Ngaio Marsh - Death And The Dancing Footman

“It was done deliberately.”

“Just what I’ve been trying to tell Jonathan, Compline. My God, I was literally hurled into that water. I’m sorry to dwell on a tiresome subject, but somebody tried to drown me.”

“No, they didn’t.”

“What!”

“They tried to drown me.”

“Here,” shouted Mandrake, “what the hell d’you mean?”

“Jonathan,” said Nicholas, “we’d better tell him about me and Hart.”

“Oh, that,” said Mandrake. “I know all about that.”

“May I ask how?”

“Need we go into it?”

“My dear Nick,” began Jonathan in a great hurry, “Mandrake noticed all was not well between you. The scene at the dinner table. The game of Charter. He asked me if I — if I—”

“Well, never mind,” Nicholas interrupted impatiently. “You know he’s been threatening me? All right. Now, let me tell you that as I went down to the pond I glanced up at the front of the house. You know the window on the first floor above the front door?”

“Yes,” said Jonathan.

“All right. He was watching me through that window.”

“But, my dear Nick—”

“He was watching me. He saw me go down wearing that cape. He didn’t see Mandrake go down wearing the other cape, because Mandrake went out at the west door. Don’t interrupt me, Jonathan, this is serious. When Mandrake was shoved overboard, he was standing up to his hocks in snow on the kerb of the pool, with that embankment hiding his legs from anybody that came up from behind. You had the hood pulled over your head, I suppose, Mandrake?”

“Yes.”

“Yes. Well, it was Hart shoved you overboard, and Hart thought he was doing me in, by God.”

“But Nick, we must keep our heads and not rush impetuously into conclusions—”

“See here,” said Nicholas, always to Mandrake. “Had anybody in this party reason to wish you any harm?”

“I’d never met one of them in my life before. Except Jonathan, of course.”

“And I can assure you, my dear Aubrey, that I entertain only the kindest—”

“Of course.”

“Well, then!” said Nicholas.

“I believe you’re right,” cried Mandrake.

The door opened and Dr. Hart came in.

Nicholas, who had been sitting on the edge of the bed, sprang up and walked out of the room. Jonathan uttered a series of little consolatory noises and moved to the window. Hart went to the bed and laid his fingers on Mandrake’s wrist.

“You are better?” he said. “That is right. It will be well to remain in bed to-day, perhaps. There has been a little shock.” He looked placidly at Mandrake and repeated: “Just a little shock.”

“Yes,” said Mandrake. Hart turned to Jonathan. “If I might speak to you, Mr. Royal.”

“To me?” Jonathan gave a little start. “Yes, of course. Here?”

“I was about to suggest — somewhere else. But perhaps… I remember, Mr. Mandrake, that as we brought you to the house, you declared repeatedly that you had been deliberately pushed into this swimming-pool.”

Mandrake looked at the large pale face, surely more pale than ever since its owner began to speak, and thought: “This may be the face of a potential murderer.” Aloud, he said: “I am quite convinced of it.”

“Then perhaps it would be well to set your mind at ease on this matter. No attempt was made wittingly upon you, Mr. Mandrake.”

“How do you know?”

“It was a case of mistaken identity.”

“Good God!”said Jonathan with violence. Dr. Hart tapped the palm of one hand with the fingers of the other. “The person who made this attack,” he said, “believed that he was making it upon me.”

Mandrake’s first reaction to this announcement was a hysterical impulse to burst out laughing. He looked at Jonathan, who stood with his back to the light, and wondered if he only imagined that an expression of mingled relief and astonishment had appeared for a moment on his host’s face. Then he heard his voice, pedantic and high-pitched as usual.

“But my dear Dr. Hart,” Jonathan said, “what can have put such a strange notion into your head?”

“The fact that there is, among your guests, a man who wishes most ardently for my death.”

“Surely not,” said Jonathan, making a little purse of his lips.

“Surely, yes. I had not intended to go so far. I merely wished to reassure Mr. Mandrake. Perhaps if we withdrew?”

“For pity’s sake,” Mandrake ejaculated, “don’t withdraw. I’m all right. I want to get this thing straight. After all,” he added peevishly, “it was me in the pond.”

“True,” said Jonathan.

“And I think I should tell you, Dr. Hart, that as I came down the steps, Compline saw me through the pavilion window and waved. He must have recognized me.”

“It was snowing very heavily. Your face, no doubt, was in shadow, hidden by the hood of my cape.”

“I hope you got your cape,” said Jonathan anxiously.

“Thank you, yes. There must be a considerable amount of weed in your pond. It is to me quite evident, Mandrake, that Compline mistook you for myself. He came out of the pavilion and ran quickly up behind you, giving you a sharp thrust on the shoulder-blades.”

“It was a sharp thrust on the shoulder-blades. But you forget that there is one thing about me that is quite distinctive.” Mandrake spoke rapidly with an air of jeering at himself. “I am lame. I wear a heavy boot. I use a stick. You can’t mistake a man with a club-foot, Dr. Hart.”

“Your foot was hidden. One does not walk evenly in snow and I assure you that while I, as a medical man, would not make such a mistake, Compline, glancing out through heavy sheets of falling snow, might easily do so.”

“I don’t agree with you. And didn’t Compline see you looking from an upper window as he went to the pond? He could hardly imagine you would spirit yourself down there as quickly as that.”

“Why not? I could have done so. A matter of a few moments. In actual fact I did go down a few minutes later. Mr, Royal saw me leave.”

“Is it altogether wise to stress that point, do you think?”

“I do not understand you, Mr. Mandrake.”

Jonathan began to talk very quickly, stuttering a little and making sharp gestures with both hands.

“And, my dear Hart, even if, as you suggest, anyone could mistake Mandrake for yourself; even supposing, and I cannot suppose it, that anyone could entertain the idea of thrusting you into that water, surely, surely it would be preposterous to suggest that it was with any — any — ah — murderous intent. Can you not swim, my dear doctor?”

“Yes, but—”

“Very well, then. I myself cannot help thinking that Mandrake is mistaken, that a sudden gust of wind caught him—”

“No, Jonathan.”

“—or that at the worst it was a stupid and dangerous practical joke.”

“A joke !” shouted Dr. Hart. “A JOKE!” Mandrake suppressed a nervous giggle. Hart stared sombrely at him, and then turned to Jonathan. “And yet I do not know,” he said heavily. “Perhaps with an Englishman it is possible. Perhaps he did not mean to kill me. Perhaps he wished to make me a foolish figure, shivering, dripping stagnant water, my teeth chattering — Yes, I can accept that possibility. He recognized the Tyrolese cape and thought—”

“Wait a moment,” Mandrake interrupted, “before we go any further I must put you right about the cape. It is impossible that Nicholas Compline should have thought you were inside your own Tyrolese cape.”

“And why?”

“Because he himself gave it to me to wear to the pond.”

Dr. Hart was silent. He looked from Mandrake to Jonathan, and those little dents appeared in his nostrils. “You are protecting him,” he said.