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

‘All jolly fine for us to snigger. It’s pretty smashing, really, let’s face it. Not human, though. If only there was something shabby and out of character somewhere.’

‘Us,’ Alleyn said. ‘We’re all of that. Drink up. We’d better not be late.’

On their way downstairs they took in the full effect of the hall with its colossal blazing fireplace, display on the walls of various lethal weapons and hangings woven in the Maori fashion, and a large semi-abstract wood sculpture of a pregnant nude with a complacent smirk. From behind one of the doors there came sounds of conversation. An insistent male voice rose above the rest. There followed a burst of multiple laughter.

‘Good Lord,’ said Alleyn, ‘it’s a house party.’

The dark man who had taken their baggage up was in the hall.

‘In the drawing room, sir,’ he said unnecessarily and opened the door.

About a dozen or so people, predominantly male, were grouped at the far end of a long room. The focal point seemed to be a personage with a grey imperial beard and hair en brosse, wearing a velvet jacket and flowing tie, an eyeglass and a flower in his lapel. His manner was that of a practised raconteur who, after delivering a mot, is careful to preserve an expressionless face. His audience was barely recovered from its fits of merriment. The straw-coloured secretary, indeed, with glass in hand, gently tapped his fingers against his left wrist by way of applause. In doing this he turned, saw the Alleyns and bent over someone in a sofa with its back to the door.

A voice said: ‘Ah yes,’ and Mr Reece rose and came to greet them.

He was shortish and dark and had run a little to what is sometimes called expense-account fat. His eyes were large, and his face closed: a face that it would be easy to forget since it seemed to say nothing.

He shook hands and said how glad he was to receive them: to Troy he added that it was an honour and a privilege to welcome her. There were, perhaps, American overtones in his speech but on the whole his voice, like the rest of him, seemed neutral. He introduced the Alleyns formally to everybody. To the raconteur who was Signor Beppo Lattienzo and who kissed Troy’s hand. To a rotund gentleman who looked like an operatic tenor and turned out to be one: the celebrated Rodolfo Romano. To Mr Ben Ruby who was jocular and said they all knew Troy would do better than that: indicating a vast academic portrait of La Sommita’s gown topped up by her mask. Then came a young man of startling physical beauty who looked apprehensive – Rupert Bartholomew; a pretty girl whose name Troy, easily baffled by mass introductions, didn’t catch, and a largish lady on a sofa who was called Miss Hilda Dancy and had a deep voice, and finally there loomed up a gentleman with an even deeper voice and a jolly brown face who proclaimed himself a New Zealander and was called Mr Eru Johnstone.

Having discharged his introductory duties Mr Reece retained his hold on Alleyn, supervised his drink, led him a little apart and, as Troy could see by the sort of attentive shutter that came over her husband’s face, engaged him in serious conversation.

‘You have had a very long day, Mrs Alleyn,’ said Signor Lattienzo who spoke with a marked Italian accent. ‘Do you feel as if all your time signals had become –’ he rotated plump hands rapidly round each other – ‘jumbled together?’

‘Exactly like that,’ said Troy. ‘Jet hangover, I think.’

‘It will be nice to retire?’

‘Gosh, yes!’ she breathed, surprised into ardent agreement.

‘Come and sit down,’ he said, and led her to a sofa removed from that occupied by Miss Dancy.

‘You must not begin to paint before you are ready,’ he said. ‘Do not permit them to bully you.’

‘Oh, I’ll be ready, I hope, tomorrow.’

‘I doubt it and I doubt even more if your subject will be available.’

‘Why?’ asked Troy quickly. ‘Is anything the matter? I mean –’

‘The matter? That depends on one’s attitude.’ He looked fixedly at her. He had very bright eyes. ‘You have not heard evidently of the great event,’ he said. ‘No? Ah. Then I must tell you that the night after next we are to be audience at the first performance on any stage of a brand-new one-act opera. A world première, in fact,’ said Signor Lattienzo and his tone was exceedingly dry. ‘What do you think about that?’

‘I’m flabbergasted,’ said Troy.

‘You will be even more so when you have heard it. You do not know who I am, of course.’

‘I’m afraid I only know that your name is Lattienzo.’

‘Ah-ha.’

‘I expect I ought to have exclaimed, “No! Not the Lattienzo?”’

‘Not at all. I am that obscure creature a vocal pedagogue. I take the voice and teach it to know itself.’

‘And did you – ?’

‘Yes. I took to pieces the most remarkable vocal instrument of these times and put it together again and gave it back to its owner. I worked her like a horse for three years and I am probably the only living person to whom she pays the slightest professional attention. I am commanded here because she wishes me to fall into a rapture over this opera.’

‘Have you seen it? Or should one say “read it”?’

He cast up his eyes and made a gesture of despair.

‘Oh dear,’ said Troy.

‘Alas, alas,’ agreed Signor Lattienzo. Troy wondered if he was habitually so unguarded with complete strangers.

‘You have, of course,’ he said, ‘noticed the fair young man with the appearance of a quattrocento angel and the expression of a soul in torment?’

‘I have indeed. It’s a remarkable head.’

‘What devil, one asks oneself, inserted into it the notion that it could concoct an opera. And yet,’ said Signor Lattienzo, looking thoughtfully at Rupert Bartholomew, ‘I fancy the first-night horrors the poor child undoubtedly suffers are not of the usual kind.’

‘No?’

‘No. I fancy he has discovered his mistake and feels deadly sick.’

‘But this is dreadful,’ Troy said. ‘It’s the worst that can happen.’

‘Can it happen to painters, then?’

‘I think painters know while they are still at it, if the thing they are doing is no good. I know I do,’ said Troy. ‘There isn’t perhaps the time-lag that authors and, from what you tell me, musicians can go through before they come to the awful moment of truth. Is the opera really so bad?’

‘Yes. It is bad. Nevertheless, here and there, perhaps three times, one hears little signs that make one regret he is being spoilt. Nothing is to be spared him. He is to conduct.’

‘Have you spoken to him? About it being wrong?’

‘Not yet. First I shall let him hear it.’

‘Oh,’ Troy protested, ‘but why! Why let him go through with it. Why not tell him and advise him to cancel the performance.’

‘First of all, because she would pay no attention.’

‘But if he refused?’

‘She has devoured him, poor dear. He would not refuse. She has made him her secretary-accompanist-composer, but beyond all that and most destructively, she has taken him for her lover and gobbled him up. It is very sad,’ said Signor Lattienzo and his eyes were bright as coal nuggets. ‘But you see,’ he added, ‘what I mean when I say that La Sommita will be too much engagée to pose for you until all is over. And then she may be too furious to sit still for thirty seconds. The first dress rehearsal was yesterday. Tomorrow will be occupied in alternately resting and making scenes and attending a second dress rehearsal. And the next night – the performance! Shall I tell you of their first meeting and how it has all come about?’

‘Please.’

‘But first I must fortify you with a drink.’