“Does she exhibit at all?”
“Yes,” said Alleyn. “Her name is Troy.”
“Oh God!” said Cubitt. “I’m sorry.”
“She’s good, isn’t she?” said Alleyn humbly.
“To my mind,” answered Cubitt, “the best we’ve got.”
“Do you think it’s like me?” asked Parish. “I tell Norman he hasn’t quite got my eyes. Judging by my photographs, you know. Not that I don’t like it. I think it’s marvellous, old boy, you know that.”
“Seb,” said Cubitt, “your price is above rubies. So long as you consider it a pretty mockery of nature, I am content.”
“Oh,” said Parish, “I’m delighted with it, Norman, really. It’s only a suggestion about the eyes.”
“How long have you been at it?” asked Alleyn.
“This is the sixth day. I had two mornings before the catastrophe. We shelved it for a bit after that.”
“Naturally,” added Parish solemnly. “We didn’t feel like it.”
“Naturally,” agreed Cubitt drily.
“Tell me,” said Alleyn, “did you ever pass Mr. Watchman on your way to or from this place?”
Cubitt had laid a streak of blue across his palette with the knife. His fingers opened and the knife fell into the paint. Parish’s jaw dropped. He looked quickly at Cubitt as if asking him a question.
“How do you mean?” asked Cubitt. “He was only here one day. He died the night after he got here.”
“That was the Friday,” said Alleyn. “Did you work here on the Friday morning?”
“Yes.”
“Well, was Mr. Watchman with you?”
“Oh no,” said Cubitt quickly, “he was still in bed when we left.”
“Did you see him on the way home?”
“I don’t think we did,” said Parish.
“In a little hollow this side of a furze-bush and just above the main road.”
“I don’t think so,” said Parish.
“No,” said Cubitt, a little too loudly. “We didn’t. Why?”
“He was there some time,” said Alleyn vaguely.
Cubitt said: “Look here, do you mind if I get going again? The sun doesn’t stand still in the heavens.”
“Of course,” said Alleyn quickly.
Parish took up the pose. Cubitt looked at him and filled a brush with the colour he had mixed. He raised the brush and held it poised. Alleyn saw that his hand trembled.
“It’s no good,” said Cubitt abruptly, “we’ve missed it. The sun’s too far round.”
“But it’s not ten yet,” objected Parish.
“Can’t help it,” said Cubitt and put down his palette.
“For pity’s sake,” said Alleyn, “don’t go wrong with it now.”
“I’ll knock off, I think.”
“We’ve been a hell of a nuisance. I’m sorry.”
“My dear chap,” said Parish, “you’re nothing to the modest Violet. It’s a wonder she hasn’t appeared. She puts up her easel about five yards behind Norman’s and brazenly copies every stroke he makes.”
“It’s not as bad as that, Seb.”
“Well, personally,” said Parish, “I’ve had quite as much as I want of me brother Terence and me brother Brian and me unfortunate cousin poor Bryonie.”
“What!” exclaimed Alleyn.
“She has a cousin who is a noble lord and got jugged for something.”
“Bryonie,” said Alleyn. “He was her cousin, was he?”
“So it seems. Do you remember the case?”
“Vaguely,” said Alleyn. “Vaguely. Was Miss Darragh anywhere about on that same morning?”
“She was over there,” said Parish. “Back in the direction you’ve come from. She must have stayed there for hours. She came in, drenched to the skin and looking like the wrath of Heaven, late in the afternoon.”
“An enthusiast,” murmured Alleyn. “Ah well, we mustn’t hang round you any longer. We’re bound for Cary Edge Farm.”
Something in the look Cubitt gave him reminded Alleyn of Will Pomeroy.
Parish said: “To call on the fair Decima? You’ll be getting into trouble with Will Pomeroy.”
“Seb,” said Cubitt, “pray don’t be kittenish. Miss Moore is out on Saturday mornings, Alleyn.”
“So Will Pomeroy told us, but we hoped to meet her on her way to Ottercombe. Good luck to the work. Come along, Fox.”
ii
A few yards beyond the headland they struck a rough track that led inland and over the downs.
“This will take us there, I expect,” said Alleyn. “Fox, those gentlemen lied about Watchman and the furze-bush.”
“I thought so, sir. Mr. Cubitt made a poor fist of it.”
“Yes. He’s not a good liar. He’s a damn good painter. I must ask Troy about him.”
Alleyn stopped and thumped the point of his stick on the ground.
“What the devil,” he asked, “is this about Lord Bryonie?”
“He’s the man that was mixed up in the Montague Thringle case.”
“Yes, I know. He got six months. He was Thringle’s cat’s-paw. By George, Fox, d’you know what?”
“What, sir?”
“Luke Watchman defended Bryonie. I’ll swear he did.”
“I wouldn’t remember.”
“Yes, you would. You must. By gum, Fox, we’ll look up that case. Watchman defended Bryonie, and Bryonie was Miss Darragh’s cousin. Rum. Monstrous rum.”
“Sort of fetches her into the picture by another route.”
“It does. Well, come on. We’ve lots of little worries. I wonder if Miss Moore uses orange-brown lipstick. I tell you what, Fox, I think Cubitt is catched with Miss Moore.”
“In love with her?”
“Deeply, I should say. Did you notice, last night, how his manner changed when he talked about her? The same thing happened just now. He doesn’t like our going to Cary Edge. Nor did Will Pomeroy. I wonder what she’s like.”
He saw what Decima was like in thirty seconds. She came swinging over the hilltop. She wore a rust-coloured jumper and a blue skirt. Her hair was ruffled, her eyes were bright, and her lips were orange-brown. When she saw the two men she halted for a second and then came on towards them.
Alleyn took off his hat and waited for her.
“Miss Moore?”
“Yes.”
She stopped, but her pose suggested that it would be only for a moment.
“We hoped that we might meet you if we were too late to find you at home,” said Alleyn. “I wonder if you can give up a minute or two. We’re police officers.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, but would you mind…?”
“You’d better come back to the farm,” said Decima. “It’s over the next hill.”
“That will be a great bore for you, I’m afraid.”
“It doesn’t matter. I can go into the Coombe later in the morning.”
“We shan’t keep you long. There’s no need to turn back.”
Decima seemed to hesitate.
“All right,” she said at last. She walked over to a rock at the edge of the track and sat on it. Alleyn and Fox followed her.
She looked at them with the kind of assurance that is given to women who are unusually lovely and sometimes to women who are emphatically plain. She was without self-consciousness. Nobody had told Alleyn that Decima was beautiful and he was a little surprised. “It’s impossible,” he thought, “that she can be in love with young Pomeroy.”
“I suppose it’s about Luke Watchman,” said Decima.
“Yes, it is. We’ve been sent down to see if we can tidy up a bit.”
“Does that mean they think it was murder?” asked Decima steadily. “Or don’t you answer that sort of question?”
“We don’t,” rejoined Alleyn smiling, “answer that sort of question.”
“I suppose not,” said Decima.
“We are trying,” continued Alleyn, “to trace Mr. Watchman’s movements from the time he got here until the time of the accident.”