She bent over Pringle.

“Maurice. Maurice darling, let’s go.”

“Let me alone, Janey.”

“Of course I won’t. I want you to take me home.”

She spoke softly to him for a minute and then he got up. She took his arm. Alleyn stood aside.

“I could murder you for this,” said Janey.

“Oh, my child, don’t talk like that!” exclaimed Alleyn with so much feeling that Nigel stared.

Janey looked again at the inspector. Perhaps she saw something in his dark face that made her change her mind.

“All right, I won’t,” said Janey.

CHAPTER VIII

The Temperament of M. de Ravigne

After Maurice had been searched and sent home Nigel approached Alleyn with a certain air of imbecile fractiousness that he assumed whenever he wished to annoy the inspector.

“Will somebody,” asked Nigel plaintively, “be good enough to explain that young man’s behaviour to me?”

“What?” asked Alleyn absently.

“I want to know your explanation for Pringleism. Why did Pringle ask you to look at him? Why did you look at him? What did you say to Pringle? And why did Pringle cry?”

“Fox,” said Alleyn, “will you take Form One for this evening?”

“Very good,” said Fox, returning from his god. “What is it you were inquiring about, Mr. Bathgate?”

“Pringleism.”

“Meaning the young gentleman’s behaviour, sir? Well, it was rather unusual I must say. My idea is he takes something that isn’t good for him.”

“What do you mean, Inspector Fox? Something dietetically antagonistic? Oysters and whisky?”

“Heroin and hot air,” snapped Alleyn. “Oh, Mr. Garnette, Mr. Garnette, it shall go hard if I do not catch you bending.”

“I say!” said Nigel. “Do you think Garnette—”

“Let us have the French gentleman, please, Bailey,” interrupted Alleyn.

Monsieur de Ravigne emerged with an air of sardonic aloofness. He was a good-looking man, tall for a Frenchman and extremely well groomed. He saw Alleyn and walked quickly down towards him.

“You wish to speak to me, Inspector Alleyn?”

“If you please, M. de Ravigne. Will you sit down?”

“After you, monsieur.”

“No, no, monsieur, please.”

They murmured and skirmished while Fox gazed at them in mild enchantment. At last they both sat down. M. de Ravigne crossed his legs and displayed an elegant foot.

“And now, sir?” he inquired.

“You are very obliging, monsieur. It is the merest formality. A few questions that we are obliged to ask in our official capacity. I am sure you understand.”

“Perfectly. Let us discharge this business.”

“Immediately. First, were you aware of any unusual or peculiar odour during the ceremony of the cup?”

“You allude, of course, to the odour of prussic acid,” said M. de Ravigne.

“Certainly. May I ask how you realise the poison used was a cyanide?”

“I believe you yourself mentioned it, monsieur. If you did not it is no matter. I understood immediately that Cara was poisoned by cyanide. No other poison is so swift, and after she fell—” he broke off, became a little paler and then went on composedly “—after she fell, I bent over her and then — and then — I smelt it.”

“I see. But not until then?”

“Not until then — no. The odour of the incense — sweet almond the acolyte tells me — was overpowering and, strangley enough, similar.”

De Ravigne turned stiffly towards Alleyn.

“My Cara was murdered. That I know well. It is possible, Mr. Inspector, that this similarity is a little too strange?”

“It is a point I shall remember, monsieur. You have used the expression ‘My Cara.’ Am I to understand that between you and Miss Quayne—”

“But yes. I adored her. I asked her many times to do me the honour of becoming my wife. She was, unhappily, indifferent to me. She was devout, you understand, altogether dedicated to the religious life. I see you look fixedly at me, monsieur. You are thinking perhaps that I am too calm. You have the idea of the excitable Frenchman. I should wave my hands and weep and roll about my eyes and even have a hysteric, like that little animal of a Claude.”

“No, Monsieur de Ravigne. Those were not my thoughts.”

“N’importe,” murmured de Ravigne.

“On n’est pas dupe de son caeur—” began Alleyn.

“I see I misjudged you, M. l’Inspecteur. You have not the conventional idea of my countrymen. Also you speak with a charming and correct accent.”

“You are too kind, monsieur. Has the possibility of suicide occurred to you?”

“Why should she wish to die? She was beautiful and — loved.”

“And not poor?”

“I believe, not poor.”

“Did you notice her movements when she held the cup?”

“No. I did not watch,” said de Ravigne.

“You are religious yourself, of course, or you would not be here?” remarked Alleyn after a pause.

M. de Ravigne delicately moved his shoulders: “I am intrigued with this church and its ceremonial. Also the idea of one godhead embracing all gods appeals to my temperament. One must have a faith, I find. It is not in my temperament to be an atheist.”

“When did you first attend the services?”

“It must be — yes, I think about two years ago.”

“And you became an Initiate — when?”

“Three months ago, perhaps.”

“Are you a subscriber to the organisation? We must ask these questions, as I am sure you understand.”

“Certainly, monsieur, one must do one’s job. I subscribe a little, yes. Five shillings in the offertory always and at special times a pound. Fifty pounds when I first came. This temple was then recently established. I presented the goblet — an old one in my own family.”

“A beautiful piece. Baroque at its best,” said Alleyn.

“Yes. It has its history, that cup. Also I gave a statuette. In the shrine on your right, monsieur.”

Alleyn looked at the wall and found M. de Ravigne’s statuette. It was cast in bronze with a curious plucked technique and represented a nebulous nude figure wearing a winged helmet from which there emerged other and still more nebulous forms.

“Ah yes,” said Alleyn, “most interesting. Who is the artist?”

“Myself in ecstasy, monsieur,” replied M. de Ravigne coolly.

Alleyn glanced at his shrewd, dark face and murmured politely.

“My temperament,” continued M. de Ravigne, “is artistic. I am, I fear, a dilettante. I model a little, comme ci, comme ça, I write a little, trifles of elegance. I collect. I am not rich, M. l’Inspecteur, but I amuse myself.”

“A delightful existence. I envy you, monsieur. But we must get back to business.”

A dim bass rumble from the rear seemed to suggest that Inspector Fox had essayed: “Revenons a nos moutons,” and had got lost on the way.

“I understand,” said Alleyn, “that Miss Quayne has no relations in England. There must be someone surely?”

“On the contrary. She has told me that there are none. Cara was an only child and an orphan. She was educated abroad at a convent. Her guardians are both dead.”

“You met her abroad perhaps?”

“Yes. In France years ago at the house of a friend.”

“Did Miss Quayne introduce you to this hall?”

“No, monsieur. Alas, it was I who introduced her to the ceremonies.”

“Returning to her connections, monsieur. Is there no one with whom we should get in touch?”

“Her notary — her solicitor.”

“Of course. Do you know who that is?”

“I have heard. One moment. It is tiens! a name like Rats. No. Rattingtown. No.”

“Not Rattisbon by any chance?”

“That is it. You know him?”

“Slightly. Where will the money go, Monsieur de Ravigne?” M. de Ravigne hitched up his shoulders, elevated his brows, protruded his eyes and pursed his lips.

“I see,” said Alleyn.

“This I do know,” conceded M. de Ravigne. “Much will go to this church. Five thousand pounds are reposed in the safe here in bearer bonds to await a further subscription. But there will be more for this church. Once Cara told me she had altered her Will for the purpose. It was then I heard the name of this Mr. Rats.”