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

‘And that she had – um –?’

‘Accosted you in the pet-shop? Yes.’

‘Quite so.’

‘Well, I dare say she’ll have another fling if she spots you tonight. You might introduce us, if she does.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’

After about ten minutes, Mr Whipplestone said that there the Cockburn-Montforts, in fact, were, some thirty feet away and drifting in their direction. Alleyn suggested that they move casually towards them.

‘Well, my dear fellow, if you insist.’

So it was done. Mrs Cockburn-Montfort spotted Mr Whipplestone and bowed. They saw her speak to her husband, obviously suggesting they should effect an encounter.

‘Good evening!’ she cried as they approached. ‘What odd places we meet in, don’t we? Animal shops and Embassies.’ And when they were actually face to face: ‘I’ve told my husband about you and your piteous little pusscat. Darling, this is Mr Whipplestone, our new boy at No. 1, The Walk. Remember?’

‘Hiyar,’ said Colonel Cockburn-Montfort.

Mr Whipplestone, following what he conceived to be Alleyn’s wishes, modestly deployed his social expertise. ‘How do you do,’ he said, and to the lady: ‘Do you know, I feel quite ashamed of myself. I didn’t realize, when we encountered, that your husband was the Cockburn-Montfort. Of Ng’ombwana,’ he added, seeing that she looked nonplussed.

‘Oh. Didn’t you? We rather tend to let people forget the Cockburn half. So often and so shy-makingly mispronounced,’ said Mrs Cockburn-Montfort, gazing up first at Alleyn and then at Mr Whipplestone, who thought: At least they both seem to be sober; and he reflected that very likely they were never entirely drunk. He introduced Alleyn and at once she switched all her attention to him, occasionally throwing a haggard, comradely glance at Troy upon whom, after a long, glazed look, the Colonel settled his attention.

In comparison with the Sanskrits they were, Mr Whipplestone thought, really not so awful or perhaps, more accurately, they were awful in a more acceptable way. The Colonel, whose voice was hoarse, told Troy that he and his wife had been hard on the Alleyns’ heels when they were greeted by the President. He was evidently curious about the cordiality of their reception and began, without much subtlety, to fish. Had she been to Ng’ombwana? If so, why had they never met? He would certainly not have forgotten if they had, he added, and performed the gesture of brushing up his moustache at the corners while allowing his eyes to goggle slightly. He became quite persistent in his gallantries and Troy thought the best way to cut them short was to say that her husband had been at school with the President.

‘Ah!’ said the Colonel. ‘Really? That explains it.’ It would have been hard to say why she found the remark offensive.

A hush fell on the assembly and the band in the gallery became audible. It had approached the contemporary period and was discussing My Fair Lady when the President and his entourage entered the salon. They made a scarcely less than royal progress to the dais under the trophies. At the same time, Alleyn noticed, Fred Gibson turned up in the darkest part of the gallery and stood, looking down at the crowd. ‘With a Little Bit of Luck,’ played the band, and really, Alleyn thought, it might have been Fred’s signature-tune. The players faded out obsequiously as The Boomer reached the dais.

The ceremonial spear-carrier had arrived and stood, motionless and magnificent, in a panoply of feathers, armlets, anklets, necklets and lion-skins against the central barbaric trophy. The Boomer seated himself. The Ambassador advanced to the edge of the dais. The conductor drew an admonitory flourish from his players.

‘Your Excellency, Mr President, Sir. My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,’ said the Ambassador and went on to welcome his President, his guests and, in general terms, the excellent rapprochement that obtained between his government and that of the United Kingdom, a rapprochement that encouraged the promotion of an ever-developing – his theme became a little foggy round the edges but he brought it to a sonorous conclusion and evoked a round of discreet applause.

The Boomer then rose. Troy thought to herself: I’m going to remember this. Sharply. Accurately. Everything. That great hussar’s busby of grey hair. Those reflected lights in the hollows of temple and cheek. The swelling blue tunic, white paws and glittering hardware. And the background, for Heaven’s sake! No, but I’ve got to. I’ve got to.

She looked at her husband who raised one eyebrow and muttered: ‘I’ll ask.’

She squeezed his hand violently.

The Boomer spoke briefly. Such was the magnificence of his voice that the effect was less than that of a human instrument than of some enormous double-bass. He spoke predictably of enduring bonds of fellowship in the Commonwealth and less formally of the joys of revisiting the haunts of his youth. Pursuing this theme, to Alleyn’s deep misgiving, he dwelt on his schooldays and of strongly cemented, never to be broken, friendships. At which point, having obviously searched the audience and spotted his quarry, he flashed one of his startling grins straight at the Alleyns. A general murmur was induced and Mr Whipplestone, highly diverted, muttered something about ‘the cynosure of all eyes’. A few sonorous generalities rounded off the little speech. When the applause had subsided, the Ambassador announced a removal to the gardens and simultaneously the curtains were drawn back and the six pairs of french windows flung open. An enchanting prospect was revealed. Golden lights, star-shaped and diminishing in size, receded into the distance and were reflected in the small lake, itself subscribing to the false perspective that culminated, at the far end, in the brilliantly lit scarlet and white pavilion. Vistas of Baronsgate had done themselves proud.

‘The stage-management, as one feels inclined to call it,’ said Mr Whipplestone, ‘is superb. I look forward excitedly to seeing you both in the pavilion.’

‘You’ve had too much champagne,’ Alleyn said and Mr Whipplestone made a little crowing noise.

The official party passed into the garden and the guests followed in their wake. Alleyn and Troy were duly collected by the ADC and led to the pavilion. Here, they were enthusiastically greeted by The Boomer and introduced to ten distinguished guests, among whom Alleyn was amused to find his brother George, whose progress as a career-diplomat had hoisted him into more than one Ambassadorial post. The other guests consisted of the last of the British governors in Ng’ombwana and representatives of associated African independencies.

It would be incorrect to say that The Boomer was enthroned in his pavilion. His chair was not raised above the others but it was isolated and behind it stood the ceremonial spear-bearer. The guests in arrow formation flanked the President. From the house and to the guests seated on their side of the lake they must present, Alleyn thought, a remarkable picture.

The musicians had descended from their gallery into the garden and were grouped, modestly, near the house among trees that partly concealed the lavatorial louvre windows Gibson had pointed out to Alleyn.

When the company was settled, a large screen was wheeled in front of the french windows, facing down the lake towards the pavilion. A scene in the Ng’ombwanan wild-lands was now projected on this screen. A group of live Ng’ombwanan drummers then appeared before it, the garden lights were dimmed and the drummer performed. The drums throbbed and swelled, pulsed and thudded, disturbing in their monotony, unseemly in their context: a most unsettling noise. It grew to a climax. A company of warriors, painted and armed, erupted from the dark and danced. Their feet thumped down on the mown turf. From the shadow, people, Ng’ombwanans presumably, began to clap the rhythm. More and more of the guests, encouraged perhaps by champagne and the anonymity of the shadows, joined in this somewhat inelegant response. The performance crashed to a formidable conclusion.

The Boomer threw out a few explanatory observations. Champagne was again in circulation.

Apart from the President himself, Ng’ombwana had produced one other celebrity: a singer, by definition a bass but with the astonishing vocal range of just over four octaves, an attribute that he exploited without the least suggestion of break or transition. His native name, being unpronounceable by Europeans, had been simplified as Karbo and he was world-famous.

He was now to appear.

He came from the darkened ballroom and was picked up in front of the screen by a strong spotlight: a black man in conventional evening dress, with a quite extraordinary air of distinction.

All the golden stars and all the lights in the house were out. The orchestra lamps were masked. Only the single lamp by the President, complained of by Gibson, remained alight, so that he – the President – and the singer, at opposite ends of the lake, were the only persons to be seen in the benighted garden.

The orchestra played an introductory phrase.

A single deep sustained note of extraordinary strength and beauty floated from the singer.

While it still hung on the air a sound like that of a whiplash cracked out and somewhere in the house a woman screamed and screamed and screamed.

The light in the pavilion went out.

What followed was like the outbreak of a violent storm: a confusion of voices, of isolated screams, less insistent than the continuous one, of shouted orders, of chairs overturned, of something or someone falling into water. Of Alleyn’s hand on Troy’s shoulder. Then of his voice: ‘Don’t move, Troy. Stay there.’ And then, unmistakably, The Boomer’s great voice roaring out something in his own tongue and Alleyn saying: ‘No, you don’t. No!’ Of a short guttural cry near at hand and a thud. And then from many voices like the king and courtiers in the play: ‘Lights! Lights! Lights!’

They came up, first in the ballroom and then overhead in the garden. They revealed some of the guests still seated on either side of the lake but many on their feet talking confusedly. They revealed also the great singer, motionless, still in his spotlight and a number of men who emerged purposefully from several directions, some striding up to the pavilion and some into the house.

And in the pavilion itself men with their backs to Troy shutting her in, crowding together and hiding her husband from her. Women making intermittent exclamations in the background.

She heard her brother-in-law’s voice raised in conventional admonition: ‘Don’t panic, anybody. Keep calm. No need to panic,’ and even in her confusion thought that however admirable the advice, he did unfortunately sound ridiculous.

His instructions were in effect repeated, not at all ridiculously, by a large powerful man who appeared beside the singer.

‘Keep quiet, and stay where you are, ladies and gentlemen, if you please,’ said this person, and Troy at once recognized The Yard manner.

The screaming woman had moved away somewhere inside the house. Her cries had broken down into hysterical and incomprehensible speech. They became more distant and were finally subdued.

And now, the large purposeful man came into the pavilion. The men who had blocked Troy’s view backed away and she saw that they had all been looking at it.

A prone figure, face down, arms spread, dressed in a flamboyant uniform, split down the back by a plumed spear. The sky blue tunic had a glistening patch round the place of entry. The plume, where it touched the split, was red.

Alleyn was kneeling by the figure.

The large purposeful man moved in front of her and shut off this picture. She heard Alleyn’s voice: ‘Better clear the place.’ After a moment he was beside her, holding her arm and turning her away. ‘All right?’ he said. ‘Yes,’ she nodded and found herself being shepherded out of the pavilion with the other guests.

When they had gone Alleyn returned to the spiked figure and again knelt beside it.

He looked up at his colleague and slightly shook his head.