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

‘Sez you?’

They all turned to watch Mr Ogden. His good-natured face had settled down into a definitely hard-boiled expression. His lower lip stuck out, his eyes were half-closed. He spoke out of one corner of his mouth. He leant easily on the table, but the very seams of his coat looked tense. He did not remove his gaze from Father Garnette, but he addressed the table at large.

‘Folks,’ he said, ‘I guess we’re the Simps from Simpleton. Cable address Giggle-Giggle. No flowers by request.’

‘What the hell do you mean?’ asked Maurice Pringle.

De Ravigne swore very softly in French.

‘What do you mean?’ replied Mr Ogden, never taking his eyes off Garnette. ‘What do I mean? Aren’t you conscious yet? Who’s taken care of the keys ever since Cara parked those bonds in the safe? Didn’t we say, right now, Father Garnette had been wearing his keys for safety’s sake? Safety is right. ‘I reckon those bonds are so darned safe we’ll never see them any more.’

‘What do you mean, Mr Ogden?’ asked Miss Wade. ‘I’m afraid ‘I don’t quite follow. Has this money been stolen?’

‘Nope,’ answered Mr Ogden. ‘It’s just kind of disguised itself as the Daily Mail.’

‘But I don’t understand –’

‘Cara’s bonds have been stolen, Miss Wade,’ said Janey impatiently, ‘and newspaper substituted. You can see for yourself.’

‘Who has done this?’ demanded Father Garnette suddenly. He had drawn himself up to his full height. The resonance had come back to his voice, and something of the old dominance to his manner. He was wearing that dark-green garment – a sort of cassock that covered his neck and hung heavily about his feet. In a raffish, theatrical kind of fashion he looked extremely impressive. He puzzled Nigel, who had expected him to crumble up when the theft of the bonds was revealed. He had watched Garnette, and the priest was either dumbfounded or the best actor off the stage that Nigel had ever seen.

‘Who has done this?’ repeated Garnette. He turned his head and stared round the circle of Initiates.

‘I swear I never touched the safe,’ bleated Claude Wheatley in a hurry.

‘I suggest, Father, that you yourself are best situated to answer this question,’ said de Ravigne softly. ‘It makes itself apparent. As we have said and you have also agreed – you have kept these keys about your person since our poor Cara made her gift.’

‘How dare you!’ cried Mrs Candour shrilly. ‘How dare you suggest such a thing, M. de Ravigne? Father!’

‘Quiet, my child,’ said Father Garnette.

Maurice Pringle burst out laughing. The others stared at him scandalized.

‘Look at him,’ coughed Maurice, ‘look! To the pure all things are pure.’

‘Maurice!’ cried Janey.

‘Just a minute, please,’ said Alleyn.

They had forgotten all about Alleyn, but now they listened to him.

‘Mr Pringle,’ he said, ‘will you be good enough to pull yourself together? You are behaving like a hysterical adolescent. That’s better. I gather from what you have all said that no one is prepared to volunteer information about the missing bonds.’ Father Garnette began to speak, but Alleyn raised a finger. ‘Very well. I now wish to bring another exhibit to your notice. The book, if you please, Fox.’

Inspector Fox loomed forward and put a book into Alleyn’s hand. Alleyn held it up. It was a copy of Abberley’s Curiosities of Chemistry.

‘Quis?’ said Alleyn lightly.

Garnette turned and looked calmly at it. Mrs Candour gaped at it with her mouth open. Maurice stared at it as if it were an offensive relic, Janey looked blank, M. de Ravigne curious. Mr Ogden still glared at Father Garnette. Miss Wade balanced her pince-nez across her nose and leant forward to peer at the book. Claude Wheatley said: ‘What’s that? I can’t see.’

‘It is Abberley’s Curiosities of Chemistry,’ said Alleyn.

‘Hey?’ exclaimed Mr Ogden suddenly and wheeled round in his chair. He saw the book and his jaw dropped.

‘Why –’ he said. ‘Why –’

‘Yes, Mr Ogden?’

Mr Ogden looked exceedingly uncomfortable. A dead silence followed.

‘What is it?’ continued Alleyn patiently.

‘Why nothing, Chief. Except that I’m quite curious to know where you located that book.’

‘Anybody else know anything about it?’ asked Alleyn.

‘Yes,’ said Father Garnette, ‘I do.’

He was still on his feet. He stretched out his hand and Alleyn gave him the book.

‘This volume,’ said Father Garnette, ‘appeared in my shelves some weeks ago. It is not mine and I do not know where it came from. I did not even open it. I simply found it there.’

‘Next an unexpurgated translation of Petronius?’

‘Ah – preciselah!’ said Father Garnette.

He still held the book in his hands. Perhaps the habit of the pulpit caused him to let it fall open.

‘Who left this book in my room?’ he demanded.

‘Look at it,’ said Alleyn.

Garnette hesitated as though he wondered what Alleyn meant. Then he looked at the book. It had again fallen open at the page which gave the formula for sodium cyanide. For a moment Garnette scarcely seemed to take it in. Then with sudden violence he shut the book and dropped it on the table.

‘I am the victim of an infamous conspiracy,’ he said. The baa-ing vowel-sounds had disappeared, and the hint of a nasal inflection had taken their place.

‘You tell us,’ said Alleyn, ‘that this book was left in your shelves. When did you first discover it?’

‘I do not remembah,’ declared Garnette, rallying slightly.

‘Try to remember.’

‘It was there three Sundays ago, anyway,’ volunteered Claude.

‘Oh?’ said Alleyn. ‘How do you know that, Mr Wheatley?’

‘Because, I mean, I saw it. And I know it was three Sundays ago because you see I do temple service – cleaning the silver, you know – and all that, every fortnight. And it was while I was doing that, I found it, and it wasn’t last Sunday, so it must have been three Sundays ago.’

‘How did you come to find it?’