A Wreath for Rivera

“However,” Alleyn went on, “we are concerned, at this point, with the fact that Miss de Suze does write for guidance. Out of this coincidence, an idea is born. He answers the letter. She replies. The correspondence goes on, becoming, as Miss de Suze put it to me, more and more come-to-ish. Lord Pastern is an adept. He stages (again I quote Miss de Suze) a sort of Cupid-and-Psyche act at one remove. She asks if they may meet. He replies ardently but refuses. He has all the fun of watching her throughout in his own character. Meanwhile he appears to Rivera to be supporting his suit. But the ice gets thinner and thinner and his figure-skating increasingly hazardous. Moreover, here he is with a golden opportunity for a major journalistic scoop. He could expose Bellairs, represent himself as a brilliant investigator who has worked on his own in the band and now hands the whole story over to Harmony. And yet — and yet — there are those captivating drums, those entrancing cymbals, those stimulating wire whisks. There is his own composition. There is his début. He skates on precariously but with exhilaration. He fiddles with the idea of weaning Bellairs from his vice and frightens him into fits by threatening to supplant Syd Skelton. He — ”

“Did you,” Lord Pastern interrupted, “go to that police school or whatever it is? Hendon?”

“No,” Alleyn said. “I didn’t.”

“Well, get on, get on,” he snapped.

“We come to the night of the début and of the great inspiration. Lady Pastern quite obviously desires a marriage between her daughter and Mr. Edward Manx.”

Manx made an expostulatory sound. Alleyn waited for a moment. “Look here, Alleyn,” Manx said, “you can at least observe some kind of decency. I object most strongly — ” He glared at Nigel Bathgate.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to lump it,” Alleyn said mildly. Nigel said:

“I’m sorry, Manx. I’ll clear out if you like, but I’ll hear it all, in any case.”

Manx turned on his heel, walked over to the window and stood there with his back to them.

“Lord Pastern,” Alleyn continued, “seems to have shared this hope. And now, having built up a spurious but ardent mystery round G.P.F., he gets his big idea. Perhaps he notices Mr. Manx’s instant dislike of Rivera and perhaps he supposes this dislike to arise from an attachment to his stepdaughter. At all events he sees Mr. Manx put a white carnation in his coat, he goes off to his study and he types a romantic note to Miss de Suze in which G.P.F. reveals himself as the wearer of a white carnation. The note swears her to secrecy. Miss de Suze, coming straight from a violent quarrel with Rivera, sees the white flower in Mr. Manx’s jacket and reacts according to plan.”

Manx said, “Oh, my God!” and drummed with his fingers on the window-pane.

“The one thing that seems to have escaped Lord Pastern’s notice,” Alleyn said, “is the fact that Mr. Manx is enormously attracted, not by Miss de Suze, but by Miss Carlisle Wayne.”

“Hell!” said Lord Pastern sharply and slewed round in his swivel-chair. “Hi!” he shouted. “Ned.”

“For pity’s sake,” Manx said impatiently, “let’s forget it. It couldn’t matter less.” He caught his breath. “In the context,” he added.

Lord Pastern contemplated his cousin’s back with extreme severity and then directed his attention once more upon Alleyn. “Well?” he said.

“Well,” Alleyn repeated, “so much for the great inspiration. But your activity hasn’t exhausted itself. There is a scene with Bellairs in the ballroom, overheard by your footman and in part related to me by the wretched Breezy himself. During this scene you suggest yourself as a successor to Syd Skelton, and tick Bellairs off about his drug habit. You go so far, I think, as to talk about writing to Harmony. The idea, at this stage, would appear to be a comprehensive one. You will frighten Breezy into giving up cocaine, expose Rivera and keep on with the band. It was during this interview that you behaved in a rather strange manner. You unscrewed the end section of Lady Pastern’s parasol, removed the knob and absent-mindedly pushed the bit of shaft a little way up the muzzle of your revolver, holding down the spring clip as you did so. You found that it fitted like a miniature ram-rod or bolt. Or, if you like, a rifle grenade.”

“I told you that meself.”

“Exactly. Your policy throughout has been to pile up evidence against yourself. A sane man, and we are presuming you sane, doesn’t do that sort of thing unless he believes he has an extra trick or two in hand, some conclusive bits of evidence that must clear him. It was obvious that you thought you could produce some such evidence and you took great glee in exhibiting the devastating frankness of complete innocence. Another form of figure-skating on thin ice. You would let us blunder about making clowns of ourselves, and, when the sport palled or the ice began to crack, you would, if you’ll excuse the mixed metaphor, plank down the extra tricks.”