“All right, all right. He must have passed more or less under Artie’s nose.”
“Within spitting range,” Fox agreed.
“Come on.”
Alleyn led the way back into Long Lane and to the lych-gate at the foot of the church steps. He pushed it open and it squeaked.
“I wonder,” Alleyn said, “how many people have walked up those steps since nine o’clock last night. The whole funeral procession.”
“That’s right,” said Fox gloomily.
“Coffin bearers, mourners. Me. After that, tidy-uppers, and the Vicar, one supposes.”
He stooped down, knelt, peered. “Yes, I think so,” he said. “On the damp earth the near side of the gate and well to the left. In the shelter of the lych, if that’s the way to put it. Very faint but I fancy they’re our old friends the crepe-soled shoes. Take a look.”
Fox did so. “Yes,” he said. “By gum, I think so.”
“More work for Bill Bailey and until he gets here the local copper can undisguise himself and take another turn at masterly inactivity. So far it’s one up to Artie.”
“Not a chance of anything on the steps.”
“I’m afraid, not a chance. Still — up we go.”
They climbed the steps, slowly and searchingly. Inside the church the organ suddenly blared and infant voices shrilled.
Through the night of doubt and sorrow—
“Choir practice,” said Alleyn. “Damn. Not an inappropriate choice, though, when you come to think of it.”
The steps into the porch showed signs of the afternoon’s traffic. Alleyn took a look inside. The Vicar’s wife was seated at the organ with five litle girls and two little boys clustered round her. When she saw Alleyn her jaw dropped in the middle of “Onward.” He made a pacifying signal and withdrew. He and Fox walked round the church to Sybil Foster’s grave.
Bruce and Artie had taken trouble over finishing their job. The flowers — Bruce would certainly call them “floral tributes”—no longer lined the path but had been laid in meticulous order on the mound which they completely covered, stalks down, blossoms pointing up, in receding size. The cellophane covers on the professional offerings glistened in the sun and looked, Alleyn thought, awful. On the top, as a sort of baleful bon-bouche, was the great sheaf of red roses and carnations “From B.S.”
“It’s quite hopeless,” Alleyn said. “There must have been thirty or more people tramping round the place. If ever his prints were here they’ve been trodden out. We’d better take a look but we won’t find.”
Nor did they.
“Not to be fanciful,” Fox said. “As far as the foosteps go it’s like coming to the end of a trail. Room with the point marked X, gardener’s shed, broom recess, lych-gate and — nothing. It would have been appropriate, you might say, if they’d finished up for keeps at the graveside.”
Alleyn didn’t answer for a second or two.
“You do,” he then said, “get the oddest flights of fancy. It would, in a macabre sort of way, have been dramatically satisfactory.”
“If he did her, that is.”
“Ah. If.”
“Well,” said Fox, “it looks pretty good to me. How else do you explain the ruddy prints? He lets on he’s an electrician, he takes up the lilies, he hides in the recess and when the coast’s clear he slips in and does her. Motive: the cash: a lot of it. You can’t explain it any other way.”
“Can’t you?”
“Well, can you?”
“We mentioned his record, didn’t we? Blackmail. Shouldn’t we perhaps bestow a passing thought on that?”
“Here! Wait a bit — wait a bit,” said Fox, startled. He became broody and remained so all the way to Greater Quintern.
They drove to the police station where Alleyn had established his headquarters and been given a sort of mini-office next door to the charge room. It had a table, three chairs, writing material and a telephone, which was all he expected to be given, and suited him very well.
The sergeant behind the counter in the front office was on the telephone when they came in. When he saw Alleyn he raised his hand.
“Just a minute, Madam,” he said. “The Chief Superintendent has come in. Will you hold on, please?” He put his enormous hand over the receiver. “It’s a lady asking for you, sir. She seems to be upset. Shall I take the name?”
“Do.”
“What name was it, Madam? Yes, Madam, he is here. What name shall I say? Thank you. Hold the line please,” said the sergeant, restopping the receiver. “It’s a Sister Jackson, sir. She says it’s very urgent.”
Alleyn gave a long whistle, pulled a face at Fox and said he’d take the call in his room.
Sister Jackson’s voice, when it came through, was an extraordinary mixture of refinement and what sounded like sheer terror. She whispered, and her whisper was of the piercing kind. She gasped, she faded out altogether and came back with a rush. She apologized for being silly and said she didn’t know what he would think of her. Finally she breathed heavily into the receiver, said she was “in shock” and wanted to see him. She could not elaborate over the telephone.
Alleyn, thoughtfully contemplating Mr. Fox, said he would come to Greengages, upon which she gave an instantly muffled shriek and said no, no that would never do and that she had the evening off and would meet him in the bar-parlour of the Iron Duke on the outskirts of Maidstone. “It’s quite nice, really,” she quavered.
“Certainly,” Alleyn said. “What time?”
“About nayne?”
“Nine let it be. Cheer up, Sister. You don’t feel like giving me an inkling as to what it’s all about?”
When she answered she had evidently put her mouth inside the receiver.
“Blackmail,” she articulated and his eardrum tingled.
Approaching voices were to be heard. Sister Jackson came through from a normal distance. “O.K.” she cried. “That’ll be fantastic, cheery-bye” and hung up.
“Blackmail,”‘ Alleyn said to Fox. “We’ve only got to mention it and up it rises.”
“Well!” said Fox, “fancy that! Would it be going too far to mention Claude?”
“Who can tell? But at least it’s suggestive. I’ll leave you to get things laid up in the village. Where are Bailey and Thompson, by the way?”
“Doing the fireplace and the toolshed. They’re to ring back here before leaving.”
“Right. Get the local copper to keep an eye on the lych-gate until B and T arrive. Having dealt with that and just to show zealous they may then go over the churchyard area and see if they can find a trace we’ve missed. And having turned them on, Fox, check the progress, if any, of the search for Claude Carter. Oh, and see if you can get a check on the London train from Great Quintern at eleven-five last night. I think that’s the lot.”
“You don’t require me?”
“No. La belle Jackson is clearly not in the mood. Sickening for you.”
“We’ll meet at our pub, then?”
“Yes.”
“I shan’t wait up,” said Fox.
“Don’t dream of it.”
“In the meantime I’ll stroll down to the station hoping for better luck than I had with the Greengages bus.”
“Do. I’ll bring my file up to date.”
“Were you thinking of taking dinner?”
“I was thinking of taking worm-coloured fish in pink sauce and athletic fowl at our own pub. Do join me.”
“Thanks. That’s all settled, then,” said Fox comfortably and took himself oft.
v
There were only seven customers in the bar-parlour of the Iron Duke when Alleyn walked in at a quarter to nine: an amorous couple at a corner table and five city-dressed men playing poker.