“Wait a moment, will you?” he said.
“I’m sorry,” said Alleyn at last. “Give me a moment.”
“Shall I get someone else, sir?” asked the sergeant. “It’s a friend of yours, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Alleyn. “It’s a friend of mine.”
He turned on the taxi-driver and took him fiercely by the arm.
“Come here,” he said and marched him to the front of the car.
“Switch on the headlights,” he said.
The sergeant reached inside the taxi and in a moment the driver stood blinking in a white flood of light.
“Now,” said Alleyn. “Why are you so certain it was murder?”
“Gorblimy, governor,” said the driver, “ain’t I seen wiv me own eyes ’ow the ower bloke gets in wiv ’im, and ain’t I seen wiv me own eyes ’ow the ower bloke gets out at ’is lordship’s ’ouse dressed up in ’is lordship’s cloak and ’at and squeaks at me in a rum little voice same as ’is lordship: ‘Sixty-three Jobbers Row, Queens Gate’? Ain’t I driven ’is corpse all the way there, not knowing? ’Ere! You say ’is lordship was a friend of yours. So ’e was o’ mine. This is bloody murder, this is, and I want to see this Mr Clever, what’s diddled me and done in as nice a little gent as ever I see, swing for it. That’s me.”
“I see,” said Alleyn. “All right. I’ll get a statement from you. We must get to work. Call up the usual lot. Get them all here. Get Dr Curtis. Photograph the body from every angle. Note the position of the head. Look for signs of violence. Routine. Case of homicide. Take the name, will you? Lord Robert Gospell, two hundred Cheyne Walk—”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Stop Press News
LORD ROBERT GOSPELL DIES IN TAXI
Society Shocked. Foul Play Suspected
Full Story of Ball on Page 5
Evelyn Carrados let the paper fall on the counterpane and stared at her husband.
“The papers are full of it,” she said woodenly.
“Good God, my dear Evelyn, of course they are! And this is only the ten o’clock racing edition brought in by a damn pup of a footman with my breakfast. Wait till we see the evening papers! Isn’t it enough, my God, that I should be rung up by some jack-in-office from Scotland Yard at five o’clock in the morning and cross-examined about my own guests without having the whole thing thrust under my nose in some insulting bloody broadsheet!”
He limped angrily about the room.
“It’s perfectly obvious that the man has been murdered. Do you realize that at any moment we’ll have some damned fellow from Scotland Yard cross-questioning us and that all the scavengers in Fleet Street will be hanging about our door for days together? Do you realize—”
“I think he was perhaps my greatest friend,” said Evelyn Carrados.
“If you look at their damned impertinent drivel on page five you will see the friendship well advertised. My God, it’s intolerable. Do you realize that the police rang up Marsdon House at quarter-past four — five minutes after we’d gone, thank God! — and asked when Robert Gospell left? Some fellow of Dimitri’s answered them and now a blasted snivelling journalist has got hold of it. Do you realize—”
“I only realize,” said Evelyn Carrados, “that Bunchy Gospell is dead.”
Bridget burst into the room, a paper in her hands.
“Donna! Oh, Donna — it’s our funny little Bunchy. Our funny little Bunchy’s dead! Donna!”
“Darling — I know.”
“But, Donna — Bunchy!”
“Bridget,” said her stepfather, “please don’t be hysterical. The point we have to consider is—”
Bridget’s arm went round her mother’s shoulders.
“But we mind,” she said. “Can’t you see — Donna minds awfully.”
Her mother said: “Of course we mind, darling, but Bart’s thinking about something else. You see, Bart thinks there will be dreadful trouble—”
“About what?”
Bridget’s eyes blazed in her white face as she turned on Carrados.
“Do you mean Donald? Do you? Do you dare to suggest that Donald would — would—”
“Bridgie!” cried her mother, “what are you saying!”
“Wait a moment, Evelyn,” said Carrados. “What is all this about young Potter?”
Bridget pressed the back of her hand against her mouth, looked distractedly from her mother to her stepfather, burst into tears and ran out of the room.
“BUNCHY” GOSPELL DEAD
Mysterious death in Taxi
Sequel to the Carrados Ball
Mrs Halcut-Hackett’s beautifully manicured hands closed like claws on the newspaper. Her lips were stretched in a smile that emphasised the carefully suppressed lines from her nostrils to the corners of her mouth. She stared at nothing.
General Halcut-Hackett’s dressing-room door was flung open and the General, wearing a dressing-gown but few teeth, marched into the room. He carried a copy of a ten o’clock sporting edition.
“What!” he shouted indistinctly. “See here! By God!”
“I know,” said Mrs Halcut-Hackett. “Sad, isn’t it?”
“Sad! Bloody outrage! What!”
“Shocking,” said Mrs Halcut-Hackett.
“Shocking!” echoed the General. “Preposterous!” and the explosive consonants pronounced through the gap in his teeth blew his moustache out like a banner. His bloodshot eyes goggled at his wife. He pointed a stubby forefinger at her.
“He said he’d bring you home,” he spluttered.
“He didn’t do so.”
“When did you come home?”
“I didn’t notice. Late.”
“Alone?”
Her face was white but she looked steadily at him.
“Yes,” she said. “Don’t be a fool.”
STRANGE FATALITY
Lord Robert Gospell dies after Ball
Full Story
Donald Potter read the four headlines over and over again. From the centre of the page his uncle’s face twinkled at him. Donald’s cigarette-butt burnt his lips. He spat it into his empty cup, and lit another. He was shivering as if he had a rigor. He read the four lines again. In the next room somebody yawned horribly.
Donald’s head jerked back.
“Wits!” he said. “Wits! Come here!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Come here!”
Captain Withers, clad in an orange silk dressing-gown, appeared in the doorway.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” he enquired.
“Look here.”
Captain Withers, whistling between his teeth, strolled up and looked over Donald’s shoulder. His whistling stopped. He reached out his hand, took the newspaper, and began to read. Donald watched him.
“Dead!” said Donald. “Uncle Bunch! Dead!”
Withers glanced at him and returned to the paper. Presently he began again to whistle through his teeth.
DEATH OF LORD ROBERT GOSPELL
Tragic end to a distinguished career
Suspicious Circumstances
Lady Mildred Potter beat her plump hands on the proofs of the Evening Chronicle obituary notice and turned upon Alleyn a face streaming with tears.
“But who could have wanted to hurt Bunchy, Roderick? Everyone adored him. He hadn’t an enemy in the world. Look what the Chronicle says — and I must say I think it charming of them to let me see the things they propose to say about him — but look what it says. ‘Beloved by all his friends!’ And so he was. So he was. By all his friends.”