belongs to the artist, Miss Agatha Troy.’
‘I know.’
‘You’ll get the information from the local super—Blackman—who’s there now. The model has been killed, and it looks like murder.
‘I—can’t—hear.’
‘The victim is an artist’s model. I’ll send Fox down with the other people and your usual kit. Much obliged. Sorry to drag you back before Monday.’
‘That’s all right, sir.’
‘Splendid. I’ll expect your report. Nice to see you again. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, sir.’
Alleyn went back to the drawing-room.
‘Well?’ began his mother. She looked up at him, and in a moment was at his side. ‘What’s the matter, old man?’
‘Nothing, ma’am. It was the Yard. They want me to take a case near here. It’s at Tatler’s End House.’
‘But what is it?’
‘Murder, it seems.’
‘Roderick!’
‘No, no. I thought that, too, for a moment. It’s the model. I’ll have to go at once. May I have the car?’
‘Of course, darling.’ She pressed a bell-push, and when Clibborn came, said: ‘Mr Roderick’s overcoat at once, Clibborn, and tell French to bring the car round quickly.’ When Clibborn had gone she put her hand on Alleyn’s. ‘Please tell Miss Troy that if she would like to come to me—’
‘Yes, darling. Thank you. But I must see what it’s all about first. It’s a case.’
‘Well, you won’t include Agatha Troy among your suspects, I hope?’
‘If there’s a question of that,’ said Alleyn, ‘I’ll leave the service. Good night. Don’t sit up. I may be late.’
Clibborn came in with his overcoat.
‘Finish your sherry,’ ordered his mother. He drank it obediently. ‘And, Roderick, look in at my room, however late it is.’
He bowed, kissed her lightly, and went out to the car.
It was a cold evening with a hint of frost on the air. Alleyn dismissed the chauffeur and drove himself at breakneck speed towards Tatler’s End House. On the way, three vivid little pictures appeared, one after another, in his mind. The wharf at Suva. Agatha Troy, in her old smock and grey bags, staring out over the sea while the wind whipped the short hair back from her face. Agatha Troy saying goodbye at night on the edge of the St Lawrence.
The headlights shone on rhododendrons and tree-trunks, and then on a closed gate and the figure of a constable. A torch flashed on Alleyn’s face.
‘Excuse me, sir—’
‘All right. Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn from the Yard.’
The man saluted.
‘They’re expecting you, sir.’
The gate swung open, and Alleyn slipped in his clutch. It was a long winding drive, and it seemed an age before he pulled up before a lighted door. A second constable met him and showed him into a pleasant hall where a large fire burned.
‘I’ll tell the superintendent you’ve arrived, sir,’ said the man, but as he spoke, a door on Alleyn’s left opened and a stout man with a scarlet face came out.
‘Hullo, hullo! This is very nice. Haven’t seen you for ages.’
‘Not for ages,’ said Alleyn. They shook hands. Blackman had been superintendent at Bossicote for six years, and he and Alleyn were old acquaintances. ‘I hope I haven’t been too long.’
‘You’ve been very quick indeed, Mr Alleyn. We only rang the Yard half an hour ago. They told us you were staying with her ladyship. Come in here, will you?’
He led the way into a charming little drawing-room with palegrey walls and cerise-and-lemon-striped curtains.
‘How much did they tell you from the Yard?’
‘Only that a model had been knifed.’
‘Yes. Very peculiar business. I don’t mind telling you I’d have liked to tackle it myself, but we’ve got our hands full with a big burglary case over at Ronald’s Cross, and I’m short-staffed just now. So the Chief Constable thought, all things considered, and you being so handy, it’d better be the Yard. He’s just gone. Sit down, and I’ll give you the story before we look at the body and so on. That suit you?’
‘Admirably,’ said Alleyn.
Blackman opened a fat pocketbook, settled his chins, and began.
‘This property, Tatler’s End House, is owned and occupied by Miss Agatha Troy, R.A., who returned here after a year’s absence abroad, on September 3rd. During her absence the house was occupied by a Miss Katti Bostock, another painter. Miss Troy arranged by letter to take eight resident pupils from September to December, and all of these were already staying in the house when she arrived. There was also a Sonia Gluck, spinster aged 22, an artist’s model, engaged by Miss Bostock for the coming term. The classes began officially on the 10th, but they had all been more or less working together since the 3rd. From the 10th to Friday the 16th they worked from the model every morning in the studio. On the 16th, three days ago, the class disbanded for the weekend, in order that members might attend a function in London. The servants were given Friday night off, and went to a cinema in Baxtonbridge. One student, Wolf Garcia, no permanent address, remained alone in the studio. The house was closed. Garcia is believed to have left on Saturday the 17th, the day before yesterday. Miss Troy returned on Saturday at midday and found Garcia had gone. The others came back on Sunday, yesterday, by car, and by the evening bus. This morning, September 19th, the class reassembled in the studio, which is a detached building situated about a hundred yards to the south-east of the rear eastward corner of the house. Here’s the sketch plan of the house and studio,’ said the superintendent in a more normal voice. ‘And here’s another of the studio interior.’
‘Splendid,’ said Alleyn, and spread them out before him on a small table. Mr Blackman coughed and took up the burden of his recital.
‘At ten-thirty the class, with the exception of Garcia, who, as we have seen, had left, was ready to begin work. Miss Troy had given instructions that they were to start without her. This is her usual practice, except on the occasions when a new pose is to be set. The model lay down to resume the pose which she had been taking since September 10th. It was a recumbent position on her back. She lay half on a piece of silk material and half on the bare boards of the dais known as the model’s “throne”. The model was undraped. She lay first of all on her right side. One of the students, Miss Valmai Seacliff, of No. 8, Partington Mews, WC4, approached the model, placed her hands on Gluck’s shoulders and thrust the left shoulder firmly over and down. This was the usual procedure. Gluck cried out “Don’t!” as if in pain, but as she habitually objected to the pose, Miss Seacliff paid no attention, shifted her hands to the model’s chest, and pressed down. Gluck made another sound, described
