Death in Ecstasy by Ngaio Marsh Page A

that won’t look too good for Mr. Pringle. If he’s the murderer he’ll think of that. I mean—”
    “I know what you’re driving at, Inspector,” said Nigel excitedly. “But the gentleman says to himself that if anyone notices the paper he’ll notice it too. That will switch it back a place to the one before him.”
    “Um,” rumbled Fox doubtfully.
    “I don’t think they would see it,” Alleyn murmured. “You say, Bathgate, that during the ceremony of the cup the torch was the only light?”
    “Yes.”
    “Quite so. It’s nearly burnt out now, but I think you will find that when it’s going full blast there will be a shadow immediately beneath it where they knelt, a shadow cast by its own sconce.”
    “I think there was,” agreed Nigel. “I remember that they seemed to be in a sort of pool of gloom.”
    “Exactly. And in addition, their own heads, bent over the cup, would cast a further shadow. All the same, you’re right, Fox. He
is
taking a big risk. Unless—“ Alleyn stopped short, stared at his colleague, and then for no apparent reason made a hideous grimace at Nigel.
    “What’s that for?” demanded Nigel suspiciously.
    “This is all pure conjecture,” said Alleyn abruptly. “When the analyst finds traces of cyanide we can start talking.”
    “I can’t see why he’d drop the paper in,” complained Nigel. “It must have been accidental.”
    “I don’t know, Mr. Bathgate,” said Fox in his slow way. “There are points about it. No fingerprints. Nothing to show if he’s searched.”
    “That’s right,” said Bailey suddenly. “And he’d reckon the lady’d be sure to drop the cup. He’d reckon on it falling out and getting tramped into the carpet like it was.”
    “Say it stuck to the side?” objected Fox.
    “Well, say it did,” said Bailey combatively. “What’s to stop him getting it out when they’re all looking at the lady throwing fancy fits and passing in her checks?”
    “Say it slid out on to her lips.” continued Fox monotonously.
    “Say she drank it! You make me tired, Mr. Fox. It wouldn’t slide out, it’d slide back on the top of the wine. Isn’t that right?”
    “Um,” said Fox again.
    “What d’yer mean ‘Um’! That’s fair enough, isn’t it, sir?” He appealed to Alleyn.
    “Conjecture,” said Alleyn. “Surmise and conjecture.”
    “You started it,” remarked Nigel perkily.
    “So I did. That’s all the thanks I get for thinking aloud. Come on, Fox. It grows beastly late. Shut up your find. We’ll know more about it when the analyst has spoken his piece.”
    Fox took the little box from him, shut it, and put it into the bag.
    “What’s next, sir?” he asked.
    “Why, Mr. Garnette’s little bottle. Where is Mr. Garnette?”
    “In his rooms. Dr. Curtis is there and one of our men.”
    “I wonder if he has converted them. Let us join the cosy circle. You can tackle the vestry now, Bailey.”
    Fox, Alleyn and Nigel went up to Father Garnette’s rooms, leaving Bailey and his satellites to continue their prowling.
    Father Garnette sat at his desk which, with its collection of
objets de pieté
, so closely resembled an altar. Dr. Curtis sat at the table. A uniformed constable with a perfectly expressionless face stood by Father Garnette’s prie-dieu, furnishing a most fantastic juxtaposition of opposites. They all had the look of persons who have not spoken for a considerable time. Father Garnette was pallid and a little too dignified; Dr. Curtis was wan and puffed with surpressed yawning; the constable was merely pale by nature.
    “Ah, Mr. Garnette,” said Alleyn cheerfully, “here we are at last. You must long for your bed.”
    “No, no,” said Father Garnette. “No, no.”
    “We shan’t keep you very much longer. I wonder if you will allow me to make an inspection of these rooms? I’m afraid it ought to be done.”
    “An inspection! But really, Inspector, is that necessarah? I must confess I—” Father Garnette stopped