very odd,’ said Angela. ‘Uncle Hubert has always kept up his interest in Russia—especially since the war. Charles was familiar with his collection of weapons and brought this horrible thing down specially for Uncle Hubert to see.’
‘Yes. Is the dagger interesting from the point of view of the collector?’
Handesley winced and glanced at Angela. ‘It interested me enormously,’ he said. ‘I offered to buy it.’
‘Really? Did Mr Rankin want to sell?’
There was a very uncomfortable pause. Nigel miserably cast about in his mind for something to say. Suddenly Angela broke the silence.
‘You are very tired, Uncle Hubert,’ she said gently; ‘let me tell Mr Alleyn.’ Without waiting for his reply, she turned to the detective.
‘Charles Rankin, in fun, wrote out a statement last night willing the knife to my uncle. Mr Bathgate here and Mr Arthur Wilde, another of our guests, signed the paper. It was all a joke.’
Alleyn, without any comment, made a note in his pocket-book. ‘Perhaps I may see this paper later on,’ he said; ‘and now for the other servants.’
‘All English,’ said Angela, ‘except the cook, who is a Frenchman. There are three maids, two housemaids, and a little Cockney—she’s a tweeney really—a sort of pantryman who, when we have large parties, does footman and helps Vassily, a kitchenmaid, and an odd-boy.’
‘Thank you. Mr Bathgate, you, I understand, are Mr Rankin’s cousin. To your knowledge, had he any enemies? This, I know, sounds a childish inquiry, but I think I shall put it to you.’
‘To my knowledge,’ answered Nigel, ‘none. Obviously he had one.’
‘Nobody who would benefit by his death?’
‘Benefit?’ Nigel’s voice grated suddenly. ‘My God, yes. I benefit. I believe he has left me the bulk of his property. You’d better arrest me, Inspector—I killed him for his money.’
‘My good young man,’ said Alleyn tartly, ‘please don’t muddle me with startling announcements of that sort. It is incredibly silly. Here are two witnesses to your theatricality. Pull yourself together and leave me to do my detecting. It’s tricky enough as it is, lord knows.’
The unexpectedness of this rebuke had a very salutary effect on Nigel. For a second it lifted him out of his nightmare of shocked reactions.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t really want to leap into the handcuffs.’
‘So I should hope. Now run off and find the assembled guests. I think the local bluebottle buzzed something about the library. Send them along singly to the drawing-room; and, Miss North, will you find the servants?’
‘Mrs Wilde,’ said Angela, ‘was in bed a little while ago. She is terribly upset.’
‘I am sorry, but I should like everyone to be present.’
‘Very well, I’ll tell her.’ Angela went upstairs.
Having started off the examination with Arthur Wilde, Nigel waited with Sir Hubert in the garden. Apparently the detective spent a very short time over his interviews, for Nigel had smoked only two cigarettes when Mr Bunce emerged with the tidings that the chief inspector was at Sir Hubert’s service. They went indoors and joined Alleyn. Handesley led the way down the hall, where Mr Bunce still kept guard, into the big library that lay behind the drawing-room and the little gun-room. At the door he paused and looked intently at the inspector.
‘I see from your card,’ he said courteously, ‘that your name is Roderick Alleyn. I was up at Oxford with a very brilliant man of that name. A relation, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps,’ said the inspector politely but uncommunicatively. He stepped back to allow Nigel to open the library door, and they went in. Here all the others, with the exception of Marjorie Wilde, were already assembled. Tokareff’s voice could be heard booming as the door opened, and on their entrance they found him standing before the fire, bespectacled, earnest, and resoundingly verbose. Rosamund Grant, deadly white, was sitting in a far corner of the room, immaculate and withdrawn. Arthur Wilde, with an air of strained attention, appeared to be listening, dubiously, to the Russian’s dissertation. Doctor Young was fidgeting in the bow-window.
‘…so to take a loife from my standpoint-of-view is not such a crime as to be always living a false loife,’ shouted Tokareff. ‘Zhis is the real crime more deadly—’ He stopped suddenly as Handesley and Alleyn, followed by Nigel and Angela, came towards him.
‘Inspector Alleyn,’ said Handesley briefly, ‘wishes to speak to us all for a moment.’
‘Already,’ began Tokareff, ‘we have been interviewed. Already the hunt is to begin. Excuse me, please, but I must make myself clear to say—’
‘Will you all please sit round this table?’ said Alleyn, incisively cutting through the clamour of Tokareff’s rumbling bass.
They all moved across to a long writing-table near the windows and seated themselves at it, Alleyn taking the head.
‘I have only this to say,’ he said quietly. ‘A man was done to death in this house at five minutes to eight last night. It is possible—but only just possible—that the crime was brought off by someone from the outside. Until the inquest is over I’m afraid no one may leave Frantock. You will all, if you please, confine yourselves to the house and grounds. Should any of you want to go farther afield, just let me know, will you? And if the reason is urgent, I’ll provide a suitable escort. You will be at liberty to use the hall and drawing-room an hour after this little chat is ended. During that hour I must ask you to allow me to make my examination of those rooms.’
There was a difficult silence. Then Rosamund Grant spoke.
‘For how long will these restrictions be enforced?’ she asked. Her voice, level and expressionless, suddenly and shockingly reminded Nigel of Rankin’s.
‘The inquest will probably be held on Thursday,’ said Alleyn. ‘Until after then, at all events, I shall ask you to stay where you are.’
‘Is this absolutely necessary?’ asked Handesley. ‘I am of course, only too anxious for every effort to be made, but I understand some of my guests—Mrs Wilde, for instance—are naturally longing to get away from the unhappy associations of my house.’ A foreign overtone of deprecation in his voice filled Nigel suddenly with an enormous sense of pity.
‘Sir Hubert,’ he said quickly, ‘the situation is more difficult for you than for any of us. If we must stay, we must, but I am sure we will, all of us, try to be as little nuisance and as much help as may be. Under such circumstances all personal considerations must go to blazes. I’m afraid that’s not very well put, but—’
‘I entirely agree,’ broke in Wilde. ‘It is inconvenient, but convenience hardly counts at such a time. My wife, I am sure, will understand this.’
As if in answer to this assertion the door was opened and Marjorie Wilde came in.
The placing of the others, the tenseness of the moment and the lateness of her arrival gave it something of the character of a theatrical entrance. There was, however, little else that was stagey about Mrs Wilde’s appearance.
