Ngaio Marsh - False Scent

Warrender took it neat and in one gulp. “I’m very much obliged to you,” he said and straightened his back. The ghost of a smile distorted his mouth. “One more,” he said, “and I shall be ready for anything, isn’t it?”

Alleyn said, “I am going to have a word with Dakers before I see the others.”

“Are you going to — to tell him?”

“I think it best to do so, yes.”

“Yes. I see. Yes.”

“When you are ready, Fox,” Alleyn said and went out.

“He’ll make it as easy as possible, sir,” Fox said comfortably. “You may be sure of that.”

“Easy!” said Warrender, and made a sound that might have been a laugh. “Easy!”

The persons sitting in the drawing-room were assembled there for the last time. In a few weeks Mary Bellamy’s house would be transformed into the West End offices of a new venture in television, and a sedan chair, for heaven knows what reason, would adorn the hall. Bertie Saracen’s decor, taken over in toto, would be the background for the frenzied bandying about of new gimmicks and Charles Templeton’s study a waiting-room for disengaged actors.

At the moment it had an air of stability. Most of its occupants, having exhausted each in his or her own kind their capacity for anxiety, anger or compassion, had settled down into apathy. They exchanged desultory remarks, smoked continuously and occasionally helped themselves, rather self-consciously, to the drinks that Gracefield had provided. P.C. Philpott remained alert in his corner.

It was Dr. Harkness who, without elaboration, announced Charles Templeton’s death and that indeed shook them into a state of flabbergasted astonishment. When Richard came in, deathly pale, with Anelida, they all had to pull themselves together before they found anything at all to say to him. They did, indeed, attempt appropriate remarks, but it was clear to Anelida that their store of consolatory offerings was spent. However heartfelt their sympathy, they were obliged to fall back on their technique in order to express it. Pinky Cavendish broke into this unreal state of affairs by suddenly giving Richard a kiss and saying warmly, “It’s no good, darling. There really is just literally nothing we can say or do, but we wish with all our hearts that there was, and Anelida must be your comfort. There!”

“Pinky,” Richard said unevenly, “you really are no end of a darling. I’m afraid I can’t — I can’t… I’m sorry. I’m just not reacting much to anything.”

“Exactly,” Marchant said. “How well one understands. The proper thing, of course, would be for one to leave you to yourself, which unfortunately this Yard individual at the moment won’t allow.”

“He did send to say it wouldn’t be long now,” Bertie pointed out nervously.

“Do you suppose,” Pinky asked, “that means he’s going to arrest somebody?”

“Who can tell! Do you know what !” Bertie continued very rapidly and in an unnatural voice. “I don’t mind betting every man jack of us is madly wondering what all the others think about him. Or her. I know I am. I keep saying to myself, ‘Can any of them think I darted upstairs instead of into the loo, and did it!’ I suppose it’s no use asking you all for a frank opinion is it? It would be taking an advantage.”

“ I don’t think it of you,” Pinky said at once. “I promise you, darling.”

“Pinky! Nor I of you. Never for a moment. And I don’t believe it of Anelida or Richard. Do you?”

“Never for a moment,” she said firmly. “Absolutely not.”

“Well,” Bertie continued, inspired by Pinky’s confidence, “I should like to know if any of you does suppose it might be me.” Nobody answered. “I can’t help feeling immensely gratified,” Bertie said. “Thank you. Now. Shall I tell you which of you I think could — just —under frightful provocation — do something violent all of a sudden?”

“Me, I suppose,” Gantry said. “I’m a hot-tempered man.”

“Yes. Timmy dear, you! But only in boiling hot blood with one blind swipe, not really meaning to. And that doesn’t seem to fit the bill at all. One wants a calculating iceberg of a person for this job, doesn’t one?”

There followed a period of hideous discomfort, during which nobody looked at anybody else.

“An idle flight of speculation, I’m afraid, Bertie,” said Marchant. “Would you be very kind and bring me a drink?”

“But of course,” said Bertie, and did so.

Gantry glanced at Richard and said, “Obviously there’s no connection — apart from the shock of Mary’s death having precipitated it — between Charles’s tragedy — and hers.” Nobody spoke and he added half-angrily, “Well, is there! Harkness — you were there.”

Dr. Harkness said quickly, “I don’t know what’s in Alleyn’s mind.”

“Where’s that momumental, that superb old ham, the Colonel? Why’s he gone missing all of a sudden?” Gantry demanded. “Sorry, Dicky, he’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?”

“He’s… Yes,” Richard said after a long pause. “He is. I think he’s with Alleyn.”

“Not,” Marchant coolly remarked, “under arrest, one trusts.”

“I believe not,” Richard said. He turned his back on Marchant and sat beside Anelida on the sofa.

“Oh lud!” Bertie sighed, “how wearing has been this long, long day and how frightened in a vague sort of way I continue to feel. Never mind. Toujours l’audace .”

The handle of the door into the hall was heard to turn. Everybody looked up. Florence walked round the leather screen. “If you’ll just wait, Miss,” the constable said and retired. Philpott cleared his throat.

Richard said, “Come in, Floy. Come and sit down.”

She glanced stonily at him, walked into the farthest corner of the room and sat on the smallest chair. Pinky looked as if she’d like to say something friendly to her, but the impulse came to nothing and a heavy silence again fell upon the company.

It was broken by the same sound and a heavier tread. Bertie half-rose from his seat, gave a little cry of frustration and sank back again as Colonel Warrender made his entry, very erect and looking at no one in particular.

“We were just talking about you,” said Bertie fretfully.

Richard stood up. “Come and join us,” he said, and pushed a chair towards the sofa.

“Thank you, old boy,” Warrender said awkwardly, and did so.

Anelida leant towards him and after a moment’s hesitation put her hand on his knee. “I intend,” she said under her breath, “to bully Richard into marrying me. Will you be on my side and give us your blessing?”

He drew his brows together and stared at her. He made an unsuccessful attempt to speak, hit her hand painfully hard with his own and ejaculated, “Clumsy ass. Hurt you, isn’t it? Ah — Bless you.”

“O.K.,” said Anelida and looked at Richard. “Now, you see, darling, you’re sunk.”

There was a sound of masculine voices in the hall, Pinky said. “Oh dear !” and Gantry, “Ah, for God’s sake!” Marchant finished his drink quickly and P.C. Philpott rose to his feet. So, after a mulish second or two, did Florence.

This time it was Alleyn who came round the leather screen.

There was only one place in the room from which he could take them all in at one glance and that was the hearthrug. Accordingly, he went to it and stood there like the central figure in some ill-assembled conversation piece.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “to have kept you hanging about. It was unavoidable and it won’t be for much longer. Until a short time ago you were still, all of you, persons of importance. From the police point of view, I mean, of course. It was through you that we hoped to assemble the fragments and fit them into their pattern. The pattern is now complete and our uncomfortable association draws to its end. Tomorrow there will be an inquest and you will be required, most of you, to appear at it. The coroner’s jury will hear your evidence and mine and one can only guess at what they will make of it. But you have all become too far involved for me to use any sort of evasion. Already some of you are suspecting others who are innocent. In my opinion this is one of those cases where the truth, at any cost, is less damaging in the long run, to vague, festering conjecture. For you all must know,” Alleyn went on, “you must know even if you won’t acknowledge it…”—his glance rested fleetingly on Richard—“that this has been a case of homicide.”