Ngaio Marsh - False Scent

They had none on the evening of her fiftieth birthday. She remained true to type.

When the procession with the cake appeared in the dining-room beyond the glass wall of the conservatory, she turned upon the persons with whom she had been doing battle and uttered the single and strictly professional order: “Clear!”

They had done so. Pinky, Bertie, Warrender and Gantry had all left her. Charles had already gone. Only Marchant remained, according, as it were, to the script. It had been arranged that he escort Miss Bellamy and make the birthday speech. They stood together in the conservatory, watching. Gracefield opened the champagne. There was a great deal of laughter and discreet skirmishing among the guests. Glasses were distributed and filled. Gracefield and the maids returned to their appointed places. Everybody looked towards the conservatory.

“This,” Marchant said, “is it. You’d better bury the temperament, sweetie, for the time being.” He opened the door, adding blandly as he did so, “Bitch into them, dear.”

“The hell I will,” said Miss Bellamy. She shot one malevolent glance at him, stepped back, collected herself, parted her lips in their triangular smile and made her entrance.

The audience, naturally, applauded.

Marchant, who had his own line in smiles, fingered his bow-tie and then raised a deprecating hand.

“Mary, darling,” he said, pitching his voice, “and everybody! Please!”

A press photographer’s lamp flashed.

Marchant’s speech was short, graceful, bland, and for the most part, highly appreciated. He made the point, an acceptable one to his audience, that nobody really understood the people of their wonderful old profession but they themselves. The ancient classification of “rogues and vagabonds” was ironically recapitulated. The warmth, the dedication, the loyalties were reviewed and a brief but moving reference was made to “our wonderful Mary’s happy association with, he would not say Marchant and Company, but would use a more familiar and he hoped affectionate phrase — the ‘Management.’ ” He ended by asking them all to raise their glasses and drink “to Mary.”

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 Nina! 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 photographer’s 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 him.

“In the entrance I thought. Meeting Mr. Dakers.”