A Man Lay Dead by Ngaio Marsh Page A

went out the entrance hall to lock the front door. She was still tidying or something as I went upstairs. I remember I asked her if she knew the right time — if the hall clock was right. She said, ‘Yes, ten minutes to eight’ and I said, ‘Good Lord, we’ll be late’ or something like that and ran upstairs, leaving her there.”
    “Presumably, then, Mr. Rankin was alone in the hall from a little after 7.50 till five minutes to eight when he was killed. About four minutes. Thank you, Mr. Wilde.”
    Alleyn made a brief entry in his note-book and then looked round the table.
    “Are there any questions that someone else would like to put?” he asked. “I can assure you that I will honestly welcome them.”
    There was a short silence broken unexpectedly by Mrs. Wilde. She leant across the table, looking with an odd air of formality at her husband.
    “I would like to ask,” she said rapidly, “what you and Charles talked about during the time you were alone together.”
    For the first time Arthur Wilde hesitated.
    “I don’t think,” he said quietly, “that we said anything that could have any bearing on the point at issue.”
    “Neverzeless,” said Tokareff suddenly, “the question is asked.”
    “Well—” there was the faintest echo of whimsicality in his answer. “Well, we talked about you, Doctor Tokareff.”
    “Indeed? What about me?”
    “Rankin seemed to resent your comments on his ownership of the dagger. He — he felt that it implied some sort of criticism of himself. He was rather on the defensive about it.”
    Doctor Young unexpectedly uttered his throaty comment—“Kahoom”—and Alleyn smiled.
    “What did you say to all this?” he asked.
    Arthur Wilde rumpled up his hair. “I told him not to be an ass,” he said. “Charles was always rather touchy — it was characteristic. I tried to explain how a knife associated, as Doctor Tokareff believed, with the innermost ritual of a bratsvo, would naturally have more significance to a Russian than to an Englishman. He soon got over his huff and said he quite saw my point. Then we chaffed each other about the Murder Game and I left him.”
    “Any more questions?” asked Alleyn. There were none apparently.
    “I realize,” said Wilde, “that I was probably the last person — except Mary and the man who killed him — to see Charles alive. I hope very much that if anyone does think of any questions they would like to put, they will not hesitate in asking them.”
    “I should like to say,” said Nigel, “that I can corroborate most of what you have said. I left you with Charles and heard you come up a few minutes later. You remember we shouted out to each other while your bath was running and afterwards when the lights went out. I can state positively that you were in the bathroom before, during, and after the time when the crime was committed.”
    “Yes,” agreed Marjorie Wilde, “and you called through to me, too, Arthur.”
    “Your rooms were all close together?” asked Alleyn.
    Nigel sketched out a rough plan of the four rooms and slid it across the table to him.
    “I see,” said the Inspector, and looked carefully at it. “I am sure you all appreciate,” he said a moment later, “the importance of establishing Mr. Wilde’s account of his movements. They have already been corroborated by Mrs. Wilde and Mr. Bathgate. Can anyone else bring forward any point that bears on the relative positions of these three after Mr. Wilde came upstairs?”
    “Yes,” said Mrs. Wilde eagerly, “I can. When I was in my room dressing, Florence, Angela’s maid, came in to ask if she could help me. She stayed a few moments, not long, but she must have heard Arthur calling out and everything — the door into the bathroom wasn’t shut properly.”
    “She will be able to verify this herself, of course,” said the Inspector. “We have now a fairly complete picture of the movements of three of the house party from shortly after seven-thirty