Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 11: Photo-Finish, Light Thickens, Black Beech and Honeydew

‘Monty?’ A marked change came over Mr Ruby. He glanced quickly at Alleyn as if he wondered whether he was unenlightened in some respect. He hesitated and then said quietly: ‘That’s different again, isn’t it?’

‘Is it? How, “different”?’

‘Well – you know.’

‘But I don’t know.’

‘It’s platonic. Couldn’t be anything else.’

‘I see.’

‘Poor old Monty. Result of an illness. Cruel thing, really.’

‘Indeed? So Maria had no cause to resent him.’

‘This is right. She admires him. They do, you know. Italians. Especially his class. They admire success and prestige more than anything else. It was a very different story when young Rupert came along. Maria didn’t worry about letting everyone see what she felt about that lot. I’d take long odds she’ll be telling you the kid done – did – it. That vindictive, she is. Fair go – I wouldn’t put it past her. Now.’

Alleyn considered for a moment or two. Signor Lattienzo had now joined Rupert Bartholomew on the lakeside and was talking energetically and clapping him on the shoulder. Mr Reece and Miss Dancy still paced their imaginary promenade deck and the little Sylvia Parry, perched dejectedly on a rustic seat, watched Rupert.

Alleyn said: ‘Was Madame Sommita tolerant of these outbursts from Maria?’

‘I suppose she must have been in her own way. There were terrible scenes, of course. That was to be expected, wasn’t it? Bella’d threaten Maria with the sack and Maria’d throw a fit of hysterics and then they’d both go weepy on it and we’d be back to square one with Maria standing behind Bella massaging her shoulders and swearing eternal devotion. Italians! My oath! But it was different, totally different – with the kid. I’d never seen her as far gone over anyone else as she was with him. Crazy about him. In at the deep end, boots and all. That’s why she took it so badly when he saw the light about that little opera of his and wanted to opt out. He was dead right, of course, but Bella hadn’t got any real musical judgement. Not really. You ask Beppo.’

‘What about Mr Reece?’

‘Tone deaf,’ said Mr Ruby.

‘Really?’

‘Fact. Doesn’t pretend to be anything else. He was annoyed with the boy for disappointing her, of course. As far as Monty was concerned the diva had said the opus was great, and what she said had got to be right. And then of course he didn’t like the idea of throwing a disaster of a party. In a way,’ said Mr Ruby, ‘it was the Citizen Kane situation with the boot on the other foot. Sort of.’ He waited for a moment and then said: ‘I feel bloody sorry for that kid.’

‘God knows, so do I,’ said Alleyn.

‘But he’s young. He’ll get over it. All the same, she’d a hell of a lot to answer for.’

‘Tell me. You knew her as well as anybody, didn’t you? Does the name “Rossi” ring a bell?’

‘Rossi,’ Mr Ruby mused. ‘Rossi, eh? Hang on. Wait a sec.’

As if to prompt, or perhaps warn him, raucous hoots sounded from the jetty across the water, giving the intervals without the cadence of the familiar singing-off phrase ‘Dah dahdy dah-dah. Dah dah.’

Les appeared on deck and could be seen to wave his scarlet cap.

The response from the islanders was instant. They hurried into a group. Miss Dancy flourished her woollen scarf. Mr Reece raised his arm in a Roman salute. Signor Lattienzo lifted his Tyrolean hat high above his head. Sylvia ran to Rupert and took his arm. Hanley moved out of cover and Troy, Mrs Bacon and Dr Carmichael came out of the house and pointed Les out to each other from the steps. Mr Ruby bawled out, ‘He’s done it. Good on ’im, ’e’s done it.’

Alleyn took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and a spare from his overcoat. He went down to the lake edge and semaphored: Nice Work. Les returned to the wheelhouse and sent a short toot of acknowledgement.

The islanders chattered excitedly, telling each other that the signal must mean the launch was mobile again, that the lake was undoubtedly calmer and that when the police did arrive they would be able to cross. The hope that they themselves would all be able to leave remained unspoken.

They trooped up to the house and were shepherded in by Mr Reece who said, with sombre playfulness, that ‘elevenses’ were now served in the library.

Troy and Dr Carmichael joined Alleyn. They seemed to be in good spirits. ‘We’ve finished our chores,’ Troy said, ‘and we’ve got something to report. Let’s have a quick swallow, and join up in the studio.’

‘Don’t make it too obvious,’ said Alleyn, who was aware that he was now under close though furtive observation by most of the household. He fetched two blameless tomato juices for himself and Troy. They joined Rupert and Sylvia Parry who were standing a little apart from the others and were not looking at each other. Rupert was still white about the gills but, or so Alleyn thought, rather less distraught – indeed there was perhaps a hint of portentousness, of self-conscious gloom in his manner.

She has provided him with an audience, thought Alleyn. Let’s hope she knows what she’s letting herself in for.

Rupert said: ‘I’ve told Sylvia about – last night.’

‘So I supposed,’ said Alleyn.

‘She thinks I was right.’

‘Good.’

Sylvia said: ‘I think it took wonderful courage and artistic integrity and I do think it was right.’

‘That’s a very proper conclusion.’

‘It won’t be long now, will it?’ Rupert asked. ‘Before the police come?’ He pitched his voice rather high and brittle with the sort of false airiness some actors employ when they hope to convey suppressed emotion.

‘Probably not,’ said Alleyn.

‘Of course, I’ll be the prime suspect,’ Rupert announced.

‘Rupert, no,’ Sylvia whispered.

‘My dear girl, it sticks out a mile. After my curtain performance. Motive. Opportunity. The lot. We might as well face it.’

‘We might as well not make public announcements about it,’ Troy observed.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Rupert grandly. ‘No doubt I’m being silly.’

‘Well,’ Alleyn cheerfully remarked, ‘you said it. We didn’t. Troy, hadn’t we better sort out those drawings of yours?’

‘OK. Let’s. I’d forgotten.’

‘She leaves them unfixed and tiles the floor with them,’ Alleyn explained. ‘Our cat sat on a preliminary sketch of the Prime Minister and turned it into a jungle flower. Come on, darling.’

They found Dr Carmichael already in the studio. ‘I didn’t want Reece’s “elevenses”,’ he said. And to Troy: ‘Have you told him?’

‘I waited for you,’ said Troy.

They were, Alleyn thought, as pleased as Punch with themselves. ‘You tell him,’ they said simultaneously. ‘Ladies first,’ said the doctor.

‘Come on,’ said Alleyn.

Troy inserted her thin hand in a gingerly fashion into a large pocket of her dress. Using only her first finger and her thumb she drew out something wrapped in one of Alleyn’s handkerchiefs. She was in the habit of using them as she preferred a large one and she had been known when intent on her work to confuse the handkerchief and her paint-rag, with regrettable results to the handkerchief and to her face.