He took a sheet of blotting paper from the writing-table and handed it to Alleyn. It was a clean sheet with only four lines of writing. Alleyn held it up to an atrocious mirror and read:
“De S
K dly dn our presentative to ee me at our arliest on enience
ours faithfully ris C mp nula.”
“Going to alter her will,” said Nigel over Alleyn’s shoulder.
“Incubus!” said Alleyn. “Miserable parasite! I wouldn’t be surprised if you were right. Anything else, Fox?”
“Nothing else, sir. She seemed much as usual when she went down to the performance. She left here at seven. Not being wanted till the second act, she didn’t need to be so early.”
“And they know of nobody, beyond the lawyers, whom she should inform?”
“Nobody, Mr. Alleyn.”
“We’ll have some lunch and then visit the rectory. Come on.”
When they returned to the Jernigham Arms they found that the representative of the Chipping Courier had been all too zealous. A crowd of young men wearing flannel trousers and tweed coats greeted Nigel with a sort of wary and suspicious cordiality, and edged round Alleyn. He gave them a concise account of the piano and its internal arrangements, said nothing at all about the water-pistol, told them the murder appeared to be motiveless, and besought them not to follow him about wherever he went.
“It embarrasses me and it’s no use to you. I’ll see that you get photographs of the piano.”
“Who’s the owner of the Colt, chief inspector?” asked a pert young man wearing enormous glasses.
“It’s a local weapon, thought to have been stolen,” said Alleyn. “If there’s anything more from the police, gentlemen, you shall hear of it. You’ve got enough in the setting of the thing to do your screaming worst. Off you go and do it. Be little Pooh Bahs. No corroborative details required. The narrative is adequately unconvincing, and I understand, artistic verisimilitude is not your cup of tea.”
“Try us,” suggested the young man.
“Pas si bête,” said Alleyn, “I want my lunch.”
“When are you going to be married, Mr. Alleyn?”
“Whenever I get a chance. Good-morning to you.”
He left them to badger Nigel.
Alleyn and Fox finished their lunch in ten minutes, left the inn by the back door, and were off in Biggins’s car before Nigel had exhausted his flow of profanity. Alleyn left Fox in the village. He was to seek our Friendly Young People, garner more local gossip, and attend the post-mortem. Alleyn turned up the Vale Road, and in five minutes arrived at the rectory.
iv
Like most clerical households on Sunday, the rectory had a semi-public look about it. The front door was wide open. On a hall table Alleyn saw a neat stack of children’s hymn-books. A beretta lay beside them. In a room some way down the hall they heard a female voice.
“Very well, Mr. Copeland. Now the day is over.”
“I think so,” said the rector’s voice.
“Through the night of doubt and sorrow,” added the lady brightly.
“Do they like that?”
“Aw, they love it, Mr. Copeland.”
“Very well,” said the rector wearily. “Thank you, Miss Wright.”
A large village maiden came out into the hall. She gathered the hymn-books into a straw bag and bustled out, not neglecting to look pretty sharply at Alleyn.
Alleyn rang the bell again, and presently an elderly maid appeared.
“May I see Mr. Copeland?”
“I’ll just see, sir. What name, please?”
“Alleyn. I’m from Scotland Yard.”
“Oh! Oh, yes, sir. Will you come this way, please?”
He followed her through the hall. She opened a door and said:
“Please, sir, the police.”
He walked in.
Mr. Copeland looked as if he had sprung to his feet. At his side was the girl whom Alleyn had recognised as his daughter. They were indeed very much alike, and at this moment their faces spoke of the same mood: they looked startled and alarmed.
Mr. Copeland, in his long cassock, moved forward and shook hands.
“I’m so sorry to worry you like this, sir,” said Alleyn. “It’s the worst possible day to badger the clergy, I know; but, unfortunately, we can’t delay things.”
“No, no,” said the rector, “we are only too anxious. This is my daughter. I’m afraid I don’t — ”
“Alleyn, sir.”
“Oh, yes. Yes. Do sit down. Dinah, dear?”
“Please don’t go, Miss Copeland,” said Alleyn. “I hope you may be able to help us.”
Evidently they had been sitting with the village maiden in front of the open fireplace. The chairs, drawn up in a semi-circle, were comfortably shabby.
The fire, freshly mended with enormous logs, crackled companionably and lent warmth to the faded apple-green walls, the worn beams, the rector’s agreeable prints, and a pot of bronze chrysanthemums from the Pen Cuckoo glasshouses.
They sat down, Dinah primly in the centre chair, Alleyn and the rector on either side of her.
Something of Alleyn’s appreciation of this room may have appeared in his face. His hand went to his jacket pocket and was hurriedly withdrawn.
“Do smoke your pipe,” said Dinah quickly.
“That was very well observed,” said Alleyn. “I’m sure you will be able to help us. May I, really?”
“Please.”
“It’s very irregular,” said Alleyn; “but I think I might, you know.”
And as he lit his pipe he was visited by a strange thought. It came into his mind that he stood on the threshold of a new friendship, that he would return to this old room and again sit before the fire. He thought of the woman he loved, and it seemed to him that she would be there, too, at this future time, and that she would be happy. “An odd notion!” he thought, and dismissed it.
The rector was speaking: “—Terribly distressed. It is appalling to think that among the people one knows so well there should have been one heart that nursed such dreadful anger against a fellow-creature.”
“Yes,” said Alleyn. “The impulse to kill, I suppose, is dormant in most people; but when it finds expression we are so shockingly astonished. I have noticed that very often. The reaction after murder is nearly always one of profound astonishment.”
“To me,” said Dinah, “the most horrible thing about this business is the grotesque side of it. It’s like an appalling joke.”
“You’ve heard the way of it, then?”
“I don’t suppose there’s a soul within twenty miles who hasn’t,” said Dinah.
“Ah,” said Alleyn. “The industrious Roper.”
He lit his pipe and, looking over his thin hands at them, said, “Before I forget, did either of you put a box outside one of the hall windows late on Friday or some time on Saturday?”
“No.”
“No.”
“I see. It’s no matter.”
The rector said, “Perhaps I shouldn’t ask, but have you any idea at all of who—?”
“None,” said Alleyn. “At the moment, none. There are so many things to be cleared up before the case can begin to make a pattern. One of them concerns the key of the hall. Where was it on Friday?”
“On a nail between an outhouse and the main building,” said Dinah.
“I thought that was only on Saturday.”
“No. I left it there on Friday for the Friendly Circle members who worked in the lunch hour. They moved the furniture and swept up, and things. When they left at two o’clock they hung the key on the nail.”
“But Miss Campanula tried to get in at about half-past two and couldn’t.”
“I don’t think Miss Campanula knew about the key. I told the girls, and I think I said something about it at the dress rehearsal in case the others wanted to get in, but I’m pretty sure Miss Campanula had gone by then. We’ve never hung it there before.”