Artists in Crime by Ngaio Marsh

in the back somewhere about the position of the fourth rib and about three inches to the left of the spine. There was an effusion of blood. The blade was stained with blood. Miss Bostock attempted to staunch the wound with rag. At this point Miss Troy arrived, and immediately sent Mr. Basil Pilgrim, another student, to ring up the doctor. Dr. Ampthill arrived ten minutes later and found life was extinct. Miss Troy states that Gluck died a few minutes after she — Miss Troy — arrived at the studio. Gluck made no statement before she died.”
    Mr. Blackman closed his note-book, and laid it on the table.
    “That’s just from notes,” he said modestly. “I haven’t got it down in a ship-shape report yet.”
    “It is sufficiently clear,” said Alleyn. “You might have been giving it to a jury.”
    An expression of solemn complacency settled down among the superintendent’s chins.
    “Well,” he said, “we haven’t had a great deal of time. It’s a curious business. We’ve taken statements from all this crowd, except, of course, the man called Garcia. He’s gone, and we haven’t got a line on him. That looks a bit funny on the face of it, but it seems he said he’d be leaving for a hiking trip on Saturday morning, and is due to turn up at some place in London in about a week’s time. He left his baggage to be forwarded to this London address, and it had all gone when Miss Troy returned on Saturday about three o’clock. We’re trying to get on the carrier that called for it, but haven’t got hold of anybody yet. It was all in the studio. It seems Garcia slept in the studio and had his gear there. I’ve got into touch with the police stations for fifty miles round and asked them to look out for this Garcia. Here’s the description of him: Height — about five-foot nine; sallow complexion, dark eyes, very thin. Thick dark hair, rather long. Usually dressed in old grey flannel trousers and a raincoat. Does not wear a hat. Probably carrying a ruck-sack containing painting materials. It seems he does a bit of sketching as well as sculping. We got that in the course of the statements made by the rest of this crowd. Will you look at the statements before you see anybody?”
    Alleyn thought for a moment.
    “I’ll see Miss Troy first,” he said. “I have met her before.”
    “Have you, really? I suppose with her ladyship being as you might say a neighbour— ”
    ‘The acquaintance is very slight,“ said Alleyn. ”What about the doctors?”
    “I said I’d let Ampthill know as soon as you came. He is the police surgeon. He heads the list in the directory, so Mr. Pilgrim rang him first.”
    “Very handy. Well, Mr. Blackman, if you wouldn’t mind getting hold of him while I see Miss Troy— ”
    “Right.”
    “Fox and Co. ought to be here soon. We’ll go and look at the scene of action when they arrive. Where is Miss Troy?”
    “In the study. I’ll take you there. It’s across the hall.”
    “Don’t bother — I’ll find my way.”
    “Right you are — I’ll ring the doctor and join you there. I’ve got the rest of the class penned up in the dining-room with a P.C. on duty. They’re a rum lot and no mistake,” said Blackman, leading the way into the hall. “Real artistic freaks. You know. There’s the library door. See you in a minute.”
    Alleyn crossed the hall, tapped on the door, and walked in.
    It was a long room with a fireplace at the far end. The only light there was made by the flicker of flames on the book-lined walls. Coming out of the brightly lit hall, he was at first unable to see clearly and stood for a moment inside the door.
    “Yes?” said a quick voice from the shadows. “Who is it? Do you want me?”
    A slim, dark shape, outlined by a wavering halo of light, rose from a chair by the fire.
    “It’s me,” said Alleyn. “Roderick Alleyn.”
    “You!”
    “I’m sorry to come in unannounced. I thought perhaps you would rather— ”
    “But — yes, please come