Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 5: Died in the Wool, Final Curtain, Swing Brother Swing. Ngaio Marsh

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      And then, on a day when Fabian had one of his now very rare headaches, there had been a scene between them. ‘A ridiculous scene,’ he said, looking gently at Ursula. ‘I needn’t describe it. We talked at cross-purposes like people in a Victorian novel.’

      ‘And I bawled and wept and said if I irritated him he needn’t talk to me at all, and then,’ said Ursula, ‘we had a magic scene in which everything was sorted out and it all looked as if it was going to be Heaven.’

      ‘But it didn’t work out that way,’ Fabian said. ‘I came to earth and remembered I’d no business making love to anybody and, ten minutes too late, did the little hero number and told Ursy to forget me. She said, no. We had the sort of argument that you might imagine from the context. I weakened, of course. I never was much good at heroics and – well, we agreed I should see the quack again and stand by what he told me. But we’d reckoned without our Floss.’

      Fabian turned back to the fireplace and, thrusting his hands in his pockets, looked up at the portrait of his aunt.

      ‘I told you she was as clever as a bagful of monkeys, didn’t I? That’s what this thing doesn’t convey. She was sharp. For example she was wise enough to avoid tackling Ursy about me and, still more remarkable, she had denied herself too many heart-to-heart talks with Ursy about Douglas. I imagine what she did say was indirect, a building up of allusive romantics. She was by no means incapable of subtlety. Just a spot or two of the Beatrice and Benedict stuff and the merest hint that she’d be so, so happy if ever – and then a change of topic. Like that, wasn’t it, Ursy?’

      ‘But she would have liked it,’ said Ursula unhappily. ‘She was so fond of Douglas.’

      ‘And not so fond of me. From what you’ve heard already, Mr Alleyn, you’ll have gathered that my popularity had waned. I wasn’t a good enough yes-man for Flossie. I hadn’t responded too well to her terrifying ministrations when she nursed me and she didn’t really like my friendship with Uncle Arthur.’

      ‘That’s nonsense,’ Ursula said. ‘Honestly, darling, it’s the purest bilge. She told me it was so nice for Uncle Arthur having you to talk to.’

      ‘You old innocent,’ he said, ‘of course she did. She disliked it intensely. It was something outside the Flossie System, something she wasn’t in on. I was very fond of my Uncle Arthur,’ Fabian said thoughtfully, ‘he was a good vintage, dry, with a nice bouquet. Wasn’t he, Terry?’

      ‘You’re straying from the point,’ said Terence.

      ‘Right. After Ursy and I had come to our decision I tried to be very non-committal and unexalted but I suppose I made a poor fist at it. I was – translated. I’m afraid,’ said Fabian abruptly, ‘that all this is intolerably egotistical but I don’t see how that can be avoided. At any rate, Flossie spotted something was up. That eye of hers! You do get a hint of it in the portrait. It was sort of blank and yet the pupils had the looks of drills. Ursy managed better than I did. She rather made up to you, Douglas, didn’t she, during lunch?’

      The fire had burned low and the glowing ball of the kerosene lamp was behind Douglas but Alleyn thought that he had turned redder in the face. His hand went to his moustache and he said in an easy, jocular voice: ‘I think Ursy and I understood each other pretty well, didn’t we, Ursy? We both knew our Flossie, what?’

      Ursy moved uncomfortably. ‘No, Douglas,’ she said. ‘I won’t quite take that. I mean – oh, well, it doesn’t matter.’

      ‘Come on, Douglas,’ said Fabian with something of his former impishness, ‘be a little gent and take your medicine.’

      ‘I’ve said a dozen times already that I fail to see what we gain by parading matters that are merely personal before Mr Alleyn. Talk about dirty linen!’

      ‘But, my God, isn’t it better to wash it, however publicly, than to hide it away, still dirty, in our cupboards? I’m persuaded,’ said Fabian vigorously, ‘that only by getting the whole story, the whole complicated mix-up of emotions and circumstances, sorted out and related, shall we ever get at the truth. And after all, this particular bit of linen is perfectly clean. Only rather comic, like Mr Robertson Hare’s underpants.’

      ‘Honestly!’ said Ursula and giggled.

      ‘Come on, now, Douglas. Egged on by Flossie you did make a formal pass at Ursy that very afternoon. Didn’t you, now?’

      ‘I only want to spare Ursy –’

      ‘No you don’t,’ said Fabian. ‘Come off it, Doug. You want to spare yourself, old cock. This is how it went, I fancy: Flossie, observing my exaltation, told you that it was high time you made a move. Encouraged by Ursy’s carryings on at lunch – you overdid it a bit, Ursy – and gingered up by Flossie, you proposed and were refused.’

      ‘You didn’t really mind, though, did you, Douglas?’ asked Ursula gently. ‘I mean, it was all rather spur-of-the-momentish, wasn’t it?’

      ‘Well, yes,’ said Douglas. ‘Yes, it was. But I don’t mean …’

      ‘Give it up,’ Fabian advised him kindly. ‘Or were you by any chance in love with Ursy?’

      ‘Naturally. I wouldn’t have asked Ursy to be my wife …’ Douglas began and then swore softly to himself.

      ‘And with the wealthy aunt’s blessing why shouldn’t the good little heir speak up like a man? We’ll let it go at that,’ said Fabian, ‘Ursy said her piece, Mr Alleyn, and Douglas took it like a hero and the next thing that happened was me on the mat before Flossie.’

      The scene had been formidable and had taken place there, in the study. Flossie, Fabian explained, had contrived to give the whole thing an air of the grossest impropriety. She had spoken in a cold hushed voice. ‘Fabian, I’m afraid what I’m going to say to you is very serious and most unpleasant. I am bitterly disappointed and dreadfully grieved. I think you know what it is that has hurt me so much, don’t you?’

      ‘I’m afraid I haven’t an inkling so far, Aunt Flossie,’ Fabian had answered brightly and with profound inward misgivings.

      ‘If you think for a minute, Fabian, I’m sure your conscience will tell you.’

      But Fabian refused to play this uncomfortable game and remained obstinately unhelpful. Flossie extended her long upper lip and the corners of her mouth turned down dolorously. ‘Oh, Fabian, Fabian!’ she said in a wounded voice, and, after an unfruitful pause, she added: ‘And I put such trust in you. Such trust!’ She bit her lip and shielded her eyes wearily. ‘You refuse to help me, then. I had hoped it would be easier than this. What have you been saying to Ursula? What have you done, Fabian?’

      This persistent repetition of his name had jarred on his nerves, Fabian said, but he had replied without emphasis. ‘I’m afraid I’ve told Ursula that I’m fond of her.’

      ‘Do you realize how dreadfully wrong that was? What right had you to speak to Ursy?’

      There was only one answer to this. ‘None,’ said Fabian.

      ‘None,’ Flossie repeated. ‘None! You see? Oh, Fabian.’

      ‘Ursula returns my love,’ said Fabian, taking some pleasure in the old-fashioned phrase.

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