Ngaio Marsh - False Scent

“But he came back, didn’t he?”

“He’s back now,” she said quickly. “You seen ’im, didn’t you?” Gracefield, evidently, had talked.

“I don’t mean now. I mean between the time he first left before the speeches and the time when he returned about half an hour ago. Wasn’t there another visit in between?”

“That’s right,” she said under her breath.

“Before the birthday speech?”

“That’s right.”

“Take the moment we’re discussing. Mrs. Plumtree had gone upstairs, Miss Bellamy was in the hall. You had come out to see if she needed you.” He waited for a moment and then took his gamble. “Did he walk in at the front door? At that moment?”

He thought she was going to say “No”; she seemed to be struggling with some kind of doubt. Then she nodded.

“Did he speak to Miss Bellamy?” She nodded again.

“What about, do you know?”

“I didn’t catch. I was at the other end of the hall.”

“What happened then?”

“They were photographed and then they went upstairs.”

“And you?”

“I went up. By the back stairs,” said Florence.

“Where to?”

“I went along to the landing.”

“And did you go in to her?”

“Mrs. Plumtree was on the landing,” Florence said abruptly. Alleyn waited. “They was talking inside — him and the Lady. So I didn’t disturb her.”

“And you could hear them talking?”

She said angrily, “What say we could? We weren’t snooping, if that’s what you mean. We didn’t hear a word. She laughed — once.”

“And then?”

“He came out and went downstairs.”

“And did you go in to Miss Bellamy?”

“No,” Florence said loudly.

“Why not?”

“I didn’t reckon she’d want me.”

“But why?”

“I didn’t reckon she would.”

“Had you,” he asked without emphasis, “had a row of some sort with Miss Bellamy?”

She went very white. “What are you getting at?” she demanded and then, “I told you. I understood her. Better than anyone.”

“And there’d been no trouble between you?”

“No!” she said loudly.

He decided not to press this point. “So what did you do?” he asked. “You and Mrs. Plumtree?”

“Stayed where we was. Until…”

“Yes?”

“Until we heard something.”

“What was that?”

“Inside her room. Something. Kind of a crash.”

“What was it, do you think?”

“I wouldn’t know. I was going in to see, whether or no, when I heard Mr. Templeton in the hall. Calling. I go down to the half-landing,” Florence continued, changing her tense for the narrative present. “He calls up, they’re waiting for her. So I go back to fetch her. And…” for the first time her voice trembled. “And I walk in.”

“Yes,” Alleyn said. “Before we go on, Florence, will you tell me this? Did Mr. Richard at this time seem at all upset?”

“That’s right,” she said, again with that air of defiance.

“When he arrived?” She nodded. “I see. And when he came out of Miss Bellamy’s room?”

And now there was no mistaking Florence’s tone. It was one of pure hatred.

“ ’Im? ’E looked ghasterly. ’E looked,” said Florence, “like death.”

As if, by this one outburst, she had bestowed upon herself some kind of emotional bloodletting, Florence returned to her earlier manner — cagey, grudging, implicitly resentful. Alleyn could get no more from her about Richard Dakers’s behaviour. When he suggested, obliquely, that perhaps Old Ninn might be more forthcoming, Florence let fall a solitary remark. “Her!” she said. “You won’t get her to talk. Not about him!” and refused to elaborate.

He had learned to recognize the point at which persistence defeats its own end. He took her on to the time where she entered the bedroom and discovered her mistress. Here, Florence exhibited a characteristic attitude towards scenes of violence. It was, he thought, as if she recognized in her own fashion their epic value and was determined to do justice to the current example.

When she went into the room, Mary Bellamy was on her knees, her hands to her throat and her eyes starting. She had tried to speak but had succeeded only in making a terrible retching noise. Florence had attempted to raise her, to ask her what had happened, but her mistress, threshing about on the floor, had been as unresponsive to these ministrations as an animal in torment. Florence had thought she heard the word “doctor.” Quite beside herself, she had rushed out of the room and downstairs. “Queer,” she said. That was what she had felt. “Queer.” It was “queer” that at such a moment she should concern herself with Miss Bellamy’s nonappearance at her party. It was “queer” that a hackneyed theatre phrase should occur to her in such a crisis but it had and she remembered using it, “Is there a doctor in the house?” though, of course, she knew, really that Dr. Harkness was one of the guests. On the subject of Dr. Harkness she was violent.

“Him! Nice lot of help he give, I don’t think! Silly with what he’d taken and knew it. Couldn’t make up his mind where he was or what he was wanted for till the Colonel shoved ice down his neck. Even then he was stupid-like and had to be pushed upstairs. For all we know,” Florence said, “ ’e might of saved ’er. For all we know! But when ’e got there it was over and in my opinion ’e’s got it on ’is conscience for the rest of ’is days. And that’s no error. Dr. Harkness!”

Alleyn asked her to describe, in detail, the state of the room when she first went into it. She remembered nothing but her mistress and when he pressed her to try, he thought she merely drew on what she saw after she returned.

He said, “We’ve almost finished, but there’s one question I must ask you. Do you know of anyone who had cause to wish for her death?”

She thought this over, warily. “There’s plenty,” she said, “that was jealous of her and there’s some that acted treacherous. Some that called themselves friends.”

“In the profession?” Alleyn ventured.

“Ah! Miss Kate Cavendish, who’d never have got further than Brighton Pier in the off-season without the Lady hadn’t looked after ’er! Mr. Albert Smith, pardon the slip, I should of said Saracen. But for her ’e’d of stuck behind ’is counter in the Manchester department. Look what she done for them and how do they pay ’er back? Only this morning!”

“What happened this morning?”

“Sauce and treachery was what happened.”

“That doesn’t really answer my question, does it?”

She stood up. “It’s all the answer you’ll get. You know your own business best, I suppose. But if she’s been murdered, there’s only one that had the chance. Why waste your time?”

“Only one?” Alleyn said. “Do you really think so?”

For the first time she looked frightened, but her answer was unexpected. “I don’t want what I’ve said to go no further,” she said with a look at Fox, who had been quietly taking notes. “I don’t fancy being quoted, particularly in some quarters. There’s some that’d turn very nasty if they knew what I said.”

“Old Ninn?” Alleyn suggested. “For one?”

“Smart,” Florence said with spirit, “aren’t you? All right. Her for one. She’s got her fancy like I had mine. Only mine,” Florence said, and her voice was desolate, “mine’s gone where it won’t come back, and that’s the difference.” A spasm of something that might have been hatred crossed her face and she cried out with violence, “I’ll never forgive her! Never. I’ll be even with her no matter what comes out of it, see if I’m not. Clara Plumtree!”