Final Curtain ra-14

  Final Curtain

  ( Roderick Alleyn - 14 )

  Ngaio Marsh

  Sir Henry Ancred, the celebrated Shakespearian actor, wishes to have his portrait painted in the role of Macbeth by Agatha Troy, the famous artist. Amid a welter of practical jokes, Sir Henry dies and Chief Inspector Alleyn is called in to investigate.

  Ngaio Marsh

  Final Curtain

  Robert Fawcett

  Saturday Evening Post

  For Joan and Cecil with my love

  CHAPTER I

  Siege of Troy

  i

  “Considered severally,” said Troy, coming angrily into the studio, “a carbuncle, a month’s furlough and a husband returning from the antipodes don’t sound like the ingredients of a hell-brew. Collectively they amount to precisely that.”

  Katti Bostock stepped heavily back from her easel, screwed up her eyes, and squinting dispassionately at her work said: “Why?”

  “They’ve telephoned from C.l. Rory’s on his way. He’ll probably get here in about three weeks. By which time I shall have returned, cured of my carbuncle, to the girls in the back room.”

  “At least,” said Miss Bostock, scowling hideously at her work, “he won’t have to face the carbuncle. There is that.”

  “It’s on my hip.”

  “I know that, you owl.”

  “Well — but, Katti,” Troy argued, standing beside her friend, “you will allow and must admit, it’s a stinker. You are going it,” she added, squinting at Miss Bostock’s canvas.

  “You’ll have to move into the London flat a bit earlier, that’s all.”

  “But if only the carbuncle, and Rory and my leave had come together — well, the carbuncle a bit earlier, certainly — we’d have had a fortnight down here together. The A.C. promised us that. Rory’s letters have been full of it. It is tough, Katti, you can’t deny it. And if you so much as look like saying there are worse things in Europe—”

  “All right, all right,” said Mis: Bostock, pacifically. “I was only going to point out that it’s reasonably lucky your particular back room and Roderick’s job both happen to be in London. Look for the silver lining, dear,” she added unkindly. “What’s that letter you keep taking in and out of your pocket?”

  Troy opened her thin hand and disclosed a crushed sheet of notepaper. “That?” she murmured. “Oh, yes, there’s that. You never heard anything so dotty. Read it.”

  “It’s got cadmium red all over it.”

  “I know. I dropped it on my palette. It’s on the back, luckily.”

  Miss Bostock spread out the letter on her painting-table, adding several cobalt finger-prints in the process. It was a single sheet of pre-war notepaper, thick, white, with an engraved heading surmounted by a crest — a cross with fluted extremities.

  “Crickey!” said Miss Bostock. “Ancreton Manor. That’s the— Crickey!” Being one of those people who invariably read letters aloud she began to mutter:

  Miss Agatha Troy (Mrs. Roderick Alleyn)

  Tatlers End House

  Bossicot, Bucks.

  Dear Madam,

  My father-in-law, Sir Henry Ancred, asks me to write to you in reference to a portrait of himself in the character of Macbeth, for which he would be pleased to engage your services. The picture is to hang in the entrance hall at Ancreton Manor, and will occupy a space six by four feet in dimension. As he is in poor health, he wishes the painting to be done here, and will be pleased if you can arrange to stay with us from Saturday, November 17th, until such time as the portrait is completed. He presumes this will be in about a week. He will be glad to know, by telegram, whether this arrangement will suit you, and also your fee for such a commission. I am,

  Yours faithfully,

  MILLAMANT ANCRED.

  “Well,” said Miss Bostock, “of all the cheek!”

  Troy grinned. “You’ll notice I’m to dodge up a canvas six by four in seven days. I wonder if he expects me to throw in the three witches and the Bloody Child.”

  “Have you answered it?”

  “Not yet,” Troy mumbled.

  “It was written six days ago,” scolded Miss Bostock.

  “I know. I must. How shall I word the telegram: ‘Deeply regret am not house painter’?

  Katti Bostock paused, her square fingers still planted under the crest. “I thought only peers had those things peppered about on their notepaper,” she said.

  “You’ll notice it’s a cross, with ends like an anchor. Hence Ancred, one supposes.”

  “Oh! I say!” said Katti, rubbing her nose with her blue finger. “That’s funny.”

  “What is?”

  “Didn’t you do a set of designs for that production of Macbeth?”

  “I did. That may have given them the idea.”

  “Good Lord! Do you remember,” said Miss Bostock, “we saw him in the play. You and Roderick, and I? The Bathgates took us. Before the war.”

  “Of course I do,” said Troy. “He was magnificent, wasn’t he?”

  “What’s more, he looked magnificent. What a head. Troy, do you remember, we said—”

  “So we did. Katti,” said Troy, “you’re not by any chance going to suggest—”

  “No, no, of course not. Good Lord, no! But it’s rum that we did say it would be fun to have a go at him in the grand manner. Against the backcloth they did from your design; lolloping clouds and a black simplified castle form. The figure cloaked and dim.”

  “He wouldn’t thank you for that, I dare say. The old gentleman probably wishes to appear in a flash of lightning, making faces. Well, I’d better send the telegram. Oh, damn!” Troy sighed. “I wish I could settle down to something.”

  Miss Bostock glowered thoughtfully at Troy. Four years of intensive work at pictorial surveys for the army, followed by similar and even more exacting work for U.N.R.R.A., had, she thought, tried her friend rather high. She was thin and a bit jumpy. She’d be better if she could do more painting, thought Katti, who did not regard the making of pictorial maps, however exquisite, as full compensation for the loss of pure art. Four years’ work with little painting and no husband. “Thank God,” Katti thought, “I’m different. I get along nicely.”

  “If he gets here in three weeks,” Troy was saying, “where do you suppose he is now? He might be in New York. But he’d cable if he was in New York. The last letter was still from New Zealand, of course. And the cable.”

  “Why don’t you get on with your work?”

  “Work?” said Troy vaguely. “Oh, well. I’ll send off that telegram.” She wandered to the door and came back for the letter. “Six by four,” she said. “Imagine it!”

  ii

  “Mr. Thomas Ancred?” said Troy, looking at the card in her hand. “My dear Katti, he’s actually here on the spot.”

  Katti, who had almost completed her vigorous canvas, laid down her brushes and said: “This is in answer to your telegram. He’s come to badger you. Who is he?”

  “A son of Sir Henry Ancred’s, I fancy. Isn’t he a theatrical producer? I seem to remember seeing: ‘Produced by Thomas Ancred’ under casts of characters? Yes, of course he is. That production of Macbeth we were talking about at the Unicorn. He was in the picture somewhere then. Look, there’s Unicorn Theatre scribbled on the card. We’ll have to ask him to dinner, Katti. There’s not a train before nine. That’ll mean opening another tin. What a bore.”

  “I don’t see why he need stay. There’s a pub in the village. If he chooses to come on a fool’s errand!”

  “I’ll see what he’s like.”

  “Aren’t you going to take off that painting smock?”

  “I don’t suppose so,” Troy said vaguely, and walked up the path from her studio to her house.
It was a cold afternoon. Naked trees rattled in a north wind and leaden clouds hurried across the sky. “Suppose,” Troy pretended, “I was to walk in and find it was Rory. Suppose he’d kept it a secret and there he was waiting in the library. He’d have lit the fire so that it should be there for us to meet by. His face would be looking like it did the first time he stood there, a bit white with excitement. Suppose—” She had a lively imagination and she built up her fantasy quickly, warming her thoughts at it. So clear was her picture that it brought a physical reaction; her head knocked, her hand, even, trembled a little as she opened the library door.

  The man who stood before the unkindled hearth was tall and stooped a little. His hair, which had the appearance of floss, stood up thinly like a child’s. He wore glasses and blinked behind them at Troy.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. “I’m Thomas Ancred, but of course you know that because of the card. I hope you don’t mind my coming. I didn’t really want to, but the family insisted.”

  He held out his hand, but didn’t do anything with it when Troy took it, so that she was obliged to give it a slight squeeze and let it go. “The whole thing’s silly,” he said. “About Papa’s portrait, I mean, of course. We call him ‘Papa,’ you know. Some people think it sounds affected, but there it is. About Papa’s portrait. I must tell you they all got a great shock when your telegram came. They rang me up. They said you couldn’t have understood and I was to come and explain.”

  Troy lit the fire. “Do sit down,” she said, “you must be frozen. What did they think I hadn’t understood?”

  “Well, first of all, that it was an honour to paint Papa. I told them that it would have been the other way round, if anything, supposing you’d consented. Thank you, I will sit down. It’s quite a long walk from the station and I think I’ve blistered my heel. Do you mind if I have a look? I can feel through my sock, you know.”

  “Look away,” said Troy.

  “Yes,” said Thomas after a pause, “it is a blister. I’ll just keep my toe in my shoe for manners and I dare say the blister will go down. About my father. Of course you know he’s the Grand Old Man of the British stage so I needn’t go into all that. Do you admire his acting at all?”

  “A great deal,” said Troy. She was glad that the statement was truthful. This curious man, she felt, would have recognized a polite evasion.

  “Do you?” he said. “That’s nice. He is quite good, of course, though a little creaky at times, don’t you feel? And then, all those mannerisms! He can’t play an emotional bit, you know, without sucking in his breath rather loudly. But he really is good in a magnificent Mrs. Beeton sort of way. A recipe for everything and only the best ingredients used.”

  “Mr Ancred,” Troy said, “what is all this about?”

  “Well, it’s part of the build-up. It’s supposed to make you see things in a different light. The great British actor painted by the great British artist, don’t you know? And although I don’t suppose you’d like Ancreton much it might amuse you to see it. It’s very baronial. The portrait would hang under the minstrels’ gallery with special lighting. He doesn’t mind what he pays. It’s to commemorate his seventy-fifth birthday. His own idea is that the nation ought to have given it to him, but as the nation doesn’t seem to have thought of that he’s giving it to himself. And to posterity, of course,” Thomas added as an afterthought, cautiously slipping his finger inside his loosened shoe.

  “If you’d like me to suggest one or two painters who might—”

  “Some people prick blisters,” said Thomas, “but I don’t. No, thank you, they’ve made a second-best list. I was telling you about Ancreton. You know those steel engravings of castles and halls in Victorian books? All turrets and an owl flying across the moon? That’s Ancreton. It was built by my great-grandfather. He pulled down a nice Queen Anne house and erected Ancreton. There was a moat but people got diphtheria so it was let go and they’re growing vegetables in it. The food is quite good, because there are lots of vegetables, and Papa cut down the Great East Spinney during the war and stored the wood, so there are still fires.”

  Thomas smiled at his hostess. He had a tentative sidelong smile. “Yes,” he said, “that’s Ancreton. I expect you’d hate it, but you couldn’t help laughing.”

  “As I’m not going, however—” Troy began with a rising sense of panic.

  But Thomas continued unmoved. “And then, of course, there’s the family. Well! Papa and Millamant and Pauline and Panty to begin with. Are you at all keen on the emotions?”

  “I haven’t an idea what you mean.”

  “My family is very emotional. They feel everything most deeply. The funny thing about that,” said Thomas, “is that they really do feel deeply. They really are sensitive, only people are inclined to think nobody could really be as sensitive as they seem to be, so that’s hard luck on the family.” Thomas took off his spectacles and gazed at Troy with short-sighted innocence. “Except,” he added, “that they have the satisfaction of knowing that they are so much more sensitive than any one else. That’s a point that might interest you.”

  “Mr Ancred,” Troy said patiently, “I am on leave because I’ve not been well—”

  “Indeed! You look all right. What’s the matter with you?”

  “A carbuncle,” said Troy angrily.

  “Really?” said Thomas, clucking his tongue. “How sickening for you.”

  “—and in consequence I’m not at the top of my form. A commission of the sort mentioned in your sister-in-law’s letter would take at least three weeks’ intensive work. The letter gives me a week.”

  “How long is your leave?”

  Troy bit her lips. “That’s not the point,” she said. “The point is—”

  “I had a carbuncle once. You feel better if you keep on with your job. Less depressed. Mine,” said Thomas proudly, “was on my bottom. Now that is awkward.” He looked inquiringly at Troy, who by this time, according to her custom, was sitting on the hearth-rug. “Obviously,” Thomas continued, “yours—”

  “It’s on my hip. It’s very much better—”

  “Well, then—”

  “—but that’s not the point. Mr. Ancred, I can’t accept this commission. My husband is coming home after three years’ absence—”

  “When?” Thomas asked instantly.

  “As far as we know in three weeks,” said Troy, wishing she could bring herself to lie freely to her visitor. “But one can never tell. It might be sooner.”

  “Well, of course Scotland Yard will let you know about that, won’t they? Because, I mean, he’s pretty high up, isn’t he? Supposing you did go to Ancreton, they could ring you up there just as well as here.”

  “The point is,” Troy almost shouted, “I don’t want to paint your father as Macbeth. I’m sorry to put it so bluntly, but I just don’t.”

  “I told them you wouldn’t,” said Thomas complacently. “The Bathgates thought they knew better.”

  “The Bathgates? Do you mean Nigel and Angela Bathgate?”

  “Who else? Nigel and I are old friends. When the family started all this business I went to see him and asked if he thought you’d do it. Nigel said he knew you were on leave, and he thought it would be nice for you.”

  “He knows nothing whatever about it.”

  “He said you liked meeting queer people. He said you’d revel in Papa as a subject and gloat over his conversation. It only shows you how little we understand our friends, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Troy, “it does.”

  “But I can’t help wondering what you’d make of Panty.”

  Troy had by this time determined to ask Thomas Ancred no questions whatever, and it was with a sense of impotent fury that she heard her own voice: “Did you say ‘Panty’?”

  “She’s my niece, you know. My sister Pauline’s youngest. We call her Panty because her bloomers are always coming down. She’s a Difficult Child. Her school, which is a school for Difficult Children, was evacuated t
o Ancreton. They are quartered in the west wing under a very nice person called Caroline Able. Panty is frightful.”

  “Oh,” said Troy, as he seemed to expect some comment.

  “Yes, indeed. She’s so awful that I rather like her. She’s a little girl with two pigtails and a devilish face. This sort of thing.”

  Thomas put his long forefingers at right angles to his head, scowled abominably and blew out his cheeks. His eyes glittered. Much against her will, Troy was suddenly confronted with the face of a bad child. She laughed shortly. Thomas rubbed his hands. “If I were to tell you,” he said, “of the things that little girl does, you would open your eyes. Well, a cactus, for instance, in Sonia’s bed! Unfortunately she’s Papa’s favourite, which makes control almost impossible. And, of course, one mustn’t beat her except in anger, because that’s not proper child psychology.”

  He stared thoughtfully into the fire. “Then there’s Pauline, my eldest sister; she’s the important type. And Milly, my sister-in-law, who perpetually laughs at nothing and housekeeps for Papa, since her husband, my eldest brother, Henry Irving, died.”

  “Henry Irving!” Troy ejaculated, thinking with alarm: “Evidently he’s mad.”

  “Henry Irving Ancred, of course. Papa had a great admiration for Irving, and regards himself as his spiritual successor, so he called Hal after him. And then there’s Sonia. Sonia is Papa’s mistress.” Thomas cleared his throat old-maidishly. “Rather a Biblical situation really. You remember David and Abishag the Shunammite? They all dislike Sonia. I must say she’s a very bad actress. Am I boring you?”

  Troy, though not bored, was extremely reluctant to say so. She muttered: “Not at all,” and offered Thomas a drink. He replied: “Yes, thank you, if you’ve got plenty.” She went off to fetch it, hoping in the interim to sort out her reactions to her visitor. She found Katti Bostock in the dining-room.

  “For pity’s sake, Katti,” said Troy, “come back with me. I’ve got a sort of monster in there.”