“Did you hear Mrs. Rubrick speaking in the wool-shed?”
“How could she speak when he’d fixed her? That was earlier: ‘Ladies and Gentlemen.’ Gawd, what a go!”
“Where was he?”
“Alleyn, for God’s sake—” Fabian began and Alleyn turned to him. “If you can’t be quiet, Losse, you’ll have to clear out. Now Black, where was Cliff?”
“Aren’t I telling you? Coming out of the shed.”
Alleyn looked through the annex window. He saw a rough track running downhill, past the yards, past a side road to the wool-shed, down to a narrow water race above the gate that Florence Rubrick came through when she left the lavender path and struck uphill to the wool-shed.
“Was it then that you asked him to say nothing about the previous night when he caught you stealing the whisky?” Alleyn held his breath. It was a long shot and almost in the dark.
“Not then,” said Albert.
“Did you speak to him?”
“Not then.”
“Had you already spoken about the whisky?”
“I’m not saying anything about that. I’m telling you what he done.”
“And I’m telling you what you did. That was the bargain, wasn’t it? He found you making away with the bottles. He ordered you off and was caught trying to put them back. He didn’t give you away. Later, when the murder came out and the police investigation started, you struck your bargain. If Cliff said nothing about the whisky, you’d say nothing about seeing him come out of the shed?”
Albert was considerably sobered. He looked furtively from Alleyn to Fabian. “I got to protect myself,” he said. “Asking a bloke to put himself away.”
“Very good. You’d rather I tell him you’ve blown the gaff and get the whole story from him. The police will be interested to know you’ve withheld important information.”
“All right, all right,” said Albert shrilly. “Have it your own way, you blasted cow,” and burst into tears.
Fabian and Alleyn groped their way down the hill in silence. They turned off to the wool-shed where Alleyn paused and looked at the sacking-covered door. Fabian watched him miserably.
“It must have been in about this light,” Alleyn said. “Just after dark.”
“You can’t do it!” Fabian said. “You can’t believe a drunken sneak thief’s story. I know young Cliff. He’s a good chap. You’ve talked to him. You can’t believe it.”
“A year ago,” Alleyn said, “he was an over-emotionalized, slightly hysterical and extremely unhappy adolescent.”
“I don’t give a damn! Oh God!” Fabian muttered. “Why the hell did I start this?”
“I did warn you,” Alleyn said with something like compassion in his voice.
“It’s impossible, I swear — I formally swear to you that the piano never stopped for more than a few seconds. You know what it’s like on a still night. The cessation of a noise like that hits your ears. Albie was probably half tight. Good Lord, he said himself that the piano went on all the time. Of course it wasn’t Cliff that he saw. I’m amazed that you pay the smallest attention to his meanderings.” Fabian paused. “If he saw anyone,” he added, and his voice changed, “I admit that it was probably the murderer. It wasn’t Cliff. You yourself pointed out that it was almost dark.”
“Then why did Cliff refuse to talk about the whisky?”
“Schoolboy honour. He’d struck up a friendship with the wretched creature.”
“Yes,” said Alleyn. “That’s tenable.”
“Then why don’t you accept it?”
“My dear chap, I’ll accept it if it fits. See here. I want you to do two things for me. The first is easy. When you go indoors, help me to get a toll call through in privacy. Will you?”
“Of course.”
“The second is troublesome. You know the pens inside the shearing shed? With the slatted floor where the unshorn sheep are huddled together?”
“Well?”
“You’ve finished crutching to-day, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid I want to take that slatted floor up.”
Fabian stared at him. “Why on earth?”
“There may be something underneath.”
“There are the sheep droppings of thirty years underneath.”
“So I feared. Those of the last year are all that concern me. I’ll want a sieve and a spade and if you can lay your hands on a pair of rejected overalls, I’d be grateful.”
Fabian looked at Alleyn’s hands. “And gloves if it could be managed,” Alleyn said. “I’m very sorry about taking up the floor. The police department will pay the damage, of course. It may only be one section — the one nearest the press. I think you might warn the others when we go in.”
“May I ask what you hope to find?”
“A light that failed,” said Alleyn.
“Am I supposed to understand that?”
“I don’t see why you shouldn’t.” They had reached the gate into the lavender walk. Alleyn turned and looked back at the track. He could see the open door into the annex where they had left Albie Black weeping off the combined effects of confession, betrayal and the hangover from wood alcohol.
“Was it methylated spirit they’d been drinking?” he asked. “He and the cook?”
“I wouldn’t put it past them. Or Hokanui.”
“What’s that?”
“The local equivalent of potheen.”
“Why do you keep him?”
“He doesn’t break out very often. We can’t pick our men in war-time.”
“I’d love to lock him up,” Alleyn said. “He stinks. He’s a toad.”
“Then why do you listen to him?”
“Do you suppose policemen only take statements from people they fall in love with? Come in. I want to get that call through before the Bureau shuts.”
They found the members of the household assembled in the pleasant colonial-Victorian drawing-room, overlooking the lawn on the wool-shed side of the house.
“We rather felt we couldn’t face the study again,” Ursula said. “After last night, you know. We felt it could do with an airing. And I’m going to bed at eight. If Mr. Alleyn lets me, of course. Does everyone realize we got exactly five and a half hours of sleep last night?”
“I should certainly prefer that Flossie’s portrait did not preside over another session,” Fabian agreed. “If there was to be another session, of course. Having never looked at it for three years I’ve suddenly become exquisitely self-conscious in its presence. I suppose, Ursy darling, you wouldn’t care to have it in your room?”
“If that’s meant to be a joke, Fabian,” said Ursula, “I’m not joining in it.”
“You’re very touchy. Mr. Alleyn is going to dash off a monograph on one of the less delicious aspects of the merino sheep, Douglas. We are to take up the floor of the wool-shed pens.”
Alleyn, standing in the doorway, watched the group round the fire. Mrs. Aceworthy wore her almost habitual expression of half-affronted gentility. Terence Lynne, flashing the needles in her scarlet knitting, stared at him, and drew her thin brows together. Ursula Harme, arrested in the duelling mood she kept for Fabian, paused, her lips parted. Douglas dropped his newspaper and began his usual indignant expostulation: “What in heaven’s name are you talking about, Fab? Good Lord—!”
“Yes, Douglas my dear,” said Fabian, “we know how agitating you find your present condition of perpetual astonishment, but there it is. Up with the slats and down goes poor Mr. Alleyn.”
Douglas retired angrily behind his newspaper. “The whole thing’s a farce,” he muttered obscurely. “I always said so.” He crackled his paper. “Who’s going to do it?”
“If you’ll trust me,” said Alleyn, “I will.”
“I don’t envy you your job, sir.”
“The policeman’s lot,” Alleyn said lightly.
“I’ll tell the men to do it,” Douglas grunted ungraciously from behind his paper. He peeped round the corner of it at Alleyn. The solitary, rather prominent eye he displayed was reminiscent of Florence Rubrick’s in her portrait. “I’ll give you a hand, if you like,” he added.