Ngaio Marsh - False Scent

“Why,” Alleyn asked, as soon as the door was shut, “did you take violets to Mrs. Templeton?”

Octavius blushed. “A man with a handcart,” he said, “went past the window. They came from the Channel Islands.”

“I don’t give a damn where they came from. It’s where they went to that matters. When did the cart go past?”

Octavius, disconcerted and rather huffy, was bustled into telling his story. Anelida had sent him downstairs while she got ready for the party. He was fretful because they’d been asked for half-past six and it was now twenty-five to seven and he didn’t believe her story of the need to arrive late. He saw the handcart with the Parma violets and remembered that in his youth these flowers had been considered appropriate adjuncts to ladies of the theatre. So he went out and bought some. He then, Alleyn gathered, felt shy about presenting them in front of Anelida. The door of Miss Bellamy’s house was open. The butler was discernible in the hall. Octavius mounted the steps. “After all,” he said, “one preferred to give her the opportunity of attaching them in advance if she chose to do so.”

He was in the act of handing them over to Gracefield when he heard a commotion on the first landing and a moment later Miss Bellamy shouted out at the top of her voice. “Which only shows how wrong you were. You can get out whenever you like, my friend, and the sooner the better.”

For a moment Octavius was extremely flustered, imagining that he himself was thus addressed, but the next second she appeared above him on the stairs. She stopped short and gazed down at him in astonishment. “A vision,” Octavius said. “Rose-coloured or more accurately, geranium, but with the air, I must confess, of a Fury.”

This impression, however, was almost at once dissipated. Miss Bellamy seemed to hesitate, Gracefield murmured an explanation which Octavius himself elaborated. “And then, you know,” he said, “suddenly she was all graciousness. Overwhelmingly so. She”—he blushed again—“asked me to come up and I went. I presented my little votive offering. And then, in point of fact, she invited me into her room: a pleasing and Gallic informality. I was not unmoved by it. She laid the flowers on her dressing-table and told me she had just given an old bore the sack. Those were her words. I gathered that it was somebody who had been in her service for a long period. What did you say?”

“Nothing, Go on. You interest me strangely.”

“Do I? Well. At that juncture there were sounds of voices downstairs — the door, naturally, remained open — and she said, ‘Wait a moment, will you?’ And left me.”

“Well?” Alleyn said after a pause.

“Well, I did wait. Nothing happened. I bethought me of Nelly, who would surely be ready by now. Rightly or wrongly,” Octavius said, with a sidelong look at Alleyn, “I felt that Nelly would be not entirely in sympathy with my impulsive little sortie and I was therefore concerned to return before I could be missed. So I went downstairs and there she was, speaking to Colonel Warrender in the drawing-room. They paid no attention to me. I don’t think they saw me. Warrender, I thought, looked very much put out. There seemed nothing to do but go away. So I went. A curious and not unintriguing experience.”

“Thank you, Octavius,” Alleyn said, staring thoughtfully at him. “Thank you very much. And now I, too, must leave you. Good-night.”

As he went out he heard Octavius saying rather fretfully that he supposed he might as well go to bed.

A very grand car had drawn up outside Miss Bellamy’s house and Mr. Montague Marchant was climbing out of it. His blond head gleamed, his overcoat was impeccable and his face exceedingly pale.

“Wait,” he said to his chauffeur.

Alleyn introduced himself. The anticipated remark was punctually delivered.

“This is a terrible business,” said Mr. Marchant.

“Very bad,” Alleyn said. “Shall we go in?”

Fox was in the hall.

“I just don’t quite understand,” Marchant said, “why I’ve been sent for. Naturally, we — her management — want to give every assistance but at the same time…” He waved his pearly gloves.

Alleyn said, “It’s simple. There are one or two purely business matters to be settled and it looks as if you are our sole authority.”

“I should have thought…”

“Of course you would,” Alleyn rejoined. “But there is some need for immediate action. Miss Bellamy has been murdered.”

Marchant unsteadily passed his hand over the back of his head. “I don’t believe you,” he said.

“You may as well, because it happens to be true. Would you like to take your coat off? No? Then, shall we go in?”

Fox said, “We’ve moved into the drawing-room, sir, it being more comfortable. The doctor is with Mr. Templeton but will be coming in later.”

“Where’s Florence?”

“She helped Mrs. Plumtree with the bed-making and they’re both waiting in the boudoir in case required.”

“Right. In here, if you will, Mr. Marchant. I’ll just have a look at the patient and then I’ll join you.”

He opened the door. After a moment’s hesitation, Marchant went through and Fox followed him.

Alleyn went to the study, tapped on the door and went in.

Charles was in bed, looking very drawn and anxious. Dr. Harkness sat in a chair at a little distance, watching him. When he saw Alleyn he said, “We can’t have any further upsets.”

“I know,” Alleyn rejoined and walked over to the bed. “I’ve only come in to inquire,” he said.

Charles whispered, “I’m sorry about this. I’m all right. I could have carried on.”

“There’s no need. We can manage.”

“There you are, Charles,” Harkness said. “Stop fussing.”

“But I want to know, Harkness! How can I stop fussing! My God, what a thing to say! I want to know what they’re thinking and saying. I’ve a right to know. Alleyn, for God’s sake tell me. You don’t suspect — anyone close to her, do you? I can stand anything but that. Not — not the boy?”

“As things stand,” Alleyn said, “there’s no case against him.”

“Ah!” Charles sighed and closed his eyes. “Thank God for that.” He moved restlessly and his breath came short. “It’s all these allusions and hints and evasions…” he began excitedly. “Why can’t I be told things! Why not? Do you suspect me ! Do you? Then for Christ’s sake let’s have it and be done with it.”

Harkness came over to the bed. “This won’t do at all,” he said and to Alleyn, “Out.”

“Yes, of course,” Alleyn said and went out. He heard Charles panting, “But I want to talk to him,” and Harkness trying to reassure him.

When Marchant went into the drawing-room Timon Gantry, Colonel Warrender, Pinky Cavendish and Bertie Saracen were sitting disconsolately in armchairs before a freshly tended fire. Richard and Anelida were together at some remove from the others and P.C. Philpott attended discreetly in the background. When Marchant came in, Pinky and Bertie made a little dash at him and Richard stood up. Marchant kissed Pinky with ritual solemnity, squeezed Bertie’s arm, nodded at Gantry, and advanced upon Richard with soft extended hand.

“Dear boy!” he said. “What can one say! Oh my dear Dicky!”

Richard appeared, to permit, rather than return, a long pressure of his hand. Marchant added a manly grip of his shoulder and moved on to acknowledge, more briefly, Anelida and Colonel Warrender. His prestige was unmistakable. He said any number of highly appropriate things. They listened to him dolefully and appeared to be relieved when at last Alleyn came in.

Alleyn said, “Before going any further, Mr. Marchant, I think I should make it quite clear that any questions I may put to you will be raised with the sole object of clearing innocent persons of suspicion and of helping towards the solution of an undoubted case of homicide. Mary Bellamy has been murdered; I believe by someone who is now in this house. You will understand that matters of personal consideration or professional reticence can’t be allowed to obstruct an investigation of this sort. Any attempt to withhold information may have disastrous results. On the other hand information that turns out to be irrelevant, as yours, of course, may, will be entirely wiped out. Is that understood?”