When he had gone Alleyn said: ‘Shall we take a look at the barn? If open.’
It was a stone building standing some way beyond the stables and seemed to bear witness to the vanished farmstead, said by Plank to have pre-dated Leathers. There were signs of a thatched roof having been replaced by galvanized iron. They found a key above the door which carried the legend ‘Welcome to all’ in amateurish capitals.
‘That lets us in,’ said Fox drily.
The interior was well-lit from uncurtained windows. There was no ceiling to hide the iron roof and birds could be heard scuffling about outside. The hall wore that air of inert expectancy characteristic of places of assembly, caught, as it were, by surprise. A group of about a hundred seats, benches of various kinds and a harmonium faced a platform approached by steps, on which stood a table, a large chair and six smaller ones. The table carried a book-prop and an iron object that appeared to symbolize fire, flanked by a cross and a sword.
‘That’ll be Chris Beale, the smith’s, work,’ said Plank, spotting it. ‘He’s one of them.’
The platform, flanked by curtains, was backed by a whitewashed wall with a central door. This was unlocked and opened into a room fitted with a gas boiler, a sink and cupboards with crockery. ‘ “Ladies a basket”, we must remember,’ Alleyn muttered, and returned to the platform. Above the door and occupying half the width of the wall hung an enormous placard, scarlet and lettered in white. ‘THE WAGES OF SIN,’ it alarmingly proclaimed, ‘ARE DEATH.’
The side walls, also, were garnished with dogmatic injunctions including quotations from the twenty-seventh chapter of Deuteronomy. One of these notices attracted Mr Fox’s attention: ‘Watch,’ it said, ‘for ye know not at what hour the Master cometh.’
‘Do they reckon they do?’ Fox asked Plank.
‘Do what, Mr Fox?’
‘Know,’ Fox said. ‘When.’
As if in answer to his enquiry, the front door opened to reveal Mr Harkness. He stood there, against the light, swaying a little and making preliminary noises. Alleyn moved towards him.
‘I hope,’ he began, ‘you don’t mind our coming in. It does say on the door –’
A voice from within Mr Harkness said, ‘Come one, come all. All are called. Few are chosen. See you Sunday.’
He suddenly charged down the hall and up the steps, most precariously, to the door on the platform. Here he turned and roared in his more familiar manner. ‘It will be an unexamplimented experience. Thank you.’
He gave a military salute and plunged out of sight.
‘I’ll think we’ll have it at that,’ said Alleyn.
At half past nine on that same morning, Ricky chucked his pen on his manuscript, ran his fingers through his hair and plummeted into the nadir of doubt and depression that from time to time so punctually attends upon dealers in words.
‘I’m no good,’ he thought, ‘it’s all a splurge of pretension and incompetence. I write about one thing and something entirely different is trying to emerge. Or is there quite simply nothing there
to
emerge? Over and out.’
He stared through the window at a choppy and comfortless harbour and his thoughts floated as inconsequently as driftwood among the events of the past weeks. He wallowed again between ship and jetty at St Pierre-des-Roches. He thought of Julia Pharamond and that teasing face was suddenly replaced by the frightful caved-in mask of dead Dulcie. Ferrant returned to make a fool of him and he asked himself for the hundredth time if it had been Ferrant or Syd Jones who had tried to drown him. And for the hundredth time he found it a preposterous notion that anybody should try to drown him. And yet he knew very well that it had been so and that his father believed him when he said as much.
So now he thought of his father and of Br’er Fox, who was his godfather. He wondered how exactly they behaved when they worked together on a case and if at that moment they were up at Leathers, detecting. And then, with a certainty that quite astonished him, Ricky tumbled to it that the reason why he couldn’t write that morning was not because the events of the day before had
distracted him or because he was bruised and sore and looked a sight or because the horror of Dulcie Harkness had been revived, but simply because he wanted very badly indeed to be up there with his father, finding out about things.
‘Oh
no
!’ he thought. ‘I won’t take that. That’s not my scene. I’ve other things to do. Or have I?’ He was very disturbed.
He hadn’t seen any of the Pharamonds since the day of the post-poned inquest. Jasper had rung up and asked him to dinner, but Ricky had said he was in a bad patch with his work and had promised himself there would be no more junketings until he had got over it. He could hear Julia in the background shouting instructions.
‘Tell him to bring his book and we’ll all write it for him.’
Jasper had explained that Julia was in the bath and she, in the background, screamed that umbrage would be taken if Ricky didn’t come. It had emerged that the next day the Pharamonds were flying over to London to see the ballet and meant to stay on for a week or so if anything amusing offered. Ricky had stuck to his guns and not dined at L’Esperance, and had wasted a good deal of the evening regretting it.
He wondered if they were still in London. Did they always hunt in a pack? Were they as rich as they seemed to be? Julia had said that Jasper had inherited a fortune from his Brazilian grandfather. And had Louis also inherited a fortune? Louis didn’t seem to do work of any description. Jasper was at least writing a book about the binomial theorem, but Louis – Ricky wouldn’t be surprised if Louis was a bit hot: speculated rashly perhaps, or launched slightly dubious companies. But then he didn’t care for Louis and his bedroom eyes. Louis was the sort of man that women, God knew why, seemed to fall for. Even his cousin Julia when they danced together.
Julia. It would perhaps be just as well, bearing in mind his father’s strictures upon talkativeness, if Julia was still in London. If she was at L’Esperance she would wish to know why his father was here, she would ask them both to dinner and say – he could see her magnolia face and her impertinent eyes – that they were slyboots both of them. Perhaps his father would not go, but sooner or later he, Ricky, would, and once under the spell, could he trust himself not to blurt something out? No, it would be much better if the Pharamonds had decided to prolong their London visit. Much better.
And having settled that question he felt braced and took up his pen.
He heard the telephone ring and Mrs Ferrant come out of the kitchen, releasing televisual voices from within.
He knew it was going to be for him and he knew it would be Julia.
Mrs Ferrant shouted from the foot of the stairs and returned to the box.
As usual Ricky felt as if he had sunk much too rapidly in a fast lift. The telephone was in the passage, and before he picked up the receiver he could hear it gabbling. Julia was admonishing her daughter. ‘All I can say, Selina, is this. Putting mud in Nanny’s reticule is the unfunniest thing you could possibly do and just
so
boring that I can’t be bothered talking about it. Please go away.’
‘I’ve only just come,’ Ricky said.
‘Ricky?’
‘None other.’
‘You sound peculiar.’
‘I’m merely breathless.’
‘Have you been running?’
‘No,’ said Ricky crossly. He took a plunge. ‘You have that effect on me,’ he said.
‘Smashing! I must tell Jasper.’
‘When did you come back?’
‘Just this moment. The ballet was out of this world. And there were some fantastic parties. Lots of jolly chums.’
Ricky was stabbed by jealousy. ‘How lovely,’ he said.
‘I’ve rung up to know if it can possibly be true that your superb papa is among us.’
‘Here we go,’ Ricky thought. He said, ‘How did you know?’
‘Louis caught sight of him in the hotel last night.’
‘But – I thought you said you’d only just got back.’
‘Louis didn’t come to London. He doesn’t like the ballet. He stayed at the Hotel Montjoy to escape from Selina and Julietta. Has Troy come too?’
‘No, she’s busily painting a tree in London.’
‘Louis says your papa seemed to be hob-nobbing with an elderly policeman.’
‘There’s meant to be some sort of re-organization going on in the force.’
‘Are they going to raise Sergeant Plank to dizzy heights? I’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘Very much.’
‘You’re huffy, aren’t you?’
‘No!’ Ricky cried. ‘I’m not. Never less.’
‘Nevertheless what?’
‘I didn’t say “nevertheless”, I said I was never less huffy.’
‘Well then, you’re being a slyboots as usual and not divulging some dynamic bit of gossip.’ A pause, and then the voice said, ‘Ricky, dear, I don’t know why I tease you.’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘Promise? Very well, then, is it in order for us to ring up your father and ask him to dine? Or lunch?’
‘Yes – well – yes, of course. He’d adore it. Only thing: he
is
very much occupied, it seems.’
‘Does it? Well – one can but try,’ she said coolly. Ricky felt inclined to say, ‘Who’s being huffy now?’ but he only made vague noises and felt wretched.
‘Of course you’d be invited too,’ she threw out.
‘Thank you, Julia.’
‘You still sound odd.’
‘I fell in the sea at St Pierre.’
‘How too extraordinary! What were you doing in St Pierre? Or in the sea if it comes to that. Never mind. You should have said so at once and we wouldn’t have been at cross-purposes like funny men on the box. Ricky?’
‘Yes, Julia.’
‘Has the inquest been re-opened?’
‘No.’
‘I see. I feel we shall never get rid of Miss Harness.’
‘Harkness.’
‘I don’t do it on purpose. To me she is Harness.’
‘I know.’
‘I hoped in my shallow way that the ballet and fun things would put her out of my head. But they haven’t.’ She added hurriedly, furtively almost, ‘I dream about it. Seeing her. Isn’t that awful?’
‘I’m so terribly sorry. So do I, if it’s any comfort.’
‘You do? Not fair to say I’m glad. Ricky – don’t answer if you mustn’t – but Ricky – was she murdered?’
‘I don’t know. Honestly. How could I?’
‘Your father.’
‘Julia – please don’t.’
‘I’m sorry. How’s your book going?’
‘Not very fast.’
‘How’s Mr Jones? At least I can ask you how Mr Jones is.’
‘Oh, God!’ Ricky said under his breath and aloud: ‘He’s away. Over at St Pierre-des-Roches.’
‘I see. I think I must find out what Selina is doing. It’s Nanny’s evening off and there’s an ominous silence. Goodbye.’
‘I’ve been thinking a lot about all of you.’
‘Have you?’
‘Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye.’
Ricky was cast down by this exchange. It had been miserably unsatisfactory. He felt that the relationship so elegantly achieved with Julia had been lost in a matter of minutes and there he was floundering about among evasions and excuses while she got more and more remote. She hadn’t spluttered. Not once.
Mrs Ferrant opened the kitchen door, releasing the honeyed cajolements of a commercial jingle and the subtle aroma of a
sauce béarnaise.
‘I didn’t think to ask,’ she said, ‘did you happen to see him over in St Pierre?’
‘Yes,’ said Ricky. ‘We ran into each other.’
‘Any message?’
‘No. Nothing particular.’
She said: ‘That black eye of yours is a proper masterpiece, isn’t it?’
Ricky returned to his room.
Alleyn had finished out-of-doors at Leathers. He went inside to ask Mr Harkness if he might look at his niece’s bedroom and found him snoring hideously in his office chair. He could not be roused to a
sensible condition. Alleyn, in Fox’s presence, formally put his request and took the snort that followed it as a sign of consent.
They all went upstairs to Dulcie’s room.
It was exactly what might have been expected. The walls were covered in horsy photographs, the drawers and wardrobe were stuffed with equestrian gear. Riding boots stood along the floor. The bed was dragged together rather than made. On a table beside it were three battered pornographic paperbacks. A tube of contraceptive pills was in the drawer: half empty.
‘Must have been careless,’ Fox said. They began a systematic search.
After an unproductive minute or two Plank said: ‘You don’t suppose she thought taking that dirty great jump might do the trick, do you, sir?’
‘Who can tell? On what we’ve got it sounds more as if the jump was the climax of a blazing row with her uncle. Did they blast off at each other as a regular practice, do you know, Plank?’
‘Only after he took up with this funny religion, or so they reckon in the Cove. Before that they was thought to be on very pleasant terms. He taught her to ride and was uncommon proud of the way she shaped up.’
Fox threw his head back in order to contemplate from under his spectacles an item of Miss Harkness’s underwear. ‘Free in her ways,’ he mused, ‘by all accounts.
By your
account if it comes to that, Sarge.’
Sergeant Plank reddened. ‘According to the talk,’ he said, ‘that was the trouble between them. After he took queer with his Inner Brethren he cut up rough over Dulcie’s life-style. The general opinion is he tried to hammer it out of her, but what a hope. I dare say her being in the family way put the lid on it.’ He entered the wardrobe and was enveloped in overcoats.
‘When the Pharamonds and my son went to pick up their horses they interrupted a ding-dong go during which she roared out that she was pregnant and he called her a whore of Babylon.’
‘I never knew that,’ said Plank’s voice, stuffy with clothes. ‘Is that a fact?’
‘You wouldn’t get round to wondering,’ Fox suggested, ‘if his attitude could have led to anything serious?’
Plank, still red-faced, emerged from the wardrobe, ‘No, Mr Fox,’ he said loudly. ‘Not to him rigging wire in the gap. Not Cuth
Harkness. Not a chap like him, given over to horses and their management. And that mare the apple of his eye! It’s not in the man to do it, drunk or sober, dotty or sane.’ He appealed to Alleyn. ‘I’ve known the man for four years and it’s not on, sir, it’s not bloody on. Excuse me. Like you was saying yourself, sir, about this being an affair of character. Well, there’s no part of this crime, if it is a crime, in Cuth Harkness’s character, and I’d stake my promotion on it.’
Alleyn said:’It’s a point well taken. You might just remember something else they tell us.’
‘What’s that, sir?’
‘Don’t get emotionally involved.’
‘Ah,’ said Fox. ‘There’s always that, Sarge. There’s always that.’
‘Well, I know there is, Mr Fox. But it does seem to me – well…Considering –’
‘Considering,’ Alleyn said, ‘that Harkness locked her up in her room and on pain of hell-fire and damnation forbade her to jump – Considering that, would you say, Plank?’
‘Yes, sir. I would.’
Mr Fox, who was replacing Miss Harkness’s undergarments with the careful devotion of a lady’s maid, said generously, ‘Which is what you might call a glimpse of the obvious, I’ll say that for it.’
‘Well, ta, Mr Fox,’ said Plank, mollified.
Alleyn was going through the pockets of a hacking-jacket that hung from the back of a chair. They yielded a grubby handkerchief, small change and a rumpled envelope of good paper addressed in a civilized hand. It had been opened. Alleyn drew out a single sheet with an engraved heading: L’Esperance and the address. On it was written in the same hand. ‘Cliffs. Thursday. Usual time. L.P.’
He showed it to the others.
‘ “L.P.” eh,’ Fox remarked.
‘It doesn’t stand for “long playing”,’ said Alleyn, ‘although I suppose, in a cockeyed sense, it just might.’
‘Plank,’ he said, as they drove away from Leathers, ‘I want you to go over everything that Sydney Jones told you about the dialogue with Harkness after the riding party left. Not only the row with Dulcie but what he said to Jones himself. We won’t need your notebook again: just tell me.’
Plank, who was driving, did so. Jones had described Harkness in the yard and Dulcie at her bedroom window, hurling insults at each other. Dulcie had said she could take not only the sorrel mare, but also the wall-eyed Mungo over the gap in the blackthorn hedge. Her uncle violently forbade her, under threat of a hiding, to make the attempt on any of the horses, least of all the mare. He had added the gratuitous opinion that she sat a jumping horse like a sack of potatoes. She had sworn at him and banged down the window.
‘And then?’
‘According to Jones, Harkness had told him to drive the car to a corn merchant on the way to Montjoy and pick up some sacks of fodder.’