“You’re saying too much,” said Troy. “You must stop. Please.”
“I’m extremely sorry. You’re perfectly right — it was unpardonable. Good-bye.”
He stood back. Troy made a swift movement with her hands and leant towards him.
“Don’t be so ‘pukka sahib,’ ” she said. “It is quite true — a woman doesn’t mind.”
“Troy!”
“Now I’m saying too much. It’s her vanity. Even mixed up with horrors like these she rather likes it.”
“We seem to be an odd pair,” said Alleyn. “I haven’t the smallest idea of what you think of me. No, truly, not the smallest idea. But even in the middle of police investigations we appear to finish our thoughts. Troy, have you ever thought of me when you were alone?”
“Naturally.”
“Do you dislike me?”
“No.”
“That will do to go on with,” said Alleyn. “Good morning.”
With his hat still in his hand he turned and walked away quickly to his mother’s car.
“Off we go, Fox,” he said. “Alley houp! The day is ours.”
He slipped in the clutch and in a very few minutes they were travelling down a fortunately deserted road at fifty miles an hour. Fox cleared his throat.
“What’s that, Brer Fox?” asked Alleyn cheerfully.
“I didn’t speak, Mr. Alleyn. Are we in a hurry?”
“Not particularly. I have a disposition of speed come upon me.”
“I see,” said Fox dryly. Alleyn began to sing.
“Au claire de la lune
Mon ami, Pierrot.”
Trees and hedges flew past in a grey blur. From the back of the car a muffled voice suddenly chanted:
“I thought I saw Inspector Alleyn hunting for a clue.
I looked again and saw it was an inmate of the Zoo.
‘Good God,’ I said, ‘it’s very hard to judge between these two.”
Alleyn took his foot off the accelerator. Fox slewed round and stared into the back of the car. From an upheaval of rugs Nigel’s head emerged.
“I thought,” he continued, “I saw Gargantua in fancy worsted socks.
I looked again and saw it was a mammoth picking locks.
‘Good God,’ I said, ‘it might have been my friend Inspector Fox.’ ”
“Rude is never funny,” said Alleyn. “When did you hide in my mother’s car?”
“Immediately after the old gentleman pronounced the word ‘adjournment.’ Where are we bound for?”
“I shan’t tell you. Alley houp! Away we go again.”
“Mr. Fox,” said Nigel, “what has overtaken your chief? Is he mad, drunk, or in love?”
“Don’t answer the fellow, Brer Fox,” said Alleyn. “Let him burst in ignorance. Sit down, behind, there.”
They arrived at Boxover and drew up outside a rather charming Georgian house on the outskirts of the village.
“Twenty minutes,” said Alleyn, looking from his watch to the speedometer. “Twenty minutes from Bossicote and twelve miles. It’s two miles from the studio to Bossicote. Fourteen miles and a straightish road. We slowed down once on Bathgate’s account and once to ask the way. At night you could do the whole trip in a quarter of an hour or less. Now then. A certain amount and yet not too much finesse is indicated. Come on, Fox.”
“May I come?” asked Nigel.
“You? You have got the most colossal, the most incredible, the most appalling cheek. Your hide! Your effrontery! Well, well, well. Come along. You are a Yard typist. Wait by the car until I give you a leery nod, both of you.”
He rang the front-door bell and whistled very sweetly and shrilly.
“What is the matter with him, Fox?” asked Nigel.
“Search me, Mr. Bathgate. He’s been that worried over this case ever since we found Garcia, you’d think he’d never crack a joke again, and then he comes out from this inquest, crosses the road to have a word with Miss Troy and comes back, as you might say, with bells on.”
“Oh ho!” said Nigel. “Say you so, Fox. By gum, Fox, do you suppose— ”
The door was opened by a manservant. Alleyn spoke to him and gave him a card. The man stood back and Alleyn, with a grimace at them over his shoulder, stepped inside, leaving the door open.
“Come on, Mr. Bathgate,” said Fox. “That means us.”
They joined Alleyn in a little hall that was rather overwhelmed with the horns, masks, and hides of dead animals.
“Mrs. Pascoe is away,” whispered Alleyn, “but the gallant captain is within. Here he comes.”
Captain Pascoe was short, plump and vague-looking. He had prominent light blue eyes and a red face. He smelt of whisky. He looked doubtfully from Alleyn to Fox.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Captain Pascoe,” said Alleyn.
“That’s all right. You’re from Scotland Yard, aren’t you? This business over at Bossicote, what?”
“That’s it. We’re checking up everybody’s movements on the night in question — you’ll understand it has to be done.”
“Oh quite. Routine, what?”
“Exactly. Inspector Fox and Mr. Bathgate are with me.”
“Oh ya’,” said Captain Pascoe. “H’ are y’. H’ are y’. Have a drink.”
“Thank you so much, but I think we’ll get on with the job.”
“Oh. Right-ho. I suppose it’s about Valmai — Miss Seacliff — and Pilgrim, isn’t it? I’ve been followin’ the case. Damn’ funny, isn’t it? They’re all right. Spent Friday here with us. Slept here and went on to old Pilgrim’s place next day.”
“So they told us. I’m just going to ask you to check up the times. It won’t take a moment.”
“Oh, quite. Right-ho. Sit down.”
Alleyn led him through the week-end from the moment when Valmai Seacliff and Pilgrim arrived, up to the time they all sat down to dinner. Captain Pascoe said nothing to contradict the information given by the other two. Alleyn complimented him on his memory and on the crispness of his recital, which was anything but crisp. The little man expanded gratefully.
“And now,” said Alleyn, “we come to the important period between ten o’clock on Friday night and five the following morning. You are a soldier, sir, and you understand the difficulties of this sort of thing. One has to be very discreet—” Alleyn waved his hands and looked respectfully at Captain Pascoe.
“By Jove, ya’. I ’member there was a feller in my reg’ment”—the anecdote wound itself up into an impenetrable tangle—“and, by Jove, we nearly had a court martial over it.”
“Exactly. Just the sort of thing we want to avoid. So you see, if we can account, now, for every second of their time during Friday evening they will be saved a lot of unpleasantness later on. You know yourself, sir— ”
“Oh, quite. All for it. Damned unpleasant. Always flatter myself I’ve got the faculty of observing detail.”
“Yes. Now, I understand that during dinner Miss Seacliff complained of a headache?”
“No, no. Not till after dinner. Minor point, but we may’s well be accurate, Inspector.”
“Certainly, sir. Stupid of me. Was it about the time you had coffee that she first spoke of it?”
“No. Wait a bit, though. Tell you what — just to show you — what I was saying about my faculty for tabulatin’ detail— ”
“Yes.”
“I ‘member Valmai made a face over her coffee. Took a swig at it and then did a sort of shudder and m’wife said: ‘What’s up?’ or words to the same effect, and Val said the coffee was bitter, and then Pilgrim looked a bit sheepish and I said: ‘Was yours bitter?’ and he said: ‘Matter of fact it was!’ Funny — mine was all right. But my idea is that Val was feeling a bit off colour then, and he just agreed the coffee was bitter to keep her in countenance. In my opinion the girl had a liver. Pilgrim persuaded her to have a glass of port after champagne, and she said at the time it would upset her. Damn’ bad show. She’s a lovely thing. Damn’ good rider to hounds. Lovely hands. Goes as straight and as well as the best of ’em. Look at that.” He fumbled in a drawer of his writing-desk and produced a press photograph of Valmai Seacliff looking magnificent on a hunter. Captain Pascoe gloated over it, handed it to Alleyn, and flung himself back in his chair. He appeared to collect his thoughts. “But to show you how one notices little things,” he resumed. “Not till after dinner that she talked about feeling under the weather. Matter of fact, it was when I took her empty cup. Precise moment. There you are.” And he laughed triumphantly.