Death and the Dancing Footman. Ngaio Marsh
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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 the 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 tomorrow. 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 tomorrow, I’ll be at my cousin Jonathan Royal’s, Highfold, you know.’
‘Yes. Lady Hersey. It looked as if the Lisse was going away for the weekend. 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 suitcase.’
‘I wish she’d had 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. Goodbye, Jane.’
I
‘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 woods, 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 tomorrow?’ 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’ll 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, and Nicholas, 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 them, 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’s car had been driven away, and in its place stood a very smart three-seater from which servants were taking very smart suitcases.
‘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.’