Death in Ecstasy (13 page)

“What are you saying! Ogden! Then you
do
think he’s a bad hat.”

“No!
No
! He seems a perfectly good hat. I merely say that for immediate circumstances — the actual situation at the time of the murder — point to Ogden.”

“Why?”

“My dear Bathgate, this is a sad falling-off. Think of his position.”

“I’m damned if I know what you are driving at. His position seems to be very comfortable. He’s a rich business man.”

Alleyn cast his eyes up but said nothing.

“Don’t make that maddening grimace, Alleyn. What are you getting at? Do you or do you not suspect Mr. Ogden?”

“I suspect the whole lot of them. Apart from the one point I have noted I don’t think he’s any likelier than the others.”

“Surely he’s likelier than Janey Jenkins and Miss Wade.”

There was a tap at the door and Inspector Fox came in.

“Another report from Bailey, sir,” he said. “Good morning, Mr. Bathgate.”

“What’s Bailey say?” asked Alleyn.

“Nothing new. He’s got to work properly on the prints. Very smart chap, Bailey. He’s found Father Garnette’s prints on the parcel of newspaper, and he thinks there’s a trace of them on the top of the poison book. Nothing on the cyanide page, as you know. Miss Quayne’s on the page torn out of the notebook.”

“When did he get a pattern to compare them with?” asked Nigel.

“That would be from the body, sir.”

“Oh, of course.”

“There’s another print come out of the book,” Fox continued, “and he hasn’t been able to trace it. He’d like to get impressions from the rest of them.”

“He shall have them,” said Alleyn, “this afternoon. When’s the inquest? Tomorrow at eleven?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Well, we’d better call it a day here.”

“Have you found anything?” Nigel asked. “Any clues?”

“Nothing spectacular. De Ravigne’s love letters. A smug and guarded epistle from the Garnette.”

“May I see M. de Ravigne’s letters, sir?” asked Fox.

“There you are. The one on the top’s the most interesting.”

Fox seated himself at the table, adjusted a large pair of spectacles and spread out the first of the letters. Nigel strolled up behind him.

“What are
you
up to?” inquired Alleyn.

“Nothing,” said Nigel, reading frantically at long range.

M. de Ravigne wrote a large flowing hand. It was dated Friday of last week.

“And she didn’t,” said Nigel.

“No,” said Alleyn, “she kept his letters. Women keep love letters for much the same reason as a servant keeps references. They help to preserve, as M. de Ravigne might say, the
amour propre;
and can always be produced upon occasion.”

“Angela never shows my letters to anyone,” said Nigel hotly. “Never.”

“Not to her bosomest friend? No? You are fortunate. Perhaps she hopes they may be found, smelling faintly of orrisroot, if she predeceases you.”

“That is a remark in bad taste, I consider.”

“I agree and apologise. You don’t question the taste of reading Miss Quayne’s love letters over Fox’s shoulder, I notice,” said Alleyn mildly.

“That’s entirely different,” blustered Nigel. “Miss Quayne was murdered.”

“Which makes her fair game. I know, I know. Well, what do you think of M. de Ravigne’s effusion?”

“It looks monstrous fishy to me,” said Nigel. “What does he mean about her putting herself in a position that is fraught with danger? It looks remarkably like a threat. ‘Take on the Chosen Vessel job and your life will be in danger.’ ”

“He doesn’t actually say her life, Mr. Bathgate,” said Fox, glancing up from another of the letters.

“No,” agreed Alleyn. “He may be old-fashioned enough to think there is something a woman values more than her life.”

“Well,” said Nigel, “what do you think inspired the letter?”

“An interesting point, Bathgate. I don’t know. Jealousy perhaps or — yes — it might be fear. He was very agitated when he wrote it.”

“How do you make that out?”

“The phraseology betrays him. The English is much less certain than in the other letters. There are several mistakes.”

“I think the postscript looks very shady.”

“It does, doesn’t it? What do you say, Fox?”

“Well, sir, I’d say the gentleman knew something that he didn’t exactly like to mention in black and white. It might be he knew there’d be goings-on with the Reverend, and it might be something he was afraid she’d find out. That postscript looks to me as though he was scared.”

“You wise old bird. Well, I’ve finished here. We’ll leave your mates to do the tooth-combing, Fox. They are upstairs at the moment. I’ve a date with Mr. Rattisbon.”

“He was the solicitor in the O’Callaghan case, wasn’t he?” asked Nigel.

“He was. He’s everything that a lawyer ought to be. Desiccated, tittuppy, nice old fuss-pot. Gives one the idea that he is a good actor slightly overdoing his part. I must away, Fox. Meet you at the Garnette apartment, as Mr. Ogden would say.”

“Right-oh, sir.”

“Anyone else going?” Nigel inquired.

“No doubt you will appear. I expect the Initiates to turn up in full force. Two o’clock.”

“Certainly, I shall come,” said Nigel. “
Au revoir
.”

Nigel returned to his office and Alleyn went down the Strand to the little street where Mr. Rattisbon kept office.

It was one of those offices that look as if they were kept going as a memorial to Charles Dickens. A dingy entry smelt of cobwebs and old varnish. A dark staircase led to a landing, where a frosted-glass skylight let in enough light to show Mr. Rattisbon’s name on the door. Beyond the door Alleyn found Mr. Rattisbon himself in an atmosphere of dust, leather, varnish, dry sherry, and age. The room was not dusty, but it made one think of discreet dust. Mr. Rattisbon was not dressed in Victorian garments, but he conveyed an impression of being so dressed. He was a thin, eager old man with bluish hands and sharp eyes. He spoke rapidly with a sort of stuttering volubility, and had a trick of vibrating the tip of his long tongue between his lips. He dealt, as his father and grandfather had done before him, with the estates of the upper-middle class. He was a very shrewd old gentleman.

“I hope I’m not late, sir,” said Alleyn.

“No, no, Chief Inspector, not at all. Quite punctual, quite punctual. Pray sit down. Yes. Let me see. I don’t think we have met since that unfortunate affair — um?”

“No. I am sorry to bother you. I expect you have guessed what brought me?”

“Brought you. Yes. Yes. This miserable business of Miss Cara Valerie Quayne. I have received word of it this morning. A most distressing affair, most.”

“How did you hear of it, sir?”

“Through the maid, the confidential maid. A Miss — ah— Miss Edith Laura Hebborn. Miss Hebborn felt I should be advised immediately and very properly rang me up. One of the old type of domestic servants. The old type. I suppose there’s no doubt about it being a case of homicide. Um? No.”

“None, I’m afraid. It’s a bizarre case.”

“Bizarre!” ejaculated Mr. Rattisbon with distaste. ‘Tch! Well, Chief Inspector, how can I assist you?”

“By giving me any information you can about Miss Quayne and by letting me see the Will. The inquest is tomorrow. Perhaps it would save time if I told you what I have learned up to date.”

Alleyn gave Mr. Rattisbon the gist of the information he had received from Nannie and from the Initiates. The little lawyer listened attentively.

“Precisely,” he said when Alleyn had finished. “An excellent account and substantially correct. Accurate.”

“Miss Quayne’s affairs have always been in your hands, sir?”

“Oh, yes. Yes. Colonel Quayne — her father — old family clients. Charming fellow.”

“You have seen Miss Quayne recently?”

“Five weeks ago tomorrow.”

“On that occasion did she wish to alter her Will?”

“Um? You heard of that?”

“From M. de Ravigne. I hope you will tell me anything that strikes you as being relevant.”

“It is exceedingly distasteful to me to discuss my clients’ affairs, Chief Inspector. Of course I appreciate the extraordinary nature of the matter. Since you rang up I have considered the advisability of — of — speaking with complete frankness, and — I — in short have decided to lay the whole matter before you.”

Mr. Rattisbon suddenly snatched his pince-nez from his nose and waved them at Alleyn.

“As follows,” he said. “Five weeks ago I received a visit from Miss Cara Valerie Quayne. She had advised me first that she wished to make an extensive alteration in her Will, and then that she desired me to draw up a new Will. I therefore had the existing document in readiness for her visit. She arrived.” He rubbed his nose violently. “And I may say she astounded me.”

Alleyn was silent. After contemplating him with severity for some seconds Mr. Rattisbon leant across the desk and continued:

“She astounded me. The previous Will had been a very proper and sensible disposition of her considerable fortune. Several large sums to various worthy charities. Annuities to her servants. Various legacies. The residuary legatee was a third cousin in New Zealand. A boy whom she has never seen, but he bears her father’s name. And so on and so on and so on. Perfectly proper. She now informed me that she wished me completely to revise these terms and — in short to draw up a new document. On these lines: She wished the annuity of two hundred pounds per annum to Miss Edith Laura Hebborn to be increased to three hundred pounds per annum. The lease of her house, its contents, her pictures, jewels and so on to M. Raoul Honoré Christophe de Ravigne. A — a handsome legacy to Father Jasper Garnette. The rest of her very considerable fortune — every penny piece of it — she would leave to the House of the Sacred Flame, 89, Knocklatchers Row, Eaton Place, making Father Garnette the sole trustee.”

“Gosh!” said Alleyn.

“You may well say so. I — frankly, Chief Inspector — I was horrified. I had known Miss Quayne from her childhood. Her father was a personal friend as well as a client. In a sense I may say I had considered myself
in loco parentis
, since both guardians were deceased. When I first became aware of Miss Quayne’s increasing interest in Mr. Garnette’s sect I went so far as to make inquiries about him. What I discovered did not reassure me. On the contrary I became gravely suspicious. Then, to crown everything, she came to me with the request that I should draw up a Will on the lines I have indicated.”

“Extraordinary.”

“Most extraordinary. As a solicitor I have become accustomed to testamentary — ah — vagaries. I have become accustomed to them. But this caused me the greatest concern. I exceeded the strict limits of propriety by urging her again and again to reconsider. I represented to her that this Father Garnette might not be all that she thought him. I strongly urged her to allow me to make further inquiries. When all else failed I begged that she at least leave this very considerable sum to be administered by other trustees on behalf of the — the — religious body in which she had become so interested. Not a bit of it!”

“She insisted on leaving Mr. Garnette as sole trustee?”

“Precisely. She was in a most excitable frame of mind and was impatient, I may say intolerant, of any suggestions. I put it to her that her father would have regarded the terms of the new Will with abhorrence. She would not listen. She — in short, she said that if I made any further difficulties she would get a Will form from — from a Smith’s bookstall and fill it in herself.”

Mr. Rattisbon dropped his pince-nez delicately on his blotting-paper and by this moderate gesture conveyed a sense of overwhelming defeat.

“I drew up the Will,” he said. ‘Three days afterwards, she came here and signed it.”

“So that’s that,” grunted Alleyn. “By how much does, the sect benefit?”

“In round figures, twenty-one thousand pounds.”

“And may I ask, sir, by how much Mr. Jasper Garnette is to be a richer man?”

“Ten thousand pounds.”

“Damn!” said Alleyn.

Mr. Rattisbon shot a shrewd glance at him.

“May I take it as your personal opinion that he will live to — to enjoy it?” he asked.

“He’ll need it before I’m done with him.”

“That is a cryptic answer, Chief Inspector.”

“Yours was a leading question, sir.”

Mr. Rattisbon suddenly sucked in his breath three or four times very rapidly and uttered a little whooping noise. He had laughed.

“In any case,” Alleyn went on, “couldn’t the Will be contested? What about the young Quayne, down under? What about coercion? Or her mental condition? I’m entirely ignorant of the law, sir, but suppose — well, suppose he’d been giving her drugs?”

Mr. Rattisbon stared at the inspector for some seconds.

“If you find evidence of that,” he said at last, “I would be greatly obliged if you would call on me again.”

“Certainly,” Alleyn stood up. “By the way, have you any idea why she increased the bequest to Miss Hebborn?”

“I received an impression that — that it was in the nature of a — how shall I put it? — of a peace-offering. Miss Hebborn had, I believe, expressed herself somewhat warmly on the subject of this sect, which she regarded in a most unfavourable light. There had been a heated argument, hasty words amounting to a quarrel. Miss Quayne was greatly attached to her old nurse, who had given her devoted service. From certain remarks she let fall I gathered that she wished to — in a sense to make reparation.”

“And the bequest to M. de Ravigne? It will amount to something pretty considerable, I imagine. The pictures alone are worth a great deal. There’s a very fine Van Gogh and I noticed a Famille Verte ‘ginger’ jar that wouldn’t be had for the asking.”

“Precisely. M. de Ravigne is an old friend of the family and, I understand, a collector. I have not the pleasure of his acquaintance.”

“He has an intriguing temperament. I must go. Good-bye, sir, and thank you a thousand times.”

“Good-bye. Yes. Thank-yer. Thank-yer. Don’t mention it. Yes,” gabbled Mr. Rattisbon with extreme rapidity. He walked out first on to the landing and there leant forward and peered up into Alleyn’s face. “And I hope you’re going to — eh? By the heels? Eh? Always interested in your work. This time — natural anxiety. Well. Mind the steps.”

“I hope so. Of course. Thank you,” said Alleyn.

He had a short interview with his Assistant Commissioner, lunched in the Strand and went straight to Knocklatchers Row. Here he found Claude and Lionel and all the Initiates who had been rung up from the Yard grouped in a solid phalanx round Father Garnette’s sitting room under the eye of Detective-Sergeant Bailey. The priest, looking extremely cadaverous and yellow, was seated at the centre table. Nigel, who had hung about the entrance with Inspector Fox, followed the detectives into the room.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” said Alleyn cheerfully. “Forgive me if I’ve kept you waiting.”

Janey Jenkins said: “You’re punctual. It’s just struck two.”

Mr. Ogden stood up and said: “Well, well, well, look who’s here.”

The rest of the ladies and gentlemen uttered self-conscious noises.

“I shan’t keep you long,” Alleyn went on. “First of all, if you don’t mind, we would like to take your fingerprints. It’s the usual thing. I could get them on the sly by offering you shiny photos to identify as your third cousins, but there really isn’t time. Detective-Sergeant Bailey will fix you up.”

Janey looked interested, Maurice disgusted, Ogden solemn and de Ravigne faintly amused, while Mrs. Candour and Miss Wade were obviously terrified. The acolytes turned pale and Father Garnette remained ghastly and rather remote. Bailey took their prints by getting them to roll the cushion of each finger on a little printer’s ink and then on a sheet of white paper. He thoughtfully offered them an oiled rag to clean up with. This ceremony ended, Alleyn invited them all to sit round the table.

“First of all,” he began, “I should like you all to tell me as far as you can remember what are the contents of the safe. I understand that several of you had access to it.”

There was a moment’s silence and then Mr. Ogden said bluntly:

“We all know where the key was kept, Chief, but I guess none of us worried.”

“Where
was
the key kept.”

“On my desk,” said Father Garnette, “sometimes.”

“In your pocket,” said Mr. Ogden. “It wasn’t just laying around all the time, Chief. Sometimes there’s quite a little bit of coin in that safe.”

“How much is there at the moment?” asked Alleyn.