“Thank you, Octavius,” Alleyn said, staring thoughtfully at him. “Thank you very much. And now I, too, must leave you. Good-night.”
As he went out he heard Octavius saying rather fretfully that he supposed he might as well go to bed.
A very grand car had drawn up outside Miss Bellamy’s house and Mr. Montague Marchant was climbing out of it. His blond head gleamed, his overcoat was impeccable and his face exceedingly pale.
“Wait,” he said to his chauffeur.
Alleyn introduced himself. The anticipated remark was punctually delivered.
“This is a terrible business,” said Mr. Marchant.
“Very bad,” Alleyn said. “Shall we go in?”
Fox was in the hall.
“I just don’t quite understand,” Marchant said, “why I’ve been sent for. Naturally, we — her management — want to give every assistance but at the same time…” He waved his pearly gloves.
Alleyn said, “It’s simple. There are one or two purely business matters to be settled and it looks as if you are our sole authority.”
“I should have thought…”
“Of course you would,” Alleyn rejoined. “But there is some need for immediate action. Miss Bellamy has been murdered.”
Marchant unsteadily passed his hand over the back of his head. “I don’t believe you,” he said.
“You may as well, because it happens to be true. Would you like to take your coat off? No? Then, shall we go in?”
Fox said, “We’ve moved into the drawing-room, sir, it being more comfortable. The doctor is with Mr. Templeton but will be coming in later.”
“Where’s Florence?”
“She helped Mrs. Plumtree with the bed-making and they’re both waiting in the boudoir in case required.”
“Right. In here, if you will, Mr. Marchant. I’ll just have a look at the patient and then I’ll join you.”
He opened the door. After a moment’s hesitation, Marchant went through and Fox followed him.
Alleyn went to the study, tapped on the door and went in.
Charles was in bed, looking very drawn and anxious. Dr. Harkness sat in a chair at a little distance, watching him. When he saw Alleyn he said, “We can’t have any further upsets.”
“I know,” Alleyn rejoined and walked over to the bed. “I’ve only come in to inquire,” he said.
Charles whispered, “I’m sorry about this. I’m all right. I could have carried on.”
“There’s no need. We can manage.”
“There you are, Charles,” Harkness said. “Stop fussing.”
“But I want to know, Harkness! How can I stop fussing! My God, what a thing to say! I want to know what they’re thinking and saying. I’ve a right to know. Alleyn, for God’s sake tell me. You don’t suspect — anyone close to her, do you? I can stand anything but that. Not — not the boy?”
“As things stand,” Alleyn said, “there’s no case against him.”
“Ah!” Charles sighed and closed his eyes. “Thank God for that.” He moved restlessly and his breath came short. “It’s all these allusions and hints and evasions…” he began excitedly. “Why can’t I be told things! Why not? Do you suspect me! Do you? Then for Christ’s sake let’s have it and be done with it.”
Harkness came over to the bed. “This won’t do at all,” he said and to Alleyn, “Out.”
“Yes, of course,” Alleyn said and went out. He heard Charles panting, “But I want to talk to him,” and Harkness trying to reassure him.
When Marchant went into the drawing-room Timon Gantry, Colonel Warrender, Pinky Cavendish and Bertie Saracen were sitting disconsolately in armchairs before a freshly tended fire. Richard and Anelida were together at some remove from the others and P.C. Philpott attended discreetly in the background. When Marchant came in, Pinky and Bertie made a little dash at him and Richard stood up. Marchant kissed Pinky with ritual solemnity, squeezed Bertie’s arm, nodded at Gantry, and advanced upon Richard with soft extended hand.
“Dear boy!” he said. “What can one say! Oh my dear Dicky!”
Richard appeared, to permit, rather than return, a long pressure of his hand. Marchant added a manly grip of his shoulder and moved on to acknowledge, more briefly, Anelida and Colonel Warrender. His prestige was unmistakable. He said any number of highly appropriate things. They listened to him dolefully and appeared to be relieved when at last Alleyn came in.
Alleyn said, “Before going any further, Mr. Marchant, I think I should make it quite clear that any questions I may put to you will be raised with the sole object of clearing innocent persons of suspicion and of helping towards the solution of an undoubted case of homicide. Mary Bellamy has been murdered; I believe by someone who is now in this house. You will understand that matters of personal consideration or professional reticence can’t be allowed to obstruct an investigation of this sort. Any attempt to withhold information may have disastrous results. On the other hand information that turns out to be irrelevant, as yours, of course, may, will be entirely wiped out. Is that understood?”
Gantry said, “In my opinion, Monty, we should take legal advice.”
Marchant looked thoughtfully at him.
“You are at liberty to do so,” Alleyn said. “You are also at liberty to refuse to answer to any or all questions until the arrival of your solicitor. Suppose you hear the questions and then decide.”
Marchant examined his hands, lifted his gaze to Alleyn’s face and said, “What are they?”
There was a restless movement among the others.
“First. What exactly was Mrs. Templeton’s, or perhaps in this connection I should say Miss Bellamy’s, position in the firm of Marchant & Company?”
Marchant raised his eyebrows. “A leading and distinguished artist who played exclusively for our management.”
“Any business connection other than that?”
“Certainly,” he said at once. “She had a controlling interest.”
“Monty!” Bertie cried out.
“Dear boy, an examination of our shareholders list would give it.”
“Has she held this position for some time?”
“Since 1956. Before that it was vested in her husband, but he transferred his holdings to her in that year.”
“I had no idea he had financial interests in the theatre world.”
“These were his only ones, I believe. After the war we were in considerable difficulties. Like many other managements we were threatened with a complete collapse. You may say that he saved us.”
“In taking this action was he influenced by his wife’s connections with the Management?”
“She brought the thing to his notice, but fundamentally I should say he believed in the prospect of our recovery and expansion. In the event he proved to be fully justified.”
“Why did he transfer his share to her, do you know?”
“I don’t know, but I can conjecture. His health is precarious. He’s — he was — a devoted husband. He may have been thinking of death duties.”
“Yes, I see.”
Marchant said, “It’s so warm in here,” and unbuttoned his overcoat. Fox helped him out of it. He sat down, very elegantly and crossed his legs. The others watched him anxiously.
The door opened and Dr. Harkness came in. He nodded at Alleyn and said, “Better, but he’s had as much as he can take.”
“Anyone with him?”
“The old nurse. He’ll settle down now. No more visits, mind.”