‘Mr Ruby, have you anything to tell me that might, in however far-fetched or remote a degree, help to throw light on this tragedy?’
Mr Ruby opened his arms wide and let them fall in the classic gesture of defeat.
‘Nothing?’ Alleyn said.
‘This is what I’ve been asking myself ever since I woke up. When I got round, that is, to asking myself anything other than why the hell I had to down those cognacs.’
‘And how do you answer yourself?’
Again the gesture. ‘I don’t,’ Mr Ruby confessed. ‘I can’t. Except –’ He stopped, provokingly, and stared at Signor Lattienzo who by now had arrived at the lakeside and contemplated the water rather, in his Tyrolean outfit, like some poet of the post-Romantic era.
‘Except?’ Alleyn prompted.
‘Look!’ Mr Ruby invited. ‘Look at what’s been done and how it’s been done. Look at that. If you had to say – you, with your experience – what it reminded you of, what would it be? Come on.’
‘Grand opera,’ Alleyn said promptly.
Mr Ruby let out a strangulated yelp and clapped him heavily on the back. ‘Good on you!’ he cried. ‘Got it in one! Good on you, mate. And the Italian sort of grand opera, what’s more. That funny business with the dagger and the picture! Verdi would have loved it. Particularly the picture. Can you see any of us, supposing he was a murderer, doing it that way? That poor kid Rupert? Ned Hanley, never mind if he’s one of those? Monty? Me? You? Even if you’d draw the line at the props and the business. “No” you’d say “No”. Not that way. It’s not in character, it’s impossible, it’s not – it’s not –’ and Mr Ruby appeared to hunt excitedly for the mot juste of his argument. ‘It’s not British,’ he finally pronounced, and added: ‘Using the word in its widest sense. I’m a Commonwealth man myself.’
Alleyn had to give himself a moment or two before he was able to respond to this declaration.
‘What you are saying,’ he ventured, ‘in effect, is that the murderer must be one of the Italians on the premises. Is that right?’
‘That,’ said Mr Ruby, ‘is dead right.’
‘It narrows down the field of suspects,’ said Alleyn drily.
‘It certainly does,’ Mr Ruby portentously agreed.
‘Marco and Maria?’
‘Right.’
During an uncomfortable pause Mr Ruby’s rather bleary regard dwelt upon Signor Lattienzo in his windblown cape by the lakeside.
‘And Signor Lattienzo, I suppose?’ Alleyn suggested.
There was no reply.
‘Have you,’ Alleyn asked, ‘any reason, apart from the grand opera theory, to suspect one of these three?’
Mr Ruby seemed to be much discomforted by this question. He edged with his toe at a grassy turf. He cleared his throat and looked aggrieved.
‘I knew you’d ask that,’ he said resentfully.
‘It was natural, don’t you think, that I should?’
‘I suppose so. Oh yes. Too right it was. But listen. It’s a terrible thing to accuse anyone of. I know that. I wouldn’t want to say anything that’d unduly influence you. You know. Cause you to – to jump to conclusions or give you the wrong impression. I wouldn’t like to do that.’
‘I don’t think it’s very likely.’
‘No? You’d say that, of course. But I reckon you’ve done it already. I reckon like everyone else you’ve taken the old retainer stuff for real.’
‘Are you thinking of Maria?’
‘Too bloody right I am, mate.’
‘Come on,’ Alleyn said. ‘Get it off your chest. I won’t make too much of it. Wasn’t Maria as devoted as one was led to suppose?’
‘Like hell she was! Well, that’s not correct either. She was devoted all right but it was a flaming uncomfortable sort of devotion. Kind of dog-with-a-bone affair. Sometimes when they’d had a difference you’d have said it was more like hate. Jealous! She’s eaten up with it. And when Bella was into some new “friendship” – know what I mean? – Maria as likely as not would turn plug-ugly. She was even jealous in a weird sort of way, of the artistic triumphs. Or that’s the way it looked to me.’
‘How did she take the friendship with Mr Reece?’
‘Monty?’ A marked change came over Mr Ruby. He glanced quickly at Alleyn as if he wondered whether he was unenlightened in some respect. He hesitated and then said quietly: ‘That’s different again, isn’t it?’
‘Is it? How, “different”?’
‘Well – you know.’
‘But I don’t know.’
‘It’s platonic. Couldn’t be anything else.’
‘I see.’
‘Poor old Monty. Result of an illness. Cruel thing, really.’
‘Indeed? So Maria had no cause to resent him.’
‘This is right. She admires him. They do, you know. Italians. Especially his class. They admire success and prestige more than anything else. It was a very different story when young Rupert came along. Maria didn’t worry about letting everyone see what she felt about that lot. I’d take long odds she’ll be telling you the kid done – did – it. That vindictive, she is. Fair go – I wouldn’t put it past her. Now.’
Alleyn considered for a moment or two. Signor Lattienzo had now joined Rupert Bartholomew on the lakeside and was talking energetically and clapping him on the shoulder. Mr Reece and Miss Dancy still paced their imaginary promenade deck and the little Sylvia Parry, perched dejectedly on a rustic seat, watched Rupert.
Alleyn said: ‘Was Madame Sommita tolerant of these outbursts from Maria?’
‘I suppose she must have been in her own way. There were terrible scenes, of course. That was to be expected, wasn’t it? Bella’d threaten Maria with the sack and Maria’d throw a fit of hysterics and then they’d both go weepy on it and we’d be back to square one with Maria standing behind Bella massaging her shoulders and swearing eternal devotion. Italians! My oath! But it was different, totally different – with the kid. I’d never seen her as far gone over anyone else as she was with him. Crazy about him. In at the deep end, boots and all. That’s why she took it so badly when he saw the light about that little opera of his and wanted to opt out. He was dead right, of course, but Bella hadn’t got any real musical judgement. Not really. You ask Beppo.’
‘What about Mr Reece?’
‘Tone deaf,’ said Mr Ruby.
‘Really?’
‘Fact. Doesn’t pretend to be anything else. He was annoyed with the boy for disappointing her, of course. As far as Monty was concerned the diva had said the opus was great, and what she said had got to be right. And then of course he didn’t like the idea of throwing a disaster of a party. In a way,’ said Mr Ruby, ‘it was the Citizen Kane situation with the boot on the other foot. Sort of.’ He waited for a moment and then said: ‘I feel bloody sorry for that kid.’
‘God knows,