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

Чтение книги онлайн.

       CHAPTER 15 Father Garnette Explores the Contents of a Mare’s Nest

      ‘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 orris-root, if she predeceases you.’

      ‘That is a remark in bad taste, I consider.’

      ‘I agree and apologize. 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 little 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 to me looks as though he was scared.’

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

      ‘He was the solicitor in the O’Callighan 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 СКАЧАТЬ