my brain,’ he said, ‘without it I’m done.’ He turned the leaves rapidly, muttering to himself.
‘Personnel. Details of characters. Hobbies. Here we are—clothes. Clothes. Bathgate, Grant, Grant. Wearing at the time of incident—no. Chest of drawers, pink silk—no. In wardrobe, that’s more likely. Red leather coat, brown musquash, green and brown tweed coat and skirt. Red cap. Um—nothing there.’
‘You have been very industrious,’ said Nigel.
‘My memory’s so bad,’ Alleyn apologized.
‘Don’t be affected,’ said Nigel.
‘Shut up. I hate your bedroom slippers and I know you use corn plaster. Handesley. Housemaids. North. Let’s see.’
‘Surely you are wasting your time making lists of Angela’s underclothes,’ said Nigel hotly.
‘Don’t be cross with me—I get no kick out of them. There’s nothing there. Rankin. Tokareff—has he got a fur coat? Yes, he has, like an impresario’s; still, his gloves are size eight. Try again. Wilde. Arthur, Mr and Mrs.’ He stopped muttering, and a curiously blank look suddenly masked his face.
‘Well?’ asked Nigel.
Alleyn passed him the little note-book. In it, written in an incredibly fine upright hand, Nigel read:
‘Wilde. Mrs Marjorie. Age about thirty-two. Height five foot four approx.’ Here followed a detailed description of Marjorie Wilde, in which even the size of her gloves were noted. Then:
‘Wardrobe. In hanging cupboard, Harris tweed coat and skirt, shepherd’s plaid overcoat. Burberry raincoat, blue. Black astrakhan overcoat, black fur collar and cuffs.’
‘Black fur collar and cuffs,’ repeated Nigel aloud. ‘Oh, lord!’
‘Size in gloves, six and a quarter,’ said Alleyn, and took the book. ‘Where is Mrs Wilde at the moment, Bathgate?’
‘She was in the library.’
‘Go and see if she’s still there, and come back and tell me.’
Nigel was away three minutes.
‘They are all there,’ he said; ‘it’s nearly teatime.’
‘Then come upstairs after me and walk slowly to your own door. If you see anyone approaching, come through the bathroom into Wilde’s dressing-room and warn me. I shall be in Mrs Wilde’s room.’
He went out swiftly, and Nigel followed in time to see him running, cat-like, upstairs. By the time Nigel reached the landing the inspector had disappeared.
Nigel walked to his own door and paused, taking his cigarette case out and groping in his pockets for matches. His heart was beating thickly. Had he been standing there hours or seconds when he heard a light footstep coming from the long corridor? He struck a match as Florence appeared, strolled through his own door, and then darted swiftly into the bathroom.
‘Alleyn!’ he whispered urgently. ‘Alleyn!’ Then he stopped short, flabbergasted.
Arthur Wilde was washing his hands at the basin.
Nigel was so greatly taken aback that some seconds elapsed before he realized that Wilde was equally disconcerted. His face was extremely pale, and he stood very still, his hands plunged incongruously in the soapy water.
‘I—I’m sorry,’ stammered Nigel at last. ‘I thought you were Alleyn.’
Wilde achieved a wan smile. ‘Alleyn?’ he said. ‘Yes, so I gathered, Bathgate. Will you tell me, did you think Alleyn was here or—in my wife’s room?’
Nigel was silent.
‘I wish you could see your way to answering me,’ said Wilde very quietly. He took a towel from the rack and began to dry his hands. Suddenly he dropped the towel on the floor and whispered, ‘My God, this is a terrible business.’
‘Terrible!’ echoed Nigel helplessly.
‘Bathgate,’ said Wilde in a sudden gust of passion, ‘you must tell me—did you expect to find the inspector here or behind that dressing-room door in Marjorie’s room? Answer me.’
The door from the bathroom into the dressing-room was wide open, but the one beyond it was shut. Nigel looked involuntarily towards this door.
‘I assure you—’ he began.
‘You are a bad liar, Bathgate,’ said a voice from beyond. The door was opened, and Alleyn walked through.
‘You were quite right, Mr Wilde,’ said he. ‘I have been carrying out a little investigation in your wife’s room. I have done so in all your rooms, you know. It is essential.’
‘You had already been through everything,’ said Wilde. ‘Why must you torture us like this? My wife has nothing—nothing to conceal. How could she have killed Rankin, and in that way? She has a horror of knives, an inhibition against them. Everyone knows that she can’t touch a knife or a blade of any sort. Why, even on the night of this crime—Bathgate, you remember!—she got into a fever at the very sight of that filthy dagger. It’s impossible, I tell you, it’s impossible!’
‘Mr Wilde, that is all I am trying to prove, that it is impossible.’
Something like a sob escaped the little man.
‘Steady, Wilde,’ said Nigel sheepishly.
‘Will you hold your tongue, sir!’ shouted the archaeologist. Involuntarily, Nigel had a swift mental picture of him turning on an unruly or impertinent student. ‘I must ask you to forgive me, Bathgate,’ he added immediately. ‘I am not myself, indeed I am not.’
‘Of course you are not,’ said Nigel quickly; ‘and remember Mrs Wilde has an alibi—a perfect alibi, surely. Florence, Angela’s maid, and I myself both know she was in her room. Don’t we, Alleyn?’ He turned desperately to the detective. Alleyn did not answer.
There was a rather ghastly silence. Then abruptly:
‘I think tea is waiting, Mr Wilde,’ said the inspector. ‘Bathgate, may I have a word with you downstairs before I go?’
Nigel followed him to the door, and they were about to go out when an exclamation from Wilde arrested them.
‘Stop!’
They both turned.
Wilde was standing in the middle of the room, his hands were pressed tightly together, his face, raised a little, was yet in shadow since the window was behind him. He spoke slowly.
‘Inspector Alleyn,’ he said, ‘I have decided to confess. I killed Rankin. I hoped that the necessity for this admission would not arise. But I can’t bear the
