ii

He stood on the far side of the door with his back to a lighted candelabrum that had been set down on a chest in the entry. Little could be seen of him but his shape, enveloped in his white gown with the hood drawn over his head. He moved towards the door and his hands emerged and grasped two of the iron bars.

Alleyn said: “I’m afraid we made an appalling din. My chauffeur slipped and grabbed your bell-pull.”

“Your chauffeur?”

“He’s taken himself off. I fancy he knows one of your maids. He had some message for her, it seems.”

Mr. Oberon said, as if to explain his presence at the door “I am waiting for someone. Have you seen—” He paused and shifted his hands on the bars. His voice sounded out of focus. “Perhaps you met Ginny. Ginny Taylor? And Robin Herrington? We are a little anxious about them.”

“No,” Alleyn said. “I didn’t see them. I came to ask about Miss Truebody.”

Mr. Oberon didn’t move. Alleyn peered at him. “How is she?” he asked.

Mr. Oberon said abruptly: “Our telephone has been out of order since yesterday afternoon. Do forgive me. I am a little anxious, you know.”

“How is Miss Truebody?”

“Alas, she is dead,” said Mr. Oberon.

They faced each other like actors in some medieval prison scene. The shadow of twisted iron was thrown across Alleyn’s face and chest.

“Perhaps,” Alleyn said, “I may come in for a moment.”

“But, of course. How dreadful of me! We are all so distressed. Mahomet!”

Evidently the Egyptian servant had been waiting in the main hall. He unlocked the door, opened and stood aside. When Alleyn had come in he relocked the door.

With the air of having arrived at a decision, Mr. Oberon led the way into the great hall. Mahomet came behind them bringing the candelabrum, which he set down on a distant table. In that vast interior it served rather to emphasize the dark than relieve it.

“Monsieur,” said Mahomet in French, “may I speak?”

“Well?”

“There is a message brought by a peasant from Mr. Herrington. He has had trouble with his auto. He is getting a taxi. He and Mlle. Taylor will arrive in time for the ceremony.”

“Ah!” It was a long-drawn out sigh. “Who took the message?”

“The girl Teresa, who was on her way to catch the omnibus. The peasant would not wait so the girl returned with the message. Miss Taylor also sent a message. It was that Monsieur must not trouble himself. She will not fail the ceremony. She will go immediately to her room.”

“Is all prepared?”

“All is prepared, Monsieur.”

Mr. Oberon raised his hand in dismissal. Mahomet moved away into the shadows. Alleyn listened for the rattle of curtain rings but there was no other sound than that of Mr. Oberon’s uneven breathing. “Forgive me again,” he said, coming closer to Alleyn. “As you heard it was news of our young people.”

“I’m afraid my French is too rudimentary for anything but the most childish phrases.”

“Indeed? It appears they have had a breakdown but all is now well.”

Alleyn said: “When did Miss Truebody die?”

“Ah, yes. We are so sorry. Yesterday afternoon. We tried to get you at the hotel, of course, but were told that you had gone to St. Céleste for a few days.”

“We changed our plans,” Alleyn said. “May I speak to Dr. Baradi?”

“To Ali? I am not sure — I will enquire — Mahomet!”

“Monsieur?” said a voice in the shadows.

“Tell your master that the English visitor is here. Tell him the visitor knows that his compatriot has left us.”

“Monsieur.”

The curtain rings jangled together.

“He will see if our friend is at home.”

“I feel,” Alleyn said, “that I should do everything that can be done. In a way she is our responsibility.”

“That is quite wonderful of you, Mr. Allen,” said Mr. Oberon, who seemed to have made a return to his normal form. “But I already sensed in you a rare and beautiful spirit. Still, you need not distress yourself. We felt it our privilege to speed this soul to its new life. The interment is tomorrow at three o’clock. Anglican. I shall, however, conduct a little valedictory ceremony here.”

The curtain rings clashed again. Alleyn saw a large whiteness move towards them.

“Mr. Allen?” said Baradi, looming up on the far side of the candelabrum. He wore a white robe and his face was a blackness within the hood. “I am so glad you’ve come. We were puzzled what to do when we heard you had gone to St. Celeste.”

“Fortunately there was no occasion. We ran Ricky to earth, I’m glad to say.”

They both made enthusiastic noises. They were rejoiced. An atrocious affair. Where had he been found?

“In the chemical factory, of all places,” Alleyn said. “The police think the kidnappers must have got cold feet and dumped him there.” He allowed their ejaculations a decent margin and then said: “About poor Miss Truebody—”

“Yes, about her,” Baradi began crisply. “I’m sorry it happened as it did. I can assure you that it would have made no difference if there had been a hospital with an entire corps of trained nurses and surgeons. And certainly, may I add, she could not have had a more efficient anaesthetist. But, as you know, peritonitis was greatly advanced. Her condition steadily deteriorated. The heart, by the way, was not in good trim. Valvular trouble. She died at 4:28 yesterday afternoon without recovering consciousness. We found her address in her passport. I have made a report which I shall send to the suitable authorities in the Bermudas. Her effects, of course, will be returned to her home there. I understand there are no near relatives. I have completed the necessary formalities here. I should have preferred, under the circumstances, to have asked a brother medico to look at her, but it appears they are all in conclave at St. Christophe.”

“I expect I should write to — well, to somebody.”

“By all means. Enclose a letter with my report. The authorities in the Bermudas will see that it reaches the lawyer or whoever is in charge of her affairs.”

“I think perhaps — one has a feeling of responsibility — I think perhaps I should see her.”

There was an infinitesimal pause.

“Of course,” Baradi said. “If you wish, of course, I must warn you that the climatic conditions and those of her illness and death have considerably accelerated the usual postmortem changes.”

“We have done what we could,” Mr. Oberon said. “Tuberoses and orchids.”

“How very kind. If it’s not troubling you too much.”

There was a further slight pause. Baradi said: “Of course,” again and clapped his hands. “No electricity,” he explained. “So provoking.” The servant reappeared, carrying a single candle. Baradi spoke.to him in their own language and took the candle from him. “I’ll go with you,” he said. “We have moved her into a room outside the main part of the Château. It is quite suitable and cooler.”

With this grisly little announcement he led Alleyn down the now familiar corridor past the operating room and into a much narrower side-passage that ended in a flight of descending steps and a door. This, in turn, opened on a further reach of the outside passageway. The night air smelled freshly after the incense-tainted house. They turned left and walked a short distance down the uneven steps. Alleyn thought that they could not be far from the servants’ entrance.

Baradi stopped at a deeply recessed doorway and asked Alleyn to hold the candle. Alleyn produced his torch and switched it on. It shone into Baradi's face.

“Ah!” he said blinking, “that will be better. Thank you.” He set down the candle. It flickered and guttered in the draught. He thrust his hand under his gown and produced a heavily furnished key-ring that might have hung from the girdle of a medieval gaoler. Alleyn turned his light on it and Baradi selected a great key with a wrought-iron loop. He stopped to fit it in a key-hole placed low in the door. His wide sleeves drooped from his arms, his hood fell over his face, and his shadow, grotesque and distorted, sprawled down the steps beyond him.