Ngaio Marsh: False Scent

There was a long silence. Anelida broke it. “Perhaps,” she said, “if it hadn’t happened as it did, he would have changed his mind and not let it happen.”

“Yes. It’s possible, indeed. As it was he had to protect himself. He had to improvise. It must have been a nightmare. He’d had a bad heart-turn and had been settled down in his dressing-room. As soon as he was alone; he went through the communicating door, emptied the atomizer into the lavatory, washed it out as best he could and poured in what was left of the scent.”

“But how do you know ?” Richard protested.

“As he returned, Old Ninn came into the dressing-room. She took it for granted he had been in the bathroom for the obvious reason. But later, when I developed my theory of the scent-spray, she remembered. She suspected the truth, particularly as he had smelt of Formidable. So strongly that when Florence stood in the open doorway of the dressing-room she thought it was Ninn, and that she had been attempting to do the service which Florence regarded as her own right.”

“My poor old Ninn!” Richard cried.

“She, as you know, was not exactly at the top of her form. There had been certain potations, hadn’t there? Florence, who in her anger and sorrow, was prepared to accuse anybody of anything, made some very damaging remarks about you.”

“There’s no divided allegiance,” Richard said, “about Floy.”

“Nor about Ninn. She was terrified. Tonight she went into the study after Templeton had been put to bed there and told him that if there was any chance of suspicion falling on you, she would tell her story. He was desperately ill but he made some kind of attempt to get at her. She made to defend herself. He collapsed and died.”

Richard said, “One can’t believe these things of people one has loved. For Charles to have died like that.”

“Isn’t it better?” Alleyn asked. “It is better. Because, as you know, we would have gone on. We would have brought him to trial. Asit is, it’s odds on that the coroner’s jury will find it an accident. A rider will be added pointing out the dangers of indoor pest-killers. That’s all.”

“It is better,” Anelida said, and after a moment, “Mightn’t one say that he brought about his own retribution?” She turned to Richard and was visited by a feeling of great tenderness and strength. “We’ll cope,” she said, “with the future. Won’t we?”

“I believe we will, darling,” Richard said. “We must, mustn’t we?”

Alleyn said, “You’ve suffered a great shock and will feel it for some time. It’s happened and can’t be forgotten. But the hurt will grow less.”

He saw that Richard was not listening to him. He had his arm about Anelida and had turned her towards him.

“You’ll do,” Alleyn said, unheeded.

He went up to Anelida and took her hand. “True,” he said. “Believe me. He’ll be all right. To my mind he has nothing to blame himself for. And that,” Alleyn said, “is generally allowed to be a great consolation. Good-night.”

Miss Bellamy’s funeral was everything that she would have wished.

All the Knights and Dames, of course, and the Management and Timon Gantry, who had so often directed her. Bertie Saracen who had created her dresses since the days when she was a bit-part actress. Pinky Cavendish in floods, and Maurice, very Guardee, with a stiff upper lip.

Quite insignificant people, too: her old Ninn with a face like a boot and Florence with a bunch of primroses. Crowds of people whom she herself would have scarcely remembered, but upon whom, as a columnist in a woman’s magazine put it, she had at some time bestowed the gift of her charm. And it was not for her fame, the celebrated clergyman pointed out in his address, that they had come to say goodbye to her. It was, quite simply, because they had loved her.

And Richard Dakers was there, very white and withdrawn, with a slim, intelligent-looking girl beside him.

Everybody.

Except, of course, her husband. It was extraordinary how little he was missed. The lady columnist could not, for the life of her, remember his name.

Charles Templeton had, as he would have wished, a private funeral.

The End