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

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СКАЧАТЬ be better in bed,’ said Fox.

      ‘So he would. Make it so, will you, Fox? Mr Bathgate will help you. And from his fair and unpolluted breath may violets spring. Ugh, you horrid old man!’ added Alleyn with sudden violence. He had taken a bundle of letters from the box and was reading one of them.

      Fox assisted by Nigel, heaved and hauled Father Garnette into the bedroom, which was draped in rose-coloured plush and satin. Here were more idols, more Nordic bijouterie, more cushions.

      ‘Very classy, isn’t it, sir?’ remarked Fox as he lowered Father Garnette on to the divan bed.

      ‘It’s villainous, Fox,’ said Nigel. He contemplated Father Garnette with distaste.

      ‘Must we undress this unpleasant old blot?’ he asked.

      ‘I’m afraid so, sir. Can you find his pyjamas?’

      From under a violently embroidered coverlet Nigel drew out a confection in purple silk.

      ‘Look, Inspector, look! Really, it’s too disgusting.’

      ‘Not quite my fancy, I will say, sir,’ conceded Fox who had attacked Father Garnette’s right boot. ‘I believe in wool next the skin, summer and winter. I’d feel kind of slippery in that issue.’

      Nigel tried to picture Inspector Fox in purple satin pyjamas, failed to do so and laughed himself into a good humour. They put Father Garnette to bed. He muttered a little, opened his eyes once, said: ‘Thank you, my son’ in faultless English, showed signs of feeling very ill, but appeared to get over it, and finally sank again into the deepest slumber.

      They rejoined Alleyn and found him poring over an array of letters.

      ‘Something doing, sir?’ asked Fox.

      ‘Much. Most of it odious. These are all letters from women.’

      ‘Any from the deceased?’

      ‘Yes.’ Alleyn grimaced. ‘There it is. Read it. A mixture of pseudo-mystic gibberish and hysterical adulation. Garnette seems actually to have persuaded her that the – the union – was blessed, had a spiritual significance – puh!’ He made a violent gesture. ‘Read it. It’s important.’

      Nigel read over Fox’s shoulder. The letter was written on mauve paper printed with Cara Quayne’s address in Shepherd Market. It was undated. It began:

      Beloved Father and Spouse in Ecstasy,

      I know you will be out this afternoon, but I feel I must make oblation for the divine, glorious, ecstatic bliss that has been mine ever since last night. I am half frightened, tremulous. Am I worthy? I – the Chosen Vessel? How can I make oblation? With this you will find a parcel. It contains the bonds I told you of. £5,000. Oh, how hateful to speak of money, but – I know you will understand – it is a thank-offering. Tell them about it, and let them give too until we have enough for a new temple. I want you to find it when you come in – after I have gone. Oh, beloved holy –

      The letter ran on to eight pages.

      ‘Very peculiar indeed, sir,’ said Fox who read the whole thing through with a perfectly impassive demeanour. ‘That will be the money Mr Ogden and monsieur talked about. In the safe here, they said.’

      ‘They did. I’m about to tackle the safe.’

      Alleyn moved across the room, pulled aside a strip of Javanese tapestry, and disclosed a small built-in safe. He found the key on the ring Father Garnette had given him, opened the safe and began, with great method, to remove the contents and array them neatly on the table.

      ‘Bank-book. Let’s see. He paid in fifty pounds last Monday. I suppose we shan’t find much cash. Any offertory tonight, Bathgate?’

      ‘No. I imagine we didn’t get so far.’

      ‘I suppose not. There’s a bag of something. Petty cash, perhaps. What’s this? Cheque from Mr Ogden. Twenty pounds. Dated last Wednesday.’

      ‘How he gets it out of the gentlemen fairly beats me,’ said Fox.

      ‘Extraordinary, isn’t it? But you know, Fox, there is a kind of simple, shrewd business brain that’ll believe any tarradiddle outside its own province.’

      ‘Would you say Mr Ogden’s was that sort, sir?’ Alleyn flipped the cheque at him.

      ‘Looks like it,’ he said, and turned again to the safe. ‘Hullo! This is more the sort of thing.’

      He pulled out a package and laid it on the table. It was a largish brown-paper parcel tied up with red ribbon. It was addressed to ‘The Reverend Father Jasper Garnette,’ and the writing was undoubtedly Cara Quayne’s. Alleyn stared fixedly at the ribbon. He turned the parcel over once or twice.

      ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ asked Nigel.

      ‘Oh, yes. Yes.’ But he hesitated a little while longer and at last, laying the parcel on the table, slipped the ribbon very gingerly over one end, cautiously pulled out the folds of paper, and peered into the open end. He held the parcel under a lamp, and examined it even more closely. Then he dropped it back on to the table.

      ‘Well?’ asked Nigel.

      ‘Well, Bathgate, I wish Mr Garnette was not so sound asleep.’

      ‘Why on earth?’

      ‘I should like him to have a look at this.’ Fox lifted the parcel by the open end and looked in.

      ‘Cripes!’ he said.

      ‘Here!’ Nigel ejaculated. ‘Let me look.’

      ‘Don’t pick it up. Look inside.’

      Nigel did so. Fox flashed his torch into the parcel. Nigel glanced up at the two policemen, peered again into the parcel, grinned, looked doubtful, and at last said:

      ‘But is that all?’

      ‘I think so, oh yes,’ answered Alleyn.

      ‘But,’ said Nigel, ‘it’s – it’s all newspaper.’ He thrust a finger in and ferreted round.

      ‘So it is,’ agreed Alleyn.

      ‘By gum!’ ejaculated Nigel. ‘The motive!’

      ‘Very like, very like.’

      ‘Garnette has pinched the bonds.’

      ‘Somebody’s pinched them. Ask Bailey to come in and get the prints, if any, will you, Bathgate?’

      Bailey was grubbing about in the vestry. He returned with Nigel, produced his insufflator and got to work on the parcel. Alleyn had sat down at the table and was tackling the rest of the material from the safe. Fox embarked on a meticulous search of the sideboard drawers. Nigel, with a sidelong glance at the Chief Detective-Inspector, pulled out his pad, sank into Father Garnette’s most spacious armchair, lit a cigarette, and began to write.

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