Ngaio Marsh - Death And The Dancing Footman

Alleyn said: “Is it true that some time ago you gave a dinner party to which you invited your husband and Mr. Royal, who, by the way, did not know Dr. Hart was your husband?”

He saw her eyes turn to flint but she scarcely hesitated: “It was my one attempt,” she said, “to try and establish friendly relations. I hoped that they would take pleasure in each other’s company.”

“By gum,” thought Alleyn, “you’ve got your nerve about you!”

“Madame,” he said, ‘I am going to ask you a very direct question. Who, do you think, committed this murder?”

She clasped her hands over the arm of his chair. “I had hoped,” she whispered, “that I might be spared that question.”

“It is my duty to ask it,” said Alleyn solemnly.

“I must refuse to answer. How can I answer? I loved him once.”

By this remarkable statement Alleyn learned that if, as Mrs. Pouting considered, Dr. and Madame Hart were joint adventurers, the lady displayed a most characteristic readiness to betray her partner when the necessity arose.

“You will understand,” he said, “that I must question each member of the party about his or her movements on three occasions. The first is the occasion when Mr. Mandrake was thrown into the bathing-pool. Where were you at that time, Madame Lisse?”

“In bed, in my room.”

“Was anybody else in your room?”

“I believe a maid came in with my breakfast. I remember it was a very little while after she left the room that I heard voices on the terrace beneath my window and not long after that, I was told of the accident.”

“Who told you, please?”

She waited for a moment, and then, very delicately, shrugged her shoulders.

“It was Mr. Compline,” she said. “You will think it strange that I permitted the visit, but I have adopted the English custom in such matters. He was agitated and felt that he must warn me.”

“Warn you?”

“Of this exhibition on the part of my husband.”

“Suppose,” said Alleyn, “that I told you I had convincing evidence that your husband was not responsible for this affair. What would you say?”

For the first time she looked frightened and for a moment she had no answer to give him. Her hands were clenched and her arms rigid. “I am afraid that I should not believe you,” she said. “It is horrible to have to say these things. I find it unbearable. But one must protect oneself, and other innocent persons.”

Alleyn was beginning to get a sort of enjoyment out of Madame Lisse.

“I am to understand,” he said, “that it was a very unusual event for Mr. Compline to pay you such an informal visit?”

“The circumstances were extraordinary.”

“Were they extraordinary when he again visited you at half-past seven that same evening?”

“Of course. I had asked him to come. I was most anxious to see him alone. By that time I was convinced that my husband meant to do him an injury. My husband had told me as much.” Perhaps Alleyn looked a little incredulous, for she said quickly: “It is quite true. He said that he had come to the end of his endurance and could not trust himself. I was terrified. I warned Mr. Compline and begged him to be careful. When he left me, I looked after him and I saw that horrible figure fall from the top of his door. His hand was almost on the door. I screamed out and at the same moment it struck his arm. It might have killed him.”

“No doubt,” said Alleyn, who had already taken possession of the Buddha. “Then you and Mr. Compline were together from the time he left his room and walked down the passage to yours, until he returned and received his injury?”

“Yes. He has told me he came straight to my room.”

“You were together,” Alleyn repeated slowly, “the whole time?”

Again he thought he had frightened her. Again there was an odd little pause before she said: “Yes, certainly. I never left my room until he went.”

“And did he?”

“He?” she said readily. “Oh no, he didn’t, of course. I had to send him away in the end.”

There was something here, Alleyn felt sure, that she had concealed from him, but he decided to leave it for the moment and went on to the time of the murder. Again Madame Lisse had been in her room. “I was in agony. I suffer from the migraine and this was a terrible attack, brought on, no doubt, by nervous suspense. I went to bed before dinner and remained there until I was told of the tragedy.”

“Who told you of the tragedy, Madame?”

“Nicholas Compline. He broke it to me after he had told his mother.”

“And what was your reaction?”

“I was horrified, of course.” She leant back again in her chair and it seemed to him that she marshalled a series of sentences she had previously rehearsed. “At first I thought it was a mistake, that he had meant to kill Nicholas, but then it dawned upon me that it was William’s threats to expose him that had driven him to do it. I realized that it had nothing to do with me, nothing at all. No other explanation is possible.”

“You believe that it was impossible that William could be mistaken for Nicholas?”

“Of course. They were not so alike. Even the backs of their heads. There was a small thin patch in William’s hair, just below the crown of his head.”

“Yes,” said Alleyn, watching her trembling lips. “There was.”

“Whereas Nicholas has thick hair, like honey. And the nape of William’s neck — it was—” She caught her breath and her voice seemed to die on her lips.

“You must have observed him very closely,” said Alleyn.

Alleyn’s interview with Nicholas was an uncomfortable affair. They had not been together for two minutes before he realized that he had to deal with a man who had pretty well reached the end of his tether. Nicholas was bewildered and dazed. He answered Alleyn’s questions abruptly and almost at random. Even when the question of the murderer’s identity was directly broached, Nicholas merely flared up weakly like a damp squib and went out. Alleyn became insistent and Nicholas made an effort to concentrate, saying that Hart must have done it and escaped after Thomas left the hall. When Alleyn asked if he thought it was a case of mistaken identity, he said he did and spoke incoherently of the two earlier attempts. “It was me all along,” he said, “that he was after. I thought, at first, Bill’s fiddling about with the radio had sent him off his head; but Mandrake pointed out that Hart must have come in by the door from the hall and that, leaning over like that, the back of Bill’s head and tunic would look like mine. And he must have heard me tell Bill to go to bed.”

“When was that?”

Nicholas passed his hand across his eyes, pressing down with his finger-tips. “Oh, God,” he said, “when was it? I can’t sort of think. It was when Hart turned bloody-minded over the radio. He and Mandrake were in the room they call the ‘boudoir.’ He opened the door and raised hell about the wireless. I slammed the door in his face and Mandrake yelled out that I was to turn off the radio. I got suddenly fed up with the whole show. I said to my brother something like: ‘Oh, all right, the wireless is no go. Get to bed, Bill.’ Mandrake and Hart must have heard. I turned the radio down to a whisper. We didn’t say anything and I suppose he thought Bill did go away. I heard him switch off the light. He must have done it as a blind or something, to make us think he had gone.”

“Was that long afterwards?”

“I don’t know. I heard Mandrake go out. It was after that.”

“Did you and your brother not speak at all?”

“Yes. When, as I thought, I heard Hart go, I said it was all right now if Bill wanted to use the wireless. He was furious with Hart, you know. We both were, but I saw I’d been making a fool of myself. I was suddenly sick of the whole thing. I tried to calm Bill down. He’d turned pretty grim and wouldn’t talk. I hung about a bit and then I came away.”