False Scent (9 page)

She replied, as usual, very briefly. The suggestion was of thoughts too deep for words and the tone whimsical. She ended by making a special reference to the cake and said that on this occasion Cooky, if that were possible, had excelled herself and she called attention to the decorations.

There was a round of applause, during which Gantry, Pinky, Bertie and Warrender edged in through the far doorway. Miss Bellamy was about to utter her peroration, but before she could do so, Old Ninn loudly intervened. “What’s a cake without candles?” said Old Ninn.

A handful of guests laughed, nervously and indulgently. The servants looked scandalized and apprehensive.

“Fifty of them,” Old Ninn proclaimed. “Oh, wouldn’t they look lovely!” and broke into a disreputable chuckle.

Miss Bellamy took the only possible action. She topped Old Ninn’s lines by snatching up the ritual knife and plunging it into the heart of the cake. The gesture, which may have had something of the character of a catharsis, was loudly applauded.

The press photographer’s lamps flashed.

The ceremony followed its appointed course. The cake was cut up and distributed. Glasses were refilled and the guests began to talk again at the tops of their voices. It was time for her to open the presents, which had already been deposited on a conveniently placed table in the drawing-room. When that had been done they would go and the party would be over. But it would take a considerable time and all her resources. In the meantime, there was Old Ninn, purple-faced, not entirely steady on her pins and prepared to continue her unspeakable act for the benefit of anyone who would listen to her.

Miss Bellamy made a quick decision. She crossed to Old Ninn, put her arm about her shoulders and gaily laughing, led her towards the door into the hall. In doing so she passed Warrender, Pinky, Bertie, and Timon Gantry. She ignored them, but shouted to Monty Marchant that she was going to powder her nose. Charles was in the doorway. She was obliged to stop for a moment. He said under his breath, “You’ve done a terrible thing.” She looked at him with contempt.

“You’re in my way. I want to go out.”

“I can’t allow you to go on like this.”

“Get
out
!” she whispered and thrust towards him. In that overheated room her scent engulfed him like a fog.

He said loudly, “At least don’t use any more of that stuff. At least don’t do that. Mary, listen to me!”

“I think you must be mad.”

They stared at each other. He stood aside and she went out, taking Old Ninn with her. In the hall she said, “Ninn, go to your room and lie down. Do you hear me!”

Old Ninn looked her fully in the face, drew down the corners of her mouth, and keeping a firm hold on the banister, plodded upstairs.

Neither she nor Charles had noticed Florence, listening avidly, a pace or two behind them. She moved away down the hall and a moment later Richard came in by the front door. When he saw Miss Bellamy he stopped short.

“Where have you been?” she demanded.

“I’ve been trying, not very successfully, to apologize to my friends.”

“They’ve taken themselves off, it appears.”

“Would you have expected them to stay?”

“I should have thought them capable of anything.”

He looked at her with a sort of astonishment and said nothing.

“I’ve got to speak to you,” she said between her teeth.

“Have you? I wonder what you can find to say.”

“Now.”

“The sooner the better. But shouldn’t you—” he jerked his head at the sounds beyond the doors, “be in there?”

“
Now
.”

“Very well.”

“Not here.”

“Wherever you like, Mary.”

“In my room.”

She had turned to the stairs when a press photographer, all smiles, emerged from the dining-room.

“Miss Bellamy, could I have a shot? By the door? With Mr. Dakers perhaps? It’s an opportunity. Would you mind?”

For perhaps five seconds, she hesitated. Richard said something under his breath.

“It’s a bit crowded in there. We’d like to run a full-page spread,” said the photographer and named his paper.

“But of course,” said Miss Bellamy.

Richard watched her touch her hair and re-do her mouth. Accustomed though he was to her professional technique he was filled with amazement. She put away her compact and turned brilliantly to the photographer. “Where?” she asked him.

“In the entrance I thought. Meeting Mr. Dakers.”

She moved down the hall to the front door. The photographer dodged round her. “Not in full glare,” she said, and placed herself.

“Mr. Dakers?” said the photographer.

“Isn’t it better as it is?” Richard muttered.

“Don’t pay any attention to him,” she said with ferocious gaiety. “Come along, Dicky.”

“There’s a new play on the skids, isn’t there? If Mr. Dakers could be showing it to you, perhaps? I’ve brought something in case.”

He produced a paperbound quarto of typescript, opened it and put it in her hands.

“Just as if you’d come to one of those sure-fire laugh lines,” the photographer said. “Pointing it out to him, you know? Right, Mr. Dakers?”

Richard, nauseated, said, “I’m photocatastrophic. Leave me out.”

“No!” said Miss Bellamy. Richard shook his head.

“You’re too modest,” said the photographer. “Just a little this way. Grand.”

She pointed to the opened script. “And the great big smile,” he said. The bulb flashed. “Wonderful.
Thank
you,” and he moved away.

“And now,” she said through her teeth, “I’ll talk to you.”

Richard followed her upstairs. On the landing they passed Old Ninn, who watched them go into Miss Bellamy’s room. After the door had shut she stood outside and waited.

She was joined there by Florence, who had come up by the back stairway. They communicated in a series of restrained gestures and brief whispers.

“You all right, Mrs. Plumtree?”

“Why not!” Ninn countered austerely.

“You look flushed,” Florence observed drily.

“The heat in those rooms is disgraceful.”

“Has She come up?”

“In there.”

“Trouble?” Florence asked, listening. Ninn said nothing. “It’s him, isn’t it? Mr. Richard? What’s
he
been up to?”

“Nothing,” Ninn said, “that wouldn’t be a credit to him, Floy, and I’ll thank you to remember it.”

“Oh, dear,” Florence said rather acidly. “He’s a man like the rest of them.”

“He’s better than most.”

In the bedroom Miss Bellamy’s voice murmured, rose sharply and died. Richard’s, scarcely audible, sounded at intervals. Then both together, urgent and expostulatory, mounted to some climax and broke off. There followed a long silence during which the two women stared at each other, and then a brief unexpected sound.

“What was that!” Florence whispered.

“Was she laughing?”

“It’s left off now.”

Ninn said nothing. “Oh well,” Florence said, and had moved away when the door opened.

Richard came out, white to the lips. He walked past without seeing them, paused at the stairhead and pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes. They heard him fetch his breath with a harsh sound that might have been a sob. He stood there for some moments like a man who had lost his bearings and then struck his closed hand twice on the newel post and went quickly downstairs.

“What did I tell you,” Florence said. She stole nearer to the door. It was not quite shut. “Trouble,” she said.

“None of his making.”

“How do you know?”

“The same way,” Ninn said, “that I know how to mind my own business.”

Inside the room, perhaps beyond it, something crashed. They stood there, irresolute, listening.

At first Miss Bellamy had not been missed. Her party had reverted to its former style, a little more confused by the circulation of champagne. It spread through the two rooms and into the conservatory and became noisier and noiser. Everybody forgot the ceremony of opening the birthday presents. Nobody noticed that Richard, too, was absent.

Gantry edged his way towards Charles, who was in the drawing-room, and stooped to make himself heard.

“Dicky,” he said, “has made off.”

“Where to?”

“I imagine to do the best he can with the girl and her uncle.”

Charles looked at him with something like despair. “There’s nothing to be done,” he said, “nothing. It was shameful.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know. Isn’t she in the next room?”

“I don’t know,” Gantry said.

“I wish to God this show was over.”

“She ought to get on with the present-opening. They won’t go till she does.”

Pinky had come up. “Where’s Mary?” she said.

“We don’t know,” Charles said. “She ought to be opening her presents.”

“She won’t miss her cue, my dear, you may depend upon it. Don’t you feel it’s time?”

“I’ll find her,” Charles said. “Get them mustered if you can, Gantry, will you?”

Bertie Saracen joined them, flushed and carefree. “What goes on?” he inquired.

“We’re waiting for Mary.”

“She went upstairs for running repairs,” Bertie announced and giggled. “I
am
a poet and
don’t
I know it!” he added.

“Did you see her?” Gantry demanded.

“I heard her tell Monty. She’s not uttering to poor wee me.”

Monty Marchant edged towards them. “Monty, ducky,” Bertie cried, “your speech was too poignantly right. Live forever!
Oh
, I’m so tiddly.”

Marchant said, “Mary’s powdering her nose, Charles. Should we do a little shepherding?”

“I thought so.”

Gantry mounted a stool and used his director’s voice, “Attention, the cast!” It was a familiar summons and was followed by an obedient hush. “To the table, please, everybody, and clear an entrance. Last act, ladies and gentlemen. Last act, please!”

They did so at once. The table with its heaped array of parcels had already been moved forward by Gracefield and the maids. The guests ranged themselves at both sides like a chorus in grand opera, leaving a passage to the principal door.

Charles said, “I’ll just see…” and went into the hall. He called up the stairs, “Oh, Florence! Tell Miss Bellamy we’re ready, will you?” and came back. “Florence’ll tell her,” he said.

There was a longish, expectant pause. Gantry drew in his breath with a familiar hiss.

“
I’ll
tell her,” Charles said, and started off for the door.

Before he could reach it they all heard a door slam and running steps on the stairway. There was a relieved murmur and a little indulgent laughter.

“First time Mary’s ever missed an entrance,” someone said.

The steps ran across the hall. An irregular flutter of clapping broke out and stopped.

A figure appeared in the entrance and paused there.

It was not Mary Bellamy but Florence.

Charles said, “Florence! Where’s Miss Mary?”

Florence, breathless, mouthed at him. “Not coming.”

“Oh God!” Charles ejaculated. “Not
now
!”

As if to keep the scene relentlessly theatrical, Florence cried out in a shrill voice,

“A doctor. For Christ’s sake. Quick. Is there a doctor in the house!”

It might be argued that the difference between high tragedy and melodrama rests in the indisputable fact that the latter is more true to nature. People, even the larger-than-life people of the theatre, tend at moments of tension to express themselves not in unexpected or memorable phrases but in clichés.

Thus, when Florence made her entrance, one or two voices in her audience cried out, “My God, what’s happened?” Bertie Saracen cried out shrilly, “Does she mean Mary?” and somebody whose identity remained a secret said in an authoritative British voice, “Quiet, everybody. No need to panic,” as if Florence had called for a fireman rather than a physician.

The only person to remain untouched was Dr. Harkness, who was telling a long, inebriated story to Monty Marchant and whose voice droned on indecently in a far corner of the dining-room.

Florence stretched out a shaking hand towards Charles Templeton. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, sir!” she stammered. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, come quick.”

“—And this chap said to the other chap…” Dr. Harkness recounted.

Charles said, “Good God, what’s the matter! Is it…?”

“It’s her, sir. Come quick.”

Charles thrust her aside, ran from the room and pelted upstairs.

“A doctor!” Florence said. “My God, a doctor!” It was Marchant who succeeded in bringing Dr. Harkness into focus.

“You’re wanted,” he said. “Upstairs. Mary.”

“Eh? Bit of trouble?” Dr. Harkness asked vaguely.

“Something’s happened to Mary.”

Timon Gantry said, “Pull yourself together, Harkness. You’ve got a patient.”

Dr. Harkness had forgotten to remove his smile, but a sort of awareness now overtook him. “Patient?” he said. “Where? Is it Charles?”

“Upstairs. Mary.”

“Good gracious!” said Dr. Harkness. “Very good. I’ll come.” He rocked slightly on his feet and remained stationary.

Maurice Warrender said to Florence, “Is it bad?”

Her hand to her mouth she nodded her head up and down like a mandarin.

Warrender took a handful of ice from a wine-cooler and suddenly thrust it down the back of Dr. Harkness’s collar. “Come on,” he said. Harkness let out a sharp oath. He swung round as if to protest, lost his balance and fell heavily.

Florence screamed.

“I’m a’right,” Dr. Harkness said from the door. “Tripped over something. Silly!”

Warrender and Gantry got him to his feet. “I’m all
right
!” he repeated angrily. “Gimme some water, will you?”

Gantry tipped some out of the ice bucket. Dr. Harkness swallowed it down noisily and shuddered. “Beastly stuff,” he said. “Where’s this patient?”

From the stairhead, Charles called in an unrecognizable voice, “Harkness!
Harkness
!”

“Coming,” Warrender shouted. Harkness, gasping, was led out.

Florence looked wildly round the now completely silent company, wrung her hands and followed them.

Timon Gantry said, “More ice, perhaps,” picked up the wine-cooler and overtook them on the stairs.

The party was left in suspension.

In Mary Bellamy’s bedroom all the windows were open. An evening breeze stirred the curtains and the ranks of tulips. Dr. Harkness knelt beside the pool of rose-coloured chiffon from which protruded, like rods, two legs finished with high-heeled shoes and two naked arms whose clenched hands glittered with diamonds. Diamonds were spattered across the rigid plane of the chest and shone through a hank of disarranged hair. A length of red chiffon lay across the face and this was a good thing.

Dr. Harkness had removed his coat. His ice-wet shirt stuck to his spine. His ear was laid against the place from which he had pulled away the red chiffon.

He straightened up, looked closely into the face, reveiled it and got to his feet.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing whatever to be done,” he said.

Charles said, “There must be. You don’t know. There must be. Try. Try something. My God, try!”

Warrender, in his short-stepped, square-shouldered way, walked over to Harkness and looked down for a moment.

“No good,” he said. “Have to face it. What?”

Charles satt on the bed and rubbed his freckled hand across his mouth. “I can’t believe it’s happened,” he said. “It’s
there
—it’s—
happened
. And I can’t believe it.”

Florence burst noisily into tears.

Dr. Harkness turned to her. “You,” he said. “Florence, isn’t it? Try to control yourself, there’s a good girl. Did you find her like this?”

Florence nodded and sobbed out something indistinguishable.

“But she was…” Harkness glanced at Charles. “Conscious?”

Florence said, “Not to know me. Not to speak,” and broke down completely.

“Were the windows open?”

Florence shook her head.

“Did you open them?”

She shook her head again. “I didn’t think to — I got such a wicked shock — I didn’t think…”

“I opened them,” Charles said.

“First thing to be done,” Warrender muttered.

Gantry, who from the time of his entry had stood motionless near the door, joined the others. “But what
was
it?” he asked. “What happened?”

Warrender said unevenly, “Perfectly obvious. She used that bloody spray thing there. I said it was dangerous. Only this morning.”

“What thing?”

Warrender stooped. The tin of Slaypest lay on its side close to the clenched right hand. A trickle of dark fluid stained the carpet. “This,” he said.

“Better leave it,” Dr. Harkness said sharply.

“What?”

“Better leave it where it is.” He looked at Gantry. “It’s some damned insecticide. For plants. The tin’s smothered in warnings.”

“We told her,” Warrender said. “Look at it.”

“I said don’t touch it.”

Warrender straightened up. The blood had run into his face. “Sorry,” he said, and then, “Why not?”

“You’re a bit too ready with your hands. I’m wet as hell and half frozen.”

“You were tight. Best cure, my experience.”

They eyed each other resentfully. Dr. Harkness looked at Charles, who sat doubled up with his hands on his chest. He went to him. “Not too good?” he said. Timon Gantry put a hand on Charles’s shoulder.

“I’m going to take you to your room, old boy. Next door, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Dr. Harkness said. “But not just yet. In a minute. Good idea.” He turned to Florence. “Do you know where Mr. Templeton keeps his tablets? Get them, will you? And you might bring some aspirin at the same time. Run along, now.” Florence went into the dressing-room. He sat beside

Charles on the bed and took his wrist. “Steady does it,” he said and looked at Gantry. “Brandy.”

“I know where it is,” Warrender said, and went out.

Gantry said, “What about the mob downstairs?”

“They can wait.” He held the wrist a little longer and then laid Charles’s hand on his knee, keeping his own over it. “We’ll move you in a moment. You must let other people think for you. It’s been a bad thing.”

“I can’t…” Charles said. “I can’t…” and fetched his breath in irregular, tearing sighs.

“Don’t try to work things out. Not just yet. Ah, here’s Florence. Good. Now then, one of these.”

He gave Charles a tablet. Warrender came back with brandy. “This’ll help,” Dr. Harkness said. They waited in silence.

“I’m all right,” Charles said presently.

“Fine. Now, an arm each and take it steady. His room’s next door. Lie down, Charles, won’t you?”

Charles nodded and Warrender moved towards him. “No,” Charles said quite strongly, and turned to Gantry. “I’m all right,” he repeated, and Gantry very efficiently supported him through the door into his dressing-room.

Warrender stood for a moment, irresolute, and then lifted his chin and followed them.

“Get him a hot bottle,” Harkness said to Florence.

When she’d gone he swallowed three aspirins, took up the bedside telephone and dialled a number.

“This is Dr. Frank Harkness. I’m speaking from Number 2 Pardoner’s Place. Mr. Charles Templeton’s house. There’s been an accident. A fatality. Some sort of pest killer. Mrs. Templeton. Yes. About fifty people — a party. Right. I’ll wait.”

As he replaced the receiver Gantry came back. He stopped short when he saw Harkness. “What now?” he asked.

“I’ve telephoned the police.”

“The
police
!”

“In cases like this,” Harkness said, “one notifies the police.”

“Anybody would think—”

“Anybody will think anything,” Dr. Harkness grunted.

He turned back the elaborate counterpane and the blankets under it. “I don’t want to call the servants,” he said, “and that woman’s on the edge of hysteria. This sheet’ll do.” He pulled it off, bundled it up and threw it to Gantry. “Cover her up, old boy, will you?”

Gantry turned white round the mouth. “I don’t like this sort of thing,” he said. “I’ve produced it often enough, but I’ve never faced the reality.” And he added with sudden violence, “Cover her up yourself.”

“All right. All right,” sighed Dr. Harkness. He took the sheet, crossed the room and busied himself with masking the body. The breeze from the open windows moved the sheet, as if, fantastically, it was stirred by what it covered.

“May as well shut them, now,” Dr. Harkness said and did so. “Can you straighten the bed at least?” he asked. Gantry did his best with the bed.

“Right,” said Dr. Harkness, putting on his coat. “Does this door lock? Yes. Will you come?”

As they went out Gantry said, “Warrender’s crocked up. Charles didn’t seem to want him, so he flung a sort of poker-backed, stiff-lipped, Blimp-type temperament and made his exit. I don’t know where he’s gone, but in his way,” Gantry said, “he’s wonderful. Terrifyingly ham, but wonderful. He’s upset, though.”

“Serve him bloody well right. It won’t be his fault if I escape pneumonia. My
head
!” Dr. Harkness said, momentarily closing his eyes.

“You were high.”

“Not so high I couldn’t come down.”

Old Ninn was on the landing. Her face had bleached round its isolated patches of crimson. She confronted Dr. Harkness.

“What’s she done to herself?” asked Old Ninn.

Dr. Harkness once more summoned up his professional manner. He bent over her. “You’ve got to be very sensible and good, Nanny,” he said, and told her briefly what had happened.

She looked fixedly into his face throughout the recital and at the end said, “Where’s Mr. Templeton?”

Dr. Harkness indicated the dressing-room.

“Who’s looking after him?”

“Florence was getting him a hot bottle.”

“Her!” Ninn said with a brief snort, and without another word stumped to the door. She gave it a smart rap and let herself in.

“Wonderful character,” Gantry murmured.

“Remarkable.”

They turned towards the stairs. As they did so a figure moved out of the shadows at the end of the landing, but they did not notice her. It was Florence.

“And now, I suppose,” Dr. Harkness said as they went downstairs, “for the mob.”

“Get rid of them?” Gantry asked.

“Not yet. They’re meant to wait. Police orders.”

“But…”

“Matter of form.”

Gantry said, “At least we can boot the press off, can’t we?”

“Great grief, I’d forgotten that gang!”

“Leave them to me.”

The press was collected about the hall. A light flashed as Gantry and Harkness came down, and a young man who had evidently just arrived advanced hopefully. “Mr. Timon Gantry? I wonder if you could…”

Gantry, looking down from his great height, said, “I throw you one item. And one only. Miss Mary Bellamy was taken ill this evening and died some minutes ago.”

“Doctor er…? Could you…?”

“The cause,” Dr. Harkness said, “is at present undetermined. She collapsed and did not recover consciousness.”

“Is Mr. Templeton…?”

“No,” they said together. Gantry added, “And that is all, gentlemen. Good evening to you.”

Gracefield appeared from the back of the hall, opened the front door and said, “Thank you, gentlemen. If you will step outside.”

They hung fire. A car drew up in the Place. From it emerged a heavily built man, wearing a bowler hat and a tidy overcoat. He walked into the house.

“Inspector Fox,” he said.

It has been said of Mr. Fox that his arrival at any scene of disturbance has the effect of a large and almost silent vacuum cleaner.

Under his influence the gentlemen of the press were tidied out into Pardoner’s Place, where they lingered restively for a long time. The guests, some of whom were attempting to leave, found themselves neatly mustered in the drawing-room. The servants waited quietly in the hall. Mr. Fox and Dr. Harkness went upstairs! A constable appeared and stood inside the front door.

“I locked the door,” Dr. Harkness said, with the air of a schoolboy hoping for praise. He produced the key.

“Very commendable, Doctor,” said Fox comfortably.

“Nothing’s been moved. The whole thing speaks for itself.”

“Quite so. Very sad.”

Fox laid his bowler on the bed, knelt by the sheet and turned it back. “Strong perfume,” he said. He drew out his spectacles, placed them and looked closely into the dreadful face.

“You can see for yourself,” Dr. Harkness said. “Traces of the stuff all over her.”

“Quite so,” Fox repeated. “Very profuse.”

He contemplated the Slaypest but did not touch it. He rose and made a little tour of the room. He had very bright eyes for a middle-aged person.

“If it’s convenient, sir,” he said, “I’ll have a word with Mr. Templeton.”

“He’s pretty well knocked out. His heart’s dicky. I made him lie down.”

“Perhaps you’d just have a little chat with him yourself, Doctor. Would you be good enough to say I won’t keep him more than a minute? No need to disturb him; I’ll come to his room. Where would it be?”

“Next door.”

“Nice and convenient. I’ll give you a minute with him and then I’ll come in. Thank you, Doctor.”

Dr. Harkness looked sharply at him, but he was restoring his spectacles to their case and had turned to contemplate the view from the window.

“Pretty square, this.” said Mr. Fox.