Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 2: Death in Ecstasy, Vintage Murder, Artists in Crime. Ngaio Marsh

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СКАЧАТЬ you please, M. de Ravigne. Will you sit down?’

      ‘After you, monsieur.’

      ‘No, no, monsieur, please.’

      They murmured and skirmished while Fox gazed at them in mild enchantment. At last they both sat down. M. de Ravigne crossed his legs and displayed an elegant foot.

      ‘And now, sir?’ he inquired.

      ‘You are very obliging, monsieur. It is the merest formality. A few questions that we are obliged to ask in our official capacity. I am sure you understand.’

      ‘Perfectly. Let us discharge this business.’

      ‘Immediately. First, were you aware of any unusual or peculiar odour during the ceremony of the cup?’

      ‘You allude, of course, to the odour of prussic acid,’ said M. de Ravigne.

      ‘Certainly. May I ask how you realize the poison used was a cyanide?’

      ‘I believe you yourself mentioned it, monsieur. If you did not it is no matter. I understood immediately that Cara was poisoned by cyanide. No other poison is so swift, and after she fell –’ he broke off, became a little paler and then went on composedly ‘– after she fell, I bent over her and then – and then – I smelt it.’

      ‘I see. But not until then?’

      ‘Not until then – no. The odour of the incense – sweet almond the acolyte tells me – was overpowering and, strangely enough, similar.’

      De Ravigne turned stiffly towards Alleyn.

      ‘My Cara was murdered. That I know well. Is it possible, Mr Inspector, that this similarity is a little too strange?’

      ‘It is a point I shall remember, monsieur. You have used the expression “My Cara.” Am I to understand that between you and Miss Quayne –’

      ‘But yes. I adored her. I asked her many times to do me the honour of becoming my wife. She was, unhappily, indifferent to me. She was devout, you understand, altogether dedicated to the religious life. I see you look fixedly at me, monsieur. You are thinking perhaps that I am too calm. You have the idea of the excitable Frenchman. I should wave my hands and weep and roll about my eyes and even have a hysteric, like that little animal of a Claude.’

      ‘No, Monsieur de Ravigne. Those were not my thoughts.’

      ‘N’importe,’ murmured de Ravigne.

      ‘On n’est pas dupe de son coeur –’ began Alleyn.

      ‘I see I misjudged you, M. I’Inspecteur. You have not the conventional idea of my countrymen. Also you speak with a charming and correct accent.’

      ‘You are too kind, monsieur. Has the possibility of suicide occurred to you?’

      ‘Why should she wish to die? She was beautiful and – loved.’

      ‘And not poor?’

      ‘I believe, not poor.’

      ‘Did you notice her movements when she held the cup?’

      ‘No. I did not watch,’ said de Ravigne.

      ‘You are religious yourself, of course, or you would not be here?’ remarked Alleyn after a pause.

      M. de Ravigne delicately moved his shoulders: ‘I am intrigued with this church and its ceremonial. Also the idea of one godhead embracing all gods appeals to my temperament. One must have a faith, I find. It is not in my temperament to be an atheist.’

      ‘When did you first attend the services?’

      ‘It must be – yes, I think about two years ago.’

      ‘And you became an Initiate – when?’

      ‘Three months ago, perhaps.’

      ‘Are you a subscriber to the organisation? We must ask these questions, as I am sure you understand.’

      ‘Certainly, monsieur, one must do one’s job. I subscribe a little, yes. Five shillings in the offertory always and at special times a pound. Fifty pounds when I first came. This temple was then recently established. I presented the goblet – an old one in my own family.’

      ‘A beautiful piece. Baroque at its best,’ said Alleyn.

      ‘Yes. It has its history, that cup. Also I gave a statuette. In the shrine on your right, monsieur.’

      Alleyn looked at the wall and found M. de Ravigne’s statuette. It was cast in bronze with a curious plucked technique and represented a nebulous nude figure wearing a winged helmet from which there emerged other and still more nebulous forms.

      ‘Ah yes,’ said Alleyn, ‘Most interesting. Who is the artist?’

      ‘Myself in ecstasy, monsieur,’ replied M. de Ravigne coolly.

      Alleyn glanced at his shrewd, dark face and murmured politely.

      ‘My temperament,’ continued M. de Ravigne, ‘is artistic. I am, I fear, a dilettante. I model a little, comme çi, comme ça. I write a little, trifles of elegance. I collect. I am not rich, M. I’Inspecteur, but I amuse myself.’

      ‘A delightful existence. I envy you, monsieur. But we must get back to business.’

      A dim bass rumble from the rear seemed to suggest that Inspector Fox had essayed: “Revenons à nos moutons,” and had got lost on the way.

      ‘I understand,’ said Alleyn, ‘that Miss Quayne has no relations in England. There must be someone surely?’

      ‘On the contrary. She has told me that there are none. Cara was an only child and an orphan. She was educated abroad at a convent. Her guardians are both dead.’

      ‘You met her abroad perhaps?’

      ‘Yes. In France years ago at the house of a friend.’

      ‘Did Miss Quayne introduce you to this hall?’

      ‘No, monsieur. Alas, it was I who introduced her to the ceremonies.’

      ‘Returning to her connections, monsieur. Is there no one with whom we should get in touch?’

      ‘Her notary – her solicitor.’

      ‘Of course, Do you know who that is?’

      ‘I have heard. One moment. It is – tiens! – a name like Rats. No. Rattingtown. No.’

      ‘Not Rattisbon by any chance?’

      ‘That is it. You know him?’

      ‘Slightly. Where will the money go, Monsieur de Ravigne?’ M. de Ravigne hitched up his shoulders, elevated his brows, protruded his eyes and pursed СКАЧАТЬ