“I feel impelled to say that my answer is no I can not think of anyone. I believe that this is a crime of passion and impulse and not a coldly calculated affair. The outrageous grotesquerie, the use of the photograph and of her own weapon — everything points to some — I feel inclined to say Strindbergian love-hatred of lunatic force. Strix or not, I believe you are looking for a madman, Mr. Alleyn.”
iv
After that the interview began to languish and Alleyn sensed the unlikelihood of anything to the point emerging from it. He suggested that they go to bed.
“I am going to the studio,” he said. “I shall be there for the next half-hour or so and if anything crops up, however slight, that seems to be of interest, I would be glad if you would report to me there. I do remind you all,” he said, “that what I am trying to do is a sort of caretaker’s job for the police: to see, if possible, that nothing is done inadvertently or with intention, to muddle the case for them before they arrive. Even if it were proper for me to attempt a routine police investigation, it wouldn’t be possible to do so singlehanded. Is that clear?”
They muttered weary assents and got to their feet.
“Good night,” said Dr. Carmichael. It was the second and last time he had spoken.
He followed Alleyn into the hall and up the stairs.
When they reached the first landing they found that Bert had put two chairs together face-to-face, hard against the door to the Sommita’s room, and was lying very comfortably on this improvised couch, gently snoring.
“I’m along there,” said Dr. Carmichael, pointing to the left-hand passage.
“Unless you’re asleep on your feet,” said Alleyn, “will you come into the studio, for a moment or two? No need, if you can’t bear the thought.”
“I’m well trained to eccentric hours.”
“Good.”
They crossed the landing and went into the studio. The great empty canvas still stood on its easel but Troy had put away her drawings. Alleyn’s dispatch case had been removed from their bedroom and placed conspicuously on the model’s throne with a flashlight on top of it. Good for Troy, he thought.
Yesterday, sometime after Troy had been settled in the studio, a supply of drinks had been brought in and stored in a wallside unit. Alleyn wondered if this was common practice at the Lodge wherever a room was inhabited.
He said: “I didn’t have a drink down there: could you do with another?”
“I believe I could. A small one, though.”
They had their drinks and lit their pipes. “I haven’t dared do this before,” said the doctor.
“Nor I,” said Alleyn. He performed what had now become a routine exercise and drew back the curtains. The voice of the wind, which he was always to remember as a kind of leitmotiv to the action, invaded their room. The windowpane was no longer masked with water but was a black nothing with vague suggestions of violence beyond. When he leaned forward his ghost-face, cadaverous with shadows, moved toward him. He closed the curtains.
“It’s not raining,” he said, “but blowing great guns.”
“What’s called ‘blowing itself out,’ perhaps?”
“Hope so. But that doesn’t mean the lake will automatically go calmer.”
“Unfortunately no. Everything else apart, it’s bloody inconvenient,” said the doctor. “I’ve got a medical conference opening in Auckland tomorrow. Eru Johnstone said he’d ring them up. I hope he remembers.”
“Why did you stay?”
“Not from choice. I’m a travel-sickness subject. Ten minutes in that launch topped up by mile after mile in a closed bus would have been absolute hell for me and everyone else. Reece was insistent that I should stay. He wanted me to take on the Great Lady as a patient. Some notion that she was heading for a nervous crisis, it seemed.”
“One would have thought it was a chronic condition,” said Alleyn. “All the same I got the impression that even when she peaked, temperamentally speaking, she never went completely over the top. I’d risk a guess that she always knew jolly well what she was up to. Perhaps with one exception.”
“That wretched boy?”
“Exactly.”
“You’d say she’d gone overboard for him?” asked the doctor.
“I certainly got that impression,” Alleyn said.
“So did I, I must say. In Sydney—”
“You’d met them before?” Alleyn exclaimed. “In Sydney?”
“Oh yes. I went over there for her season. Marvelous it was, too. I was asked to meet her at a dinner party and then to a supper Reece gave after the performance. He — they — were hospitable and kind to me for the rest of the season. Young Bartholomew was very much in evidence and she made no bones about it. I got the impression that she was — I feel inclined to say ‘savagely’ devoted.”
“And he?”
“Oh, besotted and completely out of his depth.”
“And Reece?”
“If he objected he didn’t show it. I think his might be a case of collector’s satisfaction. You know? He’d acquired the biggest star in the firmament.”
“And was satisfied with the fait accompli? So ‘that was that’?”
“Quite. He may even have been a bit sick of her tantrums, though I must say he gave no sign of it.”
“No.”
“By the way, Alleyn, I suppose it’s occurred to you that I’m a candidate for your list of suspects.”
“In common with everyone else in the house. Oh, yes, but you don’t come very high on the list. Of course, I didn’t know you’d had a previous acquaintance with her,” Alleyn said coolly.
“Well, I must say!” Dr. Carmichael exclaimed.
“I felt I really needed somebody I could call upon. You and Bert seemed my safest bets. Having had, as I then supposed, no previous connection with her and no conceivable motive.”
Dr. Carmichael looked fixedly at him. Alleyn pulled a long face.
“I am a lowland Scot,” said the doctor, “and consequently a bit heavy-handed when it comes to jokes.”
“I’ll tell you when I mean to be funny.”
“Thank you.”
“Although, God knows, there’s not much joky material going in this business.”
“No, indeed.”
“I suppose,” said Dr. Carmichael after a companionable silence, “that you’ve noticed my tact? Another lowland Scottish characteristic is commonly thought to be curiosity.”
“So I’ve always understood. Yes. I noticed. You didn’t ask me if I know who dunnit.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“Do you hae your suspeesions?”
“Yes. You’re allowed one more.”
“Am I? What shall I choose? Do you think the photographer — Strix — is on the Island?”
“Yes.”
“And took — that photograph?”
“You’ve exceeded your allowance. But, yes. Of course. Who else?” said Alleyn.
“And murdered Isabella Sommita?”
“No.”
And after that they wished each other good night. It was now thirteen minutes past one in the morning.
When Dr. Carmichael had gone Alleyn opened a note that lay on top of his dispatch case, took out an all too familiar file and settled down to read it for the seventh time.
Isabella Pepitone, known as Isabella Sommita. Born:?1944, reputedly in Palermo, Sicily. Family subsequently settled in U.S.A. Father: Alfredo Pepitone, successful businessman U.S.A., suspected of Mafia activities but never arrested. Suspect in Rossi homicide case 1965. Victim: Bianca Rossi, female. Pepitone subsequently killed in car accident. Homicide suspected. No arrest.