Final Curtain (40 page)

‘One minute, sir. Will you tell me this? I give you my word it'll go no further. Was my Grandfather murdered?'

‘Oh, yes,' said Alleyn. ‘Yes. I'm afraid we may be sure of that. He was murdered.' He walked down the street, leaving Paul, still blowing on his frozen knuckles, to stare after him.

The canvas walls were faintly luminous. They were laced to their poles with ropes and glowed in the darkness. Blobs of light from hurricane lanterns suspended within formed a globular pattern across the surface. One of these lanterns must have been touching the wall, for the village constable on duty outside could clearly make out shadows of wire and the precise source of light.

He glanced uneasily at the motionless figure of his companion, a police officer from London, wearing a short cape. ‘Bitter cold,' he said.

‘That's right.'

‘Be long, d'yew reckon?'

‘Can't say.'

The constable would have enjoyed a walk. He was a moralist and a philosopher, well known in Ancreton for his pronouncements upon the conduct of politicians and for his independent views in the matter of religion. But his companion's taciturnity, and the uncomfortable knowledge that anything he said would be audible on the other side of the canvas, put a damper on conversation. He stamped once or twice, finding reassurance in the crunch of gravel under his feet. There were noises within the enclosure: voices, soft thumps. At the far end and high above them, as if suspended in the night, and lit theatrically from below, knelt three angels. ‘Through the long night watches,' the constable said to himself, ‘may Thine angels spread their white wings above me, watching round my head.'

Within the enclosure, but, close beside him, the voice of the Chief Inspector from the Yard said: ‘Are we ready, Curtis?' His shadowy figure suddenly loomed up inside the canvas wall. ‘Quite ready,' somebody else said. ‘Then if I may have the key, Mr Ancred?' ‘Oh—oh—er—yes.' That was poor Mr Thomas Ancred.

The constable listened, yet desired not to listen, to the next too-lucid train of sounds. He had heard them before, on the day of the funeral, when he came down early to have a look while his cousin, the sexton, got things fixed up. Very heavy lock. They'd had to give it a drop of oil. Seldom used. His flesh leapt on his bones as a screech rent the cold air. ‘Them ruddy hinges,' he thought. The blobs of light were withdrawn and the voices with them. He could still hear them, however, though now they sounded hollow. Beyond the hedge a match flared up in the dark. That would be the driver of the long black car, of course, waiting in the lane. The constable wouldn't have minded a pipe himself.

The Chief Inspector's voice, reflected from stone walls, said distinctly: ‘Get those acetylene lamps going, Bailey.' ‘Yes, sir,' someone answered, so close to the constable that he jumped again. With a hissing noise, a new brilliance sprang up behind the canvas. Strange distorted shadows leapt among the trees about the cemetery.

Now came sounds to which he had looked forward with squeamish relish. A drag of wood on stone followed by the uneven scuffles of boots and heavy breathing. He cleared his throat and glanced stealthily at his companion.

The enclosure was again full of invisible men. ‘Straight down on the trestles. Right.' The squeak of wood and then silence.

The constable drove his hands deep into his pockets and looked up at the three angels and at the shape of St Stephen's spire against the stars. ‘Bats in that belfry,' he thought. ‘Funny how a chap'll say it, not thinking.' An owl hooted up in Ancreton woods.

Beyond the canvas there was movement. A light voice said jerkily: ‘I think, if it doesn't make any difference, I'd like to wait outside. I won't go away. You can call me, you know.'

‘Yes, of course.'

A canvas flap was pulled aside, letting out a triangle of light on the grass. A man came out. He wore a heavy overcoat and muffler and his hat was pulled over his face, but the constable had recognized his voice and shifted uneasily.

‘Oh, it's you, Bream,' said Thomas Ancred.

‘Yes, Mr Thomas.'

‘Cold, isn't it?'

‘Hard frost before dawn, sir.'

Above them the church clock gave a preparatory whirr and with a sweet voice told two in the morning.

‘I don't like this much, Bream.'

‘Very upsetting, sir, I'm sure.'

‘Terribly upsetting, yes.'

‘And yet, sir,' said Bream with a didactic air, ‘I been thinking: this here poor remains beant a matter to scare a chap, if rightly considered. It beant your respected father hisself as you might put it, sir. He's well away receiving his reward by now, and what you are called to look upon is a harmless enough affair. No more, if you'll excuse me, than a left-off garment. As has been preached at us souls regular in this very church.'

‘I dare say,' said Thomas. ‘Nevertheless…Well, thank you.'

He moved away down the gravel path. The London officer turned to watch him. Thomas did not move quite out of range of the veiled light. He stood, with his head bent, near the dim shape of a gravestone and seemed to be rubbing his hands together.

‘Cold and nervous, poor chap,' Bream said to himself.

‘Before we go any further' (that was Chief Inspector Alleyn again), ‘will you make a formal examination, Mr Mortimer? We'd like your identification of the name-plate and your assurance that everything is as it was at the time of the funeral.'

A clearing of the throat, a pause and then a muffled voice. ‘Perfectly in order. Our own workmanship, Mr Alleyn. Casket and plate.'

‘Thank you. All right, Thompson.'

The click of metal and the faint grind of disengaging screws. This seemed to Bream to continue an unconscionable time. Nobody spoke. From his mouth and nostrils and those of the London constable, little jets of breath drifted out and condensed on the frozen air. The London man switched on his flash-lamp. Its beam illuminated Thomas Ancred, who looked up and blinked.

‘I'm just waiting,' he said. ‘I won't go away.'

‘Quite all right, sir.'

‘Now,' ordered the voice in the enclosure, ‘everything free? Right!'

‘Just ease a little, it's a precision fit. That's right. Slide.'

‘
Oh, cripes
!' Bream said to himself.

Wood whispered along wood. This sound was followed by complete silence. Thomas Ancred turned away from grass to gravel path and walked aimlessly to and fro.

‘Curtis? Will you and Dr Withers—?'

‘Yes. Thanks. Move that light a little this way, Thompson. Will you come here, Dr Withers?'

‘The—ah—the process is quite satisfactory, don't you consider, Doctor? Only a short time, of course, but I can assure you there would be no deterioration.'

‘Indeed? Remarkable.'

‘One is gratified.'

‘I think we'll have that bandage taken away, if you please. Fox, will you tell Mr Ancred we're ready for him?'

Bream watched the thick-set Inspector Fox emerge and walk over towards Thomas. Before he had gone more than a few paces there was a sudden and violent ejaculation inside the enclosure. ‘
Good God, look at that!
' Inspector Fox paused. The Chief Inspector's voice said, very sharply, ‘Quiet, Dr Withers, please,' and there followed a rapid whispering.

Inspector Fox moved away and joined Thomas Ancred. ‘If you'll come this way, Mr Ancred.' ‘Oh! yes, of course. Very good. Right ho!' said Thomas in a high voice, and followed him back to the enclosure. ‘If I moved a bit,' Bream thought, ‘when they opened the flaps I'd see in.' But he did not move. The London constable held the doorway open, glancing impassively into the tent before he let the canvas fall. The voices began again.

‘Now, this is not going to be a very big ordeal, Mr Ancred.'

‘Oh, isn't it? Oh, good.'

‘Will you—?'

Bream heard Thomas move. ‘There, you see. Quite peaceful.'

‘I—yes—I identify him.'

‘That's all right, then. Thank you.'

‘No,' said Thomas, and his voice rose hysterically, ‘it's not all right. There's something all wrong, in fact. Papa had a fine head of hair. Hadn't he, Dr Withers? He was very proud of it, wasn't he? And his moustache. This is bald.
What have they done with his hair?
'

‘Steady! Put your head down. You'll be all right. Give me that brandy, Fox, will you? Damn, he's fainted.'

‘Well, Curtis,' Alleyn said as the car slid between rows of sleeping houses, ‘I hope you'll be able to give us something definite.'

‘Hope so,' said Dr Curtis, stifling a heavy yawn.

‘I'd like to ask you, Doctor,' said Fox, ‘whether you'd expect one fatal dose of arsenic to have that effect.'

‘What effect? Oh, the hair. No. I wouldn't. It's more often a symptom of chronic poisoning.'

‘In for one of those messes, are we?' Fox grumbled. ‘That will be nice. Fields of suspects opened up wide, with the possibility of Miss O. being framed.'

‘There are objections to chronic poisoning, Br'er Fox,' Alleyn said. ‘He might die when he'd concocted a Will unfavourable to the poisoner. And moreover, you'd expect a progressive loss of hair, not a sudden post-mortem moult. Is that right, Curtis?'

‘Certainly.'

‘Well, then,' Fox persisted heavily, ‘how about the embalming process? Would that account for it?'

‘Emphatically not,' Mr Mortimer interjected. ‘I've given the Chief Inspector our own formula. An unusual step, but in the circumstances desirable. No doubt, Doctor, he has made you conversant—'

‘Oh, yes,' sighed Dr Curtis. ‘Formalin. Glycerine. Boric acid. Menthol. Potassium nitrate. Sodium citrate. Oil of cloves. Water.'

‘Precisely.'

‘Hey!' said Fox. ‘No arsenic?'

‘You're two days late with the news, Br'er Fox. Things have moved while you were at Ancreton. Arsenic went out some time ago, didn't it, Mr Mortimer?'

‘Formalin,' Mr Mortimer agreed with hauteur, ‘is infinitely superior.'

‘There now,' Fox rumbled with great satisfaction. ‘That does clear things up a bit, doesn't it, Mr Alleyn? If arsenic's found it's got no business to be there. That's something definite. And what's more, any individual who banked on its being used by the embalmer made the mistake of his or her life. Nothing for counsel to muddle the jury with, either. Mr Mortimer's evidence would settle that. Well.'

Alleyn said: ‘Mr Mortimer, had Sir Henry any notion of the method used?'

In a voice so drowsy that it reminded Alleyn of the dormouse's, Mr Mortimer said: ‘It's very curious, Chief Inspector, that you should ask that question. Oh, very curious. Because, between you and I, the deceased gentleman showed quite an unusual interest. He sent for me and discussed the arrangements for the interment. Two years ago, that was.'

‘Good Lord!'

‘That is not so unusual in itself. Gentlemen of his position do occasionally give detailed instructions. But the deceased was so very particular. He—well, really,' Mr Mortimer said, coughing slightly, ‘he quite read me a little lecture on embalming. He had a little book. Yes,' said Mr Mortimer, swallowing a yawn, ‘rather a quaint little book. Very old. It seemed an ancestor of his had been embalmed by the method,
quate
outdated, I may say, outlined in this tainy tome. Sir Henry wished to ascertain if our method was similar. When I ventured to suggest the book was somewhat demode, he became—well,
so
annoyed that it was rather awkward. Very awkward, in fact. He was insistent that we should use the same process on—ah—for—ah—himself. He quate
ordered
me to do it.'