Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 9: Clutch of Constables, When in Rome, Tied Up in Tinsel

‘Dear Mrs Alleyn,’ Miss Rickerby-Carrick whispered. ‘Do, do, do forgive me. I’m so dreadfully sorry but I simply can not get off! Hour after hour and wide awake. I – I had a shock. In Tollardwark. I can’t tell you – at least – I – might. Tomorrow. But I can’t sleep and I can’t find my pills. I can – not – lay my hands upon my pills. Have you by any chance an aspirin? I feel so dreadful, waking you, but I get quite frantic when I can’t sleep – I – I’ve had a shock. I’ve had an awful shock.’

Troy said: ‘It’s all right. Yes. I’ve got some aspirin. Would you turn on the light?’

When she had done this, Miss Rickerby-Carrick came back to the bed and leant over Troy. She wore a dull magenta dressing-gown; dark blue pyjamas. Something depended from her not very delicious neck. It swung forward and hit Troy on the nose.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I am so sorry.’

‘It’s all right. If you’ll just let me up, I’ll find the aspirins.’ While Troy did this Miss Rickerby-Carrick whispered indefatigably. ‘You’ll wonder what it is. That thing. I’ll tell you. It’s a romantic story, no denying it. Never leaves me. You’ll be surprised,’ the strange whisper gustily confided. ‘No kidding. An heirloom. Honestly. My grandfather – surgeon – Czar – Fabergé. I promise you!’ Troy had found the aspirin.

‘Here they are. I really think you shouldn’t tell people about it, you know.’

‘Oh – but you!’

‘I wouldn’t – really. Why don’t you put it in safe-keeping?’

‘You’re talking like the insurance people.’

‘I can well believe it.’

‘It’s my Luck,’ said Miss Rickerby-Carrick. ‘That’s how I feel about it. I can’t be without my Luck. I did try once, and immediately fell down a flight of concrete steps. There, now!’

‘Well, I wouldn’t talk about it if I were you.’

‘That’s what Miss Hewson said.’

‘For Heaven’s sake!’ Troy exclaimed and gave up.

‘Well, she’s awfully interested in antiques.’

‘Have you shown it to her?’

She nodded coyly, wagging her ungainly head up and down and biting her lower lip. ‘You’ll never guess,’ she said, ‘what it is. The design I mean. Talk about coincidence!’ She put her face close to Troy’s and whispered. ‘In diamonds and emeralds and rubies. The Signs of the Zodiac. Now!’

‘Hadn’t you better go to bed?’ Troy asked wearily.

Miss Rickerby-Carrick stared fixedly at her and then bolted.

When Mrs Tretheway at eight o’clock brought her a cup of tea, Troy felt as if the incidents of the night had been part of her dreams. At breakfast Mr Pollock and the Hewsons had a muttering session about Miss Rickerby-Carrick, Caley Bard openly asked Troy if she was keen on ‘Eine Kleine Nacht Musik’ and Mr Lazenby told him not to be naughty. As usual Dr Natouche took no part in this general, if furtive, conversation. Miss Rickerby-Carrick herself retired at mid-morning to a corner of the deck where, snuffling dreadfully and looking greatly perturbed, she kept up her diary.

The Zodiac cruised tranquilly through the morning. After luncheon Mr Lazenby occasioned some surprise by appearing in a bathing slip, blowing up an inflatable mattress and sunbathing on deck. ‘Once an Aussie, always an Aussie,’ he observed. Mr and Miss Hewson were so far encouraged as to change into Hawaiian shorts and floral tops. Dr Natouche had already appeared in immaculate blue linen and Caley Bard in conservative slacks and cotton shirt. Troy settled at a table in the saloon, finished her drawing and treated it to a lovely blush of aquarelle-crayons which she had bought for fun and because they were easy to carry. Each of the Signs now bore a crazy resemblance to the person she had assigned to it. Caley Bard’s slew-eyed glance looked out of the Scorpion’s head. Virgo was a kind of ethereal whiff of what Miss Rickerby-Carrick might have been. The Hewsons, stylisés, put their heads together for the Twins. Mr Lazenby, naked, blindfold and in elegant retreat, displayed the Scales. Something about the stalked eyes of the Crab quoted Mr Pollock’s rather prominent stare. Mrs Tretheway, translated into classic splendour, presented the Fish on a celestial platter. The Ram had a steering wheel between his hoofs and the boy, Tom – Aquarius, carried water in a ship’s bucket. Troy’s short dark locks tumbled about the brow of the Goat, while her husband glanced ironically through the Lion’s mask. The Bull, vainglorious, rode his motorbike. Splendidly alone, the dark Archer drew his bow. Troy was amused with her picture but sighed at the thought of doing the lettering.

The Hewsons, passing through the saloon, devoured by curiosity and swathed in tact, asked if they might have a peep. This led to everybody, except Dr Natouche, gathering round her.

‘Just see what you’ve done with children’s chalks and a drop of ink!’ Caley Bard exclaimed. ‘What magic!’ He gave a little crowing sound, burst out laughing and looked round at his fellow-passengers. ‘Do you see!’ he cried. ‘Do you see what she’s done?’

After some reflection they did, each recognizing the others more readily than him – or her self. It appeared that Troy had been lucky in three of her choices. The Hewsons were, in fact, twins and, by an extraordinarily felicitous chance, had been born under Gemini while Miss Rickerby-Carrick confessed, with mantling cheeks and conscious looks, as Caley Bard afterwards put it, to Virgo. She still seemed frightened and stared fixedly at Troy.

‘Natouche,’ Caley Bard called up the companion-way, ‘you must come down and see this.’

He came down at once. Troy gave him the drawing and for the second time heard his laugh. ‘It is beautiful and it is comical,’ he said presently and handed it back to Troy. ‘I know, of course, that one must not frivolously compare the work of one great artist with another but may I say that Erni is perhaps your only contemporary who would have approached the subject like this.’

‘Very perceptive of you,’ said Caley Bard.

‘I want to put the rhyme in the middle,’ Troy said, ‘but my lettering’s hopeless: it takes ages to do and is awful when it’s finished. I suppose nobody here would do a nice neo-classic job of lettering?’

‘I would,’ said Mr Pollock.

He was close behind Troy, staring over her arm at the drawing. ‘I –’ he paused and, most unaccountably, Troy was revisited by yesterday’s impression of an impending crisis. ‘I started in that business,’ Pollock said and there seemed to be a note of apology in his voice. ‘Commercial art. You know? Gave it up for real estate. I – if you show me what you’d like – the type of lettering – I’ll give satisfaction.’

He was looking at the drawing with the oddest expression in his barrow-boy face: sharp, appreciative and somehow – what? – shamefaced? Or – could Mr Pollock possibly be frightened?

Troy said, cordially. ‘Will you really? Thank you so much. It just wants to be a sort of Garamond face. A bit fantasticated if you like.’

Dr Natouche had a book in his hand with the dust-jacket titled in Garamond. ‘That sort of thing,’ Troy said pointing to it.

Mr Pollock looked reluctantly but sharply at it and then bent over the drawing. ‘I could do that,’ he said. ‘I don’t know anything about fantasticate,’ and added under his breath something that sounded like: ‘I can copy anything.’

Mr Lazenby said loudly: ‘You’re very sure of yourself, Mr Pollock, aren’t you?’ and Caley Bard ejaculated: ‘Honestly, Pollock, how you dare!’

There followed a brief silence. Pollock mumbled: ‘Only a suggestion, isn’t it? No need to take it up, is there?’

‘I’d be very glad to take it up,’ Troy said. ‘There you are: it’s all yours.’

She moved away from the table and after a moment’s hesitation he sat down at it.

Troy went up on deck where she was soon joined by Caley Bard.

‘You didn’t half snub that little man,’ she said.

‘He irritates me. And he’s a damn’ sight too cool about your work.’

‘Oh come!’

‘Yes, he is. Breathing down your neck. My God, you’re you. You’re “Troy”. How he dares!’

‘Do come off it.’

‘Have you noticed how rude he is to Natouche?’

‘Well, that – yes. But you know I really think direct antagonism must be more supportable than the “don’t let’s be beastly” line.’

‘See the Rickerby-Carrick?’

‘If you like. Yes.’

‘You know,’ he said, ‘if you weren’t a passenger in the good ship Zodiac I think I’d rat.’

‘Nonsense.’