Death in Ecstasy by Ngaio Marsh Page B

over her — I mean everyone knows what foreigners are like. If you give them any encouragement, that is. Well, I myself — I suppose Claude told you that — about her looks, I mean. Or was it Father Garnette? Was it?”
    “I’m afraid I don’t remember,” said Alleyn.
    Mrs. Candour jerked her chin up. For a second her face was horrible. “Cara doesn’t look very pretty now,” she said softly.
    Alleyn turned away.
    “I mustn’t keep you any longer,” he said. “There’s only one other point. You were the first, after Mr. Garnette, to take the cup. Did you notice any peculiar smell?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t remember. No, I don’t think so.”
    “I see. Thank you. That is all, I think.”
    “I may go home?”
    “Certainly. There is a wardress in the lobby. Would you object to being examined?”
    “Searched!”
    “Just looked over, you know. It’s the usual thing.”
    “Oh, yes, please — I’d rather — much rather.”
    “Thank you. You will be given notice of the inquest.”
    “The inquest! Oh, how dreadful! I don’t know how I’m to get over this — I’m so shockingly sensitive. Inspector Alleyn, you’ve been marvellously kind. I always thought that police methods were brutal.” She looked up at him with a general air of feminine helplessness somewhat negatived by a glint of appraisal in her eye. It was a ghastly combination. She held out her hand.
    “Good-bye, Inspector Alleyn.”
    “Good evening, madam,” said Alleyn.
    She wobbled away on her French heels.
    “This is a very unsavoury case,” said Nigel.
    “It’s murder,” said Inspector Fox mildly.
    “Most foul,” added Alleyn, “as at the best it is. But this most foul — yes, I agree with you, Bathgate. Bailey!”
    “Here,” said that worthy, rising up from behind the lectern.
    “Next, please.”
    “Right, sir.”
    “What did you make of Mrs. Candour?” asked Alleyn.
    “A perfectly appalling old girl,” said Nigel fervently.
    “Oh, yes. All that. Almost a pathological case, one might imagine. Still, the exhibition of jealousy was interesting, didn’t you think, Fox?”
    “Yes, I did,” agreed Fox. “This Father Garnette seems to be a peculiar sort of man for the ministry.”
    “Exactly.”
    “When she made that appalling remark about Cara not looking very pretty now,” said Nigel, “she was positively evil. Without a shadow of doubt she loathed the poor woman. I am surprised at your allowing her to escape. She should have been handcuffed immediately, I consider.”
    “Don’t show off,” said Alleyn abstractedly.
    “I’ll be right there, Ahfficer. Where’s the Chief?” cried Mr. Ogden from afar. He appeared with Bailey by the altar, saw Alleyn, and made straight for him.
    “Well, well, well. Look what’s here!” exclaimed Mr. Ogden.
    “Yes, look,” said Alleyn. “It’s a pathetic sight, Mr. Ogden. Here we go grubbing along — however.”
    “Say, Inspector, what’s the big idea? You look kind of world-weary.”
    “Do I, Mr. Ogden, do I?”
    “And just when I was congratulating myself on sitting right next the works for an inside survey of British criminal investigation.”
    “And now you’ll never talk again about our wonderful police.”
    “Is that so? Well, I’m not saying anything.”
    “You won’t mind if I ask you a few dreary questions, perhaps? We have to do our stuff, you know.”
    “Go right ahead. My, my!” said Mr. Ogden contemplating Alleyn with an air of the liveliest satisfaction. “You certainly are the goods. I guess you’ve got British Manufacture stamped some place where it won’t wear off. All this quiet deprecation — it’s direct from a sure-fire British best-seller. I can’t hardly believe it’s true.”
    Nigel, from his unobtrusive seat by Fox, allowed himself an irritating grin. Alleyn saw it and looked furious.
    “That sounds a very damning description, Mr. Ogden,” he said, and hurried on. He asked Ogden if he had noticed a peculiar smell and got