.”
“Mr. Pilgrim, did you see this cut on Saturday evening? It must have been quite sore then. A sharp, thin cut.”
“I didn’t see her hand. She wore gloves.”
“All through dinner?”
“Scarlet gloves. They looked lovely,” she said, “didn’t they, Basil?”
“Do you remember that on Monday night you told me you had no pretensions of being a good horsewoman?”
“Modesty, Mr. Alleyn.”
Alleyn turned aside. He moved behind the desk, stooped, and in a second the old raincoat and the gloves were lying on the top of the desk.
“Have you ever seen those before?” asked Alleyn.
“I — don’t know. Oh yes. It’s Basil’s, isn’t it?”
“Come and look at it.”
She walked slowly across the desk and looked at the coat and gloves. Alleyn picked up the sleeve and without speaking pointed a long forefinger to the acid hole in the cuff. He lifted the collar and turned it back, and pointed to a whitish stain. He dropped the coat, took up the left-hand glove and turned it inside out. He pointed to a small stain under the base of the little finger. And still he did not speak. It was Basil Pilgrim who broke the silence.
“I don’t know what he’s driving at, Val, but you’ve never worn the things. I know you haven’t. I’ve told him so. I’ll swear it — I’ll swear you’ve never worn them. I
know
you haven’t.”
“You bloody fool,” she screamed. “You bloody fool!”
“Valmai Seacliff,” began Alleyn, “I arrest you for the murder of Wolf Garcia on— ”
Troy sat on a rug in the central grass plot of Lady Alleyn’s rose garden. Alleyn stood and looked down at her. “You see,” he said, “it was a very clumsy, messy, and ill-planned murder. It seemed the most awful muddle, but it boils down to a fairly simple narrative. We hadn’t much doubt after Monday night that Garcia had set the trap for Sonia. He left his prints on the opium jar and, as Malmsley had prepared the first pipe, Garcia evidently gave himself another. He must have been in a state of partial recovery with a sort of exalted carry-over, when he got the idea of jamming the knife through the floor of the throne. Motive — Sonia had been badgering him to marry her. She was going to have his child and wouldn’t let him alone. He had exhausted her charms and her possibilities as a blackmailing off-sider, and he was nauseated by her persistence. She came between him and his work. She probably threatened to sue him for maintenance, to make a full-sized scandal, to raise hell with a big stick in a bucket. The opium suggested a beautifully simple and macabre way out of it all. I saw Sonia’s friend in the chorus — Miss O’Dawne— again this morning from the arrest. I got a rather fuller account of the blackmailing game. Sonia and Garcia were both in it. Sonia had tackled Pilgrim and threatened to tell the Methodist peer that Basil was the father of her child. He wasn’t, but that made no odds. Basil stumped up and Sonia handed the cash to Garcia. We found a note from Garcia to Valmai Seacliff in which he coolly said he’d bought painting-materials at her shop and put them down to her. The wordings of the letter suggested that he had some sort of upper hand over her, and when I first saw Bobbie O’Dawne she obviously had information up her sleeve and admitted as much. She told Bathgate that Sonia had said Garcia would kill both of them if they babbled. When Sonia died Bobbie O’Dawne was certain Garcia had done it, and that she’d be the next victim if she didn’t keep quiet. Now he’s dead, and we’ve got Valmai Seacliff, Miss O’Dawne is all for a bit of front-page publicity, and told me this morning that Sonia had kept her
au fait
with the whole story. Garcia blackmailed Valmai Seacliff. He said he’d tell Basil Pilgrim that she’d been his — Garcia’s — mistress. He said he’d go to the Methodist peer with a story of studio parties that would throw the old boy into a righteous fury, and completely cook Seacliff’s goose. Garcia worked the whole thing out with Sonia. She was to tackle Pilgrim while he went for Valmai Seacliff. Garcia had started to work with Seacliff, who at first wouldn’t rise. But he’d done some drawings of Seacliff in the nude which he said he’d send to old Pilgrim with a suitable letter, and he told her that Sonia was also prepared to do her bit of blackmail as well. At last, Valmai Seacliff — terrified of losing Pilgrim — said she’d meet Garcia on Friday night in the studio, when they were all safely away, and discuss payment. All this Garcia told Sonia, and Sonia told Bobbie O’Dawne, swearing her to secrecy. O’Dawne was too frightened of Garcia to tell me the Seacliff side, and I also think she honestly felt she couldn’t break her word. She’s got a sort of code, that funny hard little baggage, and she’s stuck to it. But, of course, without her evidence we’d got no motive as far as Seacliff was concerned.”
“When did you suspect Valmai?”
“I wasn’t very certain until I saw that the person who murdered Garcia had held his head back by the hair, and that he had struggled so hard that — well, that he had struggled. I then remembered the cut on Seacliff’s hand, and how she had showed it to me only when she saw me looking at it, and how she had said it had been made by her horse’s reins, when it had obviously been made by something much finer. I remembered how, when I suggested it was not the reins, but the horse’s mane, she had agreed. But to go back a bit. From the moment we learned that it was Seacliff who posed the model I felt that we must watch her pretty closely.”
“I don’t understand that. You say Garcia set the trap with the knife.”
“Yes, but I believe Seacliff watched him through a hole in the studio window-blind.”
“Seacliff!”
“Yes. She had put three aspirins in Pilgrim’s coffee to ensure his sleeping soundly. When she realised he had noticed the coffee tasted odd — he made a face at her — she quickly raised an outcry about her own. She pretended to have a headache in order to get them all to bed early. She slipped out to the garage, wearing slacks and a sweater, put on Pilgrim’s old coat and gloves, and drove back to the studio, getting there about midnight, with the intention of arguing about blackmail with Garcia. This was the meeting Miss Phillida Lee overheard Sonia discussing with Garcia. Sonia told Miss Bobbie O’Dawne all about it, and Miss O’Dawne told me, this morning. But you should remember that until this morning Miss O’Dawne had only elaborated what we already knew — the Pilgrim-Sonia side. However, I give you the whole thing as completely as I can. Valmai Seacliff arrived at the studio in a desperate attempt to placate Garcia. She must have left the car somewhere in the lane and walked down, meaning to come in at the side gate. Your maid Ethel and her boy, returning from the flicks, saw the figure of a shortish man standing outside the studio window, apparently looking through the hole in the blind. He wore a mackintosh with the collar turned up. The ray of light caught his beret, which was pulled down on one side, hiding his face. Both Garcia and Pilgrim were too tall for the light to get them anywhere above the chest. So was Malmsley. Seacliff seemed to be the only one about the right height. When we saw Pilgrim’s old coat in his car we noticed whitish marks on the collar that suggested face- or neck-powder, and they smelt of Seacliff. It was so dirty it didn’t seem likely she would let him embrace her while he was wearing it. When we looked inside the left-hand glove we noticed a bloodstain that corresponded with the cut on her hand. That, of course, came into the picture after the Garcia affair. I believe that she actually watched Garcia set his trap for Sonia and decided to say nothing about it. I believe she went in, probably got him to drink a good deal more whisky, and offered to drive him up to London. You told me he did a little etching.”
“Yes. He’d prepared a plate a few days before he went.”
“Then perhaps he said he’d take the acid to bite it. Is that the right word? Anyway, she got out your caravan and backed it up to the window. There’s a slope down from the garage — enough to free-wheel into the lane and start on compression. The servants wouldn’t think anything odd if they heard a car in the lane. Malmsley had helped Garcia get everything ready. All she had to do was open the window, wheel the clay model over the sill into the caravan, get Garcia aboard and start off. The packing-case had already been addressed by Garcia. So she knew the address, even if he was incapable of directing her. I think myself that he had told her exactly where the warehouse was when he asked her to go there to see him, and she has admitted that he gave her a sketch-map. Probably his idea was that she should pay blackmail to him while he was there. She made another rather interesting slip over that. Do you remember how she said she was reminded of the warehouse address by a remark someone made at breakfast about Holloway? She told me — and, I think, you — that as soon as she heard the word Holloway she remembered that Garcia had said his warehouse was near the prison, and she had told him to be careful he didn’t get locked up. Holloway is a woman’s prison. Her very feeble joke would have been a little less feeble if he was blackmailing her, and the place of assignation was not Holloway, but Brixton. By giving us Holloway as the district, she was sending us off in exactly the opposite direction to the right one. We might have hunted round Holloway for weeks. I wondered if she had been the victim of a sort of word-association and I decided to go for Brixton. Luckily enough, as it turned out. As a matter of fact, she has twice fallen into the trap of substituting for the truth something that is linked with it in her mind. The first time was over the cut on her hand. It had been made when she was standing above Garcia with her hand wound in his hair. She saw me looking at the scar, decided to speak of it before I did, was, perhaps, reminded subsconciously of horses’ hair, a mane gripped in the hand, rejected the idea of hair altogether and substituted reins. Have you had enough of this, Troy?”