Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 10: Last Ditch, Black As He’s Painted, Grave Mistake

‘All right, Mrs Chubb?’ he asked.

She seemed to hover on the brink of some reply. Her lips moved and she brushed them with her fingers. At last she said: ‘I haven’t liked to ask, sir, but I hope we give satisfaction, Chubb and me.’

‘Indeed you do,’ he said warmly. ‘Everything goes very smoothly.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ she said and went out. He thought: ‘That wasn’t what she was about to say.’

He heard her go upstairs and thought: ‘I wish she’d return that damn’d object.’ But almost immediately she came back.

He went through to the dining-room window and watched her descend the outside steps into the back garden and disappear into Mr Sheridan’s flat. Within seconds he heard the door slam and saw her return.

A white pottery fish. Like a medallion. He really must not get into the habit of thinking things had happened before or been heard of or seen before. There were scientific explanations, he believed, for such experiences. One lobe of one’s brain working a billionth of a second before the other or something to do with Time Spirals. He wouldn’t know. But of course, in the case of the Sanskrit person it was all perfectly straightforward: he had in the past seen the name written up. He had merely forgotten.

Lucy made one of her excitable entrances. She tore into the room as if the devil was after her, stopped short with her ears laid back and affected to see Mr Whipplestone for the first time: ‘Heavens! You!’

‘Come here,’ he said sharply.

She pretended not to hear him, strolled absently nearer and suddenly leapt into his lap and began to knead.

‘You are not,’ he said, checking this painful exercise, ‘to sneak into other people’s flats and steal pottery fish.’

And there for the moment the matter rested.

Until five days later when, on a very warm evening, she once more stole the medallion and dumped it at her owner’s feet.

Mr Whipplestone scarcely knew whether he was exasperated or diverted by this repeated misdemeanour. He admonished his cat, who seemed merely to be thinking of something else. He wondered if he could again leave it to Mrs Chubb to restore the object to its rightful place in the morning and then told himself that really this wouldn’t do.

He turned the medallion over in his hand. There was some sort of inscription fired on the reverse side: a wavy X. There was a hole at the top through which, no doubt, a cord could be passed. It was a common little object, entirely without distinction. A keepsake of some sort, he supposed.

Mr Sheridan was at home. Light from his open kitchen window illuminated the back regions and streaked through gaps in his sitting-room curtains.

‘You’re an unconscionable nuisance,’ Mr Whipplestone said to Lucy Lockett.

He put the medallion in his jacket pocket, let himself out at his front door, took some six paces along the pavement and passed through the iron gate and down the short flight of steps to Mr Sheridan’s door. Lucy, anticipating an evening stroll, was too quick for him. She shot over his feet, and down the steps and hid behind a dwarfed yew tree.

He rang the door bell.

It was answered by Mr Sheridan. The light in his little entrance lobby was behind him so that his face was in shadow. He had left the door into his sitting-room open and Mr Whipplestone saw that he had company. Two armchairs in view had their backs towards him but the tops of their occupants’ heads showed above them.

‘I do apologize,’ said Mr Whipplestone, ‘not only for disturbing you but for –’ he dipped into his pocket and then held out the medallion – ‘this,’ he said.

Mr Sheridan’s behaviour oddly repeated that of Mrs Chubb. He stook stock still. Perhaps no more than a couple of seconds passed in absolute silence but it seemed much longer before he said:

‘I don’t understand. Are you –?’

‘I must explain,’ Mr Whipplestone said: and did.

While he was explaining the occupant of one of the chairs turned and looked over the back. He could see only the top of the head, the forehead and the eyes but there was no mistaking Mrs Montfort. Their eyes met and she ducked out of sight.

Sheridan remained perfectly silent until the end of the recital and even then said nothing. He had made no move to recover his property but on Mr Whipplestone again offering it, extended his hand.

‘I’m afraid the wretched little beast has taken to following Mrs Chubb into your flat. Through your kitchen window, I imagine. I am so very sorry,’ said Mr Whipplestone.

Sheridan suddenly became effusive. ‘Not another syllable,’ he lisped. ‘Don’t give it another thought. It’s of no value, as you can see. I shall put it out of reach. Thank you so much. Yes.’

‘Good night,’ said Mr Whipplestone.

‘Good night, good night. Warm for the time of year, isn’t it? Good night. Yes.’

Certainly, the door was not shut in his face but the moment he turned his back it was shut very quickly.

As he reached the top of the iron steps he was treated to yet another repetitive occurrence. The Sanskrits, brother and sister, were crossing the street towards him. At the same moment his cat who had come out of hiding barged against his leg and bolted like black lightning down the street.

The second or two that elapsed while he let himself out by the area gate brought the Sanskrits quite close. Obviously they were again visiting down below. They waited for him to come out. He smelt them and was instantly back in Ng’ombwana. What was it? Sandarac? They made incense of it and burnt it in the markets. The man was as outlandish as ever. Even fatter. And painted. Bedizened. And as Mr Whipplestone turned quickly away, what had he seen, dangling from that unspeakable neck? A medallion? A white fish? He was further disturbed by the disappearance so precipitately of Lucy, and greatly dismayed by the notion that she might get lost. He was in two minds whether to go after her to call to her and make a fool of himself in so doing.

While he still hesitated he saw a small shadow moving towards him. He did call and suddenly she came tearing back and, in her familiar fashion, launched herself at him. He carried her up his own steps.

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘You come indoors. Come straight indoors. Where we both belong.’

But when they had reached their haven, Mr Whipplestone gave himself a drink. He had been disturbed by too many almost simultaneous occurrences, the most troublesome of which was his brief exchange with Mr Sheridan. ‘I’ve seen him before,’ he said to himself, ‘and I don’t mean here, when I took the house. I mean in the past. Somewhere. Somewhere. And the impression is not agreeable.’

But his memory was disobliging and after teasing himself with unprofitable speculation, he finished his drink and in a state of well-disciplined excitement, telephoned his friend Superintendent Alleyn.

CHAPTER 3 (#ulink_4b0285ed-8a10-5736-a0c3-0e6844beee80)

Catastrophe (#ulink_4b0285ed-8a10-5736-a0c3-0e6844beee80)

The Ng’ombwanan Embassy had been built for a Georgian merchant prince and was really far too grand, Alleyn saw, for an emergent African republic. It had come upon the market at the expiration of a long lease and had been snatched up by The Boomer’s representatives in London. It would not have ill-become a major power.

He saw a splendid house, beautifully proportioned and conveying, by its very moderation, a sense of calm and spaciousness. The reception rooms, covering almost the whole of the ground floor, gave at the rear on to an extensive garden with, among other felicities, a small lake. The garden had fallen into disrepair but had been most elegantly restored by Vistas of Baronsgate. Their associated firm, Decor and Design, also of Baronsgate, had been responsible for the interior.

‘They must have got more than they bargained for,’ Alleyn said, ‘when the occupants brought in their bits and pieces.’

He was casing the premises in the company, and at the invitation, of his opposite number in the Special Branch, Superintendent Fred Gibson, a vast, pale, muted man who was careful to point out that they were there at the express invitation of the Ng’ombwanan Ambassador and were, virtually, on Ng’ombwanan soil.

‘We’re here on sufferance if you like,’ Gibson said in his paddy voice. ‘Of course they’re still a Commonwealth nation, of sorts, but I reckon they could say “thanks a lot, goodbye for now” any time they fancied.’

‘I believe they could, Fred.’

‘Not that I want the job. Gawd, no! But as soon as His Nibs pokes his nose out of doors he’s our bit of trouble and no mistake.’

‘Tricky for you,’ said Alleyn. He and Gibson had been associates in their early days and knew each other pretty well.

They were at one end of a reception saloon or ballroom to which they had been shown by an enormous African flunkey, who had then withdrawn to the opposite end where he waited, motionless.

Alleyn was looking at a shallow recess which occupied almost the whole of their end. It was lined with a crimson and gold paper on which had been hung Ng’ombwanan artifacts – shields, masks, cloaks, spears – so assembled as to form a sort of giant African Trophy flanked with Heraldic Achievements. At the base of this display was a ceremonial drum. A spotlight had been set to cover the area. It was an impressive arrangement and in effect harked back to the days when the house was built and Nubian statues and little black turbaned pages were the rage in London. The Boomer, Alleyn thought, would not be displeased.

A minstrels’ gallery ran round three sides of the saloon and Gibson explained that four of his men as well as the orchestra would be stationed up there.