Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 2: Death in Ecstasy, Vintage Murder, Artists in Crime. Ngaio Marsh
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the ecstatic frenzy, Alleyn made a slantwise grimace. Speaking so quietly that the others could not overhear him, Nigel repeated as closely as he could remember them the exclamations made by Pringle, Miss Wade and de Ravigne. Alleyn asked for the names of persons who should be informed. Beyond Miss Quayne’s servants there seemed to be nobody. Miss Jenkins, appealed to, said she had overheard Miss Quayne saying that her staff were all out on Sunday evening. She volunteered to ring up and find out and retired to Father Garnette’s room to do so. She returned to say there was no answer. Alleyn took the number and said he would see the house was informed later. As soon as he had learnt the facts of the case, Alleyn lifted the satin drapery and looked at the distorted face beneath it, spoke a few words aside to Dr Kasbek, and then addressed them all quietly. At this moment Father Garnette, having set his congregation going on another hymn, returned to the group. Nigel alone noticed him. He stood just inside the curtains and never took his eyes off the inspector.
Alleyn said: ‘There is, I think, no reason why you should not know what has happened here. This woman has probably died of poisoning. Until we know more of the circumstances and the nature of her death I shall have to take over the case on behalf of the police. From what I have heard I believe that there is nothing to be gained in keeping the rest of the congregation here.’ He turned slightly and saw the priest.
‘You are Mr Garnette? Will you be good enough to ask your congregation to go home – when they have quite finished singing, of course. I have stationed a constable inside the door. He will take their names. Just tell them that, will you?’
‘Certainly,’ said Father Garnette and disappeared through the curtains.
They heard him pronounce a benediction of sorts. Beyond the curtains there was a sort of stirring and movement. One or two people coughed. It all died away at last. A door slammed with a desolate air of finality and there was complete silence in the building, save for the slobbering of the torch. Father Garnette returned.
‘Phew!’ said Alleyn. ‘Let’s have the curtains drawn back, may we?’
Father Garnette inclined his head. Claude and Lionel flew to the sides of the chancel and in a moment the curtains rattled apart, revealing the solitary figure of the doorkeeper, agape on the lowest step.
‘Is there anything I can do, Father?’ asked the doorkeeper.
‘Lock the front door and go home,’ said Father Garnette.
‘Yes, Father,’ whispered the doorkeeper. He departed hurriedly pulling the double doors to with an apologetic slam. For a moment there was silence. Then Alleyn turned to Nigel.
‘Is there a telephone handy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Get through to the Yard, will you, Bathgate, and tell them what has happened. Fox is on duty. Ask them to send him along with the usual support. We’ll want the divisional surgeon and a wardress.’
Nigel went into the room behind the altar and delivered this message. When he returned he found Alleyn, with his notebook in his hand, taking down the names and addresses of the Initiates.
‘It’s got to be done, you see,’ he explained. ‘There will, of course, be an inquest and I’m afraid you will all be called as witnesses.’
‘Oh, God,’ said Pringle with a snort of disgust.
‘I’d better start with the deceased,’ Alleyn suggested. ‘What is her name, please?’
‘She was a Miss Cara Quayne, Inspector,’ said Mr Ogden. ‘She owned a very, very distinctive residence in Shepherd Market, No.101. I have had the honour of dining at the Quayne home, and believe me it surely was an aesthetic experience. She was a very lovely-natured woman with a great appreciation of the beautiful –’
‘No. 101 Shepherd Market,’ said Alleyn. ‘Thank you.’ He wrote it down and then glanced round his audience.
‘I will take yours first if I may, Doctor Kasbek.’
‘Certainly. Nicholas Kasbek, 189a Wigmore Street.’
‘Right.’ He turned to Miss Wade.
‘My name is Ernestine Wade,’ she said very clearly and in a high voice, as though Alleyn was deaf. ‘I live at Primrose Court, King’s Road, Chelsea. Spinster.’
‘Thank you.’
Miss Jenkins came forward.
‘I’m Janey Jenkins. I live in a studio flat in Yeomans Row, No.99d. I’m a spinster too, if you want to know.’
‘Well,’ said Alleyn, ‘just for “Miss” or “Mrs,” you know.’
‘Now you, Maurice,’ said Miss Jenkins.
‘Pringle,’ said that gentleman as though the name was an offence. ‘Maurice. I’m staying at 11 Harrow Mansions, Sloane Square.’
‘Is that your permanent address?’
‘No. Haven’t got one unless you count my people’s place. I never go there if I can help it.’
‘The Phoenix Club will always find you, won’t it?’ murmured Miss Jenkins.
‘Oh, God, yes,’ replied Mr Pringle distastefully.
‘Next please,’ said Alleyn cheerfully. Mrs Candour spoke suddenly from the ecclesiastical throne. She had the air of uttering an appalling indecency.
‘My name is Dagmar Candour. Mrs. Queen Charlotte Flats, Kensington Square. No.12.’
‘C.a.n. – ?’ queried Alleyn.
‘d.o.u.r.’
‘Thank you.’
Mr Ogden, who had several times taken a step forward and as often politely retreated, now spoke up firmly.
‘Samuel J. Ogden, Chief. I guess you’re not interested in my home address. I come from the States – New York. In London I have a permanent apartment in York Square. No.93, Achurch Court. I just can’t locate my card-case, but – well, those are the works.’
‘Thank you so much, Mr Ogden. And now you, if you please, sir.’
Father Garnette hesitated a moment, oddly. Then he cleared his throat and answered in his usual richly inflected voice:
‘Father Jasper Garnette.’ He spelt it. ‘I am officiating priest of this temple. I live here.’
‘Here?’
‘I have a little dwelling beyond the altar.’
‘Extremely convenient,’ murmured Alleyn. ‘And now, these two’ – he looked a little doubtfully at Claude and Lionel – ‘these two young men.’
Claude and Lionel answered together in a rapturous gush.
‘What?’ asked Alleyn.
‘Do be quiet, Lionel,’ said Claude. ‘We share a flat in Ebury Street; “Ebury Mews.” Well, it isn’t actually a flat, is it, Lionel? Oh dear, I always forget the number – it’s too stupid of me.’
‘You are hopeless, Claude,’ said Lionel. ‘It’s 17 Ebury Mews, Ebury Street, Inspector Alleyn, only we aren’t very often there because I’m in the show at the Palladium and Claude is at Madame Karen’s in Sloane Street and –’
‘I do not yet know your names.’
‘Lionel, you are perfectly maddening,’ said Claude. ‘I’m Claude Wheatley, Inspector Alleyn, and this is Lionel Smith.’
Alleyn wrote these names down with the address, and added in brackets: ‘Gemini, possibly heavenly.’
M. de Ravigne came forward and bowed.
‘Raoul Honoré Christophe Jérôme de Ravigne, monsieur. I live at Branscombe Chambers, Lowndes Square. My card.’
‘Thank you. M. de Ravigne.