Ngaio Marsh - Death And The Dancing Footman

He hunted over the floor, using his torch and pressing his fingers into the pile of the carpet. He found nothing that seemed to him to be of interest. He completed his examination of the room and returned at last to the body of William Compline.

Alleyn’s camera was a very expensive instrument. He had brought it with him to make records of his wife’s work during its successive stages. He now used it to photograph William Compline’s body, the area of floor surrounding his feet, his skull, the mere , the wireless cabinet, the ash in the fireplace, and the library door-jamb. “In case,” he muttered, “Thompson and Co. don’t get through tonight.” Detective-Sergeant Thompson was his photographic expert.

Having taken his pictures he stood for a time, looking down at William. “I don’t imagine you knew anything about it.” And he thought, “Life’s going to be pretty cheap when summer comes, but you’ve caught a Blitzkrieg of your own and so for you it’s different. You’ve conjured up the Yard, you poor chap. You’ve cranked up the majesty of the law and by the time your killer reaches the dock, Lord knows how many of your friends will be there to give evidence. There ought to be a moral lurking somewhere round this but I’m damned if I know what it is.” He replaced the sheet, looked round the room once more, locked the two inner doors, gathered up his possessions and went into the hall. As he was locking the door he heard a sort of male twittering, and turning round saw on the stairs a small rotund gentlemen dressed in plus fours and wearing thick-lensed glasses.

“I’m so awfully sorry to keep you waiting,” said this person. “Mandrake looked after you?”

“Very well indeed, thank you.”

“Yes. He told me you were here,” said Jonathan. “I begged him to — to give you the keys of that terrible room. I–I find myself very much upset. I’m quite ashamed of myself.”

“A very natural reaction, sir,” said Alleyn politely. “May we have a word or two somewhere?”

“Eh? Yes. Yes, of course. Er — in the drawing-room, shall we? This way.”

“I fancy Mandrake and Miss Wynne are in the drawing-room. Perhaps the library?”

Jonathan nervously agreed to the library and Alleyn had a notion that he would have preferred somewhere farther away from the smoking-room. He saw Jonathan look quickly at the communicating door and then turn away abruptly to the fire.

“Before anything else,” Alleyn said, “I must ask how Mrs. Compline is. Mandrake will have told you that the local police are trying to find a doctor. In the meantime I hope—”

“She’s very ill indeed,” said Jonathan. “That’s why you find me so greatly upset. She — they think she’s going to die.”

Jonathan was not easy to deal with. He was both restless and lugubrious and it was with difficulty that Alleyn contrived to nail him down to hard facts. For five minutes he listened to a recital in which such matters as Jonathan’s affection for the Complines, his bewilderment, the sacred laws of hospitality and the infamy of Dr. Hart were strangely mingled. At last, however, Alleyn managed to pin him down to giving direct answers to questions based on Mandrake’s notes. Jonathan gave a fairly coherent account of his own talks with Nicholas, and laid great stress on the point of Hart’s practically admitting that he had written threatening letters. “And in my house Alleyn, in my house he had the effrontery to make use of a round game—” Alleyn cut short this lament with a direct question.

“Who is with Mrs. Compline at the moment?”

“Hart!” Jonathan exclaimed. “There it is, you see! Hart! I know it’s a most improper, a monstrous arrangement, but what could we do?”

“Nothing else, sir, I’m sure. Is he alone?”

“No. No, my cousin, Lady Hersey Amblington, who is an experienced V.A.D., is there. I spoke to her on my way down. I did not go in. She came to the door. They — ah — they’re doing something — I understand you brought — but Hart appears to think she is almost beyond help.”

“In that case,” said Alleyn, “as soon as it’s possible, I should like to see Dr. Hart. At once, if he can leave his patient.”

“I don’t think he can do so just yet. There’s one other thing, Mr. Alleyn.” Jonathan’s hand went to the inside pocket of his coat. He drew out a long envelope.

“This,” he said, “contains the letter she left behind for Nicholas. He has read it, but nobody else has done so. I persuaded him to place it in this envelope in the presence of my cousin, Hersey Amblington, and myself. We have signed a statement to that effect on the outside. I now,” said Jonathan with a small bow to Alleyn, “hand it to you.”

“That’s very correct, sir,” said Alleyn.

“Oh well, I’m a J.P. you know, and if, as we fear, poor Sandra does not recover…”

“Yes, of course. I think I should see Mr. Compline before I open the letter. It’s more important at the moment that I should talk to Dr. Hart. Perhaps we had better go upstairs. Dr. Hart may be able to come out for a moment. Will you take me up, please?”

“But — is it absolutely necessary…”

“I’m afraid Mrs. Compline’s condition makes it imperative, sir. Shall we go?”

Jonathan pulled at his lower lip, eyed Alleyn over the top of his glasses, and finally made a little dart at him. “In your hands,” he chattered, “unreservedly. Come on.”

He led the way upstairs. They turned off to the left and came up to the visitors’ wing. Alleyn paused at the stairhead. A little to his right and facing the stairs, he saw an empty niche in the wall and, remembering the plan Mandrake had sketched in the margin of his notes, he recognized this as the erstwhile perch of the brass Buddha. The men’s rooms, then, would be down the passage. Madame Lisse’s, he remembered, was opposite the stairhead, and Mrs. Compline’s next door to the left. Indeed Jonathan now pointed to the door of this room and, with a wealth of finicking gestures, indicated that Alleyn should wait where he stood. “Just a moment, Alleyn,” he mouthed. “Better just — if you don’t mind — one doesn’t know…”

He tiptoed to the door and, staring apprehensively at Alleyn, tapped very gently, paused, shook his head and tapped again. In a moment or two the door opened. Alleyn saw a tallish woman, with a well-groomed head and a careful make-up on a face that wore an expression of extreme distress. Jonathan whispered and the lady looked quickly over his shoulder at Alleyn. “Not now, Jo,” she said. “Surely, not now.” Jonathan whispered again and she said with a show of irritation: “There’s no need to do that. She can’t hear, poor dear.”

Alleyn moved towards them. “I’m so sorry,” he said, “but I’m afraid I must see Dr. Hart as soon as possible.”

Jonathan said hurriedly and rather ludicrously: “You don’t know Mr. Alleyn, Hersey. My cousin, Lady Hersey Amblington, Alleyn.”

“If he’s still—” Alleyn began, and Hersey said quickly: “He’s done everything possible. I’m afraid he doesn’t think it’s going to be any use. He’s been rather marvellous, Mr. Alleyn.”

Before Alleyn could reply to this unexpected tribute or to the petulant little cluck with which Jonathan received it, the door was suddenly pulled wide open from within and there stood a heavy pale man, wearing no jacket, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his face glistening.

“What is all this?” demanded Dr. Hart. “What now! Lady Hersey, you have no business to stand chattering in doorways when perhaps I may need you.”

“I’m sorry,” said Hersey meekly, and disappeared into the room. Hart glared at Alleyn. “Well?” he said.