Ngaio Marsh - False Scent

“How very nice of you, sir,” Richard said loudly. “She’ll be enchanted. She loves people to be friendly. Thank you for finding the picture.”

And forgetting to pay for it, he left hurriedly in a miserable frame of mind.

Mary Bellamy’s house was next door to the Pegasus Bookshop, but Richard was too rattled to go in. He walked round Pardoner’s Place trying to sort out his thoughts. He suffered one of those horrid experiences, fortunately rare, in which the victim confronts himself as a stranger in an abrupt perspective. The process resembles that of pseudo-scientific films in which the growth of a plant, by mechanical skulduggery, is reduced from seven weeks to as many minutes and the subject is seen wavering, extending, elongating itself in response to some irresistible force until it breaks into its pre-ordained fluorescence.

The irresistible force in Richard’s case had undoubtedly been Mary Bellamy. The end-product, after twenty-seven years of the treatment, was two successful West End comedies, a third in the bag, and (his hand tightened on his dispatch case) a serious play.

He owed it all, as he had so repeatedly told her, to Mary. Well, perhaps not quite all. Not the serious play.

He had almost completed his round of the little Place and, not wanting to pass the shop window, turned back. Why in the world had he gone grand and huffy when Anelida refused to meet Mary? And why did she refuse? Any other girl in Anelida’s boots, he thought uneasily, would have jumped at that sort of invitation: the great Mary Bellamy’s birthday party. A tiny, handpicked group from the topmost drawer in the London theatre. The Management. The producer. Any other girl — he fetched up short, not liking himself very much, conscious that if he followed his thoughts to their logical conclusion he would arrive at an uncomfortable position. What sort of man, he would have to ask himself, was Richard Dakers? Reality would disintegrate and he would find himself face-to-face with a stranger. It was a familar experience and one he didn’t enjoy. He shook himself free of it, made a sudden decision, walked quickly to the house and rang the bell.

Charles Templeton breakfasted in his study on the ground floor. The door was open and Richard saw him there, reading his Times , at home among his six so judiciously chosen pieces of chinoiserie , his three admirable pictures, his few distinguished chairs and lovely desk. Charles was fastidious about his surroundings and extremely knowledgeable. He could wait, sometimes for years, for the acquisition of a single treasure.

Richard went in. “Charles!” he said. “How are you?’

“Hullo, old boy. Come to make your devotions?”

“Am I the first?”

“The first in person. There are the usual massive offerings in kind. Mary’ll be delighted to see you.”

“I’ll go up,” Richard said, but still hovered. Charles lowered his newspaper. How often, Richard wondered, had he seen him make that gesture, dropping his eyeglass and vaguely smiling. Richard, still involved in the aftermath of his moment of truth, if that was its real nature, asked himself what he knew of Charles. How used he was to that even courtesy, that disengagement! What of Charles in other places? What of the reputedly implacable man of affairs who had built his own fortune? Or of the lover Charles must have been five and twenty years ago? Impossible to imagine, Richard thought, looking vaguely at an empty niche in the wall.

He said, “Hullo! Where’s the T’ang musician?”

“Gone,” Charles said.

“Gone! Where! Not broken?”

“Chipped. The peg of her lute. Gracefield did it, I think. I’ve given her to Maurice Warrender.”

“But — even so — I mean, so often they’re not absolutely perfect and you — it was your treasure.”

“Not now,” Charles said. “I’m a perfectionist, you know.”

“That’s what you say!” Richard exclaimed warmly. “But I bet it was because Maurice always coveted her. You’re so absurdly generous.”

“Oh nonsense,” Charles said and looked at his paper. Richard hesitated. He heard himself say,

“Charles, do I ever say thank you? To you and Mary?”

“My dear fellow, what for?”

“For everything.” He took refuge in irony. “For befriending the poor orphan boy, you know, among other things.”

“I sincerely hope you’re not making a vicarious birthday resolution.”

“It just struck me.”

Charles waited for a moment and then said, “You’ve given us a trememdous interest and very much pleasure.” He again hesitated as if assembling his next sentence. “Mary and I,” he said at last, “look upon you as an achievement. And now, do go and make your pretty speeches to her.”

“Yes,” Richard said. “I’d better, hadn’t I? See you later.”

Charles raised his newspaper and Richard went slowly upstairs, wishing, consciously, for perhaps the first time in his life, that he was not going to visit Miss Bellamy.

She was in her room, dressed and enthroned among her presents. He slipped into another gear as he took her to his heart in a birthday embrace and then held her at arm’s length to tell her how lovely she looked.

“Darling, darling, darling!” she cried joyously. “How perfect of you to come. I’ve been hoping and hoping!”

It occurred to him that it would have been strange indeed if he hadn’t performed this time-honoured observance, but he kissed her again and gave her his present.

It was early in the day and her reservoir of enthusiasm scarcely tapped. She was able to pour a freshet of praise over his tinsel picture and did so with many cries of gratitude and wonder. Where, she asked, where, where had he discovered the one , the perfect present.

It was an opening Richard had hoped for, but he found himself a little apprehensive nevertheless.

“I found it,” he said, “at the Pegasus — or rather Octavius Browne found it for me. He says it’s rare-ish.”

Her triangular smile didn’t fade. Her eyes continued to beam into his, her hands to press his hands.

“Ay, yes!” she cried gaily. “The old man in the bookshop! Believe it or not, darling, he sent me a telegram about my conception. Too sweet, but a little difficult to acknowledge.”

“He’s very donnish,” Richard said. She made a comic face at him. “He was , in fact, a don, but he found himself out of sympathy with angry young men and set up a bookshop instead.”

She propped up her tinsel picture on the dressing-table and gazed at it through half-closed eyes. “Isn’t there a daughter or something? I seem to have heard—”

“A niece,” Richard said. Maddeningly, his mouth had gone dry.

“Ought I,” she asked, “to nip downstairs and thank him? One never quite knows with that sort of person.”

Richard kissed her hand. “Octavius,” he said, “is not that sort of person, darling. Do nip down. He’ll be enchanted. And Mary—”

“What, my treasure?”

“I thought perhaps you might be terribly kind and ask them for a drink. If you find them pleasant, that is.”

She sat at her dressing-table and examined her face in the glass. “I wonder,” she said, “if I really like that new eyeshade.” She took up a heavy Venetian glass scent-spray and used it lavishly. “I hope someone gives me some really superlative scent,” she said. “This is almost gone.” She put it down. “For a drink?” she said. “When? Not today, of course.”

“ Not today, you think?”

She opened her eyes very wide. “My dear, we’d only embarrass them.”

“Well,” he murmured, “see how you feel about it.”

She turned back to the glass and said nothing. He opened his dispatch case and took out his typescript.