Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 3: Death in a White Tie, Overture to Death, Death at the Bar. Ngaio Marsh

encountered a question to which she did not know the answer and she found herself unable to stuff it away in one of her pigeon-holes. The truth was Miss Harris’s heart was touched. She had seen Lord Robert several times in Lady Carrados’s house and last night Lord Robert had danced with her. When Lady Carrados asked Miss Harris if she would like to come to the ball she had never for a moment expected to dance at it. She had expected to spend a gratifying but exceedingly lonely night watching the fruits of her own labours. Her expectations had been realized until the moment when Lord Robert asked her to dance, and from then onwards Miss Harris had known a sort of respectable rapture. He had found her on the upper landing where she was sitting by herself outside the little green boudoir. She had just come out of the ‘Ladies’ and had had an embarrassing experience practically in the doorway. So she had sat on a chair on the landing to recover her poise and because there did not seem to be anywhere else much to go. Then she had pulled herself together and gone down to the ballroom. She was trying to look happy and not lost when Lord Robert came up and remembered his request that they should dance. And dance they did, round and round in the fast Viennese waltz, and Lord Robert had said he hadn’t enjoyed himself so much for ages. They had joined a group of dizzily ‘right’ people and one of them, Miss Agatha Troy the famous painter it was, had talked to her as if they had been introduced. And then, when the band played another fast Viennese waltz because they were fashionable, Miss Harris and Lord Robert had danced again and had afterwards taken champagne at the buffet. That had been quite late – not long before the ball ended. How charming he had been, making her laugh a great deal and feel like a human young woman of thirty and not a dependent young lady of no age at all.

      And now, here he was, murdered.

      Miss Harris was so upset that she could not eat her breakfast. She glanced automatically at her watch. Twelve o’clock. She was to be at Lady Carrados’s house by two in case she was needed. If she was quick she would have time to write an exciting letter home to the Buckinghamshire vicarage. The girl-friend with whom she shared the flatlet was still asleep. She was a night operator in a telephone exchange. But Miss Harris’s bosom could contain this dreadful news no longer. She rose, opened the bedroom door and said:

      ‘Smithy!’

      ‘Uh!’

      ‘Smithy, something awful has happened. Listen!’

      ‘Uh?’

      ‘The girl has just brought in a paper. It’s about Lord Gospell. I mean Lord Robert Gospell. You know. I told you about him last night –’

      ‘For God’s sake!’ said Miss Smith. ‘Did you have to wake me up again to hear all about your social successes?’

      ‘No, but Smithy, listen! It’s simply frightful! He’s murdered.’

      Miss Smith sat up in bed looking like a sort of fabulous goddess in her mass of tin curling-pins.

      ‘My dear, he isn’t,’ said Miss Smith.

      ‘My dear, he is!’ said Miss Harris.

       CHAPTER 8 Troy and Alleyn

      When Alleyn had finished his examination of the study he sat at Lord Robert’s desk and telephoned to Marsdon House. He was answered by one of his own men.

      ‘Is Mr Fox there, Bailey?’

      ‘Yes, sir. He’s upstairs. I’ll just tell him.’

      Alleyn waited. Before him on the desk was a small, fat notebook and upon the opened page he read again in Lord Robert’s finicky writing the notes he had made on his case:

      ‘Saturday, May 8th. Cocktail-party at Mrs H-H’s house in Halkin Street. Arrived 6.15. Mrs H-H distraite. Arranged to meet her June 3rd, Constance Street Hall. Saw Maurice Withers, ref. drug affair 1924. Bad lot. Seems thick with Mrs H-H. Shied off me. Mem. Tell Alleyn about W’s gambling hell at L.

      ‘Thursday, June 3rd. Constance Street Hall. Recital by Sirmione Quartette. Arrived 2.15. Met Mrs H-H 2.30. Mrs H-H sat on left-hand end of blue sofa (occupant’s left). Sofa about 7 feet inside main entrance and 8 feet to right as you enter. Sofa placed at right angles to right-hand corner of room. Side entrance on right-hand wall about ten feet behind sofa. My position in chair behind left arm of sofa. At 3.35 immediately after interval observed Mrs H-H’s bag taken from left end of sofa where previously I watched her place it. She had left the room during interval and returned after bag had gone. Will swear that hand taking the bag was that of Dimitri of Shepherd Market Catering Company. Saw him there. Seat nearby. Little finger same length as next and markedly crooked. Withers was there. N.B. Think Mrs H-H suspects me of blackmail. R.G.’

      Fox’s voice came through the receiver. ‘Hullo, sir?’

      ‘Hullo, Fox. Have you seen the room where he telephoned to me?’

      ‘Yes. It’s a room on the top landing. One of Dimitri’s waiters saw him go in. The room hasn’t been touched.’

      ‘Right. Anything else?’

      ‘Nothing much. The house is pretty well as it was when the guests left. You saw to that, sir.’

      ‘Is Dimitri there?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Get him, Fox. I’ll see him at the Yard at twelve o’clock. That’ll do him for the moment. Tell Bailey to go all over the telephone room for prints. We’ve got to find out who interrupted that call to the Yard. And, Fox –’

      ‘Sir?’

      ‘Can you come round here? I’d like a word with you.’

      ‘I’ll be there.’

      ‘Thank you,’ said Alleyn, and hung up the receiver.

      He looked again at the document he had found in the central drawer of Lord Robert’s desk. It was his will. A very simple little will. After one or two legacies he left all his possessions and the life interest on £40,000 to his sister, Lady Mildred Potter, to revert to her son on her death and the remainder of his estate, £20,000, to that same son, his nephew, Donald Potter. The will was dated January 1st of that year.

      ‘His good deed for the New Year,’ thought Alleyn.

      He looked at the two photographs in leather frames that stood on Lord Robert’s desk. One was of Lady Mildred Potter in the presentation dress of her girlhood. Mildred had been rather pretty in those days. The other was of a young man of about twenty. Alleyn noted the short Gospell nose and wide-set eyes. The mouth was pleasant and weak, the chin one of those jutting affairs that look determined and are too often merely obstinate. It was rather an attractive face. Donald had written his name across the corner with the date, January 1st.

      ‘I hope to God,’ thought Alleyn, ‘that he can give a good account of himself.’

      ‘Good morning,’ said a voice from the doorway.

      He swung round in his chair and saw Agatha Troy. She was dressed in green and had a little velvet cap on her dark head and green gloves on her hands.

      ‘Troy!’

      ‘I came in to see if there was anything I could do for Mildred.’

      ‘You didn’t know I was here?’

      ‘Not till she told me. She asked me to see if you had everything you wanted.’

      ‘Everything I wanted,’ repeated Alleyn.

      ‘If you have,’ said Troy, ‘that’s all right. I won’t interrupt.’

      ‘Please,’ said Alleyn, ‘could you not go just for a second?’

      ‘What is it?’

      ‘Nothing. I mean, I’ve no excuse for asking you to stay, unless, if you will forgive me, the excuse of