Singing in the Shrouds by Ngaio Marsh Page B

approval.
    “
Pack up your troubles,
” Mrs. Dillington-Blick ejaculated. “Of
course
!”
    “Madam,” Mr. Merryman continued, looking severely at Miss Abbott. “Will you be good enough to describe the precise nature of the predicaments that were aired by the — really, I am at a loss for the correct term to describe these people’the protagonist will no doubt enlighten me—”
    “The subjects?” Father Jourdain suggested.
    “The victims?” Tim amended.
    “Or the guests? I like to think of them as my guests,” said Aubyn Dale.
    Mrs. Cuddy said rather wildly, “That’s a lovely,
lovely
way of putting it!”
    (“Steady, Eth!”)
    Miss Abbott, who had been twisting her large hands together, said, “I remember nothing about the programme. Nothing.”
    She half rose from her seat and then seemed to change her mind and sank back. “Mr. Merryman, you’re not to badger Miss Abbott,” Brigid said quickly and turned to Aubyn Dale. “You, at any rate, have got your alibi, it seems.”
    “Oh, yes!” he rejoined. He finished his double brandy and, in his turn, slipped his hand under Mrs. Dillington-Blick’s forearm. “God, yes! I’ve got the entire Jolyon swimsuit admass between me and Beryl Cohen. Twenty million viewers can’t be wrong! In spite of Mr. Merryman.”
    Alleyn said lightly, “But isn’t the programme over by nine-thirty? What about the next half-hour?”
    “Taking off the war-paint, dear boy, and meeting the chums in the jolly old local.”
    It had been generally agreed that Aubyn Dale’s alibi was established when Mr. McAngus said diffidently, “Do you know — I may be quite wrong — but I had a silly notion someone said that particular session was done at another time, I mean, if of course it
was
that programme.”
    “Ah?” Mr. Merryman ejaculated, pointing at him as if he’d held his hand up. “Explain yourself. Filmed? Recorded?”
    “Yes. But, of course I may be—”
    But Mr. Merryman pounced gleefully on Aubyn Dale. “What do you say, sir? Was the session recorded?”
    Dale collected everybody else’s attention as if he invited them to enjoy Mr. Merryman with him. He opened his arms and enlarged his smile and he patted Mr. McAngus on the head.
    “Clever boy,” he said. “And I thought I’d got away with it. I couldn’t resist pulling your leg, Mr. Merryman. You will forgive me, won’t you?”
    Mr. Merryman did not reply. He merely stared very fixedly at Aubyn Dale, and as Brigid muttered to Tim, may have been restraining himself from saying he would see him in his study after prep.
    Dale added to this impression by saying with uneasy boyishness, “I swear, by the way, I was just about to come clean. Naturally.”
    “Then,” Alleyn said, “it was not a live transmission?”
    “Not that one. Usually is, but I was meant to be on my way to the States, so we filmed it.”
    “Indeed?” Mr. Merryman said. “And
were
you on your way to the United States, sir?”
    “Actually, no. One of those things. There was a nonsense made over dates. I flew three days later. Damn nuisance. It meant I didn’t get back till the day before we sailed.”
    “And your alibi?” Mr. Merryman continued ominously.
    “Well… ah… well — don’t look at me, padre. I spent the evening with my popsey. Don’t ask me to elaborate, will you? No names, no packdrill.”
    “And no alibi,” said Mr. Merryman neatly.
    There was a moment’s uneasy suspense during which nobody looked at anybody else and then Mr. McAngus unexpectedly surfaced. “I remember it all quite perfectly,” he announced. “It
was
the evening before my first hint of trouble and I
did
watch television!”
    “Programme?” Mr. Merryman snapped. Mr. McAngus smiled timidly at Aubyn Dale. “Oh,” he tittered, “I’m no end of a fan, you know.”
    It turned out that he had, in fact, watched
Pack Up Your Troubles
. When asked if he could remember it, he said at once, “Very clearly.” Alleyn saw Miss Abbott close her