“Oh?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Afraid? What do you mean — afraid?”
“See for yourself.”
Alleyn gave Hilary the glass. Hilary stared at him and then knelt by the crumpled paper with its trophy. Alleyn moved the desk lamp to throw a stronger light on the area. Hilary bent his body as if he performed some oriental obeisance before the poker.
“Do you see?” Alleyn said. “It’s not what you supposed, is it? Look carefully. The deposit is sticky, isn’t it? There’s a fir needle stuck to it. And underneath — I think Mr. Wrayburn would rather you didn’t touch it — underneath, but just showing one end, there’s a gold-coloured thread. Do you see it?”
“I — yes. Yes, I think — yes —”
“Tell me,” Alleyn asked. “What colour was the Druid’s wig?”
“Now, I tell you what,” Alleyn said to his wife. “This thing has all the signs of becoming a top-ranking nuisance, and I’m damned if I’ll have you involved in it. You know what happened that other time you got stuck into a nuisance.”
“If you’re thinking of bundling me off to a pub in Downlow, I’ll jib.”
“What I’m thinking of is a quick return by both of us to London.”
“Before the local force gets any ideas about you?”
“Exactly.”
“You’re a bit late for that, darling, aren’t you? Where’s Mr. Wrayburn?”
“In the study, I imagine. I left Bill-Tasman contemplating his poker and I told him it’d be better if he saw the Super alone. He didn’t much like the idea, but there it is.”
“Poor Hilary!”
“I daresay. It’s a bit of an earthquake under his ivory tower, isn’t it?”
“Do you like him, Rory?”
Alleyn said, “I don’t know. I’m cross with him because he’s being silly but — yes, I suppose if we’d met under normal conditions I’d have quite liked him. Why?”
“He’s a strange one. When I was painting him I kept thinking of such incongruous things.”
“Such as?”
“Oh — fauns and camels and things.”
“Which does his portrait favour?”
“At first, the camel. But the faun has sort of intervened — I mean the Pan job, you know, not the sweet little deer.”
“So I supposed. If he’s a Pan-job I’ll bet he’s met his match in his intended nymph.”
“She went in, boots and all, after you, didn’t she?”
“If only,” Alleyn said, “I could detect one pinch, one soupçon, of the green-eyed monster in you, my dish, I’d crow like a bloody rooster.”
“We’d better finish changing. Hilary will be expecting us. Drinks at seven. You’re to meet Mr. Smith and the Fleas.”
“I can wait.”
There was a tap at the door.
“You won’t have to,” said Troy. “Come in.”
It was Nigel, all downcast eyes, to present Mr. Bill-Tasman’s compliments to Mr. Alleyn and he would be very glad if Mr. Alleyn would join him in the study.
“In five minutes,” Alleyn said, and when Nigel had gone: “Which was that?”
“The one that killed a sinful lady. Nigel.”
“I thought as much. Here I go.”
He performed one of the lightning changes to which Troy was pretty well accustomed, gave her a kiss, and went downstairs.
Superintendent Wrayburn was a sandy man; big, of course, but on the bonier side. He was principally remarkable for his eyebrows, which resembled those of a Scotch terrier, and his complexion which, in midwinter, was still freckled like a plover’s egg.
Alleyn found him closeted with Hilary in the study. The poker, rewrapped, lay on the desk. Before Hilary was a glass of sherry and before Mr. Wrayburn, a pretty generous whisky and water, from which Alleyn deduced that he hadn’t definitely made up his mind what sort of job he seemed to be on. He was obviously glad to see Alleyn and said it was quite a coincidence, wasn’t it?
Hilary made some elaborate explanations about drinks being served for the houseparty in the drawing-room at seven but perhaps they could join the others a little later and in the meantime — surely now Alleyn would —?
“Yes, indeed. Thank you,” Alleyn said. “Since I’m not on duty,” he added lightly and Mr. Wrayburn blushed beyond his freckles.
“Well — nor am I,” he said quickly. “Yet. I hope. Not exactly.”
Superintendent Wrayburn, Hilary explained, had only just arrived, having been held up at the station. He’d had a cold drive. It was snowing again. He was more than pleased to have Alleyn with them. He, Hilary, was about to give Mr. Wrayburn a — Hilary boggled a little at the word — a statement about the “unfortunate mishap.”
Alleyn said “of course” and no more than that. Mr. Wrayburn produced his regulation notebook, and away Hilary went, not overcoherently and yet, Alleyn fancied, with a certain degree of artfulness. He began with Moult’s last-minute substitution at the Christmas tree, and continued with Vincent’s assurance that he had seen Moult (whom he thought to be the Colonel) after the performance, run from the courtyard into the entrance porch and thence to the dressing-room. “Actually,” Hilary explained, “it’s a cloakroom on one’s right as one comes into the house. It’s in the angle of the hall and the drawing-room which was so convenient. There’s a door from it into the hall itself and another one into the entrance porch. To save muddy boots, you know, from coming into the house.”
“Quite,” said Mr. Wrayburn. He gazed at his notes. “So the last that’s known of him, then, is —?”
“Is when, having taken off his robe and makeup with Miss Tottenham’s help, he presumably left the cloakroom with the avowed intention of going up to Colonel Forrester.”
“Did he leave the cloakroom by the door into the hall, sir?”
“Again — presumably. He would hardly go out into the porch and double back into the hall, would he?”
“You wouldn’t think so, sir, would you? And nobody saw him go upstairs?”
“No. But there’s nothing remarkable in that. The servants were getting the children’s supper ready. The only light, by my express orders, was from the candles on their table. As you’ve seen, there are two flights of stairs leading to a gallery. The flight opposite this cloakroom door is farthest away from the children’s supper table. The staff would be unlikely to notice Moult unless he drew attention to himself. Actually Moult was —” Hilary boggled slightly and then hurried on. “Actually,” he said, “Moult was supposed to help them but, of course, that was arranged before there was any thought of his substituting for Colonel Forrester.”
“Yes, sir. I appreciate the position. Are there,” Wrayburn asked, “coats and so forth in this cloakroom, sir? Mackintoshes and umbrellas and gum boots and so on?”
“Good for you, Jack,” thought Alleyn.
“Yes. Yes, there are. Are you wondering,” Hilary said quickly, “if, for some reason —?”
“We’ve got to consider everything, haven’t we, Mr. Bill-Tasman?”
“Of course. Of course. Of course.”
“You can’t think of any reason, sir, however farfetched, like, that would lead Mr. Moult to quit the premises and, if you’ll excuse the expression, do a bunk?”
“No. No. I can’t. And—” Hilary looked nervously at Alleyn. “Well — there’s a sequel. You’re yet to hear — ”
And now followed the story of the japanned uniform box, at which Mr. Wrayburn failed entirely to conceal his astonishment and, a stunning climax, the exhibition of the poker.
Alleyn had been waiting for this. He felt a certain amusement in Mr. Wrayburn’s change of manner, which was instant and sharp. He became formal. He looked quickly from Hilary to the object on the desk and upon that his regard became fixed. The lens lay near at hand. Mr. Wrayburn said, “May I?” and used it with great deliberation. He then stared at Alleyn.