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Vintage Murder
Ngaio Marsh
A touring theatre company in New Zealand forms the basis of one of Marsh’s most ambitious and innovative novelsNew Zealand theatrical manager Alfred Meyer is planning a surprise for his wife's birthday - a jeroboam of champagne descending gently onto the stage after the performance. But, as Roderick Alleyn witnesses, something goes horribly wrong. Is the death the product of Maori superstitions - or something more down to earth?
NGAIO MARSH
VINTAGE MURDER
COPYRIGHT (#ulink_e2a6b815-5c20-53f4-8d96-ef3c8f7f68cb)
HARPER
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2009
Vintage Murder First published in Great Britain by Geoffrey Bles 1937
Copyright © Ngaio Marsh Ltd 1937
Ngaio Marsh asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of these works
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9780006512554
Ebook Edition © MAY 2013 ISBN: 9780007344420
Version: 2016-08-18
DEDICATION (#ulink_7438c5bc-79bc-5ada-b56c-75ba6324b7c3)
For Allan Wilkie andFrediswyde Hunter-WattsIn memory of a tour in New Zealand
CONTENTS
Cover (#u4d64bc49-563b-57fc-80e2-11e294dd692f)
Title Page (#u5a40377d-e823-5467-b546-72b576dbbdd9)
Copyright (#u4c0b453a-560e-5fa8-962a-2f9dd71f80ea)
Dedication (#u3af8ae68-4767-527c-9b2b-80350b85ff34)
Cast of Characters (#ud2fb546d-60c4-55f4-b877-9a740764ed6d)
Foreword (#uf819645a-b168-528d-8bb9-b70a644d7399)
1. Prologue in a Train (#uc81c47ef-d10e-5a77-b330-c57323225ffc)
2. Mr Meyer in Jeopardy (#ua9adda3c-7398-51d9-9e1f-92c359e4216d)
3. Off-stage (#ubf98c432-dd3b-5136-bb19-bd4ed4de8b6b)
4. First Appearance of the Tiki (#ua9b294ff-67ee-55d4-8f60-eefcf52af7b4)
5. Intermezzo (#ucdc4251e-3afb-550b-b866-9a89ed990874)
6. Second Appearance of the Tiki (#u91937310-b522-5358-b3c4-e8d708da12bb)
7. Wardrobe-room Muster (#litres_trial_promo)
8. Money (#litres_trial_promo)
9. Courtney Broadhead’s Scene (#litres_trial_promo)
10. The Case is Wide Open (#litres_trial_promo)
11. St John Ackroyd and Susan Max (#litres_trial_promo)
12. Liversidge Fluffs his Lines (#litres_trial_promo)
13. Miss Gaynes goes Up-stage (#litres_trial_promo)
14. Variation on a Police Whistle (#litres_trial_promo)
15. Six a.m. First Act Curtain (#litres_trial_promo)
16. Entr’acte (#litres_trial_promo)
17. Change of Scene (#litres_trial_promo)
18. Duologue (#litres_trial_promo)
19. Carolyn Moves Centre (#litres_trial_promo)
20. Exit Liversidge. Enter Bob Parsons (whistling) (#litres_trial_promo)
21. Business with Props (#litres_trial_promo)
22. Fourth Appearance of the Tiki (#litres_trial_promo)
23. Alleyn as Maskelyne (#litres_trial_promo)
24. Dr Te Pokiha Plays to Type. Warn Curtain (#litres_trial_promo)
25. Alleyn Speaks the Tag (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
CAST OF CHARACTERS (#ulink_99da81f6-8bbb-5101-b2b7-191e74f3356d)
(in the order of their appearance)
FOREWORD (#ulink_cb8fd712-fb6c-509d-8bec-4c2086da2d42)
Although I agree with those critics who condemn the building of imaginary towns in actual countries I must confess that there is no Middleton in the North Island of New Zealand, nor is ‘Middleton’ a pseudonym for any actual city. The largest town in New Zealand is no bigger than, let us say, Southampton. If I had taken the Dacres Comedy Company to Auckland or Wellington, Messrs Wade, Packer, and Cass, to say nothing of Dr Rangi Te Pokiha, might have been mistaken for portraits or caricatures of actual persons. By building Middleton in the open country somewhere south of Ohakune, I avoid this possibility, and, with a clear conscience, can make the usual statement that:
All the characters in this story are purely imaginary and bear no relation to any actual person.
CHAPTER 1 Prologue in a Train (#ulink_30012ee0-93cf-545f-92c1-2a5dfed401ec)
The clop and roar of the train was an uneasy element somewhere at the back of the tall man’s dreams. It would die away – die away and fantastic hurrying faces come up to claim his attention. He would think ‘I am sure I am asleep. This is certainly a dream.’ Then came a jolt as they roared, with a sudden increase of racket, over a bridge and through a cutting. The fantastic faces disappeared. He was cold and stiff. For the hundredth time he opened his eyes to see the dim carriage-lamps and the rows of faces with their murky high-lights and cadaverous shadows.
‘Strange company I’ve got into,’ he thought.
Opposite him was the leading man, large, kindly, swaying slightly with the movement of the long narrow-gauge carriage, politely resigned to discomfort. The bundle of rugs in the next seat to the tall man was Miss Susan Max, the character woman. An old trouper, Susan, with years of jolting night journeys behind her, first in this country, then Australia, and then up and down the provinces in England, until finally she made a comfortable niche for herself with Incorporated Playhouses in the West End. Twenty years ago she had joined an English touring company in Wellington. Now, for the first time, she revisited New Zealand. She stared, with unblinking eyes, at the dim reflections in the window-pane. The opposite seat to Susan’s was empty. In the next block George Mason, the manager, a dyspeptic, resigned-looking man, played an endless game of two-handed whist with Ted Gascoigne, the stage-manager.
And there, nodding like a mandarin beside old Brandon Vernon, was little Ackroyd, the comedian, whose ill-temper was so much at variance with his funny face. Sitting in front of Mason, a pale young man fidgeted restlessly in his chair. This was Courtney Broadhead. ‘Something the matter with that youth,’ thought the tall man. ‘Ever since Panama—’ He caught the boy’s eye and looked beyond him to where Mr Francis Liversidge, so much too beautifully dressed, allowed Miss Valerie Gaynes to adore him. Beyond them again to the far end of the long carriage were dim faces and huddled figures. The Carolyn Dacres English Comedy Company on tour in New Zealand.
He felt very much an outsider. There was something about these people that gave them a united front. Their very manner in this night train, rattling and roaring through a strange country, was different from the manner of other travellers. Dozing a little, he saw them in more antiquated trains, in stage-coaches, in wagons, afoot, wearing strange garments, carrying bundles, but always together. There they were, their heads bobbing in unison, going back and back.
A violent jerk woke him. The train had slowed down. He wiped the misty window-pane, shaded his eyes, and tried to look out into this new country. The moon had risen. He saw aching hills, stumps of burnt trees, some misty white flowering scrub, and a lonely road. It was very remote and strange. Away in front, the engine whistled. Trees, hills and road slid sideways and were gone. Three lamps travelled across the window-pane. They were off again.
He turned to see old Susan dab at her eyes with her handkerchief. She gave him a deprecatory smile.
‘Those white trees are manuka bushes,’ she said. ‘They bloom at this time of the year. I had forgotten.’
There was a long silence. He looked from one dimly-lit slumping figure to another. At last be became aware of Hambledon’s gaze, fixed on himself.
‘Do you find us very queer cattle?’ said Hambledon, with his air of secret enjoyment.
‘Why do you ask that?’ said the tall man quickly.
‘I noticed you looking at us and wondered what were your thoughts. Do you think us queer cattle?’
In order not to disturb Susan Max and to make himself heard above the racket of the train, he bent forward. So did the tall man. With their heads together under the murky lamp, they looked like conspirators.
‘That would be an ungracious thought,’ said the tall man, ‘after your kindness.’
‘Our kindness? Oh, you mean George Mason’s offer of a seat in our carriage?’
‘Yes. The alternative was a back-to-the-engine pew by a swinging door, among commercial travellers, and next a lavatory.’
Hambledon laughed silently.
‘Ah well,’ he said, ‘even queer cattle may be preferable to all that.’
‘But I didn’t say I thought—’
‘If you had it would not have been very strange. Actors are a rum lot.’
‘The last man I heard say that was an actor – and a murderer,’ said the tall man.
‘Really?’ Hambledon raised his head. ‘You don’t by any chance mean Felix Gardener?’
‘I do. How did you guess—?’
‘Now I know who you are. Of course! How stupid of me! I have seen your photograph any number of times in the papers. It’s been worrying me.’
His companion looked at Susan Max. Her three chins were packed snugly down into her collar and her eyes were closed. Her whole person jogged rhythmically with the motion of the train.
‘She knew me,’ he said, ‘but I asked her not to give me away. I’m on a holiday.’
‘I should have guessed from your name of course. How inadequate one’s memory is. And without your – your rank—’
‘Exactly. They spelt me wrongly in the passenger list.’
‘Well, this is very interesting. I shan’t give you away.’
‘Thank you. And at any rate we part company in Middleton. I’m staying for a few nights to see your show and look round, and then I go on to the South Island.’
‘We may meet again,’ said Hambledon.
‘I hope so,’ said his companion cordially.
They smiled tentatively at each other, and after an uncertain pause leant back again in their seats.
The train roared through a cutting and gathered speed. ‘Rackety-plan, rackety-plan,’ it said, faster and faster, as though out of patience with its journey. The guard came through and turned down the lamps. Now the white faces of the travellers looked more cadaverous than ever. The carriage was filled with tobacco smoke. Everything felt grimy and stale. The shrill laughter of Miss Valerie Gaynes, in ecstasy over a witticism of Mr Liversidge’s, rose above the din. She stood up, a little dishevelled in her expensive fur coat, and began to walk down the carriage. She swayed, clutched the backs of seats, stumbled and fell half across George Mason’s knees. He gave her a disinterested squeeze, and made a knowing grimace at Gasgoigne who said something about: ‘If you will go native.’ Miss Gaynes yelped and got up. As she passed Hambledon and the tall man she paused and said:
‘I’m going to my sleeper. They call it “de luxe”. My God, what a train!’
She staggered on. When she opened the door the iron clamour of their progress filled the carriage. Cold night air rushed in from outside bringing a taint of acrid smoke. She struggled with the door, trying to shut it behind her. They could see her through the glass panel, leaning against the wind. Hambledon got up and slammed the door and she disappeared.
‘Have you taken a sleeper?’ asked the tall man.
‘No,’ said Hambledon. ‘I should not sleep and I should probably be sick.’
