Death and the Dancing Footman

by Ngaio Marsh

  Miss Wynne joined the group round the fire and William followed her.

  “Is this the party?” she asked, “or are we only the beginning?”

  “The most important beginning, Miss Chloris, without which the end would be nothing.”

  “Who else have you got, Jonathan?” asked Nicholas, with his eyes still on Miss Wynne.

  “Well, now, I don’t know that I shall tell you, Nick. Or shall I? It’s always rather fun, don’t you think,” Jonathan said, turning his glance towards Mrs. Compline, “to let people meet without giving them any preconceived ideas about each other? However, you know one of my guests so well that it doesn’t matter if I anticipate her arrival. Hersey Amblington.”

  “Old Hersey’s coming, is she?” said Nicholas, and he looked a little disconcerted.

  “Don’t be too ruthless with your adjectives, Nick,” said Jonathan mildly. “Hersey is ten years my junior.”

  “You’re ageless, Jonathan.”

  “Charming of you, but I’m afraid people only begin to compliment one on one’s youth when it is gone. But Hersey, to me, really does seem scarcely any older than she was in the days when I danced with her. She still dances, I believe.”

  “It will be nice to see Hersey,” said Mrs. Compline.

  “I don’t think I know a Hersey, do I?” This was the first time Chloris had spoken directly to Mrs. Compline. She was answered by Nicholas.

  “She’s a flame of Jonathan’s,” Nicholas said. “Lady Hersey Amblington.”

  “She’s my third cousin,” said Jonathan, sedately. “We are all rather attached to her.”

  “Oh,” said Nicholas, always to Chloris. “She’s a divine creature. I adore her.”

  Chloris began to talk to William.

  Mandrake thought that if anybody tried to bury any hatchets in the Compline armoury it would not be William. He decided that William was neither as vague nor as amiable as he seemed. Conversation went along briskly under Jonathan’s leadership with Mandrake himself as an able second, but it had a sort of substratum that was faintly antagonistic. When, inevitably, it turned to the war, William, with deceptive simplicity, related a story about an incident on patrol when a private soldier uttered some comic blasphemy on the subject of cushy jobs on the home front. Mrs. Compline immediately told Jonathan how few hours of sleep Nicholas managed to get and how hard he was worked. Nicholas himself spoke of pulling strings in order to get a transfer to active service. He had, he said, seen an important personage. “Unfortunately, though, I struck a bad moment. The gentleman was very liverish. I understand,” said Nicholas with one of his bright stares at Chloris, “that he has been crossed in love.”

  “No reason, surely,” said Chloris, “why he shouldn’t behave himself with comparative strangers.”

  Nicholas gave her the shadow of an ironical bow.

  Jonathan began an account of his own activities as chairman of the local evacuation committee and made such a droll affair of it that with every phrase his listeners’ guardedness seemed to relax. Mandrake, who had a certain astringent humour of his own, followed with a description of a member of the chorus who found himself in an ultra-modern play. Tea was announced and was carried through on the same cheerful note of comedy. “Good Lord,” Mandrake thought, “if he should bring it off after all!” He caught Jonathan’s eye and detected a glint of triumph.

  After tea Jonathan proposed a brisk walk and Mandrake, knowing his host shared his own loathing for this sort of exercise, grinned to himself. Jonathan was not going to risk another session in the drawing-room. With any luck there would be more arrivals while they were out and a new set of encounters would take place in the propitious atmosphere of sherry and cocktails. When they assembled in the hall Jonathan appeared in a sage-green Tyrolese cape. He looked a quaint enough figure—but Chloris Wynne, who had evidently decided to like her host, cried out in admiration, and Mandrake, who had decided to like Chloris Wynne, echoed her. At the last moment Jonathan remembered an important telephone message and asked Mandrake to see the walking party off. He flung his cape over Nicholas’ shoulders. It hung from his shoulder straps in heavy folds and turned him into a Ruritanian figure.

  “Magnificent, Nick,” said Jonathan, and Mandrake saw that Mrs. Compline and Chloris agreed with him. The cloak neatly emphasized the touch of bravura that seemed an essential ingredient of Nicholas’ character. They went out of doors into the cold twilight of late afternoon.

  “But,” said Dr. Hart in German, “it is an intolerable position for me—for me, do you understand?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Madame Lisse in English. “And please, Francis, do not speak in German. It is a habit of which you should break yourself.”

  “Why should I not speak in German? I am a naturalized Austrian. Everybody knows that I am a naturalized Austrian and that I detest and abhor the Nazi regime with which we— we British—are in conflict.”

  “Nevertheless, the language is unpopular.”

  “Very well, very well. I now speak in English. In plain English, I tell you that if you continue your affair with this Nicholas Compline I shall take the strongest possible steps to—”

  “To do what?…You are driving too fast.”

  “To put an end to it.”

  “How will you do that?” asked Madame Lisse, settling down into her furs with an air of secret enjoyment.

  “By taking you up to London next week.”

  “With what object?…Here is Winton. I beg that you do not drive so fast.”

  “On our return,” said Dr. Hart, shifting his foot to the brake, “we shall announce our marriage. It will have taken place quietly in London.”

  “Are you demented? Have we not discussed it already a thousand times? You know very well that it would injure your practice. A woman hideous with wrinkles comes to me. I see that I can do nothing, cannot even pretend to do anything. I suggest plastic surgery. She asks me if I can recommend a surgeon. I mention two or three, of whom you are one. I give instances of your success, you are here in Great Chipping, the others are abroad or in London. She goes to you. But—can I say to my client, with the same air of detached assurance, ‘Certainly. Go to my husband. He is marvellous!’? And can you, my friend, whose cry has been the utter uselessness of massage, the robbery of foolish women by beauty specialists, the fatuity of creams and lotions—can you produce as your wife Elise Lisse of the Studio Lisse, beauty specialist par excellence? The good Lady Hersey Amblington would have something to say to that, I promise you, and by no means to our advantage.”

  “Then give up your business.”

  “And halve my income, in effect our income? And besides, I enjoy my work. It has amused me to win my little victories over the good Lady Hersey. The Studio Lisse is a growing concern, my friend, and I propose to remain at the head of it.”

  Dr. Hart accelerated again as his car mounted the steep road that climbed from the Vale of Pen Cuckoo up to Cloudyfold.

  “Do you see the roofs of the large house up in those trees?” he asked suddenly.

  “That is Pen Cuckoo. It is shut up at present. What of it?”

  “And you know why it is shut up? I shall remind you. Two years ago it housed a homicidal lunatic, and her relatives have not returned since her trial.”

  Madame Lisse turned to look at her escort. She saw a sharp profile, a heavy chin, light grey eyes, and a complexion of extreme though healthy pallor.

  “Well,” she murmured. “Again, what of it?”

  “You have heard of the case, of course. She is said to have murdered her rival in love. They were both somewhere between forty-five and fifty-five. The dangerous age in both sexes. I am myself fifty-two years of age.”

  “What conclusion am I supposed to draw?” asked Madame Lisse tranquilly.

  “You are to suppose,” Dr. Hart rejoined, “that persons of a certain age can go to extremes when the safety of their—shall I call it love-life?—is in jeopardy.”

  “But my dear Francis,
this is superb. Am I to believe that you will lie in ambush for Nicholas Compline? What weapon shall you choose? Does he wear his sword? I believe that it is not extremely sharp, but one supposes that he could defend himself.”

  “Are you in love with him?”

  “If I answer No, you will not believe me. If I answer Yes, you will lose your temper.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Dr. Hart calmly, “I should like an answer.”

  “Nicholas will be at Highfold. You may observe us and find out.”

  There followed a long silence. The road turned sharply and came out on the height known as Cloudyfold. For a short distance it followed the snow-covered ridge of the hills. On their right, Madame Lisse and Dr. Hart looked down on the frozen woods of Pen Cuckoo, on cold lanes, on slow columns of chimneysmoke and, more distantly, towards a long dark mass that was the town of Great Chipping. On their left the powdered hills fell away smoothly into the Vale of Cloudyfold. Under clouds that hung like a pall from horizon to horizon, the scattered cottages of Dorset stone looked almost black, while their roofs glistened with a stealthy reflected light. A single flake of snow appeared on the windscreen and slid downwards.

  “Very well,” said Dr. Hart loudly, “I shall see.”

  Madame Lisse drew a gloved hand from under the rug and with one finger touched Dr. Hart lightly behind his ear. “I am really devoted to you,” she said.

  He pulled her hand down, brushing the glove aside with his lips.

  “You know my temperament,” he said. “It is a mistake to play the fool with me.”

  “Suppose I am only playing the fool with Nicholas Compline?”

  “Well,” he said again, “I shall see.”

  Through the office window of the Salon Cyclamen, Hersey Amblington watched two of her clients walk off down the street with small steps and certain pert movements of their sterns. They paused outside the hated windows of the Studio Lisse, hesitated for a moment, and then disappeared through the entrance.

  “Going to buy Lisse Foundation Cream,” thought Hersey. “So that’s why they wouldn’t have a facial!” She turned back into her office and was met by the familiar drone of driers, by the familiar smells of hot hair, setting lotion, and the sachets used in permanent waving, and by the familiar high-pitched indiscretions of clients in conversation with assistants.

  “…long after the milk. I look like death warmed up and what I feel is nobody’s business.”

  “…much better after a facial, Moddam. Aye always think a facial is marvellous, what it does for you.”

  “…can’t remember his name so of course I shall never see them again.”

  “Common woman,” thought Hersey. “All my clients are common women. Damn that Lisse. Blasted pirate.”

  She looked at her watch. Four o’clock. She’d make a tour of the cubicles and then leave the place to her second-in-command. “If it wasn’t for my snob-value,” she thought grimly, “I’d be living on the Pirate’s overflow.” She peered into the looking-glass over her desk and automatically touched her circlet of curls. “Greyer and greyer,” said Hersey, “but I’ll be shot if I dye them,” and she scowled dispassionately at her face. “Too wholesome by half, my girl, and a fat lot of good ‘Hersey’s Skin Food’ is to your middle-aged charms. Oh, well.’

  She made her tour through her cubicles. With her assistants she had little professional cross-talk dialogues, calculated to persuade her clients that the improvement in their appearance was phenomenal. With the clients themselves she sympathized, soothed, and encouraged. She refused an invitation to dinner from the Facial and listened to a complaint from a Permanent Wave. When she returned to the office she found her second-in-command at the telephone.

  “Would Madam care to make another appointment? No? Very good.”

  “Who’s that?” asked Hersey wearily.

  “Mrs. Ainsley’s maid, to say she wouldn’t be coming for her weekly facial to-morrow. The girls say they’ve seen her coming out of the Studio Lisse.”

  “May she grow a beard!” muttered Hersey, and grinned at her second-in-command. “To hell with her, anyway. How’s the appointment book?”

  “Oh, we’re full enough. Booked up for three days. But they’re not as smart as they used to be.”

  “Who cares! I’m going now, Jane. If you should want me to-morrow, I’ll be at my cousin Jonathan Royal’s. Highfold, you know.”

  “Yes, Lady Hersey. It looks as if the Lisse was going away for the week-end. I saw her come out of the shop about half an hour ago and get into Dr. Hart’s car. I wonder if there’s anything in those stories. She had quite a big suit-case.”

  “I wish she’d have a pantechnicon,” said Hersey. “I’m sick of the sound of the wretched woman’s name. She may live in sin all over Dorset as long as she doesn’t include Highfold in the tour.”

  The second-in-command laughed. “That’s not very likely, Lady Hersey, is it?”

  “No, thank the Lord. Good-bye, Jane.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Contact

  “NOT VERY PROPITIOUS weather for looking at a bathing-pool,” said Mandrake, “but I insist on showing it to you.”

  He had sent the guests off at a round pace to go through Highfold Wood, where the rides were heavy with sodden leaves, down to Jonathan’s model farm and back up a steep lane to the north side of the house, where he limped out to meet them. Here they came on a wide terrace. Beneath them, at the foot of a flight of paved steps flanked by bay trees, was a large concrete swimming-pool set in smooth lawns and overlooked by a charming eighteenth-century pavilion, now trimmed, like a Christmas card, with snow. The floor of the pool had been painted a vivid blue, but now the water was wrinkled and, in the twilight of late afternoon, reflected only a broken pattern of repellent steely greys flecked by dead leaves. Mandrake explained that the pavilion had once been an aviary but that Jonathan had done it up in keeping with its Empire style and that when summer came he meant to hold fêtes galantes down there by his new swimming-pool. It would look very Rex Whistlerish, Mandrake said, and would have just the right air of formalized gaiety.

  “At the moment,” said Chloris, “it has an air of formalized desolation, but I see what you mean.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to come for a nice bracing plunge with me, Chloris, before breakfast to-morrow?” asked Nicholas. “Do say Yes.”

  “No, thank you,” said Chloris.

  “It would have been awkward for you,” said William, ‘if Chloris had said Yes.” It was the first remark William had addressed directly to his brother.

  “Not at all,” rejoined Nicholas, and he made his stiff little bow to Chloris.

  “I’d bet ten pounds,” William said to nobody in particular, “that nothing on earth would have got him into that water before or after breakfast.”

  “Would you?” asked Nicholas. “I take you. You’ve lost.”

  Mrs. Compline instantly protested. She reminded Nicholas of the state of his heart. William grinned derisively, staring at Chloris; repeated that the bet was on. The absurd conversation began to take an unpleasant edge. Mandrake felt an icy touch on his cheek, and drew attention to a desultory scatter of snowflakes.

  “If that was our brisk walk,” said Chloris, “I consider we’ve had it. Let’s go in.”

  “Is it a bet?” Nicholas asked his brother.

  “Oh, yes,” said William. “You may have to break the ice, but it’s a bet.”

  To the accompaniment of a lively torrent of disapprobation from Mrs. Compline they walked towards the house. Mandrake’s interest in William mounted with each turn of the situation. William was as full of surprises as a lucky-bag. His sudden proposal of this ridiculous wager was as unexpected as the attitude which he now adopted. He looked hang-dog and frightened. He hung back and said something to his mother, who set that tragically distorted mouth and did not answer. William gave her a look strangely compounded of malice and nervousness and strode after Chloris, who was walking with Mandrake. Nicholas had joined t
hem and Mandrake felt sure that Chloris was very much aware of him. When William suddenly took her arm she started and seemed to draw back. They returned to the accompaniment of an irritating rattle of conversation from Nicholas.

  As soon as they came out on the platform before the house, they found that someone else had arrived. Nicholas’ car had been driven away and in its place stood a very smart three-seater from which servants were taking very smart suit-cases.

  “That’s not Hersey Amblington’s car,” said Mrs. Compline.

  “No,” said Nicholas. And he added loudly: “Look here, what’s Jonathan up to?”

  “What do you mean, darling?” asked his mother quickly.

  “Nothing,” said Nicholas. “But I think I recognize the car.” He hung back as the others went into the house, and waited for Mandrake. He still wore Jonathan’s cape over his uniform and it occurred to Mandrake that since Nicholas allowed himself this irregularity he must be very well aware of its effectiveness. He put his hand on Mandrake’s arm. The others went into the house.

  “I say,” he said, “is Jonathan up to anything?”

  “How do you mean?” asked Mandrake, wondering what the devil Jonathan would wish him to reply.

  “Well, it seems to me this is a queerly assorted house-party.”

  “Is it? I’m a complete stranger to all the other guests, you know.”

  “When did you get here?”

  “Last night.”

  “Well, hasn’t Jonathan said anything? About the other guests, I mean?”

  “He was very pleased with his party,” said Mandrake carefully. “He’s longing for it to be an enormous success.”

  “Is he, my God!” said Nicholas. He turned on his heel and walked into the house.

  Mrs. Compline and Chloris went up to their rooms; the three men left their overcoats in a downstairs cloak-room where they noticed the twin of Jonathan’s cape. When they came back into the hall they could hear voices in the library. As if by common consent they all paused. There were three voices—Jonathan’s, a masculine voice that held a foreign suggestion in its level inflections, and a deep contralto.