Free A Man Lay Dead by Ngaio Marsh Page A

under the grate.
    “Curious position, too. There’s a clear left hand impression pointing downwards. Quite an awkward place to get your left hand with the bannister curving out at the bottom the way it does. It’s right on the inside edge. Very clear, too. Saw it with me naked eye at once.”
    “Your naked eye is uncanny, Bailey. Try the head of the stairs. Hullo, what’s this?”
    He had been sifting the ashes in the tray and now paused, squatting on his heels and peering at a small grimy object in the palm of his hand.
    “Made a find, sir?” said the finger-print expert, who was now at work on the stair head.
    “Somebody’s been chucking away their belongings,” grunted the Inspector. He produced a small magnifying glass and squinted through it.
    “A Dent’s press button,” he murmured, “with just a fragment of — yes, of leather — charred, but unmistakable. Ah, well.” He put his trophy in an envelope and wrote on the flap.
    The next twenty minutes he spent crawling about the floor, standing on chairs to examine the stair well and outside of the treads, gingerly inspecting the cigarette boxes, and directing Bailey to test the coal-scuttle and fire-irons for prints.
    “And now,” he said, “for the bedrooms. The mortuary van will be here any time now, Bunce. I’ll leave you to attend to that. Come on,” he said, and led the way upstairs. On the landing he paused and looked about him.
    “On our left,” he informed Bailey, “the bedroom of Mrs. Wilde, the dressing-room of her husband, the bathroom, and Mr. Bathgate’s room. All communicating. Very matey and rather unusual. Well, begin at the beginning, I suppose.”
    Mrs. Wilde’s room was disordered and bore a faint family likeness to a modern comedy bedroom. She had taken away its character and Florence had not been allowed to put it back. The bed had not been made and the early morning tea-tray was still on the table.
    “There’s your mark for prints, Bailey,” said the Inspector, and once again the expert produced his bag.
    “The alibi here is pretty good, I understand,” remarked Bailey, sifting a fine powder over the surface of a cup.
    “Pretty good?” answered Alleyn. “It’s pretty damn good for all of ’em except Miss Grant. She did tell a nice meaty lie about her movements, and followed up with a faint on top of it.”
    He opened a suitcase and began going through the contents.
    “What about this Russian affair, sir? The doctor or whatever he is?”
    “Yes, he seems to be a likely horse. Do you fancy him, Bailey?”
    “Well, from what you’ve told me about the knife and all that, it looks sort of possible. Personally I favour the butler.”
    “If Tokareff’s our man, he is pretty nimble on his pins. His room is some way along the passage and he sang, so they tell me, continuously. As for the butler— he was in the servants’ quarters the whole time and was seen there.”
    “Is that dead certain, sir? After all, he has done a bunk.”
    “True. He is rather tempting; but when we’ve got your prints from the bannister, I’ll know better if I’m on the right track. Do your stuff in the bathroom now, will you, Bailey? Bathgate and Wilde will be found to predominate. Then come back and go through this tallboy for me while I get on to the other rooms. Do you mind working out of your department for a bit?”
    “Pleasure, sir. What am I looking for?”
    “A single glove. Probably yellow dogskin. Right hand. I don’t expect to find it here. Make a list of all the clothes, please.”
    “Right, sir,” said Bailey from the bathroom. Alleyn followed him and looked round the dressing-room and bathroom very carefully. Then he went into Nigel’s room.
    It was much as it had been the night before. The bed had not been slept in. Alleyn had learnt from Bunce that Nigel had been up all night, trying to get calls through to the family solicitor, to his own office, and, on behalf of the police, to Scotland Yard. He had been