Vintage Murder. Ngaio Marsh

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       CHAPTER 1 Prologue in a Train

      The clop and roar of the train was an uneasy element somewhere at the back of the tall man’s dreams. It would die away – die away and fantastic hurrying faces come up to claim his attention. He would think ‘I am sure I am asleep. This is certainly a dream.’ Then came a jolt as they roared, with a sudden increase of racket, over a bridge and through a cutting. The fantastic faces disappeared. He was cold and stiff. For the hundredth time he opened his eyes to see the dim carriage-lamps and the rows of faces with their murky high-lights and cadaverous shadows.

      ‘Strange company I’ve got into,’ he thought.

      Opposite him was the leading man, large, kindly, swaying slightly with the movement of the long narrow-gauge carriage, politely resigned to discomfort. The bundle of rugs in the next seat to the tall man was Miss Susan Max, the character woman. An old trouper, Susan, with years of jolting night journeys behind her, first in this country, then Australia, and then up and down the provinces in England, until finally she made a comfortable niche for herself with Incorporated Playhouses in the West End. Twenty years ago she had joined an English touring company in Wellington. Now, for the first time, she revisited New Zealand. She stared, with unblinking eyes, at the dim reflections in the window-pane. The opposite seat to Susan’s was empty. In the next block George Mason, the manager, a dyspeptic, resigned-looking man, played an endless game of two-handed whist with Ted Gascoigne, the stage-manager.

      And there, nodding like a mandarin beside old Brandon Vernon, was little Ackroyd, the comedian, whose ill-temper was so much at variance with his funny face. Sitting in front of Mason, a pale young man fidgeted restlessly in his chair. This was Courtney Broadhead. ‘Something the matter with that youth,’ thought the tall man. ‘Ever since Panama—’ He caught the boy’s eye and looked beyond him to where Mr Francis Liversidge, so much too beautifully dressed, allowed Miss Valerie Gaynes to adore him. Beyond them again to the far end of the long carriage were dim faces and huddled figures. The Carolyn Dacres English Comedy Company on tour in New Zealand.

      He felt very much an outsider. There was something about these people that gave them a united front. Their very manner in this night train, rattling and roaring through a strange country, was different from the manner of other travellers. Dozing a little, he saw them in more antiquated trains, in stage-coaches, in wagons, afoot, wearing strange garments, carrying bundles, but always together. There they were, their heads bobbing in unison, going back and back.

      A violent jerk woke him. The train had slowed down. He wiped the misty window-pane, shaded his eyes, and tried to look out into this new country. The moon had risen. He saw aching hills, stumps of burnt trees, some misty white flowering scrub, and a lonely road. It was very remote and strange. Away in front, the engine whistled. Trees, hills and road slid sideways and were gone. Three lamps travelled across the window-pane. They were off again.

      He turned to see old Susan dab at her eyes with her handkerchief. She gave him a deprecatory smile.

      ‘Those white trees are manuka bushes,’ she said. ‘They bloom at this time of the year. I had forgotten.’

      There was a long silence. He looked from one dimly-lit slumping figure to another. At last be became aware of Hambledon’s gaze, fixed on himself.

      ‘Do you find us very queer cattle?’ said Hambledon, with his air of secret enjoyment.

      ‘Why do you ask that?’ said the tall man quickly.

      ‘I noticed you looking at us and wondered what were your thoughts. Do you think us queer cattle?’

      In order not to disturb Susan Max and to make himself heard above the racket of the train, he bent forward. So did the tall man. With their heads together under the murky lamp, they looked like conspirators.

      ‘That would be an ungracious thought,’ said the tall man, ‘after your kindness.’

      ‘Our kindness? Oh, you mean George Mason’s offer of a seat in our carriage?’

      ‘Yes. The alternative was a back-to-the-engine pew by a swinging door, among commercial travellers, and next a lavatory.’

      Hambledon laughed silently.

      ‘Ah well,’ he said, ‘even queer cattle may be preferable to all that.’

      ‘But I didn’t say I thought—’

      ‘If you had it would not have been very strange. Actors are a rum lot.’

      ‘The last man I heard say that was an actor – and a murderer,’ said the tall man.

      ‘Really?’ Hambledon raised his head. ‘You don’t by any chance mean Felix Gardener?’

      ‘I do. How did you guess—?’

      ‘Now I know who you are. Of course! How stupid of me! I have seen your photograph any number of times in the papers. It’s been worrying СКАЧАТЬ