Alleyn felt it would be inappropriate to say that stopping the portrait would in itself be a form of homicide. He switched to the Sanskrit incident and learnt that it had been reported to Gibson. Alleyn outlined his and Fox’s investigations and the conculsions he had drawn from them.
“It seems to look,” Mr. Gibson mumbled, “as if things might be coming to a head.”
“Keep your fingers crossed. I’m getting a search warrant. On the off-chance.”
“Always looks ‘active,’ applying for a warrant. By the way, the body’s gone.”
“What?”
“The deceased. Just before first light. It was kept very quiet. Back entrance. ‘Nondescript’ van. Special plane. All passed off nice and smooth. One drop of grief the less,” said Mr. Gibson.
“You may have to keep obbo at the airport, Fred. Outgoing planes for Ng’ombwana.”
“Any time. You name it,” he said dismally.
“From now. We’ll be in touch,” Alleyn said, and they rang off.
Troy was in the studio making statements on the background. He told her that yesterday’s protective measures would be repeated and that if possible he himself would be back before the Boomer arrived.
“That’ll be fine,” she said. “Sit where you did before, Rory, would you, darling? He’s marvellous when he focusses on you.”
“You’ve got the cheek of the devil. Do you know that everybody but you thinks I’m out of my senses to let you go on with this?”
“Yes, but then you’re you, aren’t you, and you know how things are. And truly — it is — isn’t it? — going — you know? Don’t say it, but — isn’t it?”
He said: “It is. Strange as it may sound, I hardly dare look. It’s leapt out of the end of your brush.”
She gave him a kiss. “I am grateful,” she said. “You know, don’t you?”
He went to the Yard in a pleasant if apprehensive state of mind and found a message from Mr. Whipplestone asking him to ring without delay. He put through the call and was answered at once.
“I thought you should know,” Mr. Whipplestone began, and the phrase had become familiar. He hurried on to say that, confronted by a leaking water-pipe, he had called at his land agents, Messrs. Able and Virtue, at ten past nine o’clock that morning to ask if they could recommend a plumber. He found Sanskrit already there and talking to the young man with Pre-Raphaelite hair. When he saw Mr. Whipplestone, Sanskrit had stopped short and then said in a counter-tenor voice that he would leave everything to them and they were to do the best they could for him.
The young man had said there would be no difficulty as there was always a demand in the Capricorns. Sanskrit said something indistinguishable and rather hurriedly left the offices.
“I asked, casually,” said Mr. Whipplestone, “if the pottery premises were by any chance to let. I said I had friends who were flat-hunting. This produced a curious awkwardness on the part of the lady attendant and the young man. The lady said something about the place not being officially on the market as yet and in any case if it did come up it would be for sale rather than to let. The present occupant, she said, didn’t want it made known for the time being. This, as you may imagine, intrigued me. When I left the agents I walked down Capricorn Mews to the piggery. It had a notice on the door: Closed for stocktaking. There are some very ramshackle curtains drawn across the shop window but they don’t quite meet. I peered in. It was very ill-lit but I got the impression of some large person moving about among packing cases.”
“Did you, by George!”
“Yes. And on my way home I called in at the Napoli for some of their pâté. While I was there the Cockburn-Montforts came in. He was, I thought, rather more than three sheets in the wind but, as usual, holding it. She looked awful.”
Mr. Whipplestone paused for so long that Alleyn said: “Are you there, Sam?”
“Yes,” he said, “yes, I am. To be frank, I’m wondering what you’re going to think of my next move. Be quiet, cat. I don’t habitually act on impulse. Far from it.”
“Very far, I’d have thought.”
“Although lately — However, I did act impulsively on this occasion. Very. I wanted to get a reaction. I gave them good-morning, of course, and then, quite casually, you know, as I took my pâté from Mrs. Pirelli, I said: ‘I believe you’re losing some neighbours, Mrs. Pirelli?’ She looked nonplussed. I said: ‘Yes. The people at the pig-pottery. They’re leaving, almost at once, I hear.’ This was not, of course, strictly true.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“No? Well, I turned and was face-to-face with Cockburn-Montfort. I find it difficult to describe his look, or rather his succession of looks. Shock. Incredulity. Succeeded by fury. He turned even more purple in the process. Mrs. Montfort quite gasped out ‘I don’t believe it!’ and then gave a little scream. He had her by the arm and he hurt her. And without another word he turned her about and marched her out of the shop. I saw him wheel her round in the direction of the piggery. She pulled back and seemed to plead with him. In the upshot they turned again and went off presumably to their own house. Mrs. Pirelli said something in Italian and then: ‘If they go I am pleased.’ I left. As I passed the top of Capricorn Place, I saw the C.-M.’s going up their steps. He still held her arm and I think she was crying. That’s all.”
“And this was — what? — half an hour ago?”
“About that.”
“We’ll discuss it later. Thank you, Sam.”
“Have I blundered?”
“I hope not. I think you may have precipitated something.”
“I’ve got to have a word with Sheridan about the plumbing — a genuine word. He’s at home. Should I—?”
“I think you might, but it’s odds on the C.-M.’s will have got in first. Try.”
“Very well.”
“And the Chubbs?” Alleyn asked.
“Yes. Oh dear. If you wish.”
“Don’t elaborate. Just the news, casually, as before.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be at home in about a quarter of an hour if you want me. If I don’t hear from you I’ll get in touch myself as soon as I can,” Alleyn said.
He checked with the man keeping observation and learned that Sanskrit had returned to the pottery after his visit to the land agents and had not emerged. The pottery was closed and the windows still curtained.
Five minutes later Alleyn and Fox found the entrance to the cul-de-sac, as on the former visit, cordoned off by police and thronged by an even larger crowd and quite a galaxy of photographers, who were pestering Superintendent Gibson with loud cries against constabular arrogance. Alleyn had a word with Gibson, entered his own house, left Fox in the study, and went straight to Troy in her studio. She had done quite a lot of work on the background.
“Troy,” he said, “when he comes, I’ve got to have a word with him. Alone. I don’t think it will take long and I don’t know how much it will upset him.”
“Damn,” said Troy.
“Well, I know. But this is where it gets different. I’ve no choice.”
“I see. O.K.”
“It’s hell but there it is.”
“Never mind — I know. Here he is. You’d better meet him.”
“I’ll be back. Much more to the point, I hope he will.”
“So do I. Good luck to whatever it is.”
“Amen to that, sweet powers,” Alleyn said, and arrived at the front door at the same time as the Boomer, who had his mlinzi in attendance, the latter carrying a great bouquet of red roses and, most unexpectedly, holding the white Afghan hound on a scarlet leash. The Boomer explained that the dog seemed to be at a loose end. “Missing his master,” said the Boomer.