Death and the Dancing Footman Page 14

  “Well now, Miss Chloris,” said Jonathan, with a little bend in her direction. “What about you?”

  “When it happened I was in my room. I’d had a bath and was dressing. I don’t think I can prove I didn’t go out of my room before that. But I didn’t leave it after I went upstairs except to go into the bathroom next door. When I heard the crash and Nicholas cried out, I put on my dressing-gown and ran into the passage.”

  Mandrake was roused by a sharp sensation of panic. “What does that thing weigh?” he asked. “The Buddha thing?”

  “It’s heavy,” said Jonathan. “It’s solid brass. About twenty pounds, I should say.”

  “Do you think Miss Wynne could raise an object weighing twenty pounds above her head and balance it on the top of a door?”

  “Nobody’s going to worry about whether she could or couldn’t,” said Nicholas impatiently. “She didn’t.”

  “Quite so,” said Mandrake.

  “Well,” said Chloris mildly, “that’s true enough.”

  “Nobody’s asked me for my alibi,” said William. “I think it’s rather feeble, all this, because, I mean, we know that Hart did it.”

  “But the point is—” Jonathan began.

  “I was in the smoking-room,” said William ruthlessly, “listening to the wireless. I suddenly realized I was a bit late and started to go upstairs. I was just about up when Nick let out that screech. I heard you come down, Jonathan, about ten minutes earlier. You spoke to Caper in the hall about drinks at dinner and I heard you. But that proves nothing, of course. Oh, wait a bit, though. I could tell you what the news was. There’s been a reconnaissance flight over—”

  “Oh, what the hell’s it matter?” said Nicholas. “What’s the good of talking like little detective fans? I’m sorry to be rude, but while you’re all trying to bail each other out, our charming beauty specialist is probably thinking up a new death trap on the third-time-lucky principle.”

  “But to try anything else, when he knows perfectly well we suspect him!” Hersey exclaimed. “It’d be the action of a madman.”

  “He is a madman,” said Nicholas.

  “I say,” said William. “Has anybody done anything about that Buddha? I mean, it’s probably smothered in his fingerprints. If we’re going to give him in charge…”

  “But are we going to give him in charge?” asked Hersey uneasily.

  “I will,” said William. “If Nick doesn’t, I will.”

  “I don’t think you can. It’s not your business.”

  “Why not?” William demanded. Jonathan cut in hurriedly, asking William if he proposed to make his mother’s tragedy into front-page publicity. The conversation became fantastic. William showed a tendency to shout and Nicholas to sulk. Chloris turned upon Mandrake a face so eloquent of misery and alarm that he instantly took her hand and found more reality in the touch of her fingers, moving restlessly in his grasp, than in anything else that was happening. Jonathan began to explain that he had locked the Buddha away in his room. He reminded them of the nature of the trap. When Nicholas had returned to his room he had found the door not quite closed. The room was in darkness, as he had left it. He had pushed at the door with his left hand. The door had resisted him, and then given way suddenly. At the same instant his arm had been struck and Madame Lisse had screamed. He had cried out and stumbled into the room.

  Nicholas irritably confirmed this description and cut in to say he had seen Dr. Hart go into the bathroom adjoining Nicholas’ room, and had heard him turn on the taps. “Of course he simply dodged out when he knew I had gone. He was spying on me, I suppose, through the crack of the door. His room’s only about fourteen feet away from mine on the opposite side of the passage.”

  Mandrake, nervously tightening his grip on Chloris’ hand, thought with a sort of unreal precision of the guest wing. Mrs. Compline in the front corner room, then Madame Lisse, a cupboard, and Mandrake himself, all in a row, with a bathroom; then William; and then Hart in the corner room at the back, and another bathroom around the corner. Hersey Amblington in the converted nursery beyond. On the other side of the passage overlooking the central court round which the old Jacobean house was built, were Nicholas’ room, opposite William’s, and then a bathroom and an unoccupied room. Nicholas’ room was diagonally opposed to Hart’s. Hart could easily have spied on Nicholas, and Mandrake pictured him turning on the bath taps and then perhaps opening the door to return to his room for something and seeing Nicholas stealing down the passage towards Madame Lisse’s door. He pictured Hart as the traditional figure of the suspicious lover, his compact paunch curving above the girdle of his dressing-gown. “He clutched a sponge-bag to his breast, and his eye was glued to the crevice,” Mandrake decided. Perhaps he saw Nicholas tap discreetly at Madame Lisse’s door or scratch with his finger-nail. Perhaps Nicholas slipped in without ceremony. And then, what? Mandrake wondered. A quick sprint down the passage to the niche? A lopsided shuffle back to Nicholas’ room? Did Dr. Hart carry the Buddha under the folds of his dressing-gown? Did he turn on the light in Nicholas’ room and climb on the chair? Was his somewhat unremarkable face distorted with fury as he performed these curious exercises? No. Try as he might, Mandrake could not picture Hart and the Buddha without investing the whole affair with an improper air of opéra bouffe. He was roused from his reverie by Chloris’ withdrawing her hand and by William’s saying in a loud voice: “You know, this is exactly like a thriller, except for one thing.”

  “What do you mean, William?” asked Jonathan crossly.

  “In a thriller,” William explained, “there’s always a corpse and he can’t give evidence. But, here,” and he pointed his finger at his brother, “you might say we have the corpse with us. That’s the difference.”

  “Let us go to the library,” said Jonathan.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Third Time Lucky

  HERSEY AMBLINGTON AND Chloris did not stay long with the party in the library. They went upstairs to visit, severally, Mrs. Compline and Madame Lisse. Jonathan had suggested this move to Hersey.

  “I’ll go and see how Sandra’s getting on, with the greatest of pleasure,” Hersey said. “I was going to do so in any case. But I must say, Jo, I don’t think the Pirate would welcome my solicitude. What’s supposed to be the matter with her?”

  “A sick headache,” said Jonathan. “The migraine.”

  “Well, the sight of me won’t improve it. Damn the woman, what business has she to throw a migraine?”

  “Naturally,” Nicholas said, “she’s upset.”

  “Why? Because she’s afraid her face-lifting friend will make another pass at you? Or because she’s all shocked and horrified that we should suspect him? Which?”

  Nicholas looked furious but made no rejoinder.

  “Would I be any use?” asked Chloris. “I don’t mind casting an eye at her.”

  “Good girl,” said Hersey. “Come on.” And they went upstairs together.

  Hersey found Mrs. Compline sitting by her fire still wearing the dress into which she had changed for dinner.

  “I ought to have come down, Hersey. It’s too cowardly and difficult of me to hide like this. But I couldn’t face it. Now that they all know! Imagine how they would avoid looking at me. I thought I had become hardened to it. For twenty years I’ve drilled myself, and now, when this happens, I am as raw as I was on the day I first let Nicholas look at me. Hersey, if you had seen him that day! He was only a tiny boy, but he—I thought he would never come to me again. He looked at me as though I was a stranger. It took so long to get him back.”

  “And William?” Hersey asked, abruptly.

  “William? Oh, he was older, of course, and not so sensitive. He seemed very shocked for a moment and then he began to talk as if nothing had happened. I’ve never understood William. Nicky was just a baby, of course. He asked me what had happened to my pretty face. William never spoke of it. After a little while I think Nicky forgot I had ever had a pretty face.”

&n
bsp; “And William, it seems, never forgot.”

  “He was older.”

  “I think he’s more sensitive.”

  “You don’t understand Nicky. I see it all so plainly. He has got to know this Madame Lisse and of course she has thrown herself at his head. Women have always done that with Nicky. I’ve seen it over and over again.”

  “He doesn’t exactly discourage them, Sandra.”

  “He is naughty, I know,” admitted Mrs. Compline, dotingly. “He always tells me all about them. We have such laughs together sometimes. Evidently there was something between Madame Lisse and—that man. And then when she met Nicholas, of course, she lost her heart to him. I’ve been thinking it out. That man must have recognized me. His own handiwork! Twenty years haven’t changed it much. I suppose he was horrified and rushed to her with the story. She, hoping to establish a deeper bond between herself and Nicky, told him all about it.”

  “Now, Sandra, Nicholas himself denies this.”

  “Of course he does, darling,” said Mrs. Compline rapidly. “That’s what I’ve been trying to explain—you don’t understand him. He wanted to spare me. It was for my sake he threatened this man. It’s because of what Hartz did to me. But to spare me he let it be thought that it was some ridiculous affair over this woman.”

  “That seems very far-fetched to me,” said Hersey bluntly.

  A dull flush mounted in Mrs. Compline’s face. “Why,” she said, “the woman is on her knees to him already. He has no cause to trouble himself about this Madame Lisse. It’s Dr. Hart who’s troubling himself.”

  “But why?”

  “Because he has found out that Nicholas knows his real identity and is afraid of exposure. Hersey, I’ve made William promise that he won’t leave Nicholas. I want you to do something for me. I want you to send them both up here. I’m terrified for Nicky.”

  “But if, as you seem to think, Hart’s afraid of exposure, there wouldn’t be any point in his attacking Nick. He’d have to polish off the lot of us. We all know, now.”

  But Hersey was up against an inflexible determination, and she saw that Sandra Compline would accept no explanation that did not show Nicholas in a heroic light. Nicholas must be upheld as the pink of courtesy, the wooed but never the wooer, the son who placed his mother above all women—a cross between a Hollywood ace and a filial Galahad. She argued no more but tried to convince Mrs. Compline that, however dangerously Hart might have threatened Nicholas, he would attempt no more assaults since he now realized that they all suspected him. She left, promising to send the two sons to their mother, and returned to the library.

  Chloris found Madame Lisse extremely difficult. For one thing she made not the smallest effort to conceal her boredom when, after tapping at the door, Chloris came into her room. It was impossible to escape the inference that she had expected someone else. When she saw Chloris, in some subtle way she sagged. “As if,” thought Chloris, “she unhooked her mental stays.” She was in bed, most decoratively. There was a general impression of masses of tawny lace from which Madame Lisse emerged in pallor and smoothness. “She is lovely,” thought Chloris, “but I believe she’s bad-tempered.” Aloud she said: “I just looked in to see if there was anything I could do for you.”

  “How kind,” said Madame Lisse in an exhausted voice. “There is nothing, thank you.”

  “Have you got aspirin and everything?”

  “I cannot take aspirin, unfortunately.”

  “Then I can’t be of any use?”

  Madame pressed the tips of her wonderful manicured fingers against her shaded eyelids. “Too kind,” she said. “No, thank you. It will pass. In time, it will pass. It is an affliction of the nerves, you understand.”

  “Beastly for you. I’m afraid,” said Chloris after a pause, “your nerves had a bit of a jolt. We’re all feeling rather temperamental at the moment.”

  “Where is— What is everybody doing?” Madame Lisse asked with a certain freshening of her voice.

  “Well, Lady Hersey’s talking to Mrs. Compline, who’s pretty poorly, too, it seems. Mr. Royal and Aubrey Mandrake are in the library, and William and Nicholas are next door in the smoking room, holding a sort of family council or something. Dr. Hart’s in ‘boudoir,’ I believe.” Chloris hesitated, wondering if it was possible for her to establish some sort of understanding with this woman who made her feel so gauche and so uncertain of herself. It seemed to her that if any one member of the house-party fully comprehended the preposterous situation, that person must be Madame Lisse. Indeed she might be regarded as a sort of liaison officer between Nicholas and Dr. Hart. Surely, surely, Chloris thought, she must know for certain if Hart is after Nicholas, and if so, why. Is she lying there, sleeking herself on being a successful femme fatale? I believe she really is in a funk. And taking a deep breath, Chloris thought, I’ll ask her. With a sensation of panic she heard her own voice:—

  “Madame Lisse, please forgive me for asking you, but honestly things are so desperate with all of us eying each other and nobody really knowing what they’re talking about, it would be a ghastly sort of relief to know the worst, so I thought I’d just ask you.”

  “You thought you would just ask me what, Miss Wynne?”

  “It sounds so bogus when you say it out loud.”

  “I can hardly be expected to understand you unless you say it out loud.”

  “Well, then: Is Dr. Hart trying to kill Nicholas Compline?”

  Madame Lisse did not answer immediately, and for a second or two the room was quite silent. Chloris felt the palms of her hands go damp and a sensation of panic mounted in her brain. She thought: “This is frightful. My nerve must be going.” And then suddenly: “I wish Aubrey were here.”

  When Madame Lisse spoke her voice was clear and very cold: “I know nothing whatever about it.”

  “But—”

  “Nothing, do you hear me? Nothing.”

  And with a gesture whose violence shocked Chloris, she gripped the lace at her bosom. “How dare you look at me like that?” cried Madame Lisse. “Leave me alone. Go out of this room. I know nothing, I tell you. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.”

  Jonathan struck his plump hands together and uttered a little wail of despair. “It’s all very well to sit there and tell me something must be done, but what can I do? We’ve no proof. Nicholas had better go to bed and lock his door. I shall tell Nicholas to go to bed and lock his door.”

  “I’m not worrying so much about Nicholas,” said Mandrake. “He’ll look after himself. I’ve no opinion at all of Nicholas. He hasn’t got the nerve of a louse. It’s William I’m thinking about. William’s dangerous, Jonathan. He’s out for blood. I don’t think Hart’ll get Nicholas, but, by God, I believe unless you do something about it, William will get Hart.”

  “But why, why, why!”

  “Jonathan, you pride yourself on your astuteness don’t you? Can’t you understand what’s happened to William? Didn’t you see his face when they were up there in Nicholas’ room? When their mother told them that Hart was responsible for her disfigurement? Why, you yourself told me that when he was a child the disfigurement made an indelible impression on him. You have always recognized the intensity of his absorption in his mother. You’ve seen how readily he’s adopted her extraordinary explanation of Hart’s attacks on Nicholas. You’ve seen how he’s abandoned all his private rows with Nicholas and come out strong in his defence. Can’t you see that psychologically he’s all of a piece? I tell you, the pent-up repressions of a lifetime have come out for an airing. William’s dangerous.”

  “Freudian mumbo-jumbo,” said Jonathan uneasily.

  “It may be, but I don’t think you can risk ignoring the possibilities.”

  “What am I to do?” Jonathan reputed angrily. “Lock up the Complines? Lock up Hart? Come, my dear Aubrey!”

  “I think that at least you should have it out with Hart. Tell him flatly that we all think he’s the author of these attacks. See what sort of a defence he can m
ake. Then tackle William. You shut him up pretty successfully a little while ago, but there he is in the next room with Nicholas, who’s no doubt busily engaged in churning it all up again.”

  “You’ve suddenly become wonderfully purposeful, Aubrey. At dinner I thought you seemed half in a trance.”

  “The look in William’s eye has effectually roused me.”

  “And the touch of Miss Wynne’s hand, perhaps?” Jonathan tittered.

  “Perhaps. Are you going to tackle Hart?”

  “What an odious expression that is. ‘Tackle.’ Very well, but you must come with me.”

  “As you please,” said Mandrake. They moved towards the door. It opened and Chloris came in. “What’s the matter?” Mandrake ejaculated.

  “Nothing. At least, I’ve been talking to Madame Lisse. I suddenly felt I couldn’t stand it. So I asked her, flat out, if she knew what Dr. Hart was up to. She turned all venomous and sort of spat at me. I’ve got a jitterbug. This house gets more and more noiseless every hour. Out there the snow’s piling up thicker and thicker. I’m sorry,” said Chloris, turning to Jonathan, “but it’s suffocating, isn’t it, to be shut up with something that threatens and doesn’t come off? It’s as if something’s fumbling about the passages, setting silly, dangerous booby-traps—something mad and dangerous. Do you know, I keep wishing there’d be an air raid. That’s pretty feeble-minded, isn’t it?”

  “Here,” said Mandrake, “you sit down by the fire. What the devil do you mean by talking jitterbugs? We look towards you for a spot of brave young memsahib. Do your stuff, woman.”

  “I’m all right,” said Chloris. “I’m sorry. I’m all right. Where were you off to, you two?”

  Mandrake explained, while Jonathan fussed round Chloris, glad, so Mandrake fancied, of an excuse to postpone the interview with Dr. Hart. He threw a quantity of logs on the fire, hurried away to the dining-room, and returned with the decanter of port. He insisted on Chloris’ taking a glass, helped himself, and, as an afterthought, Mandrake. Hersey came in and reported her interview with Mrs. Compline. She uttered a phrase that Mandrake had begun to dread. “I looked out through the west door. It’s snowing harder than ever.” Jonathan showed an inclination to settle down to a chat but Mandrake said firmly that they might now leave Hersey and Chloris together. He waited for Jonathan, who gulped down his port, sighed, and got slowly to his feet. In the smoking-room next door the drone of the voices of William and Nicholas in conversation rose to some slight and amicable climax, ending in a light laugh from Nicholas. Perhaps, after all, thought Mandrake, he is making William see sense. Better not to disturb them. And he led the reluctant Jonathan, by way of the hall, into the green boudoir.