A Wreath for Rivera

“So you’re popping off to the Yard. Exciting for you.”

“Marvellous, isn’t it,” Carlisle said, trying to make her voice ironical. Félicité watched her change into a suit. “Your face wants a little attention,” she said.

“I know.” She went to the dressing-table. “Not that it matters.”

When she looked in the glass she saw Félicité’s face behind her shoulder. “Stupidly unfriendly,” she thought, dabbing at her nose.

“You know, darling,” Félicité said, “I’m drawn to the conclusion you’re a dark horse.”

“Oh Fée!” she said impatiently.

“Well, you appear to have done quite a little act with my late best young man, last night, and here you are having a sly assignation with the dynamic Inspector.”

“He probably wants to know what kind of toothpaste we all use.”

“Personally,” said Félicité, “I always considered you were potty about Ned.”

Carlisle’s hand shook as she pressed powder into the tear stains under her eyes.

“You are in a state, aren’t you,” said Félicité.

Carlisle turned on her. “Fée, for pity’s sake come off it. As if things weren’t bad enough without your starting these monstrous hares. You must have seen that I couldn’t endure your poor wretched incredibly phony young man. You must see that Mr. Alleyn’s summons to Scotland Yard has merely frightened seven bells out of me. How you can!”

“What about Ned?”

Carlisle picked up her bag and gloves. “If Ned writes the monstrous bilge you’ve fallen for in Harmony I never want to speak to him again,” she said violently. “For the love of Mike pipe down and let me go and be grilled.”

But she was not to leave without further incident. On the first floor landing she encountered Miss Henderson. After her early morning scene with Alleyn on the stairs, Carlisle had returned to her room and remained there, fighting down the storm of illogical weeping that had so suddenly overtaken her. So she had not met Miss Henderson until now.

“Hendy!” she cried out. “What’s the matter?”

“Good morning, Carlisle. The matter, dear?”

“I thought you looked — I’m sorry. I expect we all look a bit odd. Are you hunting for something?”

“I’ve dropped my little silver pencil somewhere. It can’t be here,” she said as Carlisle began vaguely to look. “Are you going out?”

“Mr. Alleyn wants me to call and see him.”

“Why?” Miss Henderson asked sharply.

“I don’t know. Hendy, isn’t this awful, this business? And to make matters worse I’ve had a sort of row with Fée.”

The light on the first landing was always rather strange, Carlisle told herself, a cold reflected light coming from a distant window making people look greenish. It must be that because Miss Henderson answered her quite tranquilly and with her usual lack of emphasis. “Why, of all mornings, did you two want to have a row?”

“I suppose we’re both scratchy. I told her I thought the unfortunate Rivera was ghastly and she thinks I’m shaking my curls at Mr. Alleyn. It was too stupid for words.”

“I should think so, indeed.”

“I’d better go!”

Carlisle touched her lightly on the arm and crossed to the stairs. She hesitated there, without turning to face Miss Henderson, who had not moved. “What is it?” Miss Henderson said. “Have you forgotten something?”

“No. Hendy, you know, don’t you, about the fantastic thing they say killed him? The piece of parasol with an embroidery stiletto in the end?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember — I know this is ridiculous — but do you remember, last night, when there was that devastating bang from the ballroom? Do you remember you and Aunt Cile and Fée and I were in the drawing-room and you were sorting Aunt Cue’s work-box?”

“Was I?”

“Yes. And you jumped at the bang and dropped something?”

“Did I?”

“And Fée picked it up.”

“Did she?”

“Hendy, was it an embroidery stiletto?”

“I remember nothing about it. Nothing at all.”

“I didn’t notice where she put it. I wondered if you had noticed.”

“If it was something from the work-box, I expect she put it back. Won’t you be late, Carlisle?”

“Yes,” Carlisle said without turning. “Yes, I’ll go.”

She heard Miss Henderson walk away into the drawing-room. The door closed gently and Carlisle went downstairs. There was a man in a dark suit in the hall. He got up when he saw her and said: “Excuse me, miss, but are you Miss Wayne?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Thank you, Miss Wayne.”

He opened the glass doors for her and then the front door. Carlisle went quickly past him and out into the sunshine. She was quite unaware of the man who stepped out from the corner a little way down Duke’s Gate and who, glancing impatiently at his watch, waited at the bus stop and journeyed with her to Scotland Yard. “Keep observation on the whole damn boiling,” Alleyn had said irritably at six o’clock that morning. “We don’t know what we want.”