“I want to see my husband. Stop that. Don’t touch me. I’m going to see my husband.”
The Colonel whispered, “No! For Chrissake keep her out. Keep her out.”
But she was already in the room, with the constable on duty in the hall making an ineffectual grab after her and the two men inside the door, taken completely by surprise, looking to Alleyn for orders.
He had her by the arms. She was dishevelled and her eyes were out of focus. It would be hard to say whether she smelt stronger of gin or of scent.
Alleyn turned her with her back to the alcove and her face towards her husband. He felt her sagging in his grasp.
“Hughie!” she said. “You haven’t, have you? Hughie, promise you haven’t. Hughie!”
She fought with Alleyn, trying to reach her husband. “I couldn’t stand it, Hughie,” she cried. “Alone, after what you said you’d do. I had to come. I had to know.”
And as Chubb had turned on his wife, so the Colonel, in a different key, turned on her.
“Hold your tongue!” he roared out. “You’re drunk.”
She struggled violently with Alleyn and in doing so swung round in his grasp and faced the alcove.
And screamed. And screamed. And poured out such a stream of fatal words that her husband made a savage attempt to get at her and was held off by Fox and Thompson and Bailey. And then she became terrified of him, begged Alleyn not to let him get to her, and finally collapsed.
There being nowhere else to put her, they carried her upstairs and left her with Mrs. Chubb, gabbling wildly about how badly he treated her and how she knew when he left the house in a blind rage he would do what he said he would do. All of which was noted down by the officer on duty in the upstairs room.
In the downstairs room Alleyn, not having a warrant for his arrest, asked Colonel Cockburn-Montfort to come to the Yard, where he would be formally charged with the murder of the Sanskrits.
“And I should warn you that—”
X
Epilogue
“It was clear from the moment we saw the bodies,” Alleyn said, “that Montfort was the man. The pig-pottery had been under strict surveillance from the time Sanskrit returned to it from the house-agents. The only gap came after Gibson’s men had been drawn off by the bomb scare. The traffic in the Mews piled up between Sergeant Jacks and the flat entrance where Montfort leant against the doorbell, and for at least five minutes, probably longer, the façade was completely hidden by a van. During that time Montfort, who was beginning to make a scene in the street, had been admitted by one or other of the Sanskrits with the object, one supposes, of shutting him up.
“They were in a hurry. They had to get to the airport. They had planned to make their getaway within the next quarter of an hour and were packing up the last lot of pigs and writing a note for the agents. Leaving the drunken Colonel to grind to a halt, they returned to their jobs. Sanskrit put the penultimate pig in the case, his sister sat down to write the note. Montfort followed them up, found himself between the two of them, heaved up the last pig doorstop on the bench and in a drunken fury crashed it down left and right. The shock of what he’d done may have partly sobered him. His gloves were bloodied. He shoved them in the kiln, walked out, and had the sense or the necessity to lean against the doorbell again. The van still blocked the view, and when it removed itself there he stilt was.”
“Who raised the false alarm about the bomb?” asked Troy.
“Oh, one of the Sanskrits, don’t you think? To draw. Gibson’s men off while the two of them did a bunk to Ng’ombwana. They were in a blue funk over the outcome of the assassination and an even bluer one at the thought of the Klu-Klux-Fish. They realized, as they were bound to do, that they’d been rumbled.”
“It would seem,” Mr. Whipplestone said drily, “that they did not over-estimate the potential.”
“It would indeed.”
“Rory — how drunk was the wretched man?” Troy asked.
“Can one talk about degrees of drunkeness in an alcoholic? I suppose one can. According to his wife, and there’s no reason to doubt her, he was plug-ugly drunk and breathing murder when he left the house.”
“And the whole thing, you believe, was completely unpremeditated?” Mr. Whipplestone asked.
“I think so. No coherent plan when he leant on the doorbell. Nothing beyond a blind alcoholic rage to get at them. There was the pig on the work table and there were their heads. Bang, bang and he walked out again. The traffic block was just drunkard’s luck. I don’t for a moment suppose he was aware of it and I think he’d have behaved in exactly the same way if it hadn’t occurred.”
“He had the sense to put his gloves in the kiln,” Mr. Whipplestone pointed out.
“It’s the only bit of hard evidence we’ve got. I wouldn’t venture a guess as to how far the shock of what he’d done sobered him. Or as to how far he may have exaggerated his condition for our benefit. He’s been given a blood test and the alcoholic level was astronomical.”
“No doubt he’ll plead drunkenness,” said Mr. Whipplestone.
“You may depend upon it. And to some purpose, I don’t mind betting.”
“What about my poor silly Chubb?”
“Sam, in the ordinary course of things he’d face a charge of conspiracy. If it does come to that, the past history — his daughter — and the dominance of the others will tell enormously in his favour. With a first-class counsel—”
“I’ll look after that. And his bail. I’ve told him so.”
“I’m not sure we’ve got a case. Apart from the mlinzi’s collarbone there’s no hard evidence. What we would greatly prefer would be for Chubb to make a clean breast about the conspiracy in return for his own immunity.”
Mr. Whipplestone and Troy looked uncomfortable.
“Yes, I know,” Alleyn said. “But just you think for a bit about Gomez. He’s the only one apart from Montfort himself who’d be involved, and believe me, if ever there was a specimen who deserved what’s coming to him, it’s that one. We’ve got him on a forged passport charge which will do to go on with, and a search of his pseudo coffee importing premises in the City has brought to light some very dubious transactions in uncut diamonds. And in the background is his Ng’ombwanan conviction for manslaughter of a particularly revolting nature.”
“What about the Embassy angle?” Troy asked.
“What indeed! What happened within those opéra bouffe walls is, as we keep telling ourselves, their affair, although it will figure obliquely as motive in the case against Montfort. But for the other show — the slaughter of the Ambassador by the mlinzi — that’s over to the Boomer and I wish the old so-and-so joy of it.”
“He leaves tomorrow, I’m told.”
“Yes. At two-thirty. After giving Troy a final sitting.”
“Really!” Mr. Whipplestone exclaimed, gazing in polite awe at Troy. She burst out laughing.
“Don’t look so shocked,” she said, and to her own, Alleyn’s and Mr. Whipplestone’s astonishment dropped a kiss on the top of his head. She saw the pink scalp under the neat strands of hair turn crimson and said: “Pay no attention. I’m excited about my work.”