False Scent

by Ngaio Marsh

  Miss Bellamy’s behaviour throughout was perfect. She kept absolutely still and even the most unsympathetic observer would scarcely have noticed that she was anything but oblivious of her audience. She was, in point of fact, attentive to it and was very well aware of the absence of Richard, Pinky, Bertie, Warrender and Gantry: to say nothing of Anelida and Octavius. She also noticed that Charles, a late arrival in his supporting role of consort, looked pale and troubled. This irritated her. She saw that Old Ninn, well to the fore, was scarlet in the face, a sure sign of intemperance. No doubt there had been port-drinking parties with Florence and Gracefield and further noggins on her own account. Infuriating of Old Ninn! Outrageous of Richard, Pinky, Bertie, Maurice and Timon to absent themselves from the speech! Intolerable, that on her birthday she should be subjected to slight after slight and deception after deception: culminating, my God, in their combined treachery over that boney girl from the bookshop! It was time to give Monty a look of misty gratitude. They were drinking her health.

  She replied, as usual, very briefly. The suggestion was of thoughts too deep for words and the tone whimsical. She ended by making a special reference to the cake and said that on this occasion Cooky, if that were possible, had excelled herself and she called attention to the decorations.

  There was a round of applause, during which Gantry, Pinky, Bertie and Warrender edged in through the far doorway. Miss Bellamy was about to utter her peroration, but before she could do so, Old Ninn loudly intervened. ‘What’s a cake without candles?’ said Old Ninn.

  A handful of guests laughed, nervously and indulgently. The servants looked scandalized and apprehensive.

  ‘Fifty of them,’ Old Ninn proclaimed. ‘Oh, wouldn’t they look lovely!’ And broke into a disreputable chuckle.

  Miss Bellamy took the only possible action. She topped Old Ninn’s lines by snatching up the ritual knife and plunging it into the heart of the cake. The gesture, which may have had something of the character of a catharsis, was loudly applauded.

  The Press photographers’ lamps flashed.

  The ceremony followed its appointed course. The cake was cut up and distributed. Glasses were refilled and the guests began to talk again at the tops of their voices. It was time for her to open the presents which had already been deposited on a conveniently placed table in the drawing-room. When that had been done they would go and the party would be over. But it would take a considerable time and all her resources. In the meantime, there was Old Ninn, purple-faced, not entirely steady on her pins and prepared to continue her unspeakable act for the benefit of anyone who would listen to her.

  Miss Bellamy made a quick decision. She crossed to Old Ninn, put her arm about her shoulders and, gaily laughing, led her towards the door into the hall. In doing so she passed Warrender, Pinky, Bertie and Timon Gantry. She ignored them, but shouted to Monty Marchant that she was going to powder her nose. Charles was in the doorway. She was obliged to stop for a moment. He said under his breath: ‘You’ve done a terrible thing.’ She looked at him with contempt.

  ‘You’re in my way. I want to go out.’

  ‘I can’t allow you to go on like this.’

  ‘Get out!’ she whispered and thrust towards him. In that overheated room her scent engulfed him like a fog.

  He said loudly: ‘At least don’t use any more of that stuff. At least don’t do that. Mary, listen to me!’

  ‘I think you must be mad.’

  They stared at each other. He stood aside and she went out taking Old Ninn with her. In the hall she said: ‘Ninn, go to your room and lie down. Do you hear me!’

  Old Ninn looked her fully in the face, drew down the corners of her mouth and, keeping a firm hold on the banister, plodded upstairs.

  Neither she nor Charles had noticed Florence, listening avidly, a pace or two behind them. She moved away down the hall and a moment later Richard came in by the front door. When he saw Miss Bellamy he stopped short.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she demanded.

  ‘I’ve been trying, not very successfully, to apologize to my friends.’

  ‘They’ve taken themselves off, it appears.’

  ‘Would you have expected them to stay?’

  ‘I should have thought them capable of anything.’

  He looked at her with a sort of astonishment and said nothing.

  ‘I’ve got to speak to you,’ she said between her teeth.

  ‘Have you? I wonder what you can find to say.’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘The sooner the better. But shouldn’t you’ – he jerked his head at the sounds beyond the doors – ‘be in there?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Not here.’

  ‘Wherever you like, Mary.’

  ‘In my room.’

  She had turned to the stairs when a Press photographer, all smiles, emerged from the dining-room.

  ‘Miss Bellamy, could I have a shot? By the door? With Mr Dakers perhaps? It’s an opportunity. Would you mind?’

  For perhaps five seconds, she hesitated. Richard said something under his breath.

  ‘It’s a bit crowded in there. We’d like to run a full-page spread,’ said the photographer and named his paper.

  ‘But, of course,’ said Miss Bellamy.

  Richard watched her touch her hair and re-do her mouth. Accustomed though he was to her professional technique he was filled with amazement. She put away her compact and turned brilliantly to the photographer. ‘Where?’ she asked.

  ‘In the entrance, I thought. Meeting Mr Dakers.’

  She moved down the hall to the front door. The photographer dodged round her. ‘Not in the full glare,’ she said and placed herself.

  ‘Mr Dakers? ‘ said the photographer.

  ‘Isn’t it better as it is? ‘ Richard muttered.

  ‘Don’t pay any attention to him,’ she said with ferocious gaiety. ‘Come along, Dicky.’

  ‘There’s a new play on the skids, isn’t there? If Mr Dakers could be showing it to you, perhaps? I’ve brought something in case.’

  He produced a paper-bound quarto of typescript, opened it and put it in her hands.

  ‘Just as if you’d come to one of those sure-fire laugh lines,’ the photographer said. ‘Pointing it out to him, you know? Right, Mr Dakers?’

  Richard, nauseated, said: ‘I’m photocatastrophic. Leave me out.’

  ‘No!’ said Miss Bellamy. Richard shook his head.

  ‘You’re too modest,’ said the photographer. ‘Just a little this way. Grand.’

  She pointed to the opened script. ‘And the great big smile,’ he said. The bulb flashed. ‘Wonderful. Thank you,’ and he moved away.

  ‘And now,’ she said through her teeth, ‘I’ll talk to you.’

  Richard followed her upstairs. On the landing they passed Old Ninn, who watched them go into Miss Bellamy’s room. After the door had shut she stood outside and waited.

  She was joined there by Florence who had come up by the back stairway. They communicated in a series of restrained gestures and brief whispers.

  ‘You all right, Mrs Plumtree?’

  ‘Why not!’ Ninn countered austerely.

  ‘You look flushed,’ Florence observed dryly.

  ‘The heat in those rooms is disgraceful.’

  ‘Has She come up?’

  ‘In there.’

  ‘Trouble?’ Florence asked, listening. Ninn said nothing. ‘It’s him, isn’t it? Mr Richard? What’s he been up to?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Ninn said, ‘that wouldn’t be a credit to him, Floy, and I’ll thank you to remember it.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Florence said rather acidly. ‘He’s a man like the rest of them.’

  ‘He’s better than most.’

  In the bedroom Miss Bellamy’s voice murmured, rose sharply and died. Richard’s scarcely audible, sounded at intervals. Then both together, urgent and expostulatory, mounted to some climax and broke off. There followed a long silence during whi
ch the two women stared at each other, and then a brief unexpected sound.

  ‘What was that!’ Florence whispered.

  ‘Was she laughing?’

  ‘It’s left off now.’

  Ninn said nothing. ‘Oh, well,’ Florence said, and had moved away when the door opened.

  Richard came out, white to the lips. He walked past without seeing them, paused at the stairhead and pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes. They heard him fetch his breath with a harsh sound that might have been a sob. He stood there for some moments like a man who had lost his bearings and then struck his closed hand twice on the newel post and went quickly downstairs.

  ‘What did I tell you,’ Florence said. She stole nearer to the door. It was not quite shut. ‘Trouble,’ she said.

  ‘None of his making.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘The same way,’ Ninn said, ‘that I know how to mind my own business.’

  Inside the room, perhaps beyond it, something crashed.

  They stood there, irresolute, listening.

  IV

  At first Miss Bellamy had not been missed. Her party had reverted to its former style, a little more confused by the circulation of champagne. It spread through the two rooms and into the conservatory and became noisier and noisier. Everybody forgot about the ceremony of opening the birthday presents. Nobody noticed that Richard, too, was absent.

  Gantry edged his way towards Charles who was in the drawing-room and stooped to make himself heard.

  ‘Dicky,’ he said, ‘has made off.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘I imagine to do the best he can with the girl and her uncle.’

  Charles looked at him with something like despair. ‘There’s nothing to be done,’ he said; ‘nothing. It was shameful.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I don’t know. Isn’t she in the next room?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gantry said.

  ‘I wish to God this show was over.’

  ‘She ought to get on with the present-opening. They won’t go till she does.’

  Pinky had come up. ‘Where’s Mary? ‘ she said.

  ‘We don’t know,’ Charles said. ‘She ought to be opening her presents.’

  ‘She won’t miss her cue, my dear, you may depend upon it. Don’t you feel it’s time?’

  ‘I’ll find her,’ Charles said. ‘Get them mustered if you can, Gantry, will you?’

  Bertie Saracen joined them, flushed and carefree. ‘What goes on?’ he inquired.

  ‘We’re waiting for Mary.’

  ‘She went upstairs for running repairs,’ Bertie announced and giggled. ‘I am a poet and don’t I know it!’ he added.

  ‘Did you see her? ‘ Gantry demanded.

  ‘I heard her tell Monty. She’s not uttering to poor wee me.’

  Monty Marchant edged towards them. ‘Monty, ducky,’ Bertie cried, ‘your speech was too poignantly right. Live for ever! Oh, I’m so tiddly.’

  Marchant said: ‘Mary’s powdering her nose, Charles. Should we do a little shepherding?’

  ‘I thought so.’

  Gantry mounted a stool and used his director’s voice: ‘Attention, the cast!’ It was a familiar summons and was followed by an obedient hush. ‘To the table, please, everybody, and clear an entrance. Last act, ladies and gentlemen. Last act, please!’

  They did so at once. The table with its heaped array of parcels had already been moved forward by Gracefield and the maids. The guests ranged themselves at both sides like a chorus in grand opera, leaving a passage to the principal door.

  Charles said: ‘I’ll just see …’ and went into the hall. He called up the stairs: ‘Oh – Florence! Tell Miss Bellamy we’re ready, will you?‘ and came back. ‘Florence’ll tell her,’ he said.

  There was a longish, expectant pause. Gantry drew in his breath with a familiar hiss.

  ‘I’ll tell her,’ Charles said, and started off for the door.

  Before he could reach it they all heard a door slam and running steps on the stairway. There was a relieved murmur and little indulgent laughter.

  ‘First time Mary’s ever missed an entrance,’ someone said.

  The steps ran across the hall. An irregular flutter of clapping broke out and stopped.

  A figure appeared in the entrance and paused there.

  It was not Mary Bellamy but Florence.

  Charles said: ‘Florence! Where’s Miss Mary?’

  Florence, breathless, mouthed at him. ‘Not coming.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ Charles ejaculated. ‘Not now!’

  As if to keep the scene relentlessly theatrical, Florence cried out in a shrill voice:

  ‘A doctor. For Christ’s sake! Quick. Is there a doctor in the house?’

  CHAPTER 4

  Catastrophe

  It might be argued that the difference between high tragedy and melodrama rests in the indisputable fact that the latter is more true to nature. People, even the larger-than-life-people of the theatre, tend at moments of tension to express themselves not in unexpected or memorable phrases but in clichés.

  Thus, when Florence made her entrance, one or two voices in her audience ejaculated, ‘My God, what’s happened?’ Bertie Saracen cried out shrilly, ‘Does she mean Mary?’ and somebody whose identity remained a secret said in an authoritative British voice: ‘Quiet, everybody. No need to panic,’ as if Florence had called for a fireman rather than a physician.

  The only person to remain untouched was Dr Harkness, who was telling a long, inebriated story to Monty Marchant and whose voice droned on indecently in a far corner of the dining-room.

  Florence stretched out a shaking hand towards Charles Templeton. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, sir!’ she stammered. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, come quick.’

  ‘– and this chap said to the other chap …’ Dr Harkness recounted.

  Charles said: ‘Good God, what’s the matter! Is it – ?’

  ‘It’s her, sir. Come quick.’

  Charles thrust her aside, ran from the room and pelted upstairs.

  ‘A doctor!’ Florence said. ‘My God, a doctor!’

  It was Marchant who succeeded in bringing Dr Harkness into focus.

  ‘You’re wanted,’ he said. ‘Upstairs. Mary.’

  ‘Eh? Bit of trouble?’ Dr Harkness asked vaguely.

  ‘Something’s happened to Mary.’

  Timon Gantry said: ‘Pull yourself together, Harkness. You’ve got a patient.’

  Dr Harkness had forgotten to remove his smile, but a sort of awareness now overtook him. ‘Patient?’ he said. ‘Where? Is it Charles?’

  ‘Upstairs. Mary.’

  ‘Good gracious!’ said Dr Harkness. ‘Very good. I’ll come.’ He rocked slightly on his feet and remained stationary.

  Maurice Warrender said to Florence: ‘Is it bad?’

  Her hand to her mouth, she nodded her head up and down like a mandarin.

  Warrender took a handful of ice from a wine-cooler and suddenly thrust it down the back of Dr Harkness’s collar.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. Harkness let out a sharp oath. He swung round as if to protest, lost his balance and fell heavily.

  Florence screamed.

  ‘I’m a’ right,’ Dr Harkness said from the floor. ‘Tripped over something. Silly!’

  Warrender and Gantry got him to his feet. ‘I’m all right!’ he repeated angrily. ‘Gimme some water, will you?’

  Gantry tipped some out of the ice bucket. Dr Harkness swallowed it down noisily and shuddered. ‘Beastly stuff,’ he said. ‘Where’s this patient?’

  From the stairhead, Charles called in an unrecognizable voice: ‘Harkness! Harkness!’

  ‘Coming,’ Warrender shouted. Harkness, gasping, was led out.

  Florence looked wildly round the now completely silent company, wrung her hands and followed them.

  Timon Gantry said: ‘More ice, perhaps,’ picked up the wine-cooler and overtook them on the stairs.

  T
he party was left in suspension.

  In Mary Bellamy’s bedroom all the windows were open. An evening breeze stirred the curtains and the ranks of tulips. Dr Harkness knelt beside a pool of rose-coloured chiffon from which protruded, like rods, two legs finished with high-heeled shoes and two naked arms whose clenched hands glittered with diamonds. Diamonds were spattered across the rigid plane of the chest and shone through a hank of disarranged hair. A length of red chiffon lay across the face and this was a good thing.

  Dr Harkness had removed his coat. His ice-wet shirt stuck to his spine. His ear was laid against the place from which he had pulled away the red chiffon.

  He straightened up, looked closely into the face, reveiled it and got to his feet.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing whatever to be done,’ he said.

  Charles said: ‘There must be. You don’t know. There must be. Try. Try something. My God, try!’

  Warrender, in his short-stepped, square-shouldered way, walked over to Harkness and looked down for a moment.

  ‘No good,’ he said. ‘Have to face it. What?’

  Charles sat on the bed and rubbed his freckled hand across his mouth. ‘I can’t believe it’s happened,’ he said. ‘It’s – there – it’s happened. And I can’t believe it.’

  Florence burst noisily into tears.

  Dr Harkness turned to her. ‘You,’ he said. ‘Florence, isn’t it? Try to control yourself, there’s a good girl. Did you find her like this?’

  Florence nodded and sobbed out something indistinguishable.

  ‘But she was …’ He glanced at Charles. ‘Conscious?’

  Florence said: ‘Not to know me. Not to speak,’ and broke down completely.

  ‘Were the windows open?’

  Florence shook her head.

  ‘Did you open them?’