Alleyn cast his eyes up but said nothing.
“Don’t make that maddening grimace, Alleyn. What are you getting at? Do you or do you not suspect Mr. Ogden?”
“I suspect the whole lot of them. Apart from the one point I have noted I don’t think he’s any likelier than the others.”
“Surely he’s likelier than Janey Jenkins and Miss Wade.”
There was a tap at the door and Inspector Fox came in.
“Another report from Bailey, sir,” he said. “Good morning, Mr. Bathgate.”
“What’s Bailey say?” asked Alleyn.
“Nothing new. He’s got to work properly on the prints. Very smart chap, Bailey. He’s found Father Garnette’s prints on the parcel of newspaper, and he thinks there’s a trace of them on the top of the poison book. Nothing on the cyanide page, as you know. Miss Quayne’s on the page torn out of the notebook.”
“When did he get a pattern to compare them with?” asked Nigel.
“That would be from the body, sir.”
“Oh, of course.”
“There’s another print come out of the book,” Fox continued, “and he hasn’t been able to trace it. He’d like to get impressions from the rest of them.”
“He shall have them,” said Alleyn, “this afternoon. When’s the inquest? Tomorrow at eleven?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Well, we’d better call it a day here.”
“Have you found anything?” Nigel asked. “Any clues?”
“Nothing spectacular. De Ravigne’s love letters. A smug and guarded epistle from the Garnette.”
“May I see M. de Ravigne’s letters, sir?” asked Fox.
“There you are. The one on the top’s the most interesting.”
Fox seated himself at the table, adjusted a large pair of spectacles and spread out the first of the letters. Nigel strolled up behind him.
“What are you up to?” inquired Alleyn.
“Nothing,” said Nigel, reading frantically at long range.
M. de Ravigne wrote a large flowing hand. It was dated Friday of last week.
My adored Cara (the letter began), I distress myself intolerably on your behalf. It is not that you reject me, for that is the fortunes of love which are ever as hazardous as those of war. To accept defeat I can compose myself with dignity and remain, however wounded, your devoted friend. So far have I adopted, at all events outwardly, your English phlegm. It is as your friend I implore you to continue no longer in your design for the role of Chosen Vessel. It is a project fraught with danger to yourself. You are blinded with a false glamour. One may amuse oneself and interest oneself in a religion, but there should be a careful moderation in this as in all things. In becoming the Chosen Vessel you would cast away your moderation and abandon yourself to detestable extremities. I beg, I implore you to refuse this role, so injurious to your amour propre. You do not comprehend what you undertake. I repeat you are in danger to lose that which one most prizes. You are in a grave peril. I kiss your hand and entreat again that you take the advice of
Your devoted,
Raoul.
I beg that you destroy this as all other of my letters.
“And she didn’t,” said Nigel.
CHAPTER XV
Father Garnette Explores the Contents of a Mare’s Nest
“No,” said Alleyn, “she kept his letters. Women keep love letters for much the same reason as a servant keeps references. They help to preserve, as M. de Ravigne might say, the amour propre; and can always be produced upon occasion.”
“Angela never shows my letters to anyone,” said Nigel hotly. “Never.”
“Not to her bosomest friend? No? You are fortunate. Perhaps she hopes they may be found, smelling faintly of orrisroot, if she predeceases you.”
“That is a remark in bad taste, I consider.”
“I agree and apologise. You don’t question the taste of reading Miss Quayne’s love letters over Fox’s shoulder, I notice,” said Alleyn mildly.
“That’s entirely different,” blustered Nigel. “Miss Quayne was murdered.”
“Which makes her fair game. I know, I know. Well, what do you think of M. de Ravigne’s effusion?”
“It looks monstrous fishy to me,” said Nigel. “What does he mean about her putting herself in a position that is fraught with danger? It looks remarkably like a threat. ‘Take on the Chosen Vessel job and your life will be in danger.’ ”
“He doesn’t actually say her life, Mr. Bathgate,” said Fox, glancing up from another of the letters.
“No,” agreed Alleyn. “He may be old-fashioned enough to think there is something a woman values more than her life.”
“Well,” said Nigel, “what do you think inspired the letter?”
“An interesting point, Bathgate. I don’t know. Jealousy perhaps or — yes — it might be fear. He was very agitated when he wrote it.”
“How do you make that out?”
“The phraseology betrays him. The English is much less certain than in the other letters. There are several mistakes.”
“I think the postscript looks very shady.”
“It does, doesn’t it? What do you say, Fox?”
“Well, sir, I’d say the gentleman knew something that he didn’t exactly like to mention in black and white. It might be he knew there’d be goings-on with the Reverend, and it might be something he was afraid she’d find out. That postscript looks to me as though he was scared.”
“You wise old bird. Well, I’ve finished here. We’ll leave your mates to do the tooth-combing, Fox. They are upstairs at the moment. I’ve a date with Mr. Rattisbon.”
“He was the solicitor in the O’Callaghan case, wasn’t he?” asked Nigel.
“He was. He’s everything that a lawyer ought to be. Desiccated, tittuppy, nice old fuss-pot. Gives one the idea that he is a good actor slightly overdoing his part. I must away, Fox. Meet you at the Garnette apartment, as Mr. Ogden would say.”
“Right-oh, sir.”
“Anyone else going?” Nigel inquired.
“No doubt you will appear. I expect the Initiates to turn up in full force. Two o’clock.”
“Certainly, I shall come,” said Nigel. “Au revoir.”
Nigel returned to his office and Alleyn went down the Strand to the little street where Mr. Rattisbon kept office.
It was one of those offices that look as if they were kept going as a memorial to Charles Dickens. A dingy entry smelt of cobwebs and old varnish. A dark staircase led to a landing, where a frosted-glass skylight let in enough light to show Mr. Rattisbon’s name on the door. Beyond the door Alleyn found Mr. Rattisbon himself in an atmosphere of dust, leather, varnish, dry sherry, and age. The room was not dusty, but it made one think of discreet dust. Mr. Rattisbon was not dressed in Victorian garments, but he conveyed an impression of being so dressed. He was a thin, eager old man with bluish hands and sharp eyes. He spoke rapidly with a sort of stuttering volubility, and had a trick of vibrating the tip of his long tongue between his lips. He dealt, as his father and grandfather had done before him, with the estates of the upper-middle class. He was a very shrewd old gentleman.
“I hope I’m not late, sir,” said Alleyn.
“No, no, Chief Inspector, not at all. Quite punctual, quite punctual. Pray sit down. Yes. Let me see. I don’t think we have met since that unfortunate affair — um?”
“No. I am sorry to bother you. I expect you have guessed what brought me?”
“Brought you. Yes. Yes. This miserable business of Miss Cara Valerie Quayne. I have received word of it this morning. A most distressing affair, most.”
“How did you hear of it, sir?”
“Through the maid, the confidential maid. A Miss — ah— Miss Edith Laura Hebborn. Miss Hebborn felt I should be advised immediately and very properly rang me up. One of the old type of domestic servants. The old type. I suppose there’s no doubt about it being a case of homicide. Um? No.”