“There goes our dirty washing,” Mark said, and then looked uncomfortable.
Alleyn said, “But you carried a tennis racket, didn’t you, and Sir George, I suppose, a golf bag? May we have them too?”
Mark said, “Yes, I see. Yes. All right, I’ll get them.”
He ran up the steps and disappeared. Alleyn turned to Rose. She stared at the doorway through which Mark had gone, and it was as if some kind of threat had overtaken her.
“I’m so frightened,” she said. “I don’t know why, but I’m so frightened.”
“Of what?” Alleyn asked gently.
“I don’t know. One of those things, I suppose. I’ve never felt it before. It’s as if my father was the only person that I ever really knew. And now he’s gone; someone’s murdered him, and I feel as if I didn’t properly understand anyone at all.”
Mark came back with a bag of clubs and a tennis racket in a press.
“This is it,” he said.
“You didn’t have it in one of those waterproof-cover things?”
“What? Oh, yes, actually, I did.”
“May I have that too, please?”
Mark made a second trip to get it and was away rather longer. “I wasn’t sure which was the one,” he said, “but I think this is right.”
Alleyn put it with the bag and racket in the car.
Mark had caught Rose’s hand in his. She hung back a little. “Mr. Alleyn,” Mark said, “Rose and I are in the hell of a spot over this. Aren’t we, darling? We’re engaged, by the way.”
“You amaze me,” Alleyn said.
“Well, we are. And, of course, wherever it’s humanly possible, I’m going to see that Rose is not harried and fussed. She’s had a very severe shock and…”
“No, don’t,” Rose said. “Please, Mark, don’t.”
Mark gazed at her, seemed to lose the thread of his subject, and then collected himself.
“It’s just this,” he said. “I feel strongly that as far as you and our two families are concerned, everything ought to be perfectly straightforward. We’re under promise not to mention this and that, and so we can’t, but we are both very worried about the way things are going. I mean, in respect of Octavius Phinn. You see, sir, we happen to know that poor old Occy Phinn had every possible reason not to commit this crime. Every possible reason. And if,” Mark said, “you’ve guessed, as I rather think you may have, what I’m driving at, I can’t help it.”
“And you agree with all this, Miss Cartarette?” Alleyn asked.
Rose held herself a little aloof now. Tear-stained and obviously exhausted, she seemed to pull herself together and shape her answer with care and difficulty.
“Mr. Alleyn, my father would have been appalled if he could have known that because he and Octavius had a row over the trout, poor Occy might be thought to — to have a motive. They’d had rows over trout for years. It was a kind of joke — nothing. And — whatever else they had to say to each other, and as you know, there was something else, it would have made Octavius much more friendly. I promise you. You see, I know my father had gone to see Octavius.”
Alleyn said quickly, “You mean he went to his house? Yesterday afternoon?”
“Yes. I was with him before he went and he said he was going there.”
“Did he say why? I think you spoke of some publishing business.”
“Yes. He — he had something he wanted to show Occy.”
“What was that, can you tell us?”
“I can’t tell you,” Rose said looking wretchedly unhappy. “I do know, actually, but it’s private. But I’m sure he went to Occy’s because I saw him take the envelope out of the desk and put it in his pocket—” she put her hand to her eyes— “but,” she said, “where is it, then?”
Alleyn said, “Where exactly was the envelope? In which drawer of his desk?”
“I think the bottom one on the left. He kept it locked, usually.”
“I see. Thank you. And, of course, Mr. Phinn was not at home?”
“No. I suppose, finding him not at home, Daddy followed him down to the stream. Of course, I mustn’t tell you what his errand was, but if ever,” Rose said in a trembling voice, “if ever there was an errand of — well, of mercy — Daddy’s was one, yesterday afternoon.”
Rose had an unworldly face with a sort of Pre-Raphaelitish beauty: very unmodish in its sorrow and very touching.
Alleyn said gently, “I know. Don’t worry. I can promise we won’t blunder.”
“How kind you are,” she said. Mark muttered indistinguishably.
As Alleyn turned away towards the police car, her voice halted him. “It must be somebody mad,” she said. “Nobody who wasn’t mad could possibly do it. Not possibly. There’s somebody demented that did it for no reason at all.” She extended her hand towards him a little way, the palm turned up in a gesture of uncertainty and appeal. “Don’t you think so?” she said.
Alleyn said, “I think you are very shocked and bewildered, as well you might be. Did you sleep last night?”
“Not much. I am sorry, Mark, but I didn’t take the thing you gave me. I felt I mustn’t. I had to wake for him. The house felt as if he was looking for me.”
“I think it might be a good idea,” Alleyn said to Mark, “if you drove Miss Cartarette to Hammer Farm, where perhaps she will be kind enough to hunt up her own and Mrs. Cartarette’s garments of yesterday. Everything, please, shoes, stockings and all. And treat them, please, like eggshell china.”
Mark said, “As important as that?”
“The safety of several innocent persons may depend upon them.”
“I’ll take care,” Mark said.
“Good. We’ll follow you and collect them.”
“Fair enough,” Mark said. He smiled at Rose. “And when that’s done,” he said, “I’m going to bring you back to Nunspardon and put my professional foot down about nembutal. Kitty’ll drive herself home. Come on.”
Alleyn saw Rose make a small gesture of protest. “I think perhaps I’ll stay at Hammer, Mark.”
“No, you won’t, darling.”
“I can’t leave Kitty like that.”
“She’ll understand. Anyway, we’ll be back here before she leaves. Come on.”
Rose turned as if to appeal to Alleyn and then seemed to give up. Mark took her by the elbow and led her away.
Alleyn watched them get into the sports car and shoot off down a long drive. He shook his head slightly and let himself into the front seat beside Fox.
“Follow them, Br’er Fox,” he said. “But sedately. There’s no hurry. We’re going to Hammer Farm.”
On the way he outlined the general shape of his visit to Nunspardon.
“It’s clear enough, wouldn’t you agree,” he ended, “what has happened about the memoirs. Take the facts as we know them. The leakage of information at Zlomce was of such importance that Sir Harold Lacklander couldn’t, in what is evidently an exhaustive autobiography, ignore it. At the time of the catastrophe we learnt in the Special Branch from Lacklander himself that after confessing his treachery, young Phinn, as a result of his wigging, committed suicide. We know Lacklander died with young Phinn’s name on his lips, at the same time showing the greatest anxiety about the memoirs. We know that Cartarette was entrusted with the publication. We know Cartarette took an envelope from the drawer that was subsequently broken open and went to see old Phinn on what Miss Cartarette describes as an errand of mercy. When he didn’t find him at home, he followed him into the valley. Finally, we know that after they fell out over the poaching, they had a further discussion about which, although she admits she heard it, Lady Lacklander will tell us nothing. Now, my dear Br’er Fox, why should the Lacklanders or Mr. Phinn or the Cartarettes be so uncommonly touchy about all this? I don’t know what you think, but I can find only one answer.”
Fox turned the car sedately into the Hammer Farm drive and nodded his head.
“Seems pretty obvious when you put it like that, Mr. Alleyn, I must say. But is there sufficient motive for murder in it?”
“Who the hell’s going to say what’s a sufficient motive for murder? And anyway, it may be one of a bunch of motives. Probably is. Stick to ubi, quibus, auxiliis, quomodo and quando, Foxkin; let cur look after itself, and blow me down if quis won’t walk in when you’re least expecting it.”