Their path took a right turn through the bush and came out beyond the garden seat. On the gravel walk in front of the house stood Maria with her arms folded, a black shawl over her head, staring up at the helicopter, now close overhead and deafening.
“Good morning, Maria,” Alleyn shouted, cheerfully. “Here are the police.”
She glowered.
“I have been meaning to speak to you: when they have completed their examination, I think you’ll be permitted to perform your office. I shall recommend that you are.”
She stared balefully at him from under her heavy brows. Her lips formed a soundless acknowledgment: “Grazie tante.”
Hanley came running out of the house, pulling on a jacket over his sweater.
“Oh, hul-lo, Mr. Alleyn,” he cried. “Thank goodness. I’m the Official Welcome. The Boss Man told me to collect you and here you are. Ben’ troveto, if that’s what they say. You will come, won’t you? I thought he ought to be there in person but no, he’s receiving them in the library. You haven’t seen the library have you, Mrs. Alleyn? My dear, smothered in synthetic leather. Look! That contraption’s alighting! Do let us hurry.”
Troy went up the front steps to the house. Signor Lattienzo was there, having apparently stepped out of the entrance. Alleyn saw him greet her with his usual exuberance. She waved.
“Mr. Alleyn, please!” cried the distracted Hanley and led the way at a canter.
They arrived at the clearing as the helicopter landed and were raked with the unnatural gale from its propeller. Hanley let out an exasperated screech and clutched his blond hair. The engine stopped.
In the silence that followed, Alleyn felt as if he was involved in some Stoppard-like time slip and was back suddenly in the middle of a routine job. The three men who climbed out of the helicopter wore so unmistakably the marks of their calling, townish suits on large heavily muscled bodies, felt hats, sober shirts and ties. Sharp eyes and an indescribable air of taking over. Their equipment was handed down: cases and a camera. The fourth man who followed was slight, tweedy, and preoccupied. He carried a professional bag. Police surgeon, thought Alleyn.
The largest of the men advanced to Alleyn.
“Chief Superintendent Alleyn?” the large man said. “Hazelmere. Very glad indeed to see you, sir. Meet Dr. Winslow. Detective Sergeant Franks, Detective Sergeant Barker.”
Alleyn shook hands. The police all had enormous hands and excruciating grips and prolonged the ceremony with great warmth.
“I understand you’ve had a spot of bother,” said Inspector Hazelmere.
“If I may butt in,” Hanley said anxiously. “Inspector, Mr. Reece hopes—” and he delivered his invitation to the library.
“Very kind, I’m sure,” acknowledged Hazelmere. “You’ll be his secretary, sir? Mr. Hanley? Is that correct? Well now, if it’s all the same to Mr. Reece, I think it might be best if we took a look at the scene of the fatality. And if the Chief Superintendent would be kind enough to accompany us, he can put us in the picture, which will save a lot of time and trouble when we see Mr. Reece.”
“Oh,” said Hanley. “Oh, yes. I see. Well”—he threw a troubled glance at Alleyn—“if Mr. Alleyn will—”
“Yes, of course,” said Alleyn.
“Yes. Well, I’ll just convey your message to Mr. Reece. I’m sure he’ll understand,” said Hanley uneasily.
“I suggest,” said Alleyn, “that you might ask Dr. Carmichael to join us. I’m sure Dr. Winslow would be glad to see him.”
“Are you? Yes. Of course.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Hanley,” said Hazelmere, blandly dismissive.
Hanley hesitated for a second or two, said, “Yes, well—” again, and set off for the house.
Alleyn said: “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you. You’ll understand what a tricky position I’ve been in. No official authority but expected to behave like everybody’s idea of an infallible sleuth.”
“Is that a fact, sir?” said Mr. Hazelmere. He then paid Alleyn some rather toneless compliments, fetching up with the remark that he knew nothing beyond the information conveyed by Les, the launch man, over a storm-battered telephone line, that a lady had been, as he put it, made away with and could they now view the remains and would Alleyn be kind enough to put them in the picture.
So Alleyn led them into the house and up to the first landing. He was careful, with suitable encomiums, to introduce Bert, who was laconic and removed his two armchairs from their barrier-like position before the door. Dr. Carmichael arrived and was presented, Alleyn unlocked the door, and they all went into the room.
Back to square one. Blades of cool air slicing in through the narrowly opened windows, the sense of damp curtains, dust, stale scent, and a pervasive warning of mortality, shockingly emphasized when Alleyn and Dr. Carmichael drew away the black satin sheet.
Hazelmere made an involuntary exclamation, which he converted into a clearance of the throat. Nobody spoke or moved and then Detective Sergeant Franks whispered, “Christ!” It sounded more like a prayer than an oath.
“What was the name?” Hazelmere asked.
“Of course,” Alleyn said, “you don’t know, do you?”
“The line was bad. I missed a lot of what the chap was saying.”
“He didn’t know either. We communicated by various forms of semaphore.”
“Is that a fact? Fancy!”
“She was a celebrated singer. In the world class. The tops, in fact.”
“Not,” exclaimed Dr. Winslow, “Isabella Sommita? It can’t be!”
“It is, you know,” said Dr. Carmichael.
“You better have a look, doc,” Hazelmere suggested.
“Yes. Of course.”
“If you’re thinking of moving her, we’ll just let Sergeant Barker and Sergeant Franks in first, doc,” said Hazelmere. “For photos and dabs.”
Alleyn explained that he had used his own professional camera and had improvised fingerprinting tactics. “I thought it might be as well to do this in case of postmortem changes. Dr. Carmichael and I disturbed nothing and didn’t touch her. I daresay the results won’t be too hot and I think you’d better not depend on them. While they’re doing their stuff,” he said to Hazelmere, “would you like to get the picture?”
“Too right I would,” said the Inspector and out came his notebook.
And so to the familiar accompaniment of clicks and flashes, Alleyn embarked on an orderly and exhaustive report, event after event as they fell out over the past three days, including the Strix-Marco element, the puzzle of the keys, and the outcome of the opera. He gave a list of the inmates and guests in the Lodge. He spoke with great clarity and care, without hesitation or repetition. Hazelmere paused, once, and looked up at him.
“Am I going too fast?” Alleyn asked.
“It’s not that, sir,” Hazelmere said. “It’s the way you give it out. Beautiful!”
Succinct though it was, the account had taken some time. Franks and Barker had finished. They and the two doctors who had covered the body and retired to the far end of the room to consult, now collected round Alleyn, listening.
When he had finished he said: “I’ve made a file covering all this stuff and a certain amount of backgrounds — past history and so on. You might like to see it. I’ll fetch it, shall I?”
When he had gone Dr. Winslow said: “Remarkable.”
“Isn’t it?” said Dr. Carmichael with a slightly proprietory air.
“You’ll never hear better,” Inspector Hazelmere pronounced. He addressed himself to the doctors. “What’s the story, then, gentlemen?”