A Man Lay Dead by Ngaio Marsh Page B

until the time of the murder. Mrs. Wilde went upstairs first, Mr. Bathgate second and Mr. Wilde last. They were all calling out to each other while they were dressing and their voices were probably heard by a housemaid. Mr. Bathgate, I understand that you were the first downstairs after the alarm was given and that you turned up the lights?”
    Nigel’s thoughts had been wandering along a strange byway opened up by Mrs. Wilde’s eager corroboration of her husband’s story. He pulled himself together and looked at the Inspector. It struck him that the official manner came easily enough to Alleyn when he chose to assume it
    “Yes,” he said. “Yes — I turned on the lights.”
    “You found your way downstairs after the two minutes had elapsed?”
    “Yes, the others were behind me on the stairs.”
    “You got to the main switch and turned it on immediately?”
    “Not immediately. The others were calling out from the stairs. I hesitated for a second.”
    “Why?” asked Rosamund Grant.
    “I really can’t say. It was all rather strange and I felt — I don’t know — somehow reluctant. Then Sir Hubert called out and I pulled down the switch.”
    “You were talking to Mr. Wilde right up to the time you left your room?”
    “Yes, I think so.”
    “Yes,” said Arthur Wilde, with a friendly glance towards him, “you were.”
    “Did you speak to anyone when you were on the landing?”
    “I don’t remember. Everyone was talking in the dark there. I struck a match.”
    “Yes,” said Angela quickly, “he struck a match. I was further along the passage and saw his face suddenly lit up from beneath. He must have been just outside his room then.”
    “Mr. Bathgate,” said the detective, “your match was still alight, wasn’t it, as you went downstairs?”
    “Yes. It went out about half-way down.”
    “Did anyone pass you on the stairs?”
    “No, nobody passed me.”
    “Are you certain of that?”
    “Quite positive,” said Nigel.
    “Any more questions?” asked Alleyn. Nobody spoke.
    Inspector Alleyn turned to Tokareff.
    “Doctor Tokareff,” he said, “I shall take you next, if you please.”
    “Thank you,” said the Russian pugnaciously.
    “You went upstairs with the first detachment — Miss North, Miss Grant, Mrs. Wilde, and Sir Hubert Handesley?”
    Tokareff was glaring combatively through his spectacles at the detective.
    “Certainly I did,” he said.
    “Did you go straight to your room?”
    “Yes, immediately. This I can prove for I am in good mood while I am in my room last night, so I sing the
Death of Boris
fortissimo. I am in distant wing of house but still my voice is robust. Many should have heard.”
    “I heard,” said Handesley, and he actually smiled.
    “Were you singing the
Death of Boris
all the time — until the gong sounded and the lights went out?”
    “Yes, certainly.”
    “A gala performance! You visited a bathroom?”
    “
Nyit
! No! I do not bath at this hour. It is not advisable. Better at night before bed to open the pores. Then a gentle sweat—”
    “Yes, quite. You dressed then?”
    “I dress. While I dress I sing. When I come to great cry of agony, I interpret in the manner of Fedor Chaliapin—” he suddenly gave tongue to a galvanizing bellow. Mrs. Wilde suppressed a little shriek. “At this moment,” ended Doctor Tokareff, “gong goes and lights go out. It is the game. I cease to sing and count sixty twice in Russian. Then I come out.”
    “Thank you very much. I understand that you were the first to realize what had happened to Mr. Rankin?”
    “Yes, I was first. I have seen the knoife from the stairs.”
    “What happened then?”
    “Miss Angela was saying in joking, ‘no one is to touch the body.’ I was agreeing not jokingly because I have seen the man is dead.”
    “But I understand you did not examine the body—”
    “Excuse me, please,” began the Russian with a great deal of emphasis. Alleyn glanced quickly round the table. A swift