‘Of course it is,’ Anelida said quickly. ‘Richard, my dear, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Richard said. ‘I expect it is. Yes, it is.’
‘Well, then,’ Alleyn said. ‘Immediately after he’d spoken to her, you came in. The photographs were taken and you went upstairs together. You tackled her about her treatment of Anelida, didn’t you?’
‘It would be truer to say she attacked me. But, yes – we were both terribly angry. I’ve told you.’
‘And it ended in her throwing your parentage in your teeth?’
‘It ended with that.’
‘When you’d gone she hurled your birthday present into the bathroom where it smashed to pieces. Instead of at once returning downstairs she went through an automatic performance. She powdered her face and painted her mouth. And then – well, then it happened. She used her scent spray, holding it at arm’s length. The windows were shut. It had an immediate effect, but not the effect he’d anticipated.’
‘What d’you mean?’ Warrender asked.
‘You’ve read the dictionary of poisons he bought. You may remember it gives a case of instant and painless death. But it doesn’t always act in that way.’
‘He thought it would?’
‘Probably. In this case, she became desperately ill. Florence came in and found her so. Do you remember what Charles Templeton said when Florence raised the alarm?’
Warrender thought for a moment. ‘Yes. I do. He said “My God, not now!” I thought he meant: ‘ Not a temperament at this juncture.”
‘Whereas he meant: “Not now. Not so soon.” He then rushed upstairs. There was some delay in getting Harkness under way, wasn’t there?’
‘Tight. Bad show. I put ice down his neck.’
‘And by the time you all arrived on the scene, the Slaypest was on the floor and the atomiser on the dressing-table. And she was dead. He had found her as Florence had left her. Whether she’d been able to say anything that showed she knew what he’d done is a matter of conjecture. Panic, terror, a determination to end it at all costs – we don’t know. He did end it as quickly as he could and by the only means he had.’
There was a long silence. Anelida broke it. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘if it hadn’t happened as it did, he would have changed his mind and not let it happen.’
‘Yes. It’s possible, indeed. As it was he had to protect himself. He had to improvise. It must have been a nightmare. He’d had a bad heart-turn and had been settled down in his dressing-room. As soon as he was alone, he went through the communicating door, emptied the atomiser into the lavatory, washed it out as best he could and poured in what was left of the scent.’
‘But how do you know,’ Richard protested.
‘As he returned, old Ninn came into the dressing-room. She took it for granted he had been in the bathroom for the obvious reason. But later, when I developed my theory of the scent spray, she remembered. She suspected the truth, particularly as he had smelt of “Unguarded.” So strongly that when Florence stood in the open doorway of the dressing-room she thought it was Ninn, and that she had been attempting to do the service which Florence regarded as her own right.’
‘My poor Old Ninn!’ Richard ejaculated.
‘She, as you know, was not exactly at the top of her form. There had been certain potations, hadn’t there? Florence, who in her anger and sorrow, was prepared to accuse anybody of anything, made some very damaging remarks about you.’
‘There’s no divided allegiance,’ Richard said, ‘about Floy.’
‘Nor about Ninn. She was terrified. Tonight, she went into the study after Templeton had been put to bed there, and told him that if there was any chance of suspicion falling on you, she would tell her story. He was desperately ill but he made some kind of attempt to get at her. She made to defend herself. He collapsed and died.’
Richard said: ‘One can’t believe these things of people one has loved. For Charles to have died like that.’
‘Isn’t it better?’ Alleyn asked. ‘It is better. Because, as you know, we would have gone on. We would have brought him to trial. As it is, it’s odds on that the coroner’s jury will find it an accident. A rider will be added pointing out the dangers of indoor pest killers. That’s all.’
‘It is better,’ Anelida said, and, after a moment: ‘Mightn’t one say that he brought about his own retribution?’ She turned to Richard and was visited by a feeling of great tenderness and strength. ‘We’ll cope,’ she said, ‘with the future. Won’t we?’
‘I believe we will, darling,’ Richard said. ‘We must, mustn’t we?’
Alleyn said: ‘You’ve suffered a great shock and will feel it for some time. It’s happened and can’t be forgotten. But the hurt will grow less.’
He saw that Richard was not listening to him. He had his arm about Anelida and had turned her towards him.
‘You’ll do,’ Alleyn said, unheeded.
He went up to Anelida and took her hand. ‘True,’ he said. ‘Believe me. He’ll be all right. To my mind he has nothing to blame himself for. And that,’ Alleyn said, ‘is generally allowed to be a great consolation. Goodnight.’
V
Miss Bellamy’s funeral was everything that she would have wished.
All the Knights and Dames, of course, and The Management and Timon Gantry who had so often directed her. Bertie Saracen who had created her dresses since the days when she was a bit-part actress. Pinky Cavendish in floods, and Maurice, very Guardee, with a stiff upper lip.
Quite insignificant people, too: her Old Ninn with a face like a boot and Florence with a bunch of primroses. Crowds of people whom she herself would have scarcely remembered, but upon whom, as a columnist in a woman’s magazine put it, she had at some time bestowed the gift of her charm. And it was not for her fame, the celebrated clergyman pointed out in his address, that they had come to say goodbye to her. It was, quite simply, because they had loved her.
And Richard Dakers was there, very white and withdrawn, with a slim, intelligent-looking girl beside him.
Everybody.
Except, of course, her husband. It was extraordinary how little he was missed. The lady columnist could not, for the life of her, remember his name.
Charles Templeton had, as he would have wished, a private funeral.
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Also by the Author
A Man Lay Dead
Enter a Murderer
The Nursing Home Murder
Death in Ecstasy
Vintage Murder
Artists in Crime
Death in a White Tie
Overture to Death
Death at the Bar
Surfeit of Lampreys
Death and the Dancing Footman
Colour Scheme
Died in the Wool
Final Curtain
Swing, Brother, Swing
Opening Night
Scales of Justice
Off With His Head
Singing in the Shrouds
False Scent
Hand in Glove
Dead Water
Death at the Dolphin
Clutch of Constables
When in Rome
Tied up in Tinsel
Black As He’s Painted
Last Ditch
Grave Mistake
Photo-Finish
Light Thickens
Black Beech and Honeydew (autobiography)
Copyright
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by Collins 1960
Copyright © Ngaio Ma
rsh Ltd 1960
Ngaio Marsh asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this works
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780006155904
Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2009 ISBN: 9780007344765
Version: 2014-06-20
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