Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 10: Last Ditch, Black As He’s Painted, Grave Mistake. Ngaio Marsh

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      ‘Ta,’ said Gibson wearily, ‘I could do with it.’

      The studio was a separate building at the back of the house and had been built for a Victorian Academician of preposterous fame. It had an absurd entrance approached by a flight of steps with a canopy supported by a brace of self-conscious plaster caryatids that Troy had thought too funny to remove. Between these, in stunning incongruity, stood the enormous mlinzi only slightly less impressive in a dark suit than he had been in his lionskin and bracelets. He had his right forearm inside his jacket. He completely filled the entrance.

      Alleyn said: ‘Good evening.’

      ‘Good day. Sir,’ said the mlinzi.

      ‘I – am – going – in,’ said Alleyn very distinctly. When no move was made, he repeated this announcement, tapping his chest and pointing to the door.

      The mlinzi rolled his eyes, turned smartly, knocked on the door and entered. His huge voice was answered by another, even more resonant and by a matter-of-fact comment from Troy: ‘Oh, here’s Rory,’ Troy said.

      The mlinzi stood aside and Alleyn, uncertain about the degree of his own exasperation, walked in.

      The model’s throne was at the far end of the studio. Hung over a screen Troy used for backgrounds was a lion’s skin. In front of it, in full ceremonials, ablaze with decorations, gold lace and accoutrements, legs apart and arms akimbo, stood The Boomer.

      Troy, behind a four-foot canvas, was setting her palette. On the floor lay two of her rapid exploratory charcoal drawings. A brush was clenched between her teeth. She turned her head and nodded vigorously at her husband, several times.

      ‘Ho-ho!’ shouted The Boomer. ‘Excuse me, my dear Rory, that I don’t descend. As you see, we are busy. Go away!’ he shouted at the mlinzi and added something curt in their native tongue. The man went away.

      ‘I apologize for him!’ The Boomer said magnificently. ‘Since last night he is nervous of my well-being. I allowed him to come.’

      ‘He seems to be favouring his arm.’

      ‘Yes. It turns out that his collar-bone was fractured.’

      ‘Last night?’

      ‘By an assailant, whoever he was.’

      ‘Has he seen a doctor?’

      ‘Oh, yes. The man who looks after the Embassy. A Doctor Gomba. He’s quite a good man. Trained at St Luke’s.’

      ‘Did he elaborate at all on the injury?’

      ‘A blow, probably with the edge of the hand since there is no indication of a weapon. It’s not a break – only a crack.’

      ‘What does the mlinzi himself say about it?’

      ‘He has elaborated a little on his rather sparse account of last night. He says that someone struck him on the base of the neck and seized his spear. He has no idea of his assailant’s identity. I must apologize,’ said The Boomer affably, ‘for my unheralded appearance, my dear old man. My stay in London has been curtailed. I am determined that no painter but your wife shall do the portrait and I am impatient to have it. Therefore I cut through the codswallop, as we used to say at Davidson’s, and here, as you see, I am.’

      Troy removed the brush from between her teeth. ‘Stay if you like, darling,’ she said and gave her husband one of the infrequent smiles that still afforded him such deep pleasure.

      ‘If I’m not in the way,’ he said and contrived not to sound sardonic. Troy shook her head.

      ‘No, no, no,’ said The Boomer graciously. ‘We are pleased to have your company. It is permitted to converse. Provided,’ he added with a bawling laugh, ‘that one expects no reply. That is the situation. Am I right maestro?’ he asked Troy, who did not reply, ‘I do not know the feminine of maestro,’ he confessed. ‘One must not say maestress. That would be in bad taste.’

      Troy made a snuffling noise.

      Alleyn sat down in a veteran armchair.

      ‘Since I am here and as long as it doesn’t disrupt the proceedings –’ he began.

      ‘Nothing,’ The Boomer interposed, ‘disrupts me.’

      ‘Good. I wonder then if your Excellency can tell me anything about two of your last night’s guests.’

      ‘My Excellency can try. He is so ridiculous,’ The Boomer parenthesized to Troy, ‘with his “Excellencies”.’ And to Alleyn: ‘I have been telling your wife about our times at Davidson’s.’

      ‘The couple I mean are a brother and sister called Sanskrit.’

      The Boomer had been smiling but his lips now closed over his dazzling teeth, ‘I think perhaps I have moved a little,’ he said.

      ‘No,’ Troy said. ‘You are splendidly still,’ She began to make dark, sweeping gestures on her canvas.

      ‘Sanskrit,’ Alleyn repeated. ‘They are enormously fat.’

      ‘Ah! Yes. I know the couple you mean.’

      ‘Is there a link with Ng’ombwana?’

      ‘A commercial one. Yes. They were importers of fancy goods.’

      ‘Were?’

      ‘Were,’ said The Boomer without batting an eyelid. ‘They sold out.’

      ‘Do you know them personally?’

      ‘They have been presented,’ he said.

      ‘Did they want to leave?’

      ‘Presumably not, since they are coming back.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘I believe they are coming back. Some alteration in plans. I understand they intend to return immediately. They are persons of little importance.’

      ‘Boomer,’ said Alleyn, ‘have they any cause to bear you a grudge?’

      ‘None whatever. Why?’

      ‘It’s simply a check-up. After all, it seems somebody tried to murder you at your party.’

      ‘Well, you won’t have any luck with them. If anything, they ought to feel grateful.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘It is under my regime that they return. They had been rather abruptly treated by the previous government.’

      ‘When was the decision taken? To re-instate them?’

      ‘Let me see – a month ago, I should say. More, perhaps.’

      ‘But when I visited you three weeks ago СКАЧАТЬ