Ngaio Marsh - Death And The Dancing Footman

“Yes. What about Lady Hersey?”

“I haven’t said anything. We can fetch her away when we want her.”

“We’ll send Bailey to fetch her away, fetch her away, fetch her away,” Alleyn murmured under his breath. And then: “I’ve never felt less sympathy over a homicide, Br’er Fox. This affair is not only stupid but beastly, and not only beastly but damn’ cold-blooded and unnatural. However, we must watch our step. There’s a hint of low cunning in spite of the mistakes. I hate the semipublic reconstruction stunt — it’s theatrical and it upsets all sorts of harmless people. Still, it has its uses. We’ve known it to come off, haven’t we?”

“We have so,” said Fox sombrely. “I wonder how Bailey’s getting on with that mob in there.”

“See here, Fox, let’s make sure we’ve got it right.”

Fox looked benignly at his chief: “It’s all right sir. You’ve worked it out to a hair. It can’t go wrong. Why, we’ve tried it half-a-dozen times.”

“I meant the case as a whole.”

“You’ve got your usual attack of the doubts, Mr. Alleyn. I’ve never seen a clearer case.”

Alleyn moved restlessly about the room. “Disregard those two earlier farces and we’ve still got proof,” he said.

“Cast-iron proof.”

“In a funny sort of way it all hangs on this damned cheerful fellow, Thomas. The dancing footman. He defines the limit of the time factor and the possible movements of the murderer. Add to this the ash, H. St. J. W. R.’s fishing-line, the stuff on the wireless, and William’s drawing-pin, and there’s our case.”

“And a very pretty case, too.”

“Not so pretty,” Alleyn muttered. And then: “I’ve never asked for your views on this war, Foxkin.”

Fox stared at him. “On the war ? Well, no sir, you haven’t. My view is that it hasn’t started.”

“And mine. I believe that in a year’s time we shall look back on these frozen weeks as on a strangely unreal period. Does it seem odd to you, Fox, that we should be here, so solemnly tracking down one squalid little murderer, so laboriously using our methods to peer into two deaths, while over our heads are stretched legions of guns? It’s as if we stood on the edge of a cracking landslide, swatting flies.”

“It’s our job.”

“And will continue to be so. But to hang someone — now! My God, Fox, it’s almost funny.”

“I see what you mean.”

“It’s nothing. Only one of those cold moments. We’ll get on with our cosy little murder. Here comes Bailey.”

Bailey came in carrying his gear.

“Well,” said Alleyn, “have you fixed that up?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any objections?”

“The foreign lady. She didn’t like the idea of blacking her fingers. Or that’s what she said. Gave quite a bit of trouble in a quiet way.”

“And the rest of the party?”

“Jumpy,” said Bailey. “Not saying much for stretches at a time and then all talking at once, very nervous and quick. Mr. Royal and Mr. Compline seem unfriendly to the Doctor and keep looking sideways at him. He’s the coolest of the lot, though. You’d think he wasn’t interested. He doesn’t take any notice of the lady except to look at her as if he was surprised or something. Will you see the prints, Mr. Alleyn?”

“Yes, we’ll look at them and check them with what you found on the rest of the stuff. It won’t be very illuminating but it’s got to be done. Then we’ll have those four in here, and try for results. It’ll do no harm to keep them guessing for a bit. Come on, Fox.”

“What’s the time?” asked Nicholas. Hersey Amblington looked at her wrist-watch. “A quarter past eight.”

“I have explained, haven’t I,” said Jonathan, “that there’s a cold buffet in the dining-room?”

“You have, Jo,” said Hersey. “I’m afraid none of us feels like it.”

“I am hungry,” Dr. Hart observed. “But I cannot accept the hospitality of a gentleman who believes me to be a murderer.” Jonathan made an angry little noise in his throat.

“My dear Dr. Hart,” Hersey ejaculated, “I really shouldn’t let a point of etiquette hold you off the cold meats. You can’t starve.”

“I expect to be released tomorrow,” said Hart, “and a short abstinence will be of no harm. I habitually overeat.” He looked at his wife, who was staring at him with a sort of incredulous wonder. “Do I not, my dear?” asked Dr. Hart.

Nicholas moved to her side. She turned to him and very slightly shrugged her shoulders.

“It is strange,” continued Dr. Hart, “that when my wife would not acknowledge our relationship I was plagued with the desire to make it known. Now that it is known, I take but little satisfaction in the privilege.”

Nicholas produced a cliché. “There is no need,” he said stiffly, “to be insulting.”

“But whom do I insult? Not my wife, surely. Would it not be more insulting to deny the legal status?”

“This is too much,” Jonathan burst out, but Hersey said: “Oh, let it go, for pity’s sake, Jo.”

“I cannot expect,” said Madame Lisse, “that Lady Hersey will neglect to find enjoyment in my humiliation.”

“I don’t see that you are particularly humiliated.”

“A husband who has committed the most—” began Madame Lisse, but Dr. Hart interrupted her.

“Do you know what she has said, this woman?” he demanded of nobody in particular. “She has told me that if she knew of a grain of evidence against me she would use it. I tell you this — if I was accused of the murder of this poor simpleton and if she, without doing harm to herself, could speak the word that would hang me, she would speak it. This is the woman for whom I have tortured myself. You are all thinking it is not nice to make a scene by speaking of her, it is not what an English gentleman would do. You are right. I am not English and I am not a gentleman. I am an Austrian peasant with a little of the South in my veins, and I have suddenly awakened. I am angry when I remember all the idiotic sorrow that I have wasted on this cold and treacherous wife.”

“ You bloody murderer !” Nicholas burst out, and Madame Lisse seized his arm.

“No,” she said, “no, Nicholas. For my sake.”

“For all our sakes,” said Mandrake suddenly, “let’s have no more scenes.” And a kind of murmur, profoundly in agreement, came from Hersey, Chloris, and Jonathan. Dr. Hart smiled and made a little bow. “Very well. By all means, no more scenes. But you ”—he pointed a short white finger at Nicholas—”will have cause to remember what I have said.”

The door opened and Bailey looked in. “Mr. Alleyn’s compliments, sir,” he said to Jonathan, “and he’d be glad to see you if you’re free.” His glance travelled to Mandrake and Nicholas. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said, and held open the door. The three men went out. “Mr. Alleyn would be obliged if the rest of the party stayed where they are,” said Bailey. “Sergeant Thompson is on duty in the hall.”

He closed the door gently, leaving the three women and Dr. Hart together.

“Before we go any further,” said Alleyn, “I must explain that we have arrived at a definite conclusion in this case. It is therefore my duty to tell you that the questions I shall now put to you are of importance and that your answers may possibly be used in evidence. I have asked you to come into the library in order that we may go over the events immediately preceding the discovery of Mr. William Compline’s body in the next room. I have not asked those members of the party who were upstairs to be present. They cannot help us. I have left Miss Wynne out of the experiment. Her part was entirely negative and there is no need to distress her. I’m afraid that we shall have to ask Lady Hersey to come in, but I thought that first of all I should explain to you, sir, and to Mr. Compline, exactly what we mean to do. You have all heard of police reconstructions. This very short experiment may be regarded as a reconstruction, and if we are at fault in the smallest detail, we ask you to put us right. That’s all quite clear, I hope. Now, I must ask you if you have any objection to helping us in this way.”