“Do you think Garcia may have done his stuff with the knife while he was still dopey?” asked Nigel.
“It would explain his careless ways,” said Fox, “dropping clay about the place.”
“That’s true, Brer Fox. I don’t know,” said Alleyn, “if, when he woke at, say, seven-thirty, when Sadie banged on the screen, he’d feel like doing the job. We’ll have to have expert opinion on the carry-over from opium. I’m inclined to think he might wake feeling darned unpleasant and take a pull at his whisky bottle. Had it been handled recently, Bailey?”
“Yes, sir, I’d say it had. It’s very dusty in patches, but there’s some prints that were left after the dust had settled. Only a very light film over the prints. Not more than a couple of days’ deposit.”
“That’s fairly conclusive,” said Alleyn. “Taken with Sadie’s statement it looks as if Garcia’s Friday evening dinner was a jorum of whisky.”
“What beats me,” said Fox, “is when he got his stuff away.”
“Some time on Friday night.”
“Yes, but how? Not by a local carrier. They’ve all been asked.”
“He must have got hold of a vehicle of some sort and driven himself,” said Nigel.
“Half doped and three-quarters tight, Mr. Bathgate?”
“He may not have been as tight as all that,” said Alleyn. “On the other hand— ”
“Well?” asked Nigel impatiently.
“On the other hand he may have,” said Alleyn. “Come on, we’ll see how Bailey’s got on, and then we’ll go home.”
CHAPTER XIII
Upstairs
When Fox had gone upstairs and Nigel had been left to write a very guarded story for his paper on one of Troy’s scribbling-pads, Alleyn went down the hall and into the dining-room. He found Troy and her class in a state of extreme dejection. Phillida Lee, Ormerin and Watt Hatchett were seated at the table and had the look of people who have argued themselves to a standstill. Katti Bostock, hunched on the fender, stared into the fire. Malmsley was stretched out in the only arm-chair. Valmai Seacliff and Basil Pilgrim sat on the floor in a dark corner with their arms round each other. Curled up on a cushion against the wall was Troy — fast asleep. The local constable sat on an upright chair inside the door.
Katti looked up at Alleyn and then across to Troy.
“She’s completely done up,” said Katti gruffly. “Can’t you let her go to bed?”
“Very soon now,” said Alleyn.
He walked swiftly across the room and paused, his head bent down, his eyes on Troy.
Her face looked thin. There were small shadows in the hollows of her temples and under her eyes. She frowned, her hands moved, and suddenly she was awake.
“I’m so sorry,” said Alleyn.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Troy. “Do you want me?”
“Please. Only for a moment, and then I shan’t bother you again to-night.”
Troy sat up, her hands at her hair, pushing it off her face. She rose but lost her balance. Alleyn put his arm out quickly. For a moment he supported her.
“My legs have gone to sleep,” said Troy. “Damn!”
Her hand was on his shoulder. He held her firmly by the arms and wondered if it was Troy or he who trembled.
“I’m all right now,” she said, after an hour or a second. “Thank you.” He let her go and spoke to the others.
“I am very sorry to keep you all up for so long. We have had a good deal to do. Before you go to your rooms we should like to have a glance at them. I hope nobody objects to this.”
“Anything, if we can only go to bed,” said Katti, and nobody contradicted her.
“Very well, then. If you—” he turned to Troy, — “wouldn’t mind coming with me— ”
“Yes, of course.”
When they were in the hall she said: “Do you want to search our rooms for something? Is that it?”
“Not for anything specific. I feel we should just—” He stopped short. “I detest my job,” he said; “for the first time I despise and detest it.”
“Come on,” said Troy.
They went up to a half-landing where the stairs separated into two short flights going up to their left and right.
“Before I forget,” said Alleyn, “do you know what has happened to the bottle of nitric acid that was on the top shelf in the junk-room?”
Troy stared at him.
“The acid? It’s there. It was filled up on Friday.”
“Bailey must have missed it. Don’t worry — we saw the stains and felt we ought to account for them. What about these rooms?”
“All the students’ rooms are up there,” said Troy, and pointed to the upper landing on the right. “The bathrooms, and mine, are on the other side. Through here”—she pointed to a door on the half-landing—“are the servants’ quarters, the back stairs and a little stair up to the attic-room where — where Sonia slept.”
Alleyn saw that there were lights under two of the doors on the students’ landing.
“Fox and Bailey are up there,” he said. “If you don’t mind— ”
“You’d better do my room,” said Troy. “Here it is.”
They went into the second room on the left-hand landing. It was a large room, very spacious and well-proportioned. The walls, the carpet, and the narrow bed, were white. He saw only one picture and very few ornaments, but on the mantlepiece sparkled a little glass Christmas tree with fabulous glass flowers growing on it. Troy struck a match and lit the fire.
“I’ll leave you to your job,” she said.
Alleyn did not answer.
“Is there anything else?” asked Troy.
“Only that I should like to say that if it was possible for me to make an exception— ”
“Why should you make any exceptions?” interrupted Troy. “There is no conceivable reason for such a suggestion.”
“If you will simply think of me as a ship’s steward or — or some other sexless official— ”
“How else should I think of you, Mr. Alleyn? I can assure you there is no need for these scruples — if they are scruples.”
“They were attempts at an apology. I shall make a third and ask you to forgive me for my impertinence. I shan’t keep you long.”
Troy turned at the door.
“I didn’t mean to be beastly,” she said.
“Nor were you. I see now that I made an insufferable assumption.”
“—But you can hardly expect me to be genial when you are about to hunt through my under-garments for incriminating letters. The very fact that you suspect— ”
Alleyn strode to the door and looked down at her.
“You little fool,” he said, “haven’t you the common-or-garden gumption to see that I no more suspect you than the girl in the moon?”
Troy stared at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. She opened her mouth to speak, said nothing, turned on her heel and left the room.
“Blast!” said Alleyn. “Oh, blast and hell and bloody stink!”
He stood and looked at the door which Troy had only just not slammed. Then he turned to his job. There was a bow-fronted chest of drawers full of the sorts of garments that Alleyn often before had had to turn over. His thin fastidious hands touched them delicately, laid them in neat heaps on the bed and returned them carefully to their appointed places. There was a little drawer, rather untidy, where Troy kept her oddments. One or two letters. One that began “Troy darling” and was signed “Your foolishly devoted, John.”
“John,” thought Alleyn, “John Bellasca?” He glanced through the letters quickly, was about to return them to the drawer, but on second thoughts laid them in a row on the top of the chest. “An odious trade,” he muttered to himself. “A filthy degrading job.” Then there were the dresses in the wardrobe, the slim jackets, Troy’s smart evening dresses, and her shabby old slacks. All the pockets. Such odd things she kept in her pockets — bits of charcoal, india-rubbers, a handkerchief that had been disgracefully used as a paint-rag, and a sketch-book crammed into a pocket that was too small for it. There was a Harris tweed coat — blue. Suddenly he was back on the wharf at Quebec. The lights of Troy’s ship were reflected in the black mirror of the river. Silver-tongued bells rang out from all the grey churches. The tug, with its five globes of yellow light, moved outwards into the night tide of the St. Lawrence, and there on the deck was Troy, her hand raised in farewell, wearing blue Harris tweed. “Good-bye. Thank you for my nice party. Good-bye.” He slipped his hand into a pocket of the blue coat and pulled out Katti Bostock’s letter. He would have to read this.