“That’s odd, Fox,” he said.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Alleyn?”
“I can’t get the soft pedal to budge. You try. Don’t force it.”
Fox seated himself at the piano and picked out “Three Blind Mice,” with a stubby forefinger.
“That’s right,” he said. “It makes no difference.”
“What’s all this?” demanded Nigel, and bustled forward.
“The soft pedal doesn’t work.”
“Good Lord!”
“It makes no difference to the sound,” said Fox.
“You’re not using it.”
“Yes, I am, Mr. Bathgate,” lied Fox.
“Here,” said Nigel, “let me try.”
Fox got up. Nigel took his place with an air of importance.
“Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C — Minor,” he said. He squared his elbows, raised his left hand and leant forward. The voice of the wind mounted in a thin wail and seemed to encircle the building. Down came Nigel’s left hand like a sledge-hammer.
“Pom. Pom. POM!”
Nigel paused. A violent gust shook the shutters so impatiently that, for a second, he raised his head and listened. Then he trod on the soft pedal.
The newspaper fell forward on his hands. The thin jet of water caught him between the eyes like a cold bullet. He jerked backwards, uttered a scandalous oath, and nearly lost his balance.
“It does work.” said Alleyn.
But Nigel did not retaliate. Above all the uneasy clamour of the storm, and like an echo of the three pretentious chords, sounded a loud triple knock on the front door.
“Who the devil’s that?” said Alleyn.
He started forward, but before he could reach the door it crashed open, and on the threshold stood Henry Jernigham with streaks of rain lacing his chalk-white face.
ii
“What the hell’s happening in here?” demanded Henry.
“Suppose you shut the door,” said Alleyn.
But Henry stared at him as if he had not heard. Alleyn walked past him, slammed the door, and secured the catch. Then he returned to Henry, took him by the elbow, and marched him up the hall.
Fox waited stolidly. Nigel wiped his face with his handkerchief and stared at Henry.
“Now what is it?” demanded Alleyn.
“My God!” said Henry, “who played those three infernal chords?”
“Mr. Bathgate. This is Mr. Bathgate, Mr. Jernigham, and this is Detective-Inspector Fox.” Henry looked dimly at the other two and sat down suddenly.
“Oh, Lord,” he said.
“I say,” said Nigel. “I’m most extraordinarily sorry if I gave you a shock, but I assure you I never thought — ”
“I’d come into the lane,” said Henry, breathlessly, “the rectory trees were making such a noise in the wind that you couldn’t hear anything else.”
“Yes?” said Alleyn.
“Don’t you see? I’d come up the path and just as I reached the door a great gust of wind and rain came screeching round the building like the souls of the damned. And then, when it dropped, those three chords on a cracked piano! My God, I tell you I nearly bolted.”
Henry put his hand to his face and then looked at his fingers.
“I don’t know whether it’s sweat or rain,” he said, “and that’s a fact. Sorry! Not the behaviour of a pukka sahib. No, by Gad, sir. Blimp wouldn’t think anything of it.”
“I can imagine it was rather trying,” said Alleyn. “What were you doing there, anyway?”
“Going home. I stayed on to supper at the rectory. Only just left. Mr. Copeland’s in such a hoo that he’s forgotten all about choking me off. When I occurred at cold supper he noticed me no more than the High Church blanc-mange. I say, sir, I am sorry I made such an ass of myself. Honestly! How I could!”
“That’s all right,” said Alleyn. “But why did you turn in here?”
“I thought if that splendid fellow Roper held the dog-watch, I might say, ‘Stand ho! What hath this thing appeared?’ and get a bit of gossip out of him.”
“I see.”
“Have a cigarette?” said Nigel.
“Oh, thank you. I’d better take myself off.”
“Would you like to wait and see a slight experiment?” asked Alleyn.
“Very much indeed, sir, if I may.”
“Before we begin, there’s just one thing I’d like to say to you, as you are here. I shall call on Miss Prentice to-morrow and I shall use every means within the law to get her to tell me what took place on that encounter in Top Lane on Friday. I don’t know whether you’d rather give me your version first.”
“I’ve told you already, she’s dotty,” said Henry with nervous impatience. “It’s my belief she is actually and literally out of her senses. She looks like death and she won’t leave her room except for meals, and then she doesn’t eat anything. She said at dinner to-night that she’s in danger, and that in the end she’ll be murdered. It’s simply ghastly. God knows whom she suspects, but she suspects somebody, and she’s half dead with fright. What sort of sense will you get out of a woman like that?”
“Why not give us a sane version first?”
“But it’s nothing to do with the case,” said Henry, “and if you feel like saying ‘tra-la,’ I’d be grateful if you’d restrain yourselves.”
“If it turns out to be irrelevant,” said Alleyn, “it shall be treated as such. We don’t use irrelevant statements.”
“Then why ask for them?”
“We like to do the winnowing ourselves.”
“Nothing happened in Top Lane.”
“You mean Miss Prentice stood two feet away from you both, stared into your face until her heels sank an inch into the ground, and then walked away without uttering a word?”
“It was private business. It was altogether our affair.”
“You know,” said Alleyn, “that won’t do. This morning at Pen Cuckoo, and this afternoon at the rectory, frankness was the keynote of your conversation. You have said that you wouldn’t put it past Miss Prentice to do murder, and yet you boggle at repeating a single word that she uttered in Top Lane. It looks as though it’s not Miss Prentice whom you wish to protect.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hasn’t Miss Copeland insisted on your taking this stand because she’s nervous on your account? What were you going to call out to me this afternoon when she stopped you?”
“Well,” said Henry unexpectedly, “you’re quite right.”
“See here,” said Alleyn, “if you are innocent of murder, I promise you that you are not going the right way to make us think so. Remember that in a little place like this we are bound to hear of all the rifts and ructions and this thing only happened twenty-six hours ago. We’ve scarcely touched the fringe of local gossip, and already I know that Miss Prentice is opposed to your friendship with Miss Dinah Copeland. I know very well that to you police methods must seem odious and—”
“No, they don’t,” said Henry. “Of course, you’ve got to do it.”
“Very well, then.”
“I’ll tell you this much, and I dare say it’s no more than you’ve guessed: My Cousin Eleanor was thrown into a dither by finding us there together, and our conversation consisted of a series of hysterical threats and embarrassing accusations on her part.”
“And did you make no threats?”
“She’ll probably tell you I did,” said Henry; “but, as I have said six or eight times already, she’s mad. And I’m sorry, sir, but that’s all I can tell you.”
“All right,” said Alleyn with a sigh. “Let’s get to work, Fox.”
iii
They removed the water-pistol and set up the Colt in its place. Alleyn produced the “Prelude” from his case and put it on the rack. Henry saw the hole blown through the centre and the surrounding ugly stains. He turned away and then, as if he despised this involuntary revulsion, moved closer to the piano and watched Alleyn’s hands as they moved inside the top.