“Yes, about her,” Baradi began crisply. “I’m sorry it happened as it did. I can assure you that it would have made no difference if there had been a hospital with an entire corps of trained nurses and surgeons. And certainly, may I add, she could not have had a more efficient anaesthetist. But, as you know, peritonitis was greatly advanced. Her condition steadily deteriorated. The heart, by the way, was not in good trim. Valvular trouble. She died at 4:28 yesterday afternoon without recovering consciousness. We found her address in her passport. I have made a report which I shall send to the suitable authorities in the Bermudas. Her effects, of course, will be returned to her home there. I understand there are no near relatives. I have completed the necessary formalities here. I should have preferred, under the circumstances, to have asked a brother medico to look at her, but it appears they are all in conclave at St. Christophe.”
“I expect I should write to — well, to somebody.”
“By all means. Enclose a letter with my report. The authorities in the Bermudas will see that it reaches the lawyer or whoever is in charge of her affairs.”
“I think perhaps — one has a feeling of responsibility — I think perhaps I should see her.”
There was an infinitesimal pause.
“Of course,” Baradi said. “If you wish, of course, I must warn you that the climatic conditions and those of her illness and death have considerably accelerated the usual postmortem changes.”
“We have done what we could,” Mr. Oberon said. “Tuberoses and orchids.”
“How very kind. If it’s not troubling you too much.”
There was a further slight pause. Baradi said: “Of course,” again and clapped his hands. “No electricity,” he explained. “So provoking.” The servant reappeared, carrying a single candle. Baradi spoke.to him in their own language and took the candle from him. “I’ll go with you,” he said. “We have moved her into a room outside the main part of the Château. It is quite suitable and cooler.”
With this grisly little announcement he led Alleyn down the now familiar corridor past the operating room and into a much narrower side-passage that ended in a flight of descending steps and a door. This, in turn, opened on a further reach of the outside passageway. The night air smelled freshly after the incense-tainted house. They turned left and walked a short distance down the uneven steps. Alleyn thought that they could not be far from the servants’ entrance.
Baradi stopped at a deeply recessed doorway and asked Alleyn to hold the candle. Alleyn produced his torch and switched it on. It shone into Baradi's face.
“Ah!” he said blinking, “that will be better. Thank you.” He set down the candle. It flickered and guttered in the draught. He thrust his hand under his gown and produced a heavily furnished key-ring that might have hung from the girdle of a medieval gaoler. Alleyn turned his light on it and Baradi selected a great key with a wrought-iron loop. He stopped to fit it in a key-hole placed low in the door. His wide sleeves drooped from his arms, his hood fell over his face, and his shadow, grotesque and distorted, sprawled down the steps beyond him.
“If you would lend me your torch,” he said. “It is a little awkward, this lock."
Alleyn gave him his torch. The shadow darted across the passage and reared itself up the opposite wall. After some fumbling, the key was engaged and noisily turned. Baradi shoved at the door and with a grind of its hinges it opened suddenly inwards and he fell forward with it, dropping the torch, nose first, on the stone threshold. There was a tinkle of glass and they were left with with the guttering candle.
“Ah, sacré nom d’un chien!” Baradi ejaculated. “My dear Mr. Allen, what have I done!”
Alleyn said: “Be careful of the broken glass.”
“I am wearing sandals. But how careless! I am so sorry.”
“Never mind. The passage seems to be unlucky for us this evening. Let’s hope there’s not a third mishap. Don’t give it another thought. Shall we go in?” Alleyn laid down his walking-stick and took up the candle and the broken torch. They went in, Baradi shutting the door with a heave and a weighty slam.
It seemed to be a small room with whitewashed stone walls and a shuttered window. Candlelight wavered over a bank of flowers. A coffin stood in the middle on trestles. The mingled odours of death and tuberoses were horrible.
“I hope you are not over-sensitive,” Baradi said. “We have done our best. Mr. Oberon was most particular, but — well — as you see—”
Alleyn saw. The lid of the coffin had been left far enough withdrawn to expose the head of its inhabitant, which was literally bedded in orchids. A white veil of coarse net lay over the face, but it did little to soften the inexorable indignities of death.
“The teeth,” said Baradi, “make a difference, don’t they?”
Looking at them Alleyn was reminded of Teresa’s generality to the effect that all English spinsters have teeth like mares. This lonely spinster’s dentist had evidently subscribed to Teresa’s opinion and Alleyn saw the other stigmata of her kind: the small mole, the lines and pouches, the pathetic tufts of grey hair from which the skin had receded.
He backed away. “I thought it better to see her,” he said, and his voice was constrained and thin. “In case there should be any question of identification.”
“Much better. Are you all right? For the layman it is not a pleasant experience.”
Alleyn said: “I find it quite appalling. Shall we go? I’m afraid I—” His voice faded. He turned away with a violent movement and at the same time jerked his handkerchief. It flapped across the candle flame and extinguished it.
In the malodorous dark Baradi cursed unintelligibly. Alleyn gabbled: “The door, for God’s sake, where is the door? I’m going to be sick.” He lurched against Baradi and sent him staggering to the far end of the room. He drop-kicked the candlestick in the opposite direction. His hands were on the coffin. His left hand discovered the edge of the lid, slid under it, explored a soft material, a tight band and the surface beneath. His fingers, inquisitive and thrusting, found what they sought.
“I can’t stand this!” he choked out. “The door!”
Baradi was now swearing in French. “Idiot!” he was saying. “Maladroit, imbécile!”
Alleyn made retching noises. He found his way unerringly to the door and dragged it open. A pale lessening of the dark was admitted. He staggered out into the passage-way and rested against the stone wall. Baradi came after him and dragged the door shut. Alleyn heard him turn the key in the lock.
“That was not an amusing interlude,” Baradi said. “I warned you it would not be pleasant.”
Alleyn had his handkerchief pressed to his mouth. He said indistinctly: “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize — I’ll be all right.”
“Of course you will,” Baradi snapped at him. “So shall I when my bruises wear off.”
“Please don’t let me keep you. Fresh air. I’ll go back to the car. Thank you: I’m sorry.”
Apparently Baradi had regained his temper. He said: “It is undoubtedly the best thing you can do. I recommend a hot bath, a stiff drink, two aspirins and bed. If you’re sure you’re all right and can find your way back—”
“Yes, yes. It’s passing off.”
“Then if you will excuse me. I am already late. Good night, Mr. Alleyn.”
Alleyn, over his handkerchief, watched Baradi return up the steps, open the side-door and disappear into the house. He waited for some minutes, accustoming his eyes to the night.
“Somehow,” he thought, “I must get a wash,” and he wiped his left hand vigorously on his handkerchief which he then threw into the shadows.