Ngaio Marsh - False Scent

He waited. Gantry said, “I don’t accept that,” but without much conviction.

“You will, I think, when I tell you that the Home Office analyst has found a trace of Slaypest in the bulb of the scent-spray.”

“Oh,” Gantry said faintly, as if Alleyn had made some quite unimportant remark. “I see. That’s different.”

“It’s conclusive. It clears up all the extraneous matter. The professional rows, the threats that you were all so reluctant to admit, the evasions and half-lies. The personal bickerings and antagonisms. They were all tidied away by this single fact.”

Marchant, whose hands were joined in front of his face, lifted his gaze for a moment to Alleyn. “You are not making yourself particularly clear,” he said.

“I hope to do so. This one piece of evidence explains a number of indisputable facts. Here they are. The scent-spray was harmless when Colonel Warrender used it on Mrs. Templeton. At some time before she went up to her room with Mr. Dakers, enough Slaypest was transferred to the scent-spray to kill her. At some time after she was killed the scent-spray was emptied and washed out and the remaining scent from the original bottle was poured into it. I think there were two, possibly three, persons in the house at that time who could have committed these actions. They are all familiar with the room and its appointments and surroundings. The presence of any one of them in her room would, under normal circumstances, have been unremarkable.”

A voice from outside the group violently demanded, “Where is she? Why hasn’t she been brought down to face it?” And then, with satisfaction, “Has she been taken away? Has she?”

Florence advanced into the light.

Richard cried out, “What do you mean, Floy? Be quiet! You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“ Where’s Clara Plumtree ?”

“She will appear,” Alleyn said, “if the occasion arises. And you had better be quiet, you know.”

For a moment she looked as if she would defy him, but seemed to change her mind. She stood where she was and watched him.

“There is, however,” Alleyn said, “a third circumstance. You will all remember that after the speeches you waited down here for Mrs. Templeton to take her part in the ceremony of opening the presents. Mr. Dakers had left her in her room, passing Florence and Mrs. Plumtree on his way downstairs. Mrs. Plumtree had then gone to her room, leaving Florence alone on the landing. Mr. Templeton went from here into the hall. From the foot of the stairs he saw Florence on the landing and called up to her that you were all waiting for her mistress. He then rejoined the party here. A minute or so later Florence ran downstairs into this room and, after a certain amount of confused ejaculation, made it known that her mistress was desperately ill. Mr. Templeton rushed upstairs. Dr. Harkness, after a short delay, followed. With Florence, Colonel Warrender and Mr. Gantry hard on his heels.

“They found Mrs. Templeton lying dead on the floor of her room. The overturned tin of Slaypest lay close beside her right hand. The scent-spray was on the dressing-table. That has been agreed to, but I am going to ask for a further confirmation.”

Dr. Harkness said, “Certainly. That’s how it was.”

“You’d make a statement on oath to that effect?”

“I would.” He looked at Gantry and Warrender. “Wouldn’t you?”

They said uneasily that they would.

“Well, Florence?” Alleyn asked.

“I said before: I didn’t notice. I was too upset.”

“But you don’t disagree?”

“No,” she admitted grudgingly.

“Very well. Now, you will see, I think, all of you, that the whole case turns on this one circumstance. The tin of Slaypest on the floor. The scent-spray and the empty bottle on the dressing-table.”

“Isn’t it awful?” Pinky said suddenly. “I know it must be childishly obvious, but I just can’t bring myself to think.”

“Can’t you’?” Gantry said grimly. “I can.”

“Not having been involved in the subsequent discussions,” Marchant remarked to nobody in particular, “the nicer points must be allowed, I hope, to escape me.”

“Let me bring you up to date,” Alleyn said. “There was poison in the scent-spray. Nobody, I imagine, will suggest that she put it there herself or that she used the Slaypest on herself. The sound of a spray in action was heard a minute or so before she died. By Ninn — Mrs. Plumtree.”

“So she says,” Florence interjected.

Alleyn went on steadily, “Mrs. Templeton was alone in her room. Very well. Having used the lethal scent-spray, did she replace it on the dressing-table and put the Slaypest on the floor?”

Florence said, “What did I tell you? Clara Plumtree! After I went. Say she did hear the thing being used. She done it! She went in and fixed it all. What did I tell you!”

“On your own evidence,” Alleyn said, “and on that of Mr. Templeton, you were on the landing when he called up to you. You returned at once to the bedroom. Do you think that in those few seconds, Mrs. Plumtree, who moves very slowly, could have darted into the room, re-arranged the scent-spray, and Slaypest, darted out again and got out of sight?”

“She could’ve hid in the dressing-room. Like she done afterwards when she wouldn’t let me in.”

Alleyn said: “I’m afraid that won’t quite do. Which brings me to the fourth point. I won’t go into all the pathological details, but there is clear evidence that the spray was used in the normal way — at about arm’s length and without undue pressure — and then at very close quarters and with maximum pressure. Her murderer, finding she was not dead, made sure that she would die. Mrs. Plumtree would certainly not have had an opportunity to do it. There is only one person who could have committed that act and the three other necessary acts as well. Only one.”

“ Florence !” Gantry cried out.

“No. Not Florence. Charles Templeton.”

The drawing-room now seemed strangely deserted. Pinky Cavendish, Montague Marchant, Dr. Harkness, Bertie Saracen and Timon Gantry had all gone home. Charles Templeton’s body had been carried away. Old Ninn was in her bed. Florence had retired to adjust her resentments and nurse her heartache as best she could. Mr. Fox was busy with routine arrangements. Only Alleyn, Richard, Anelida and Warrender remained in the drawing-room.

Richard said, “Ever since you told me and all through that last scene with them, I’ve been trying to see why. Why should he, having put up with so much for so long, do such a monstrous thing? It’s — it’s… I’ve always thought him — he was so…” Richard drove his fingers through his hair. “Maurice! You knew him. Better than any of us.”

Warrender, looking at his clasped hands, muttered unhappily, “What’s that word they use nowadays? Perfectionist?”

“But what do you… Yes. All right. He was a perfectionist, I suppose.”

“Couldn’t stand anything that wasn’t up to his own standard. Look at those T’ang figures. Little lady with a flute and little lady with a lute. Lovely little creatures. Prized them more than anything else in the house. But when the parlour-maid or somebody knocked the end off one of the little lute pegs, he wouldn’t have it. Gave it to me, by God!” said Warrender.

Alleyn said, “That’s illuminating, isn’t it?”

“But it’s one thing to feel like that and another to — No!” Richard exclaimed, “it’s a nightmare. You can’t reduce it to that size. It’s irreducible. Monstrous!”

“It’s happened,” Warrender said flatly.

“Mr. Alleyn,” Anelida suggested, “would you tell us what you think? Would you take the things that led up to it out of their background and put them in order for us? Might that help, do you think, Richard?”