Final Curtain (36 page)

‘It'll be one of these affairs with shelves,' Fox speculated. ‘Not room enough for the doctor, and no light. It'll have to be a canvas enclosure, don't you reckon, Mr Alleyn?'

‘Yes.'

The lid of Fox's large silver watch clicked. ‘It's five o'clock, sir,' he said. ‘Time we moved on if you're to have tea at the pub and catch that train.'

‘Come along, then,' said Alleyn quietly, and they retraced their steps to the village.

A
S TROY WAITED FOR
Alleyn's return her thoughts moved back through the brief period of their reunion. She examined one event, then another; a phrase, a gesture, an emotion. She was astonished by the simplicity of her happiness; amused to find herself expectant, even a little sleek. She was desired, she was loved, and she loved again. That there were hazards ahead she made no doubt, but for the moment all was well; she could relax and find a perspective.

Yet, like a rough strand in the texture of her happiness, there was an imperfection. Her thoughts, questing fingers, continually and reluctantly sought it out. This was Alleyn's refusal to allow his work a place in their relationship. It was founded, she knew, in her own attitude during their earliest encounters which had taken place against a terrible background; in her shrinking from the part he played at that time and in her expressed horror of capital punishment.

Troy knew very well that Alleyn accepted these reactions as fundamental and implicit in her nature. She knew he did not believe that for her, in love, an ethic unrelated to that love could not impede it. It seemed to him that if his work occasionally brought murderers to execution, then surely, to her, he must at those times be of the same company as the hangman. Only by some miracle of love, he thought, did she overcome her repulsion.

But the bald truth, she told herself helplessly, was that her ideas were remote from her emotions. ‘I'm less sensitive than he thinks,' she said. ‘What he does is of no importance. I love him.' And although she disliked such generalities, she added: ‘I am a woman.'

It seemed to her that while this withdrawal existed they could not be completely happy. ‘Perhaps,' she thought, ‘this business with the Ancreds will, after all, change everything. Perhaps it's a kind of beastly object lesson. I'm in it. He can't keep me out. I'm in on a homicide case.' And with a sensation of panic she realized that she had been taking it for granted that the old man she had painted was murdered.

As soon as Alleyn came in and stood before her she knew that she had made no mistake. ‘Well, Rory,' she said, going to him, ‘we're for it, aren't we, darling?'

‘It looks a bit like it.' He walked past her, saying quickly: ‘I'll see the AC in the morning. He'll let me hand over to someone else. Much better.'

‘No,' Troy said, and he turned quickly and looked at her. She was aware, as if she had never before fully appreciated it, of the difference in their heights. She thought: ‘That's how he looks when he's taking statements,' and became nervous.

‘No?' he said. ‘Why not?'

‘Because it would be high-falutin, because it would make me feel an ass.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘I look upon this case,' Troy said, and wished her voice would sound more normal, ‘as a sort of test. Perhaps it's been sent to larn us like acts-of-God; only I must say I always think it's so unfair to call earthquakes and tidal-waves acts-of-God and not bumper harvests and people like Leonardo and Cezanne.'

‘What the devil,' Alleyn asked in a mild voice, ‘are you talking about?'

‘Don't snap at me,' said Troy. He made a quick movement towards her. ‘No. Please listen. I want, I really do want you to take this case as long as the AC lets you. I really want you to keep me with you this time. We've got in a muddle about me and your job. When I say I don't mind your job you think I'm not telling the truth, and if I ask you questions about these kinds of cases you think I'm being a brave little woman and biting on the bullet.'

She saw his mouth twist in an involuntary smile.

‘Whereas,' she hurried on, ‘I'm not. I know I didn't relish having our courtship all muddled up with murder on the premises, and I know I don't think people ought to hang other people. But you do, and you're the policeman, not me. And it doesn't do any good trying to pretend you're dodging out to pinch a petty larcener when I know jolly well what you are up to, and, to be perfectly honest, am often dying to hear about it.'

‘That's not quite true, is it—the last bit?'

‘I'd infinitely rather talk about it. I'd infinitely rather feel honestly shocked and upset with you, than vaguely worried all by myself.'

He held out a hand and she went to him. ‘That's why I said I think this case has been sent to larn you.'

‘Troy,' Alleyn said, ‘do you know what they say to their best girls in the antipodes?'

‘No.'

‘You'll do me.'

‘Oh!'

‘You'll do me, Troy.'

‘I thought perhaps you'd prefer me to remain a shrinking violet.'

‘The truth is, I've been a bloody fool and never did and never will deserve you.'

‘Don't,' said Troy, ‘let's talk about deserving.'

‘I've only one excuse and logically you'll say it's no excuse. Books about CID men will tell you that running a murderer to earth is just a job to us, as copping a pickpocket is to the ordinary PC. It's not. Because of its termination it's unlike any other job in existence. When I was twenty-two I faced its implications and took it on, but I don't think I fully realized them for another fifteen years and that was when I fell most deeply in love, my love, with you.'

‘I've faced its implications, too, and once for all, over this Ancred business. Before you came in I even decided that it would be good for both of us if, by some freak, it turned out that I had a piece of information somewhere in the back of my memory that's of vital importance.'

‘You'd got as far as that?'

‘Yes. And the queer thing is,' Troy said, driving her fingers through her hair, ‘I've got the most extraordinary conviction that somewhere in the back of my memory it is there, waiting to come out.'

‘I want you,' Alleyn said, ‘to tell me again, as fully as you possibly can, about your conversation with Sir Henry after he'd found the writing on the looking-glass and the grease-paint on the cat's whiskers. If you've forgotten how it went at any particular stage, say so. But, for the love of Mike, darling, don't elaborate. Can you remember?'

‘I think so. Quite a lot, anyway. He was furious with Panty, of course.'

‘He hadn't a suspicion of the egregious Cedric?'

‘None. Did Cedric—?'

‘He did. He's lisped out an admission.'

‘Little devil,' said Troy. ‘So it
was
grease-paint on his fingernail.'

‘And Sir Henry—?'

‘He just went on and on about how much he'd doted on Panty and how she'd grieved him. I tried to persuade him she hadn't done it, but he only made their family noise at me: “T'uh!” you know?'

‘Yes, indeed.'

‘Then he started to talk about marriages between first cousins and how he disapproved of them, and this got mixed up in no time with a most depressing account of how he was'—Troy swallowed and went on quickly—‘was going to be embalmed. We actually mentioned the book. Then I think he sniffed a bit at Cedric as his heir, and said he'd never have children and that poor Thomas wouldn't marry.'

‘He was wrong there, I fancy.'

‘No! Who?'

‘The psychiatrist, or should it be “psychiatriste”?'

‘Miss Able?'

‘She thinks he's quite satisfactorily sublimated his libido or something.'

‘Oh, good! Well, and then as he would keep talking about when he was Gone, I tried to buck him up a bit and had quite a success. He turned mysterious and talked about there being surprises in store for everybody. And upon that Sonia Orrincourt burst in and said they were all plotting against her and she was frightened.'

‘And that's all?' Alleyn said after a pause.

‘No—no, it isn't. There was something else he said. Rory, I can't remember what it was, but there was something else.'

‘That was on Saturday the seventeenth, wasn't it?'

‘Let me see. I got there on the sixteenth. Yes. Yes, it was the next day. But I wish,' Troy said slowly, ‘I do wish I could remember the other thing he talked about.'

‘Don't try. It may come back suddenly.'

‘Perhaps Miss Able could screw it out of me,' said Troy with a grin. ‘In any case we'll call it a day.'

As they moved away she linked her arm through his. ‘First instalment of the new system,' she said. ‘It's gone off tolerably quietly, hasn't it?'

‘It has, my love. Thank you.'

‘One of the things I like about you,' Troy said, ‘is your nice manners.'

The next day was a busy one. The Assistant Commissioner after a brisk interview with Alleyn, decided to apply for an exhumation order. ‘Sooner the better, I suppose. I was talking to the Home Secretary yesterday and told him we might be on his tracks. You'd better go right ahead.'

‘Tomorrow then, sir, if possible,' Alleyn said. ‘I'll see Dr Curtis.'

‘Do.' And as Alleyn turned away: ‘By the way, Rory, if it's at all difficult for Mrs Alleyn—'

‘Thank you very much sir, but at the moment she's taking it in her stride.'

‘Splendid. Damn' rum go—what?'

‘Damn' rum,' Alleyn agreed politely, and went to call on Mr Rattisbon.

Mr Rattisbon's offices in the Strand had survived the pressure of the years, the blitz and the flying bomb. They were, as Alleyn remembered them on the occasion of his first official visit before the war, a discreetly active memorial to the style of Charles Dickens, with the character of Mr Rattisbon himself written across them like an inscription. Here was the same clerk with his trick of slowly raising his head and looking dimly at the inquirer, the same break-neck stairs, the same dark smell of antiquity. And here, at last, shrined in leather, varnish and age was Mr Rattisbon, that elderly legal bird, perched at his desk.

‘Ah, yes, Chief Inspector,' Mr Rattisbon gabbled, extending a claw at a modish angle, ‘come in, come in, sit down, sit down. Glad to see yer. M-m-maah!' And when Alleyn was seated Mr Rattisbon darted the old glance at him, sharp as the point of a fine nib. ‘No trouble, I hope?' he said.

‘The truth is,' Alleyn rejoined, ‘my visits only arise, I'm afraid, out of some sort of trouble.'

Mr Rattisbon instantly hunched himself, placed his elbows on his desk and joined his finger-tips in front of his chin.

‘I've come to ask about certain circumstances that relate to the late Sir Henry Ancred's Will. Or Wills.'

Mr Rattisbon vibrated the tip of his tongue between his lips, rather as if he had scalded it and hoped in this manner to cool it off. He said nothing.