Ngaio Marsh - Death And The Dancing Footman

“Do you mind,” Chloris interrupted, “breaking the thread of your narrative just for a second? Surrealism may be marvellous in poetic drama but it’s not so good in simple conversation. What didn’t we see going down that you saw coming back, sick and all as you were?”

“A row of footprints in the snow coming out from the house as far as the top of the terrace and turning back again.”

“Oh.”

“They were small footprints.”

The afternoon was remarkable for an increasing heaviness in the snow-fall, the state of Mandrake’s feelings, and the behaviour of William Compline. Snow mounted from the window-sill in a tapering shroud, light diminished stealthily in Mandrake’s bedroom while he felt too relaxed and too idle to stretch out his hand to the bedside lamp. Yet though his body was fatigued, his brain was active and concerned itself briskly with the problem of his immersion and with speculations on the subject of Chloris Wynne’s strange relations with the Compline brothers. He was convinced that she was not in love with William but less sure that she did not still hanker after Nicholas. Mandrake wondered testily how a young woman who did not try the eyes, and was by no means a ninny, could possibly degrade her intelligence by falling for the brummagem charms of Nicholas Compline. “A popinjay,” he muttered, “a stock figure of dubious gallantry.” And he pronounced the noise usually associated with the word “Pshaw.” He had arrived at this point when he received a visit from William and Lady Hersey.

“We hear you’re better,” Hersey said. “Everybody’s being quite frightful downstairs and William and I thought we’d like a little first-hand information, so we’ve come to call. They’re all saying you think somebody tried to drown you. William’s afraid you might suspect him, so I’ve brought him up to come clean.”

“Do you suspect me?” asked William anxiously. “Because I didn’t, you know.”

“I don’t in the least suspect you. Why should I? We’ve had no difference in opinion.”

“Well, they seem to think I might have mistaken you for Nicholas.”

“Who suspects this?”

“My mama, principally. Because I stuck to the bet, you see. So I thought I’d like to explain that when I got there you were already in the pool.”

“Was Hart there?”

“No. No, he turned up a minute or so later.”

“Did you notice the footprints on the terrace steps?”

“Yes, rather,” said William, unexpectedly. “They were your footsteps. I noticed them because one was bigger than the other.”

“William!” Hersey murmured.

“Well, Hersey, he’d know about that, wouldn’t he? And then, you know, Chloris and Jonathan arrived.”

“Perhaps you’d like my alibi, Mr. Mandrake,” said Hersey. “It’s not an alibi at all, I’m afraid. I sat in the smoking-room and listened to the wireless. The first intimation I had about your adventure was provided by Jonathan who came in shouting for restoratives. I could tell you about the wireless programme, I think.”

Hersey went to the window and looked out. When she spoke again her voice fell oddly on the silence of the room. “It’s snowing like mad,” she said. “Has it struck either of you that in all probability, whether we like it or not, we are shut up together in this house with no chance of escape?”

“Dr. Hart wanted to go after lunch,” William said. “I heard him say so to Jonathan. But Jonathan said they’ve had word that you can’t get over Cloudyfold, and anyway there’s a drift inside the front gates. Jonathan seemed pleased about that.”

“He would be.” Hersey turned and rested her hands behind her on the sill. Her figure appeared almost black against the hurried silence of the storm beyond the window. “Mr. Mandrake,” she said, “you know my cousin quite well, don’t you?”

“I’ve known him for five years.”

“But that doesn’t say you know him well,” she said quickly. “You arrived before all of us. He was up to something, wasn’t he? No, that’s not a fair question. You needn’t answer. I know he was up to something. But whatever his scheme was, it didn’t involve you unless — Yes, William, that must be it, of course: Mr. Mandrake was to be the audience.”

“I don’t like performing for Jonathan,” William said. “I never have.”

“Nor do I, and what’s more I won’t. The Pirate can register fatal woman in heaps all over the house, but she won’t get a rise out of me.”

“I suppose I have performed, Hersey. Chloris and I broke off our engagement before lunch.”

“I thought something had happened. Why?”

William hunched his shoulders and drove his hands into his trousers’ pockets. “She ticked me off about the bet,” he said, “and I ticked her off about Nicholas, so what have you?”

“Well, William my dear, I’m sorry; but honestly, is she quite your cup of tea?” Hersey confronted Mandrake. “What do you think?” she demanded abruptly. He was not very much taken aback. For some reason that he had never been able to understand, Mandrake was a man in whom his fellow-creatures confided. He was by no means obviously sympathetic and he seldom asked for confidences but, perhaps because of these very omissions, they came his way. Sometimes he wondered if his lameness had something to do with it. People were inclined to regard a lame man as an isolated being, set apart by his disability as a priest is set apart by his profession. He usually enjoyed hearing strange confessions and was surprised therefore at discovering in himself a reluctance to receive William’s explanations of his quarrel with Chloris Wynne. He was profoundly glad that the engagement was broken and quite determined to make no suggestions about mending it.

“You must remember,” he said, “that we met for the first time last night.”

Hersey fixed him with a bright blue eye. “How guarded!” she said. “William, I believe Mr. Mandrake has—”

“Since we are being so frank,” Mandrake interrupted in a great hurry, “I should like to know whether you believe somebody pushed me into that loathsome pond, and if so, who.”

“Nick says it was Hart,” said Hersey. “He’s gone and thrown his mother into a fever by telling her Hart has tried to drown him. He’s behaving like a peevish child.”

“Mightn’t you have been blown in?” William asked vaguely.

“Does a gust of wind hit you so hard on the shoulder-blades that you can feel the bruises afterwards? Damn it, I know . They’re my shoulder-blades.”

“So they are,” Hersey agreed, “and I for one think it was Dr. Hart. After all, we know he was gibbering with rage at Nicholas, and it seems he saw Nicholas go down wearing a cape. I don’t suppose he meant to drown him. He simply couldn’t resist the temptation. I rather sympathize. Nicholas has bounded like a tennis ball, I consider, from the time he got here.”

“But Hart must have known Nick couldn’t swim,” said William. “He kept explaining that was why he wouldn’t go in at the deep end.”

“True. Well, perhaps he meant to drown him.”

“What does Madame Lisse say about it?” Mandrake asked.

“The Pirate?” Hersey helped herself to a cigarette. “My dear Mr. Mandrake, she doesn’t say anything about it. She dressed herself up in what I happen to know is a Chanel model at fifty guineas, and came down for lunch looking like an orchid at a church bazaar. Nicholas and William and Dr. Hart curvet and goggle whenever they look at her.”

“Well, you know, Hersey, she is rather exciting,” said William.

“Does Jonathan goggle?”

“No,” said Hersey. “He looks at her as he looks at all the rest of us — speculatively, from behind those damned glasses.”