Ngaio Marsh - Color Scheme

“I’ll get him,” said Simon, and went out to the kitchen. He returned, followed by Eru, who stood oafishly in the doorway. Dikon saw, for the first time, a fleshy youth dressed in a stained blue suit. His coat was open, displaying a brilliant tie, and an expanse of puce-coloured shirt stretched tight across the diaphragm. He showed little of his Maori blood, but Dikon thought he might have served as an illustration of the least admirable aspect of colonization in a native country.

“Here, listen, Eru,” said Smith. “You saw Questing swing it across me, didn’t you?”

“Too right,” Eru muttered.

“Go on. Tell them.”

It was the same story. Eru had come down the hillside behind Smith. He could see the bridge and Questing’s car. “Questing leant out of the window and beckoned Bert to come on. I couldn’t see the signal, but I reckoned he was crazy, seeing what time it was. I yelled out to Bert to turn it up and come back, but he never heard me. Then she blew her whistle.” Eru’s olive face turned white. “Gee, I thought he was under the engine all right. I couldn’t see him, like, from where I was. The train was between us. Gee, I certainly expected the jolt. I never picked he’d jump for it. Crikey, was I relieved when I seen old Bert sitting in the prickles!”

“The engine driver pulled her up and they come back to inquire, didn’t they, Eru?”

“Too right. They looked terrible. You know, white as a sheet. They’d got the shock of their lives, those jokers. We had to put it down in writing he’d blown his whistle. They had to protect themselves, see?”

“Yeh. Well that’s the whole works,” said Smith. “Thanks, Eru.”

He rubbed his hands over his face and looked at them. “I could do with a drink,” he said. “You may think I’ve had some by the way I smell. I swear to God I haven’t. It broke when I went over.”

“That’s right,” said Eru. He looked round awkwardly. “I’ll say good-day,” he added.

He returned to the kitchen. Mrs. Claire glanced after him dubiously, and presently got up and followed him.

Smith sagged forward, resting his cheek on his hand as though he sat meditating alone in the room. Dr. Ackrington limped across and put his hand on Smith’s shoulder.

“I’ll fix you up,” he said. “Come along.”

Smith looked up at him, got to his feet, and shambled to the door.

“I could have him up, couldn’t I, Doc?” he said. “It’s attempted murder, isn’t it?”

“I hope so,” said Dr. Ackrington.

Mrs. Claire stood in the centre of her own kitchen looking up at Eru Saul. The top of her head reached no farther than his chin, but she was a plumply authoritative figure and he shuffled his feet and would not look at her. Huia, with an air of conscious virtue, was dishing up the dinner.

“You are going home now, Eru, I suppose,” said Mrs. Claire.

“That’s right, Mrs. Claire,” said Eru, looking at Huia.

“Huia is very busy, you know.”

“Yeh, that’s right.”

“And we don’t like you waiting about. You know that.”

“I’m not doing anything, Mrs. Claire.”

“The Colonel doesn’t wish you to come. You understand?”

“I was only asking Huia what say we went to the pictures.”

“I’m not going to the pictures. I told you already,” said Huia loudly.

“There, Eru,” said Mrs. Claire.

“Got another date, haven’t you?”

Huia tossed her head.

“That will do, Eru,” said Mrs. Claire.

“Too bad,” said Eru, looking at Huia.

“You’ll go now, if you please,” Mrs. Claire insisted.

“O.K., Mrs. Claire. But listen, Mrs. Claire. You wouldn’t pick Huia wasn’t on the level, would you? I didn’t pick it right away, but it’s a fact. Ask Mr. Questing, Mrs. Claire. She’s been over at the Bay with him this afternoon. I’ll be seeing you, Huia.”

When he had gone Mrs. Claire’s round face was rosy-red. She said: “If Eru comes here again you must tell me at once, Huia, and the Colonel will speak to him.”

“Yes, Mrs. Claire.”

“We are ready for dinner.” She walked to the door and hesitated. Huia gave her a brilliant smile.

“You know we trust you, Huia, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mrs. Claire.”

Mrs. Claire went into the dining-room.

They dined in an atmosphere of repressed curiosity. Dr. Ackrington returned alone, saying that he had sent Smith to bed, and that in any case he was better out of the way. Throughout dinner, Gaunt and Dikon, who had a small table to themselves, made elaborate conversation about nothing. Dikon was in a state of confusion so acute that it surprised himself. From where he sat he could see Barbara — her lamentable clothes, her white face, and her nervous hands clattering her knife and fork on the plate and pushing about the food she could not eat. Because he tried not to look, he looked the more and was annoyed with himself for doing so. Gaunt sat with his back to the Claires’ table, and Dikon saw that Barbara could not prevent herself from watching him.

During the years of their association, Dikon’s duties had included the fending away of Gaunt’s adorers. He thought that he could interpret Barbara’s glances. He thought that she was sick with disappointment, and told himself that only too easily could he translate her mortification and misery. He was angry and disgusted — angry with Gaunt, and, so he said to himself, disgusted with Barbara — and this reaction was so foreign to his habit that he ended by falling quite out of humour with himself.

Presently he became aware that Gaunt was watching him sharply and he realized that he had been speaking at random. He began to stammer and was actually relieved when, upon the disappearance of Huia, Colonel and Mrs. Claire embarked in antiphony upon an apologetic chant of which the theme was Smith’s unseemly behaviour. This rapidly developed into a solo performance by Mrs. Claire in the course of which she attempted the impossible feat of distributing whitewash equally between Questing and Smith. Her recital became rich in clichés : “More sinned against than sinning… A dear fellow at bottom… Means well but not quite… So sorry it should have happened…” She was encouraged by punctual ejaculations of “Quite” from her distracted husband.

Gaunt was beginning to get out of an impossible situation as gracefully as might be when Dr. Ackrington spared him any further recital.

“My dear Agnes,” said Dr. Ackrington, “and my dear Edward. I expect we are all agreed that attempted murder is not in the best possible taste and a vague distribution of brummagem haloes will not persuade us to alter our opinion. Suppose we leave it at that. I have one suggestion — let us call it a request — to make, and I should like to make it at once. That fellow may return at any moment.”

The Claires fidgeted. Simon, who seemed to be unable to speak in any mode but a truculent roar, said that he reckoned he was going to ask Questing what the hell he thought he was up to. “It’s crook, that’s what it is,” Simon shouted angrily. “By cripey, I reckon it’s crook. I’m going to ask him flat out — ”

“You will ask him nothing, if you’ll be so good,” his uncle said briskly, “and I shall be obliged if you will suffer me to finish.”

“Yes, but — ”

“Simon, please ,” his mother implored.

“I was about to ask,” Dr. Ackrington went on, “that you allow me to speak to Mr. Questing when he arrives. I have a specific reason for making this suggestion.”

“I thought perhaps,” said Mrs. Claire unhappily, “Edward might take him to his study.”

“Is Edward’s study the Ark of the Tabernacle of the Lord,” cried Dr. Ackrington in a fury, “that Questing should be subdued in it? Why this perpetual itch to herd people together in Edward’s study, which, when all’s said and done, is no bigger than a lavatory and rather less comfortable? Will you listen to me? Will you indulge me so far as to keep quiet while I speak to Questing, here, openly, in the presence of you all?”