Noonday and Night

‘It is not impossible. He disappeared from this hotel.’

‘Aye.’ The hotel manager, who was drinking a quiet nightcap in his private sitting-room, was told to stand by in case he was wanted and, accompanied by Laura, Dame Beatrice went with the police to the bungalow. The inspector cut a small pane of glass out of the front door, reached for the knob inside which operated the lock and in they all went.

‘Did your caller say in which room the body was to be found?’ the inspector enquired when he had closed the front door and switched on the hall light.

‘No,’ Dame Beatrice truthfully replied, for this information had not been supplied by Laura over the telephone. (‘I admired that answer of yours. It was given, like Kipling says, “with steadfastness and careful truth,” ’ Laura commented later).

‘Oh, well, the bungalow isna a’ that lairge. We’ll find it soon enough if it’s here,’ the inspector remarked. ‘Will ye kindly bide here while I look around?’

He was back with them in a few minutes.

‘It is true, then?’ Dame Beatrice enquired.

‘Och, aye, it is true enough, although I’m not surprised ye were sceptical. Whoever did it had pushed the body under the bed. It’s naebody we ken, so maybe you would tak’ a look at it yourself, ma’am and tell us do you recognise it. It’s no sie a terrible sight. A quick stab in the back by somebody wha kenned juist whaur to plant a knife. The doctor will be here directly, but there’s nae doubt about what happened.’

‘No signs of a struggle?’

‘The mon was taken unaware, maist likely, but the intruder was a burglar. The room’s in an awfu’ mess.’

‘Have you found the weapon?’

‘We have not. We dinna look for that kind of help frae murderers.’

Dame Beatrice and Laura followed him into the bedroom. The bed had been pulled away from the wall by the police, leaving the corpse where it had been so rudely thrust. It was clad in pyjama trousers, shoes and socks, and was lying on its face so that the angry gash in its back was clearly visible in the strong electric light.

‘Do ye put a name on him? ’ asked the inspector. Dame Beatrice and Laura exchanged glances, but said nothing. ‘There is no reason not to move him,’ the inspector continued, ‘since he has been moved already. Turn him over, sergeant.’ The sergeant obliged, and both Dame Beatrice and Laura recognised the man immediately. The inspector went on: ‘We’ll need to get MacDonald frae the hotel to take a look at him, I daresay, and I maun rouse the couple next door. They should be able to help us, I think, to put a name on him.’

‘By the way, Inspector,’ said Dame Beatrice, ‘I suppose the bloodstains on the bedding will be analysed?’

‘Analysed? For what purpose, ma’am? There’s nae doubt they came from the wound in the deid mon’s back.’

‘There is probably no doubt at all, but it might be interesting to make sure.’

The inspector looked perplexed.

‘I ken well that ye’ve a great reputation, ma’am,’ he said, ‘so a hint from you is as good as a nod, as they say. Will ye no tell me what is in your mind?’

‘Nothing, except that I believe in making certain that what we take as evidence really is evidence, that is all. I mean, suppose this blood proves to correspond with that of the dead man, well and good. But suppose, for the sake of argument, that his blood happened to belong to a different group, would that not cause us to think that this death is not the result of murder but of a fight to the death in which the assailant was also wounded?’

The inspector scratched his head, but promised that the comparison should be carried out.

‘And now what about the identification?’ he asked.

‘He is not the missing coach-driver,’ said Dame Beatrice, “but I have seen this man before. I do not know his full name. He was introduced to me merely as Vittorio. He is a one-time friend of Mr Honfleur of County Coaches. Incidentally, the nature of the wound, its position and the fact that only one blow appears to have been struck, relate it to the other two bodies I have seen.’

‘Aye. Well, if it is the mon ye say, maybe MacDonald at the hotel will not know him. Weel, now, ye’d like to get to your beds, yoursel’ and Mistress Gavin, but before ye leave, tell me what you make of these.’

He whipped up the pyjama jacket which matched the trousers the corpse was wearing. It was lying on the bedside table as though the man had discarded it during the night, but when the inspector twitched it aside there seemed little doubt that it had been placed on the bedside table to hide what lay beneath.

‘I dinna ken what the thief was looking for, the way he had the place turned upside down,’ the inspector said, ‘but if it was these wee pistols, well, he didna look in the right place. We found them on the floor between the body and the wall.’

Dame Beatrice did not need a warning not to touch the exhibits. She produced a magnifying glass and studied them closely.

‘I am not an expert in these matters,’ she said, ‘but these very fine pistols were made, I should say, during the late seventeenth century. They remind me very much of a pair I have seen in the White Tower of London. If I am not mistaken, they are the work of Pierre Monlong, a Huguenot gun-maker who was appointed Gentleman Armourer to Dutch William, the husband of that Princess Mary who was the daughter of King James the Second and who became joint sovereign of England in 1689 with her husband.’

‘Ye call him Dutch William,’ said the inspector. Dame Beatrice waved a yellow claw.

‘A resolute man,’ she said. ‘Queen Elizabeth Tudor would not have liked him. There is no doubt that he usurped his wife’s rights. Be that as it may, the gunmaker Pierre Monlong previously had held the post, as such, to the royal house of France and was a master of his craft. Note the delicate scroll-work on these pistols and the inlays in gold on pale blue enamel. These are not so much weapons of offence as works of art, Inspector.’

‘They would be collectors’ items, then.’