Death in Ecstasy Read online

  “Ah, Inspector!” cried Father Garnette with holy cheeriness. “Still hard at work! Still hard at work!”

  “I’m most frightfully sorry,” said Alleyn. “There was no need for you to wait in there. You could have returned to your rooms.”

  “Have I been long? I was engaged in an ecstatic meditation and had passed into the third portal where there is no time.”

  “You were fortunate.”

  Bailey came out of Father Garnette’s room and approached the inspector.

  “That Miss Wade, sir,” he said, “is getting kind of resigned. I think she’s dropped off to sleep.”

  Alleyn gazed at Fox and Fox at Alleyn.

  “Cripes!” said Inspector Fox.

  “Lummie!” said Inspector Alleyn, “I must be in ecstasy myself. I’d quite forgotten her. Lord, I am sorry! Show the lady down, Bailey.”

  “Right oh, sir.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Miss Wade

  FATHER GARNETTE showed an inclination to hover, but was most firmly removed to his own rooms. He and Miss Wade met on the chancel steps.

  “Ah, you poor soul!” intoned Father Garnette. “Very weary? Very sad?”

  Miss Wade looked from Bailey to the priest.

  “Father!” she whispered. “They are not—they don’t suspect—”

  “Courage, dear lady!” interposed Father Garnette very quickly and loudly. “Courage! We are all in good hands. I shall pray for you.”

  He hurried past and made for his door, followed by Bailey. Miss Wade looked after him for a moment and then turned towards the steps. She peered short-sightedly into the hall. Alleyn went up to her.

  “I cannot apologise enough for keeping you so long.”

  Miss Wade examined him doubtfully. “I am sure you were doing your duty, officer,” she said.

  “You are very kind, madam. Won’t you sit down?”

  “Thank you.” She sat, very erect, on the edge of one of the chairs.

  “There are certain questions that I must ask,” began Alleyn, “as a matter of official routine.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  “Thank you. It will be nice to get home,” said Miss Wade plaintively. “I am distressed by the thought that I have perhaps left my electric heater turned on. I can remember perfectly that I said to myself: ‘Now I must not forget to turn it off,’ but—”

  Here Miss Wade stopped short and gazed pensively into space for at least seven seconds.

  “I recollect,” she said at last. “I did turn it off. Shall we commence? You were saying?”

  “That I should like, if I may, to ask you one or two questions.”

  “Certainly. I shall be glad to be of any assistance. I am not at all familiar with the methods of the police, although I have a very dear brother who was an officer in the Cape Mounted Police during the Boer War. He suffered great privations and discomforts and his digestion has never quite recovered.”

  Alleyn stooped abruptly and fastened his shoe.

  “The questions, Miss Wade, are these,” he began when he had straightened up again. “First: did you notice any unusual smell when you received the cup from M. de Ravigne?”

  “Let me think. Any odour? Yes,” said Miss Wade triumphantly, “I did. Decidedly. Yes.”

  “Can you describe it?”

  “Indeed I can. Peppermint.”

  “Peppermint!” ejaculated Alleyn.

  “Yes. And onion. You see Claude, the lad who acted as cup-bearer, was bending over me and—and it was rather overwhelming. I have noticed it before and wondered if I should speak to Father about it. Evidently, the lad is passionately fond of these things, and I don’t, I really don’t think it is quite reverent.”

  “I agree,” said Alleyn hurriedly. “Miss Wade, you have said once before this evening that Miss Quayne was not very happy and not very popular. Can you tell me a little more about her? Why was she unpopular?”

  “But you were not here when I said that, officer. I am positive of that because when we were in there waiting—no. I’m not telling the truth—that’s a fib. It was before you came, and it was before that young man went to the telephone and”—Miss Wade again stared fixedly at the inspector for some seconds—“and Father Garnette said to me: ‘I implore you not to speak like that to the police,’ so you see I know you were not here, so how did you know?”

  “Mr. Bathgate remembered and told me. Why was Miss Quayne unhappy!”

  “Because she was unpopular,” said Miss Wade triumphantly.

  “And why was she unpopular, do you think?”

  “Poor thing! I think there was a certain amount of jealousy. I’m afraid that there was, although perhaps I should not say so. Father Garnette seemed to think I should not say so.”

  “I am sure you want to help us.”

  “Oh, yes of course I do. At least—Would you be good enough to tell me if poor Cara was murdered?”

  “I believe so. It looks like it.”

  “Then if I say that somebody was jealous of her you may grow suspicious and begin to think all sorts of things, and I don’t believe in capital punishment.”

  “Jealousy is not invariably followed by homicide.”

  “Isn’t that precisely what I was saying! So you see!”

  “Mrs. Candour,” said Alleyn thoughtfully, “tells me that Miss Quayne was not a particularly striking personality.”

  “Now that’s really naughty of Dagmar. She should try to conquer her feelings. It is not as though Father gave them any encouragement. I am afraid she willfully misunderstood. He is too noble and too pure even to guess—”

  “Guess what, Miss Wade?”

  Miss Wade compressed her faded lips and looked acutely uncomfortable.

  “Come!” said Alleyn. “I shall jump to some terrible conclusion if you are so mysterious.”

  “I don’t believe what they say,” cried Miss Wade. Her voice shook and her thin hands trembled in her lap. “It is wicked—wicked. His thoughts are as pure as a saint’s. Cara was a child to him. Dagmar is a wicked woman to speak as she does. Cara was excitable and impulsive, we know that, and generous—generous. Rich people are not always to be envied.” Alleyn was silent for a moment.

  “Tell me,” he began at last, “were your eyes closed during the ceremony of the cup?”

  “Oh, yes. We all must keep our eyes closed, except, of course, when we pour out the wine. One has to open them then.”

  “You did not notice any of the other Initiates when they poured out the wine?”

  “Of course not,” said Miss Wade uncomfortably. She became very pink and pursed up her lips.

  “I should have thought,” pursued Alleyn gently, “that when you took the cup from M. de Ravigne—”

  “Oh, then of course I had to peep,” admitted Miss Wade.

  “—And when you passed it on to Mr. Pringle?”

  “Well, of course. Especially with Mr. Pringle, he has such very tremulous hands. Exceedingly tremulous. It’s smoking too many cigarettes. I told him so. I said frankly to him: ‘Mr. Pringle, you will undermine your health with this excessive indulgence in nicotine.’ My dear brother is also a very prolific smoker, so I know.”

  “Mr. Pringle did not spill any wine, I suppose?”

  “No. No, he didn’t. But more by good fortune than good management. He took the cup by the stem in one hand and it quivered and, if I may say so reverently, jigged about so much that he was obliged to grasp it by the rim with the other. Then, of course, he had great difficulty in taking the wine-vessel—the silver jug, you know—from Claude, and in pouring out the wine. It wasn’t at all nice. Not reverent.”

  “No. M. de Ravigne?”

  “Ah. There, quite a different story. Everything very nice and respectful,” said Miss Wade. “Dagmar had left a little trickle on the rim and he drew out a spotless handkerchief and wiped it. Nothing could be nicer. He might almost be an Englishman.”

  “In your anxiety—your
very natural anxiety about Mr. Pringle—perhaps you just looked to see—”

  “When he passed it to dear Janey? Yes, Inspector, I did. Janey must have felt as nervous as I did for she reached out her hands and took it as soon as Mr. Pringle had poured in the wine. Well, I say ‘poured,’ but it is my impression that although he made an attempt he did not actually succeed in doing so. Mr. Ogden is always quite the gentleman, of course,” added Wade with one of her magnificent non sequiturs. “He receives the cup in both hands by the bowl and grasps the vessel firmly by the neck. That sounds a little as though he had three hands, but of course the mere idea is ludicrous.”

  “And then gives the cup to Mr. Garnette.”

  “To Father Garnette. Yes. Of course when Father Garnette took it, I did raise my eyes. He does it so beautifully, it is quite uplifting. One hand on the stem,” described Miss Wade holding up genteel little claws, “and the other laid over the cup. Like a benison.”

  “I suppose you all watch the Chosen Vessel?”

  “Oh, yes. As soon as poor Cara took it we all raised our eyes. You see she was speaking in ecstasy. It was a wonderful experience. I thought she was going to dance.”

  “To dance!” ejaculated the inspector.

  “Even,” chanted Miss Wade in a pious falsetto, “even as the priests danced before the Stone of Odin. It has happened before. A lady who has since passed through the last portal.”

  “You mean she has died?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did this lady die of?” asked Alleyn.

  “They called it epilepsy,” replied Miss Wade doubtfully.

  “Well, Miss Wade,” said Alleyn after a pause, “it has been perfectly charming of you to be so patient with me. I am most grateful. There’s only one other thing.”

  “And that is?” asked Miss Wade with a perky air of being exceedingly businesslike.

  “Will you allow the wardress to search you?”

  “To search me! Oh dear. I—I—must confess. It is such a very cold evening and I did not anticipate—”

  “You would not have to—remove anything,” said Alleyn hurriedly. “Or rather”—he looked helplessly at Miss Wade’s dejected little fur tippet and drab raincoat and, since the raincoat was unbuttoned, at layers of purple and black cardigans—“or rather only your outer things.”

  “I have no desire,” said Miss Wade, “to obstruct the police in the execution of their duty. Where is this woman?”

  “In the porch outside.”

  “But that is very public.”

  “If you would prefer the vestry.”

  “I don’t think the robing-chamber would be quite nice. Let it be the porch, officer.”

  “Thank you, madam.”

  Detective-Sergeant Bailey came down from the chancel and whispered to Inspector Fox. Inspector Fox moved to a strategic position behind Miss Wade and proceeded to raise his eyebrows, wink with extreme deliberation, contort his features into an expression of cunning profundity and finally to hold up a small fragment of paper.

  “Eh?” said Alleyn. “Oh! Do you know, Miss Wade, I don’t think I need bother you with this business. Just let the wardress see your bag and your pockets if you have any. And your gloves. That will be quite enough.”

  “More than sufficient,” said Miss Wade. “Thank you. Good evening, officer.”

  “Good evening, madam.”

  “Have you been through the Police College?”

  “Not precisely, madam.”

  “Indeed?” said Miss Wade, squinting curiously at him. “But you speak nicely.”

  “You are very kind.”

  “A superior school perhaps? The advantages—”

  “My parents gave me all the advantages they could afford.” agreed Alleyn solemnly.

  “Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, ma’am,” began Fox with surprising emphasis, “was—”

  “Fox,” interrupted Alleyn, “don’t be a snob. Get Miss Wade a taxi.”

  “Oh, thank you, I have my overshoes on.”

  “My superiors would wish it, madam.”

  “Then in that case—my grandfather kept his carriage at Dulwich—thank you, I will take a taxi.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  A Piece of Paper and a Bottle

  “WELL, BRER FOX,” said Alleyn when that gentleman returned, “has the lady been looked at?”

  “Mrs. Beken went through her bag and pockets,” replied Fox.

  “And what was the trophy you waved at me just now?”

  “Bailey found something up in the chancel. It was simply lying on the floor. It had been ground into the carpet by somebody’s heel. We thought it was the article you wanted.”

  “I hope it is. Let’s see it.”

  “It wasn’t the same bit I showed you,” explained Fox. “That was just, as you might say, a hint. There’s the original.”

  He produced a small box. Nigel drew near. Alleyn opened the box and discovered a tiny piece of very grubby reddish paper. It had been pressed flat and was creased by a heavy indentation.

  “M’m,” grunted Alleyn, “wait a bit.”

  He went to his bag and got a pair of tweezers. Then he carried the paper in the box to one of the side lights and looked closely at it. He lifted it a little with the tweezers, holding it over the box. He smelt it.

  “That’s it, sure enough,” he said. “Look—it’s an envelope. A cigarette-paper gummed double. By Jove, Fox, he took a risk. It’d need a bit of sleight-of-hand.” He touched it very delicately with the tip of his fingers.

  “Wet!” said Alleyn. “So that’s how it was done.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Nigel. “It’s red. Is it drenched in somebody’s life-blood? Why must you be so tiresomely enigmatic?”

  “Nobody’s being enigmatic. I’m telling you, as Mr. Ogden would say. Here’s a bit of cigarette-paper. It’s been doubled over and gummed into a tiny tube. One end has been folded over several times making the tube into an envelope. It has been dyed—I think with red ink. It’s wet. It smells. It’s a clue, damn your eyes, it’s a clue.”

  “It will have to be analysed, won’t it, sir?” asked Fox.

  “Oh, rather, yes. This is the real stuff. ‘The Case of the Folded Paper.’ ‘Inspector Fox sees red.’”

  “But, Alleyn,” complained Nigel, “if it’s wet do you mean it’s only recently been dipped in red ink? Oh—wait a bit. Wait a bit.”

  “Watch our little bud unfolding,” said Alleyn.

  “It’s wet with wine,” cried Nigel triumphantly.

  “Mr. Bathgate, I do believe you must be right.”

  “Facetious ass!”

  “Sorry. Yes, it floated upon the wine when it was red. Bailey!”

  “Hullo, sir?”

  “Show us just where you found this. You’ve done very well.” A faint trace of mulish satisfaction appeared on Detective-Sergeant Bailey’s face. He crossed over to the chancel steps, stooped, and pointed to a six-penny piece.

  “I left that to mark the place,” he said.

  “And it is precisely over the spot where the cup lay. There’s my chalk mark. That settles it.”

  “Do you mean,” asked Nigel, “that the murderer dropped the paper into the cup?”

  “Just that.”

  “Purposely?”

  “I think so. See here, Bathgate. Suppose one of the Initiates had a pinch of cyanide in this little envelope. He—or she—has it concealed about his or her person. In a cigarette-case, perhaps, or an empty lipstick holder. Just before he goes up with the others he takes it out and holds it right end up—wait a moment—like this perhaps.”

  “No,” said Nigel, “like this.” He folded his hands like those of a saint in a medieval drawing. “I notice they all did that.”

  “Excellent. The flat open end would be slipped between two fingers, and the thing would be held snug. When he—call it he for the moment—takes the cup, he manages to let the little envelope fall in. Not so difficult as it sounds. We’ll experiment late
r. The paper floats. The folded end uppermost, the open end down. The powder falls out.”

  “But,” objected Fox, “he’s running a big risk, sir. Suppose somebody notices the paper floating about on the top of the wine. Suppose, for the sake of argument: Miss Jenkins or Mr. Ogden say they saw it, and Mr. Pringle and the rest don’t mention it—well, that won’t look too good for Mr. Pringle. If he’s the murderer he’ll think of that. I mean—”

  “I know what you’re driving at, Inspector,” said Nigel excitedly. “But the gentleman says to himself that if anyone notices the paper he’ll notice it too. That will switch it back a place to the one before him.”

  “Um,” rumbled Fox doubtfully.

  “I don’t think they would see it,” Alleyn murmured. “You say, Bathgate, that during the ceremony of the cup the torch was the only light?”

  “Yes.”

  “Quite so. It’s nearly burnt out now, but I think you will find that when it’s going full blast there will be a shadow immediately beneath it where they knelt, a shadow cast by its own sconce.”

  “I think there was,” agreed Nigel. “I remember that they seemed to be in a sort of pool of gloom.”

  “Exactly. And in addition, their own heads, bent over the cup, would cast a further shadow. All the same, you’re right, Fox. He is taking a big risk. Unless—” Alleyn stopped short, stared at his colleague, and then for no apparent reason made a hideous grimace at Nigel.

  “What’s that for?” demanded Nigel suspiciously.

  “This is all pure conjecture,” said Alleyn abruptly. “When the analyst finds traces of cyanide we can start talking.”

  “I can’t see why he’d drop the paper in,” complained Nigel. “It must have been accidental.”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Bathgate,” said Fox in his slow way. “There are points about it. No fingerprints. Nothing to show if he’s searched.”

  “That’s right,” said Bailey suddenly. “And he’d reckon the lady’d be sure to drop the cup. He’d reckon on it falling out and getting tramped into the carpet like it was.”

  “Say it stuck to the side?” objected Fox.

  “Well, say it did,” said Bailey combatively. “What’s to stop him getting it out when they’re all looking at the lady throwing fancy fits and passing in her checks?”