Nigel Bathgate, Dr. Kasbek, Dr. Curtis and the pathologist were the first witnesses. Dr. Kasbek was asked by a very small juryman why he had not thought it worth while to send for remedies. He said dryly that there was no remedy for death. The ceremony of the cup was outlined and the finding of sodium cyanide described. Alleyn then gave a brief account of his subsequent investigations in the House of the Sacred Flame.
Father Jasper Garnette was called and gave a beautiful rendering of a saint among thieves. He was followed by the rest of the Initiates. Mr Ogden’s deportment was so elaborately respectful that even the coroner seemed suspicious. M. de Ravigne was aloof and looked as if he thought the court smelt insanitary. Mrs. Candour wore black and a stage make-up. Miss Wade wore three cardigans and a cairn-gorm brooch. She showed a tendency to enlarge on Father Garnette’s purity of soul and caused the solicitor who watched the proceedings on Father Garnette’s behalf to become very fidgety. Maurice Pringle was called on the strength of his being the first to draw attention to Cara Quayne’s condition. He instantly succeeded in antagonising the coroner. Claude Wheatley, who followed him, got very short commons indeed. The coroner stared at him as though he was a monster, asked him precisely what he did mean, and then said it seemed to be so entirely irrelevant that Mr. Wheatley might stand down. Janey merely corroborated the rest of the evidence. It was all over very quickly. The coroner, crisp man, glanced once at Alleyn and ordered an adjournment.
“He’s a specimen piece, that one,” said Alleyn to Fox as they walked away. “I only wish there were more like him.”
“What are the orders for this afternoon, sir?”
“Well, Fox, we must come all over fashionable and pay a round of calls. There are still two ladies and a gentleman to visit. I propose we have a bite of lunch and begin with Mrs. Candour. She’s expecting us.”
They had their bite of lunch and then made their way to Queen Charlotte flats, Kensington Square, where, in a setting of mauve and green cushions, long-legged dolls and tucked lampshades, Mrs. Candour received them. She seemed disappointed that Alleyn had not come alone, but invited them both to sit down. She herself was arranged on a low divan and exuded synthetic violets. She explained that she suffered from shock. The inquest had been too much for her. The room was stiflingly heated by two ornate radiators and the hot water pipes gurgled like a dyspeptic mammoth.
Alleyn engulfed himself in a mauve satin tub hard by the divan. Inspector Fox chose the only small chair in the room and made it look foolish.
“My doctor is coming at four o’clock,” said Mrs. Candour. “He tells me my nerves are shattered. But shattered!”
She gesticulated clumsily. The emeralds flashed above her knuckles. Alleyn realised that she wished him to see a hot-house flower, enervated, perhaps a little degenerate, but fatal, fatal. With a mental squirm he realised he had better play up. He lowered his deep voice, bent his gaze on her and said:
“I cannot forgive myself. You should rest.”
“Perhaps I should. It doesn’t matter. I must not think of myself.”
“That is wonderful of you,” said Alleyn.
She shrugged elaborately and sighed.
“It is all so ugly, I cannot bear ugliness. I have always surrounded myself with decorative things. I must have beauty or I sicken.”
“You are sensitive,” pronounced Alleyn with a strong man’s scowl.
“You feel that?” She looked restively at Inspector Fox. “That is rather clever of you, Mr. Alleyn.”
“My consciousness of it brought me here this afternoon. We want your help Mrs. Candour. It is the sensitive people who see things, who receive impressions that may be invaluable.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Candour with a sad smile.
“Before I ask you for this particular kind of help I just want to confirm your statement about your own movements on Sunday. It’s purely a matter of form. You were here all day, I think you said.”
“Yes, all day. How I wish it had been all the evening too!”
“I bet you do,” thought Alleyn. Aloud he said: “Perhaps your servants would be able to confirm this. No doubt they will remember that you were indoors all day.”
“There are only two maids. I–I expect they will remember.”
“Perhaps Inspector Fox might have a word with them.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Candour very readily indeed. “You would like to see them alone, I expect, Inspector? I’ll ring.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Fox. “I won’t keep them long.” A musical comedy parlourmaid who had shown them in, showed Fox out. His voice could be heard rumbling distantly in the flat.
“And now,” said Mrs. Candour turning intimately to Alleyn. “And now, Mr. Alleyn.”
Alleyn leant back in his chair and looked at her until she glanced down and up again. Then he said:
“Do you remember a party at Mr. Ogden’s four weeks ago, yesterday?”
“Just a moment. Will you get me a cigarette? On the table over there. No, not those,” said Mrs. Candour in a hurry. “The large box. The others are Virginian. I loathe Virginian cigarettes.”
Alleyn opened the wrong box.
“Do you?” he said. “What make is this? I don’t know the look of them.” He took one out and smelt it.
“They are hateful. Someone sent them. I meant to have them thrown away. I think the servants have upset… My cigarette, Mr. Alleyn. Mayn’t I have it?”
“I’m so sorry,” said Alleyn and brought the other box. He lit hers for her, stooping over the divan. She made a great business of it.
“You?” she murmured at last.
“Thank you. I prefer Virginians,” he said. “May I have one of these?”
“Oh, please don’t. They are disgusting. Quite unsmokable.”
“Very well,” said Alleyn and took out his case. “Do you remember the party?”
“At Sammy Ogden’s? Do I? Yes, I believe I do.”
“Do you remember that M. de Ravigne looked at one of the books?”
She closed her eyes and laid the tips of her thick fingers on the lids.
“Let me think. Yes!” She opened her eyes wide. “I remember. M. de Ravigne collects old books. He was browsing along the shelves. I can see it all now. I was talking to Father and poor Cara had joined us. Then Sammy came up. I remember that M. de Ravigne called to him: ‘Where did you find this?’ and he looked across and said: ‘On a bookstall. Is it worth anything?’ And Father went across and joined them. He adores books. They draw him like a magnet.”
“He has a remarkable collection,” said Alleyn. “Was he interested in this particular one?”
“Let me think. He went across and — What was the name of the book?” She gaped stupidly. “It wasn’t—! Oh, it was! You mean it was that book you showed us, on poisons. My God, is that what you mean?”
“Don’t distress yourself. Don’t be alarmed. Yes, that was it. You see we want to trace the book.”
“But if that was the one it belongs to Sammy Ogden. It’s his. And he never said so. When you showed it to us he simply sat there and—” Her eyes brightened; she was avid. “Don’t you see what that means? He didn’t own up.”
“Oh, yes,” said Alleyn. Her excitement was horrible. “Oh, yes, he told us it was his book. He hadn’t missed it.”
“But — Oh.” For a moment she looked disappointed. Then he could see an anticipation of deeper pleasure come into her eyes. Her lips trembled. “Then, of course, it was the Frenchman. Listen. I’ll tell you something. Listen.”
Alleyn waited. She lowered her voice and hitched herself nearer to him.
“He — Raoul de Ravigne I mean — made a fool of himself over Cara. She encouraged him. You know what foreigners are. If I had chosen to let him—” She laughed shrilly. “But I wasn’t having any. There was quite a scene once. I had a lot of bother with him. It was after that he turned to Cara. In pique, I always thought. And then — I hardly like to tell you. But Cara was dreadfully — you know. I’ve read quite a lot of psychoanalysis, and it was easy to see she was mad about Father Garnette. De Ravigne saw it. I watched him. I knew. He was furious. And when she got herself elected Chosen Vessel, he realised what that meant. You know what I mean?”