A Man Lay Dead by Ngaio Marsh Read Free Book Online

face is quite inscrutable. If only something could be written there. I should like to see Sir Hubert now if that is possible.”
    “I will ascertain,” said Doctor Young formally, and left Rankin and Alleyn alone in the study.
    Handesley was already waiting in the hall. Nigel and Angela were with him. Nigel was perhaps more shocked by the change in his host and more alive to it than to anything else that had happened since Rankin’s death. Handesley looked ghastly. His hands were tremulous and he moved with a kind of controlled hesitancy.
    Alleyn came into the hall and was formally introduced by little Doctor Young, who seemed to be somewhat nonplussed by the Inspector’s markedly Oxonian voice.
    “I am sorry to have kept you waiting,” said Handesley, “I am quite ready to answer any questions that you would like to put to me.”
    “There are very few at the moment,” returned Alleyn. “Miss North and Mr. Bathgate have given me a clear account of what happened since yesterday afternoon. Could we, do you think, go into some other room?”
    “The drawing-room is just here,” answered Handesley. “Do you wish to see us there in turn?”
    “That will do splendidly,” agreed Alleyn.
    “The others are in the library,” said Nigel. Handesley turned to the detective. “Then shall we go into the drawing-room?”
    “I think I can ask you the few questions I want to put immediately. The others can come in there afterwards. I understand, Sir Hubert, that Mr. Rankin was an old friend of yours?”
    “I have known him all his life — I simply cannot take it in — this appalling tragedy. It is incredible. We — we all knew him so well. It must have been someone from outside. It must.”
    “How many servants do you keep? I should like to see them later on. But in the meantime if I may have their names.”
    “Yes, of course. It is imperative that everyone should — should be able to give an account of himself. But my servants! I have had them for years, all of them. I can think of no possible motive.”
    “The motive is not going to be one of the kind that socks you on the jaw. If I may have a list.”
    “My butler is a Little Russian. He was my servant twenty years ago in Petersburg, and has been with me ever since.”
    “He was well acquainted with Mr. Rankin?”
    “Very well acquainted. Rankin has stayed here regularly for many years and has always been on excellent terms with my servants.”
    “They tell me the dagger is of Russian origin.”
    “Its history is Russian, its origin Mongolian,” said Sir Hubert. He briefly related the story of the knife.
    “H’m,” said Alleyn. “Scratch a Russian and you use a Mongolian knife. Had your servant seen this delightful museum piece?”
    “Yes. He must have seen it. Now I come to think of it he was in the hall when Rankin first produced it.”
    “Did he comment on it in any way?”
    “Vassily? No.” Handesley hesitated and turned to Nigel and Angela. “Wait a moment though. Didn’t he say something when Tokareff was holding forth about the knife and its association with a bratsvo?”
    “I think he did,” said Nigel slowly. “He made some remark in Russian. Doctor Tokareff said, ‘This peasant agrees with me,’ and you, sir, told Vassily he could go.”
    “That is how it was,” agreed Angela.
    “I see. Rum coincidence that the knife, your butler and your guest should all be of the same nationality.”
    “Not very odd,” said Angela. “Uncle Hubert has always kept up his interest in Russia — especially since the war. Charles was familiar with his collection of weapons and brought this horrible thing down specially for Uncle Hubert to see.”
    “Yes. Is the dagger interesting from the point of view of the collector?”
    Handesley winced and glanced at Angela. “It interested me enormously,” he said, “I offered to buy it.”
    “Really? Did Mr. Rankin want to sell?”
    There was a very uncomfortable pause. Nigel miserably cast about in his