Artists in Crime by Ngaio Marsh Read Free Book Online

Lady Alleyn, “why wouldn’t you come to Tatler’s End House with me?”
    “For the very good reason, little mum, that I should not have been welcomed.”
    “How do you know?”
    “Miss Troy doesn’t like me.”
    “Nonsense! She’s a very intelligent young woman.”
    “Darling!”
    “The day I called I suggested she should dine with us while you were here. She accepted.”
    “And put us off when the time came.”
    “My dear man, she had a perfectly good excuse.”
    “Naturally,” said Alleyn. “She is, as you say, a very intelligent young woman.”
    Lady Alleyn looked at a portrait head that hung over the mantelpiece.
    “She can’t dislike you very much, my dear. That picture gives the lie to your theory.”
    “Aesthetic appreciation of a paintable object has nothing to do with personal preferences.”
    “Bosh! Don’t talk pretentious nonsense about things you don’t understand.”
    Alleyn grinned.
    “I think you are being self-conscious and silly,” continued Lady Alleyn grandly.
    “It’s the lady that you should be cross about, not me.”
    “I’m not cross, Roderick. Give yourself another glass of sherry. No, not for me.”
    “Anyway,” said Alleyn, “I’m glad you like the portrait.”
    “Did you see much of her in Quebec?”
    “Very little, darling. We bowed to each other at mealtimes and had a series of stilted conversations in the lounge. On the last evening she was there I took her to the play.”
    “Was that a success?”
    “No. We were very polite to each other.”
    “Ha!” said Lady Alleyn.
    “Mamma,” said Alleyn, “you know I
am
a detective.” He paused, smiling at her. “You look divine when you blush,” he added.
    “Well, Roderick, I shan’t deny that I would like to see you married.”
    “She wouldn’t dream of having me, you know. Put the idea out of your head, little mum. I very much doubt if I shall ever have another stilted conversation with Miss Agatha Troy.”
    The head parlourmaid came in.
    “A telephone call from London for Mr. Roderick, m’lady.”
    “From London?” asked Alleyn. “Oh Lord, Clibborn, why didn’t you say I was dead?”
    Clibborn smiled the tolerant smile of a well-trained servant, and opened the door.
    “Excuse me, please, mamma,” said Alleyn, and went to the telephone.
    As he unhooked the receiver, Alleyn experienced the little prick of foreboding that so often accompanies an unexpected long-distance call. It was the smallest anticipatory thrill and was succeeded at once by the unhappy reflection that probably Scotland Yard was already on his track. He was not at all surprised when a familiar voice said:
    “Mr. Alleyn?”
    ‘That’s me. Is it you, Watkins?”
    “Yes, sir. Very pleasant to hear your voice again. The Assistant Commissioner would like to speak to you, Mr. Alleyn.”
    “Right!”
    “Hullo, Mr. Alleyn?” said a new voice.
    “Hullo, sir.”
    “You can go, Watkins.” A pause, and then: “How are you, Rory?”
    “Very fit, thanks, sir.”
    “Ready for work?”
    “Yes. Oh, rather!”
    “Well now, look here. How do you feel about slipping into the saddle three days before you’re due? There’s a case cropped up a few miles from where you are, and the local people have called us in. It would save time and help the department if you could take over for us.”
    “Certainly, sir,” said Alleyn, with a sinking heart. “When?”
    “Now. It’s a homicide case. Take the details. Address, Tatler’s End House.”
    “
What
! I beg your pardon, sir. Yes?”
    “A woman’s been stabbed. Do you know the place, by any chance?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Thrrree minutes.”
    “Extend the call, please. Are you there, Rory?”
    “Yes,” said Alleyn. He noticed suddenly that the receiver was clammy.
    “It belongs to the artist, Miss Agatha Troy.”
    “I know.”
    “You’ll get the information from the local super— Blackman — who’s there now. The model has been killed, and it looks like murder.”
    “I —