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

‘I was when I courted my wife.’

Troy, in her green gown, sat on her bed and pulled on her long gloves. ‘It’s worked out all right,’ she said. ‘Us. Wouldn’t you say?’

‘I would say.’

‘What a bit of luck for us.’

‘All of that.’

He buttoned up her gloves for her. ‘You look lovely,’ he said. ‘Shall we go?’

‘Is our svelte hired limousine at the door?’

‘It is.’

‘Whoops, then, hark chivvy away.’

Palace Park Gardens had been closed to general traffic by the police so the usual crowd of onlookers was not outside the Ng’ombwanan Embassy. The steps were red-carpeted, a flood of light and strains of blameless and dated melodies, streamed through the great open doorway. A galaxy of liveried men, black and white, opened car doors and slammed them again.

‘Oh, Lord. I’ve forgotten the damn card!’ Troy exclaimed.

‘I’ve got it. Here we go.’

The cards, Alleyn saw, were being given a pretty hard look by the men who received them and were handed on to other men seated unobtrusively at tables. He was amused to see, hovering in the background, Superintendent Gibson in tails and a white tie, looking a little as if he might be an Old Dominion Plenipotentiary.

Those guests wishing for the cloakrooms turned off to the right and left and on re-entering the hall were martialled back to the end of the double file of Ng’ombwanan guards where they gave their names to a superb black major-domo who roared them out with all the resonant assurance of a war drum.

Troy and Alleyn had no trappings to shed and passed directly into the channel of approach.

And there, at the far end of the flight of steps leading to the great saloon, was The Boomer himself, in great state, backed by his spear-carrier and wearing a uniform that might have been inspired by the Napoleonic Old Guard upon whom had been lightly laid the restraining hand of Sandhurst.

Troy muttered: ‘He’s wonderful. Gosh, he’s glorious!’

She’d like to paint him, thought Alleyn.

The patiently anxious Ambassador, similarly if less gorgeously uniformed, was stationed on The Boomer’s right. Their personal staff stood about in magnificent attitudes behind them.

‘Mis-tar and Mrs Roderick Alleyn.’

That huge and beguiling smile opened and illuminated The Boomer’s face. He said loudly: ‘No need for an introduction here,’ and took Alleyn’s hands in both his gloved paws.

‘And this is the famous wife!’ he resonantly proclaimed. ‘I am so glad. We meet later. I have a favour to ask. Yes?’

The Alleyns moved on, conscious of being the object of a certain amount of covert attention.

‘Rory?’

‘Yes, I know. Extra special, isn’t he?’

‘Whew!’

‘What?’

‘“Whew.” Incredulous whistle.’

‘Difficult, in competition with Gilbert and Sullivan.’

They had passed into the great saloon. In the minstrels’ gallery instrumentalists, inconspicuously augmented by a clutch of Gibson’s silent henchmen, were discussing The Gondoliers.

‘When everyone is somebodee

Then no one’s anybody,’

they brightly and almost inaudibly chirped.

Trays with champagne were circulated. Jokes about constabular boots and ill-fitting liveries were not appropriate. Among the white servants it was impossible to single out Fred Gibson’s men.

How to diagnose the smell of a grand assembly? Beyond the luxurious complexity of cosmetics, scent, flowers, hairdressers’ lotions, remote foods and alcohol, was there something else, something peculiar to this particular occasion? Somewhere in these rooms were they burning that stuff-what was it? – sandarac? That was it. Alleyn had last smelt it in the Presidential palace in Ng’ombwana. That and the indefinably alien scent of persons of a different colour. The curtains were drawn across the french windows but the great room was not overheated as yet. People moved about it like well-directed extras in the central scene of some feature film.

They encountered acquaintances: the subject of a portrait Troy had painted some years ago for the Royal Commonwealth Society; Alleyn’s great white chief and his wife; someone he knew in the Foreign Office and, unexpectedly, his brother, Sir George Alleyn: tall, handsome, ambassadorial and entirely predictable. Troy didn’t really mind her brother-in-law but Alleyn always found him a bit of an ass.

‘Good Lord!’ said Sir George. ‘Rory!’

‘George.’

‘And Troy, my dear. Looking too lovely. Charming! Charming! And what, may one ask, are you doing, Rory, in this galère?’

‘They got me in to watch the teaspoons, George.’

‘Jolly good, ha-ha. Matter of fact,’ said Sir George, bending archly down to Troy, ‘between you and me and the gatepost I’ve no idea why I’m here myself. Except that we’ve all been asked.’

‘Do you mean your entire family, George?’ inquired his brother. ‘Twins and all?’

‘So amusing. I mean,’ he told Troy, ‘the corps diplomatique or at least those of us who’ve had the honour to represent Her Majesty’s Government in “furrin parts”,’ said Sir George, again becoming playful. ‘Here we all are!’ Why, we don’t quite know!’ he gaily concluded.

‘To raise the general tone, I expect,’ said Alleyn gravely. ‘Look, Troy, there’s Sam Whipplestone. Shall we have a word with him?’

‘Do let’s.’

‘See you later, perhaps, George.’

‘I understand there’s to be some sort of fête champêtre.’

‘That’s right. Mind you don’t fall in the pond.’

Troy said when they were at a safe remove, ‘If I were George I’d thump you.’

Mr Whipplestone was standing near the dais in front of the Ng’ombwanan display of arms. His faded hair was beautifully groomed and his rather withdrawn face wore a gently attentive air. His eyeglass was at the alert. When he caught sight of the Alleyns he smiled delightedly, made a little bow, and edged towards them.