Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 2: Death in Ecstasy, Vintage Murder, Artists in Crime

‘No, no,’ said Father Garnette. ‘No, no.’

‘We shan’t keep you very much longer. I wonder if you will allow me to make an inspection of these rooms? I’m afraid it ought to be done.’

‘An inspection! But really, Inspector, is that necessarah? I must confess I –’ Father Garnette stopped and then added a throaty sound suggestive of sweet reasonableness coupled with distress.

‘You object?’ said Alleyn briskly. ‘Then I shall have to leave my men here for the time being. I’m so sorry.’

‘But – I cannot understand –’

‘You see I’m afraid there is little doubt that this is a case of homicide. That means there is a certain routine that we are obliged to follow. A search of the premises is part of this routine. Of course, if you object –’

‘I – no – I –’

‘You don’t?’

‘Not if – no. It is merely that this little dwelling is very precious to me. It is filled with the thoughts – the meditations of a specially dedicated life. One shrinks a little from the thought of – ah –’

‘Of fools stepping in where – but no, of course this is one of the places where angels tread all over the place. We’ll be as quick as we can. You can help us if you will. The bedroom is through there, I suppose.’

‘Yes.’

‘Any other rooms?’

‘The usual offices,’ said Father Garnette grandly: ‘bathroom, etceterah, etceterah.’

‘Any back door?’

‘Ah – yes.’

‘Is it locked?’

‘Invariablah.’

‘Have a look, will you, Fox? I’ll take this room’

Fox dived past a black velvet portière. The constable, at a nod from Alleyn, followed him.

‘Would you rather stay here?’ asked Alleyn of Father Garnette. Father Garnette cast a somewhat distracted glance round the room and said he thought he would.

‘Finished with me, Alleyn?’ asked Dr Curtis.

‘Yes, thanks, Curtis. Inquest on Tuesday, I suppose. They’ll want a post-mortem, of course.’

‘Of course. I’ll be off.’

‘Lucky creature. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight. Goodnight, Father Garnette.’

‘Goodnight, my dear doctor,’ ejaculated Father Garnette on a sudden gush of geniality.

The little divisional surgeon hurried away. Nigel attempted to make himself inconspicuous by standing in a corner and was at once told to come out of it and give a hand.

‘Make a note of anything I tell you about. Now, Mr Garnette, I understand that in preparing the wine for tonight’s ceremony Mr Wheatley used two ingredients. Where did he find the bottles?’

Father Garnette pointed to a very nice Jacobean cupboard. It was unlocked. Alleyn opened the doors and revealed an extremely representative cellar. All the ingredients for the more elaborate cocktails, some self-respecting port, the brandy that had been recommended by Dr Curtis, and a dozen bottles of an aristocrat in hocks. On a shelf by themselves stood four bottles of dubious appearance – ‘Le Comte’s Invalid Port.’ One was empty.

‘That will be the one broached tonight?’ asked Alleyn.

‘Ah – yes,’ said Father Garnette.

Alleyn moved the others to one side and discovered a smaller label-less bottle, half full. He took it out carefully, holding it by the extreme end of the neck. The cork came out easily. Alleyn sniffed at the orifice and raised an eyebrow.

‘Big magic, Mr Garnette,’ he remarked.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Did this provide the second ingredient in the potion mixed by Mr Wheatley?’

‘A – broomp,’ said Father Garnette, clearing his vocal passage, ‘yes. That is so.’

Alleyn drew a pencil from his pocket, dipped it into the bottle and then sucked it pensively.

‘How much of this was used?’ he asked.

Father Garnette inclined his head.

‘The merest soupçon,’ he said. ‘It is perfectly pure.’

‘The best butter,’ murmured Alleyn. He put the bottle in his bag, which Fox had left on the table.

‘You have a complete cellar without it, I see,’ he said coolly.

Ah yes. Will you take something, Inspector? This has been a trying evening – for all of us.’

‘No, thank you so much.’

‘Mr – ah – Bathgate?’

Nigel’s tongue arched longingly but he too refused a drink.

‘I am very much shaken,’ said Father Garnette. ‘I feel wretchard. Quite wretchard.’

‘You had better have a peg yourself, perhaps,’ suggested Alleyn. Father Garnette passed his hand wearily across his forehead and then let his arm flop on the desk.

‘Perhaps I had, perhaps I had,’ he said with a sort of brave smile. He poured himself out a pretty stiff nip, took a pull at it, and sat down at the table.

Alleyn went on with his investigation of the room. He moved to the desk. Father Garnette watched him.