Death and the Dancing Footman. Ngaio Marsh
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‘Oh, yes. If Jonathan, or Nicholas for that matter, imagine I’m going to lose my temper, they are wrong.’
‘But surely if Jonathan has any ulterior motive,’ Mandrake ventured, ‘it is entirely pacific. A reconciliation …’
‘Oh, no,’ said William, ‘that wouldn’t be at all amusing.’ He looked sideways at Mandrake. ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘Jonathan doesn’t like me much, you know.’
This chimed so precisely with Mandrake’s earlier impression that he gave William a started glance. ‘Doesn’t he?’ he asked helplessly.
‘No. He wanted me to marry a niece of his. She was a poor relation, and he was very fond of her. We were sort of engaged but I didn’t really like her so very much, I found, so I sort of sloped off. He doesn’t forget things, you know.’ William smiled vaguely. ‘She died,’ he said. ‘She went rather queer in the head, I think. It was very sad, really.’
Mandrake found nothing to say and William returned to his theme. ‘But I shan’t do anything to Nicholas,’ he said. ‘Let him cool his ardour in the swimming pool. After all, I’ve won, you know. Haven’t I?’
‘He is tight,’ thought Mandrake, and he said with imbecile cheerfulness: ‘I hope so.’
William finished his drink. ‘So do I,’ he said thoughtfully. He looked across to the fireplace where Nicholas, standing by Madame Lisse’s chair, stared at Chloris Wynne.
‘But he always will try,’ said William, ‘to eat his cake and keep it.’
III
Madame Lisse fastened three of Jonathan’s orchids in the bosom of her wine-coloured dress, and contemplated herself in the looking-glass. She saw a Renaissance picture smoothly painted on a fine panel. Black, magnolia, and mulberry surfaces, all were sleek and richly glowing. Behind this magnificence, in shadow, was reflected the door of her room, and while she still stared at her image this door opened slowly.
‘What is it, Francis?’ asked Madame Lisse without turning her head.
Dr Hart closed the door, and in a moment his figure stood behind hers in the long glass.
‘It was unwise to come in,’ she said, speaking very quietly. ‘That woman has the room next to yours, and Mrs Compline is on the other side of this one. Why have you not changed? You will be late.’
‘I must speak to you. I cannot remain in this house, Elise. I must find some excuse to leave immediately.’
She turned and looked fixedly at him.
‘What is it now, Francis? Surely you cannot be disturbed à cause de Nicholas Compline. I assure you …’
‘It is not solely on his account. Although …’
‘What, then?’
‘His mother’s!’
‘His mother’s!’ she repeated blankly. “That unfortunate woman? Have you ever seen a more disastrous face? What do you mean? I wondered if perhaps Mr Royal had thought that by inviting her he might do you a service.’
‘A service,’ Dr Hart repeated. ‘A service. Gott im Himmel!’
‘Could you not do something?’
‘What you have seen,’ said Dr Hart, ‘I did.’
‘You! Francis, she was not –’
‘It was in my early days. In Vienna. It was the Schmitt-Lipmann treatment – paraffin wax. We have long ago abandoned it, but at that time it was widely practised. In this case – as you see –’
‘But her name. Surely you remembered her name?’
‘She did not give her own name. Very often they do not. She called herself Mrs Nicholas, after her accursed son, I suppose. Afterwards, of course, she made a great scene. I attempted adjustments, but in those days I was less experienced, the practice of plastic surgery was in its infancy. I could do nothing. When I came to England my greatest dread was that I might one day encounter this Mrs Nicholas.’ Dr Hart uttered a sort of laugh. ‘I believe my first suspicions of that young man arose from the associations connected with his name.’
‘Obviously she did not recognize you.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Her manner was perfectly calm. How long ago was this affair?’
‘About twenty-five years.’
‘And you were young Doktor Franz Hartz, of Vienna? Did you not wear a beard and moustache then? Yes. And you were slim in those days. Of course she did not recognize you.’
‘Franz Hartz and Francis Hart; it is not such a difference. They all know I am a naturalized Austrian, and a plastic surgeon. I cannot face it. I shall speak, now, to Royal. I shall say I must return urgently to a case –’
‘And by this behaviour invite her suspicion. Nonsense, my friend. You will remain and make yourself charming to Mrs Compline and, if she now suspects, she will say to herself: “I was mistaken. He could never have faced me.” Come now,’ said Madame Lisse, drawing his face down to hers, ‘you will keep your head, Francis, and perhaps tomorrow, who knows, you will have played your part so admirably, that we shall change places.’
‘What do you mean?’
Madame Lisse laughed softly. ‘I may be jealous of Mrs Compline,’ she said. ‘No, no, you are disarranging my hair. Go and change and forget your anxiety.’
Dr Hart moved to the door and paused. ‘Elise,’ he said, ‘suppose this was planned.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Suppose Jonathan Royal knew. Suppose he deliberately brought about this encounter.’
‘What next! Why in the world should he do such a thing?’
‘There is something mischievous about him.’
‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘Go and change.’
IV
‘Hersey. I want to speak to you.’
From inside the voluminous folds of the dress she was hauling over her head Hersey said: ‘Sandra, darling, come in. I’m longing for a gossip with you. Wait a jiffy. Sit down.’ She tugged at the dress and her head, firmly tied up in a strong net, came out at the top. For a moment she stood and stared at her friend. That face, so painfully suggestive of an image in some distorting mirror, was the colour of parchment. The lips held their enforced travesty of a smile, but they trembled and the large eyes were blurred by tears.
‘Sandra, my dear, what is it?’ cried Hersey.
‘I can’t stay here. I want you to help me. I’ve got to get away from this house.’
‘Sandra! But why?’ Hersey knelt by Mrs Compline. ‘You’re not thinking of the gossip about Nick and The Pirate? blast her eyes.’
‘What gossip? I don’t know what you mean? What about Nicholas?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Nothing. Tell me what’s happened.’ Hersey took Mrs Compline’s hands between her own, and, feeling them writhe together in her grasp, was visited by an idea that the distress which Mrs Compline’s face was incapable of expressing had flowed into these struggling hands. ‘What’s happened?’ Hersey repeated.
‘Hersey, that man, Jonathan’s new friend. I can’t meet him again.’
‘Aubrey Mandrake?’
‘No, no. The other.’
‘Dr