Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 5: Died in the Wool, Final Curtain, Swing Brother Swing

‘You’ve finished crutching today, haven’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m afraid I want to take that slatted floor up.’

Fabian stared at him. ‘Why on earth?’

‘There may be something underneath.’

‘There are the sheep droppings of thirty years underneath.’

‘So I feared. Those of the last year are all that concern me. I’ll want a sieve and a spade and if you can lay your hands on a pair of rejected overalls, I’d be grateful.’

Fabian looked at Alleyn’s hands. ‘And gloves if it could be managed,’ Alleyn said. ‘I’m very sorry about taking up the floor. The police department will pay the damage, of course. It may only be one section – the one nearest the press. I think you might warn the others when we go in.’

‘May I ask what you hope to find?’

‘A light that failed,’ said Alleyn.

‘Am I supposed to understand that?’

‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t.’ They had reached the gate into the lavender walk. Alleyn turned and looked back at the track. He could see the open door into the annexe where they had left Albie Black weeping off the combined effects of confession, betrayal and the hangover from wood alcohol.

‘Was it methylated spirit they’d been drinking?’ he asked. ‘He and the cook?’

‘I wouldn’t put it past them. Or Hokanui.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The local equivalent of potheen.’

‘Why do you keep him?’

‘He doesn’t break out very often. We can’t pick our men in war-time.’

‘I’d love to lock him up,’ Alleyn said. ‘He stinks. He’s a toad.’

‘Then why do you listen to him?’

‘Do you suppose policemen only take statements from people they fall in love with? Come in. I want to get that call through before the bureau shuts.’

They found the members of the household assembled in the pleasant colonial-Victorian drawing-room, overlooking the lawn on the wool-shed side of the house.

‘We rather felt we couldn’t face the study again,’ Ursula said. ‘After last night, you know. We felt it could do with an airing. And I’m going to bed at eight. If Mr Alleyn lets me, of course. Does every one realize we got exactly five and a half hours of sleep last night?’

‘I should certainly refer that Flossie’s portrait did not preside over another session,’ Fabian agreed. ‘If there was to be another session, of course. Having never looked at it for three years I’ve suddenly become exquisitely self-conscious in its presence. I suppose, Ursy darling, you wouldn’t care to have it in your room?’

‘If that’s meant to be a joke, Fabian,’ said Ursula, ‘I’m not joining in it.’

‘You’re very touchy. Mr Alleyn is going to dash off a monograph on one of the less delicious aspects of the merino sheep, Douglas. We are to take up the floor of the wool-shed pens.’

Alleyn, standing in the doorway, watched the group round the fire. Mrs Aceworthy wore her almost habitual expression of half-affronted gentility. Terence Lynne, flashing the needles in her scarlet knitting, stared at him, and drew her thin brows together. Ursula Harme, arrested in the duelling mood she kept for Fabian, paused, her lips parted. Douglas dropped his newspaper and began his usual indignant expostulation: ‘What in Heaven’s name are you talking about, Fab? Good Lord –’

‘Yes, Douglas, my dear,’ said Fabian, ‘we know how agitating you find your present condition of perpetual astonishment, but there it is. Up with the slats and down goes poor Mr Alleyn.’

Douglas retired angrily behind his newspaper. ‘The whole thing’s a farce,’ he muttered obscurely. ‘I always said so.’ He crackled his paper. ‘Who’s going to do it?’

‘If you’ll trust me,’ said Alleyn, ‘I will.’

‘I don’t envy you your job, sir.’

‘The policeman’s lot,’ Alleyn said lightly.

‘I’ll tell the men to do it,’ Douglas grunted ungraciously from behind his paper. He peeped round the corner of it at Alleyn. The solitary, rather prominent eye he displayed was reminiscent of Florence Rubrick’s in her portrait. ‘I’ll give you a hand, if you like,’ he added.

‘That’s the spirit that forged the empire,’ said Fabian. ‘Good old Duggie.’

‘If you’ll excuse me,’ Alleyn said and moved into the hall. Fabian joined him there.

‘The telephone’s switched through to the study,’ he said. ‘I promise not to eavesdrop.’ He paused reflectively. ‘Eavesdrop!’ he muttered. ‘What a curious word! To drop from eaves. Reminds one of the swallows and, by a not too extravagant flight of fancy, of your job for the morrow. Give one long ring and the exchange at the Pass may feel moved to answer you.’

When Alleyn lifted the receiver it was to cut in on a cross-plateau conversation. A voice angrily admonished him: ‘Working!’ He hung up and waited. He could hear Fabian whistling in the hall. The telephone gave a brief tinkle and he tried again, this time with success. The operator at the Pass came through. Alleyn asked for a police station two hundred miles away, where he hoped Sub-Inspector Jackson might possibly be on duty. ‘I’ll call you,’ said the operator coldly. ‘This is a police call,’ said Alleyn, ‘I’ll hold the line.’ ‘Aren’t you Mount Moon?’ said the operator sharply. ‘Yes, and it’s still a police call, if you’ll believe me.’ ‘Not in trouble up there, are you, Mr Losse?’ ‘I’m as happy as a lark,’ said Alleyn, ‘but in a bit of a hurry.’ ‘Hold the line,’ giggled the operator. A vast buzzing set up in his ear, threaded with ghost voices. ‘That’ll be good-oh, then, Bob.’ ‘Eh?’ ‘I said, that’ll be jake.’ The operator’s voice cut in omnipotently. ‘There you are, Mr Losse. They’re waiting.’

Sub-Inspector Jackson was not there but PC Wetherbridge, who had been detailed to the case in town, answered the telephone and was helpful. ‘The radio programmes for the second week in January, ’42, Mr Alleyn? I think we can do that for you.’

‘For the evening of Thursday the 29th,’ Alleyn said, ‘between eight and nine o’clock. Only stations with good reception in this district.’

‘It may take us a wee while, Mr Alleyn.’

‘Of course. Would you tell the exchange at the Pass to keep itself open and call me back?’

‘That’ll be OK, sir.’

‘And Wetherbridge. I want you to get hold of Mr Jackson. Tell him it’s a very long chance, but I may want to bring someone in to the station. I’d very much like a word with him. I think it would be advisable for him to come up here. He asked me to let him know if there were developments. There are. If you can find him, he might come in on the line when you call me back.’

‘He’s at home, sir. I’ll ring him. I don’t think I’ll have much trouble over the other call.’

The voice faded, and Alleyn caught only the end of the sentence …‘a cobber of mine … all the back numbers … quick as I can make it.’

‘Three minutes, Mr Losse,’ said the operator. ‘Will I extend the call?’

‘Yes – No! All right, Wetherbridge. Splendid. I’ll wait.’

‘Working?’ demanded a new voice.

‘Like a black,’ said Alleyn crossly, and hung up.

He found Fabian sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, a cigarette in his mouth. He hummed a dreary little air to himself.