The Roderick Alleyn Mysteries Volume 1

A Man Lay Dead, Enter a Murderer, The Nursing Home Murder

Ngaio Marsh

• Publisher: Felony & Mayhem Press
• Year: 2021
• eBook ISBN: 9781631942716
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Crime & Mystery Literature
• Index: Literature

The first three Inspector Roderick Alleyn novels from  "a peerless practitioner of the slightly surreal, English-village comedy-mystery" ( Kirkus Reviews).
 
This volume includes three books in the classic detective series from the Mystery Writers of America Grand Master:
 
A Man Lay Dead : During a country-house party between the two world wars, servants bustle, gin flows, and the host, Sir Hubert Handesley, has invented a new and especially exciting version of that beloved parlor entertainment, The Murder Game . . .
 
Enter a Murderer : A policeman in the audience sees an all-too-real death scene on a London stage in a mystery "good enough to satisfy the most critical reader of detective stories" ( The New York Times).
 
The Nursing Home Murder : A Member of Parliament has unexpectedly died on a visit the hospital, and any number of people could be suspects, including a sour surgeon, a besotted nurse, a resentful wife, and a cabinet full of political rivals . . .
 
"It's time to start comparing Christie to Marsh instead of the other way around." — New York Magazine

CHAPTER ONE

10 Downing Street

Friday, the fifth. Afternoon.

THE HOME SECRETARY, with an air of finality, laid down the papers from which he had been reading and glanced round the table. He was struck, not for the first time, by the owlish solemnity of the other members of the Cabinet. “Really,” he thought, “we look for all the world like a Cabinet Meeting in a cinema. We are too good to be true.” As if to confirm this impression, the Prime Minister flung himself back in his chair, laid the palms of his hands on the table, and cleared his throat.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said portentously, “there we have it.”

“Strong!” said the Foreign Secretary. He folded his arms and stared at the ceiling.

“Drastic!” added the Lord Chancellor. “I venture to think—drastic.”

“But in my opinion,” the Postmaster-General said, “neither too strong nor too drastic.” He fidgeted with his tie and became almost human. “Damn it all,” he said irritably, “we’ve got to do something.”

There was a pause. The Home Secretary drew in his breath sharply.

“Well,” repeated the Prime Minister, “we have talked a great deal, gentlemen, and now we’ve heard the proposed Bill. We have all the facts. To put it briefly, we are perfectly well aware of the activities of these anarchistic personages. We know what they are about and we know they mean to take definite action. We are agreed that the importance of the matter can hardly be overstated. The reports from the F.O., the Secret Service and the C.I.D. are sufficiently conclusive. We have to deal with a definite menace and a growing menace. It’s a bad business. This Bill”—he made a gesture towards the Home Secretary—“may be drastic. Does anyone think it too drastic? Should it be modified?”

“No,” said the Postmaster-General. “No.”

“I agree,” said the Attorney-General.

“Has it occurred to you,” asked the Lord Chancellor, looking across the table to the Home Secretary, “that you yourself, Sir Derek, have most cause to hesitate?”

The others looked at him. The Home Secretary smiled faintly.

“As sponsor for this Bill,” continued the Lord Chancellor, “you will get a lot of limelight. We know what these people are capable of doing. Assassination is a word that occurs rather frequently in the reports.” The Home Secretary’s smile broadened a little. “I think I do not exaggerate if I say their attention will be focused on yourself. Have you considered this possibility, my dear fellow?”

“I quite appreciate your point,” answered the Home Secretary. “The Bill is my child—I’ll not disclaim parentship and I’ll look after myself.”

“I think the Home Secretary should be given proper protection,” said the Chancellor of the Exchequer.

“Certainly,” agreed the Prime Minister warmly. “We owe it to the country. Her valuable assets must be guarded. The Home Secretary is an extremely valuable asset.”

Sir Derek made a curious grimace.

“I can assure you,” he said, “that I’m in no hurry to play the hero’s part in a theatrical assassination. On the other hand, I really don’t feel there is any necessity for me to walk down to the House surrounded by policemen dressed up as private secretaries and journalists.”

“I met Roderick Alleyn of the C.I.D. yesterday,” said the Prime Minister ponderously, “and discussed this business quite unofficially with him. He’s had these gentry under his eye for some time. He’s the last man on earth to exaggerate a position of this sort. He considers that the Minister who introduces a Bill to deal with them will be in real danger from the organisation. I strongly urge you to let the Yard take any measures it thinks necessary for your protection.”

“Very well,” said Sir Derek. He moved uneasily in his chair and passed his hand over his face. “I take it,” he added wearily, “that the Cabinet approves the introduction of the Bill?”

They fell to discussing again the suggested measures. Their behaviour was weirdly solemn. They used parliamentary phrases and politicians’ gestures. It was as though they had so saturated themselves with professional behaviourism that they had lost the knack of being natural. The Home Secretary sat with his eyes fixed on the papers before him, as though sunk in a profound and unwilling meditation.

At last the Prime Minister put the matter to the vote—did the Cabinet consider the introduction of the Home Secretary’s Bill advisable? It did.

“Well,” said the Prime Minister, “that is as far as we need go.”

The Home Secretary groaned slightly.

They all turned to him. His face was extremely white and he was leaning forward over the table.

“O’Callaghan!” exclaimed the Postmaster-General. “What’s the matter? You’re ill?”

“It’s all right. Pain. Pass off in a moment.”

“Brandy,” said the Prime Minister and stretched out his hand to a bell.

“Water,” whispered Sir Derek. “Just water.” When it came he drank it greedily and then mopped his face.

“Better,” he told them presently. “I’m sorry.”

They looked uncomfortable and concerned. The Lord Chancellor hovered uncertainly over him. The others eyed him with that horrified ineptitude with which we observe sudden illness in our fellow men.

“I must apologise,” said Sir Derek. “I’ve had one or two bouts like this lately. Appendix, I imagine. I’ll have to get vetted. It’s an infernal bore for myself and everyone else. I want to stave it off until after this business if I can.” He drew himself up in his chair, paused a moment, and then got slowly to his feet.

“Everything settled?” he asked.

“Yes, yes. Won’t you lie down for a little?” suggested the Prime Minister.

“Thank you so much, P.M.—no. I’ll go home, I think. If someone could tell my chauffeur—” A secretary was summoned. O’Callaghan turned to the door. The Postmaster-General made as if to take his arm. Sir Derek nodded his thanks, but walked out independently. In the hall the secretary took his coat from the butler and helped him into it.

“Shall I come out to the car, Sir Derek?”

“No, thank you, my boy. I’m my own man again.” With a word of farewell to the Prime Minister he went out alone.

“He looks devilish ill,” said the Prime Minister irritably. “I hope to heaven it’s not serious.”

“It’ll be damned awkward if it is,” said the Postmaster-General. “Poor old O’Callaghan,” he added hurriedly.

In his car the Home Secretary looked out of the window drearily. They turned out of Downing Street into Whitehall. It was a cold, gusty evening. The faces of the people in the streets looked pinched and their clothes drab and uneventful. Their heads were bent to the wind. A thin rain was driving fitfully across the window-pane. He wondered if he was going to be very ill. He was overwhelmed with melancholy. Perhaps he would die of this thing that seized him with such devastating agony. That would save the anarchists and the C.I.D. a lot of trouble. It would also save him a lot of trouble. Did he really care tuppence about his Bill or about the machinations of people who wanted to revolutionise the system of British government? Did he care about anything or anybody? He was conscious only of a pallid indifference and an overwhelming inertia. He was going to be ill.

At the top of Constitution Hill his car was held up by a traffic jam. A taxi drew up close beside it. He could see that there was a fare inside, but no more than that. The driver looked several times at O’Callaghan’s chauffeur and called out something which his man answered gruffly. O’Callaghan had the feeling that the person inside the taxi stared in at his window. He was being watched. He had experienced this sensation many times lately. He thought, with a sort of amusement, of the Prime Minister’s anxiety. He pulled a cord and the inside of the car was flooded with light.

“Give them a good view while I’m about it,” he thought grimly.

To his surprise the windows of the taxi were lit up as if in answer. He peered across, shading the pane with his hand. The taxi’s fare was a solitary man in a dinner-jacket. He sat with his hands resting on the knob of a stick. His silk hat was worn at a slight angle, revealing a clear-cut and singularly handsome profile. It was an intelligent and well-bred face, with a straight nose, firm mouth and dark eyes. The man did not turn his head, and while Sir Derek O’Callaghan still watched him, the ranks of cars moved on and the taxi was left behind.

“That’s someone I know,” thought O’Callaghan with a kind of languid surpri...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• A Man Lay Dead
• Enter a Murderer
• The Nursing Home Murder
• Copyright