Death and the Dancing Footman (10 page)

“Come in.”

“I thought you might be asleep. I called to enquire.”

“The report is favourable. Sit down and have a cigarette. I haven’t the remotest idea of the time.”

“Nearly lunch-time.”

“Really? What are you all doing?”

“I’ve known house-parties go with a greater swing. Nicholas is sulking by the radio in the smoking-room. Lady Hersey and Mr. Royal seem to be having a quarrel next door in the library, and when I tried the boudoir on the other side of the smoking-room I ran into Dr. Hart and Madame Lisse, both quite green in the face and obviously at the peak of an argument. My ex-future-mother-in-law has developed a bad cold and I have had a snorter of a row with William.”

“Here!” said Mandrake. “What
is
all this?”

“I ticked him off for harping on about the bet with Nicholas, and then he said some pretty offensive things about Nicholas and me, and I said he was insane, and he huffed and puffed and broke off our engagement. I don’t know why I tell you all this, unless it’s to get in first with the news bulletin.”

“It’s all very exciting, of course, but I consider the human interest really centres about me.”

“Because you fell in the pool?”

“Because I was pushed in.”

“That’s what we’re quarreling about, actually. So many people seem to think it was all a mistake.”

“The fact remains, I was pushed in.”

“Oh, they’ve stopped saying it was an
accident
. But each of the men seems to think you were mistaken for him.”

“Does William think that?”

“No. William confines himself to saying he wishes it had been Nicholas. He’s made Nicholas pay him the ten pounds.”

“I suppose,” said Mandrake, “
you
didn’t push me in?”

“No, honestly I didn’t. When I got to the top of the steps William and Nicholas and Dr. Hart were all down by the pool, screaming instructions to you. I got a frightful shock. I thought you were Mr. Royal drowning in his own baroque waters.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Oh, because of the cloak, I suppose. It was floating about like a large water-lily leaf, and I said to myself: ‘Crikey, that’s Jonathan Royal.’ ”

Mandrake sat up in bed and bent his most austere gaze upon Miss Wynne. “How did you feel,” he asked, “when you knew it was I?”

“Well, when Mr. Royal came up behind me, I knew it was thee, if that’s the right grammar. And then I saw you clinging to that bathing bird and your hair was over your face like seaweed and your tie was round at the back of your neck, and so on and—” her voice quivered slightly, “and I was terribly sorry,” she said.

“No doubt I was a ludicrous figure. Look here, from what you tell me it seems that you were the last to arrive.”

“No, Mr. Royal came after me. He’d been round at the front of the house, I think. He overtook me on the steps.”

“Will you tell me something? Please try to remember. Did you notice the footprints on the terrace and the steps?”

“I
say
,” said Miss Wynne, “are we going to do a bit of ’teckery? Footprints in the snow!”

“Do leave off being gay and amusing, I implore you, and try to remember the footprints. There would be mine of course.”

“Yes. I noticed yours. I mean I—”

“You saw the marks of my club-foot. You needn’t be so delicate about it.”

“You needn’t be so insufferably on the defensive,” said Chloris with spirit, and immediately added: “Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry. At least let there not be a quarrel up here by your bed of sickness. Yes, I saw your footprints, and I think I saw — no, I can’t remember except that there were others. William’s, of course.”

“Any coming back to the house?”

“No, I’m sure not. But—”

“Yes?”

“Well, you’re wondering, aren’t you, if somebody could have gone down and shoved you overboard and then come back up the steps and then sort of pretended they were going down for the first time? I’d thought of that. You see, as I went down I stepped in your footprints because it was easier going. Anybody else might have done that. It was snowing so hard nobody would have noticed the steps within the steps.”

“Hart came by a different path from the front of the house, William came down the terrace steps, then you, then Jonathan. I don’t think William would have had time unless he came hard on my heels. I’d only just got there when it happened. Nicholas didn’t do it because he gave me the cloak and therefore couldn’t have mistaken me for anyone else. I believe Nicholas is right. I believe Hart did it. He saw Nicholas, wearing his cloak, go by the front way, and followed him. Then he skulked round the corner of the pavilion, saw a figure in a cloak standing on the kerb, darted out through the snow and did his abominable stuff. Then he darted back and reappeared, all surprise and consternation, when he heard Nicholas yell. By that time William was coming down the steps, no doubt, and you, followed by Jonathan, were leaving the house. Hart’s our man.”

“Yes, but
why
?”

“My dear girl—”

“All right, all right. Because of Madame Lisse. We only met last night and you talk as if I were a congenital idiot.”

“There’s nothing like attempted murder to bring people together.”

“Nicholas
is
a fool.”

“You ought to know. I thought you still seemed to get a flutter out of him.”

“Now
that
,” said Chloris warmly, “I do consider an absolutely insufferable remark.”

“It’s insufferable because it happens to be true. Nicholas Compline is the sort of person that all females get self-conscious about and all males instinctively wish to award a kick in the pants.”

“Barn-yard jealousy.”

“You know,” said Mandrake, “you’ve got more penetration than I first gave you credit for. All the same,” he said, after a long pause, “there’s one little thing that doesn’t quite fit in with my theory. It doesn’t exactly contradict it, but it doesn’t fit in.”

“Well, don’t mumble about it. Or aren’t you going to tell me?”

“When they brought me back up those unspeakable steps, I was sick.”

“You don’t need to tell me that. I was looking after you.”

“I’m damned if I know how I came to notice them, but I did notice them. At the top of the terrace, leading out from the house, coming round from the front door and stopping short at the edge of the terrace. You didn’t see them when you went down. Neither did I. Which proves—”

“Do you mind,” Chloris interrupted, “breaking the thread of your narrative just for a second? Surrealism may be marvellous in poetic drama but it’s not so good in simple conversation. What didn’t we see going down that you saw coming back, sick and all as you were?”

“A row of footprints in the snow coming out from the house as far as the top of the terrace and turning back again.”

“Oh.”

“They were small footprints.”

The afternoon was remarkable for an increasing heaviness in the snow-fall, the state of Mandrake’s feelings, and the behaviour of William Compline. Snow mounted from the window-sill in a tapering shroud, light diminished stealthily in Mandrake’s bedroom while he felt too relaxed and too idle to stretch out his hand to the bedside lamp. Yet though his body was fatigued, his brain was active and concerned itself briskly with the problem of his immersion and with speculations on the subject of Chloris Wynne’s strange relations with the Compline brothers. He was convinced that she was not in love with William but less sure that she did not still hanker after Nicholas. Mandrake wondered testily how a young woman who did not try the eyes, and was by no means a ninny, could possibly degrade her intelligence by falling for the brummagem charms of Nicholas Compline. “A popinjay,” he muttered, “a stock figure of dubious gallantry.” And he pronounced the noise usually associated with the word “Pshaw.” He had arrived at this point when he received a visit from William and Lady Hersey.

“We hear you’re better,” Hersey said. “Everybody’s being quite frightful downstairs and William and I thought we’d like a little first-hand information, so we’ve come to call. They’re all saying you think somebody tried to drown you. William’s afraid you might suspect him, so I’ve brought him up to come clean.”

“Do you suspect me?” asked William anxiously. “Because I didn’t, you know.”

“I don’t in the least suspect you. Why should I? We’ve had no difference in opinion.”

“Well, they seem to think I might have mistaken you for Nicholas.”

“Who suspects this?”

“My mama, principally. Because I stuck to the bet, you see. So I thought I’d like to explain that when I got there you were already in the pool.”

“Was Hart there?”

“No. No, he turned up a minute or so later.”

“Did you notice the footprints on the terrace steps?”

“Yes, rather,” said William, unexpectedly. “They were your footsteps. I noticed them because one was bigger than the other.”

“William!” Hersey murmured.

“Well, Hersey, he’d know about that, wouldn’t he? And then, you know, Chloris and Jonathan arrived.”

“Perhaps you’d like my alibi, Mr. Mandrake,” said Hersey. “It’s not an alibi at all, I’m afraid. I sat in the smoking-room and listened to the wireless. The first intimation I had about your adventure was provided by Jonathan who came in shouting for restoratives. I
could
tell you about the wireless programme, I think.”

Hersey went to the window and looked out. When she spoke again her voice fell oddly on the silence of the room. “It’s snowing like mad,” she said. “Has it struck either of you that in all probability, whether we like it or not, we are shut up together in this house with no chance of escape?”

“Dr. Hart wanted to go after lunch,” William said. “I heard him say so to Jonathan. But Jonathan said they’ve had word that you can’t get over Cloudyfold, and anyway there’s a drift inside the front gates. Jonathan seemed pleased about that.”

“He would be.” Hersey turned and rested her hands behind her on the sill. Her figure appeared almost black against the hurried silence of the storm beyond the window. “Mr. Mandrake,” she said, “you know my cousin quite well, don’t you?”

“I’ve known him for five years.”

“But that doesn’t say you know him well,” she said quickly. “You arrived before all of us. He was up to something, wasn’t he? No, that’s not a fair question. You needn’t answer. I know he was up to something. But whatever his scheme was, it didn’t involve you unless — Yes, William, that must be it, of course: Mr. Mandrake was to be the audience.”

“I don’t like performing for Jonathan,” William said. “I never have.”

“Nor do I, and what’s more I won’t. The Pirate can register fatal woman in heaps all over the house, but she won’t get a rise out of me.”

“I suppose I
have
performed, Hersey. Chloris and I broke off our engagement before lunch.”

“I thought something had happened. Why?”

William hunched his shoulders and drove his hands into his trousers’ pockets. “She ticked me off about the bet,” he said, “and I ticked her off about Nicholas, so what have you?”

“Well, William my dear, I’m sorry; but honestly,
is
she quite your cup of tea?” Hersey confronted Mandrake. “What do you think?” she demanded abruptly. He was not very much taken aback. For some reason that he had never been able to understand, Mandrake was a man in whom his fellow-creatures confided. He was by no means obviously sympathetic and he seldom asked for confidences but, perhaps because of these very omissions, they came his way. Sometimes he wondered if his lameness had something to do with it. People were inclined to regard a lame man as an isolated being, set apart by his disability as a priest is set apart by his profession. He usually enjoyed hearing strange confessions and was surprised therefore at discovering in himself a reluctance to receive William’s explanations of his quarrel with Chloris Wynne. He was profoundly glad that the engagement was broken and quite determined to make no suggestions about mending it.

“You must remember,” he said, “that we met for the first time last night.”

Hersey fixed him with a bright blue eye. “How guarded!” she said. “William, I believe Mr. Mandrake has—”

“Since we are being so frank,” Mandrake interrupted in a great hurry, “I should like to know whether you believe somebody pushed me into that loathsome pond, and if so, who.”

“Nick says it was Hart,” said Hersey. “He’s gone and thrown his mother into a fever by telling her Hart has tried to drown him. He’s behaving like a peevish child.”

“Mightn’t you have been blown in?” William asked vaguely.

“Does a gust of wind hit you so hard on the shoulder-blades that you can feel the bruises afterwards? Damn it, I
know
. They’re my shoulder-blades.”

“So they are,” Hersey agreed, “and I for one think it was Dr. Hart. After all, we know he was gibbering with rage at Nicholas, and it seems he saw Nicholas go down wearing a cape. I don’t suppose he meant to drown him. He simply couldn’t resist the temptation. I rather sympathize. Nicholas has bounded like a tennis ball, I consider, from the time he got here.”

“But Hart must have known Nick couldn’t swim,” said William. “He kept explaining that was why he wouldn’t go in at the deep end.”

“True. Well, perhaps he meant to drown him.”

“What does Madame Lisse say about it?” Mandrake asked.

“The Pirate?” Hersey helped herself to a cigarette. “My dear Mr. Mandrake, she doesn’t say anything about it. She dressed herself up in what I happen to know is a Chanel model at fifty guineas, and came down for lunch looking like an orchid at a church bazaar. Nicholas and William and Dr. Hart curvet and goggle whenever they look at her.”

“Well, you know, Hersey, she is rather exciting,” said William.

“Does Jonathan goggle?”

“No,” said Hersey. “He looks at her as he looks at all the rest of us — speculatively, from behind those damned glasses.”

“I’ve always wanted,” William observed, “to see a really good specimen of the
femme fatale
.” Hersey snorted and then said immediately: “Oh, I grant you her looks. She’s got a marvellous skin; thick and close, you can’t beat ’em.”

“And then there’s her figure, of course.”

“Yes, William, yes. I suppose you and your girl didn’t by any chance quarrel over the Pirate?”

“Oh, no. Chloris isn’t jealous. Not of me, at any rate. It is I,” said William, “who am jealous. Of course you know, don’t you, that Chloris broke her engagement to Nick because of Madame Lisse?”

“Is Madame at all in love with your brother, do you suppose?” Mandrake asked.

“I don’t know,” said William, “but I think Chloris is.”

“Rot!” said Hersey. Mandrake suddenly felt abysmally depressed. William walked to the fireplace and stood with his back to them and his head bent. He stirred the fire rather violently with his heel, and through the splutter and rattle of coals they heard his voice.

“… I think I’m glad. It’s always been the same…
You
know, Hersey: second-best. For a little while I diddled myself into thinking I’d cut him out. I thought I’d show them. My mother knew. At first she was furious but pretty soon she saw it was me that was the mug as usual. My mother thinks it’s all as it should be, Nick having strings of lovely ladies falling for him—
le roi s’amuse
sort of idea. By God!” said William with sudden violence, “it’s not such fun having a brother like Nick. By God, I wish Hart
had
shoved him in the pond.”

“William, don’t.”

“Why not? Why shouldn’t I say for once what I think of my lovely little brother? D’you suppose I’d blame Hart, if he was after Nicholas? Not I. If I’d thought of it myself, be damned if I wouldn’t have done it.”

“Stop!” Hersey cried out. “Stop! Something appalling is happening to all of us. We’re saying things we’ll regret for the rest of our lives.”

“We’re merely speaking the truth.”

“It’s the sort that shouldn’t be spoken. It’s a beastly lopsided exaggerated truth. We’re behaving like a collection of neurotic freaks.” Hersey moved to the window. “Look at the snow,” she said, “it’s heavier than ever. There’s a load on the trees; they’re beginning to droop their branches. It’s creeping up the sides of the house, and up the window-panes. Soon you’ll hardly be able to see out of your window, Mr. Mandrake. What are we going to do, shut up in the house together, hating each other? What are we going to do?”

At half-past four that afternoon, Nicholas Compline suddenly announced in a high voice that he must get back to his headquarters at Great Chipping. He sought out Jonathan and, with small regard for plausibility, informed him that he had received an urgent summons by telephone.

“Strange!” said Jonathan, smiling. “Caper tells me that the telephone is out of commission. The lines are down.”

“The order came through some time ago.”

“I’m afraid you can’t go, Nick. There’s a six-foot drift in Deep Bottom at the end of the drive, and it’ll be worse up on Cloudyfold.”

“I can walk over Cloudyfold to Chipping and get a car there.”

“Twelve miles!”

“I can’t help that,” said Nicholas loudly.

“You’ll never do it, Nick. It’ll be dark in an hour. I can’t allow you to try. It’s a soft fall. Perhaps tomorrow, if there’s a frost during the night—”

“I’m going, Jonathan. You used to have a pair of Canadian show-shoes, usen’t you? May I borrow them? Do you know where they are?”

“I gave them away years ago,” said Jonathan blandly.

“Well, I’m going.”

Jonathan hurried up to Mandrake’s room with his piece of news. Mandrake had dressed and was sitting by his fire. He still felt extremely shaky and bemused and stared owlishly at Jonathan, who plunged straight into his story.

“He’s quite determined, Aubrey. Perhaps I had better remember that after all I didn’t give away the snow-shoes. And yet, even with snow-shoes he will certainly lose his way in the dark or smother in a drift. Isn’t it too tiresome?” Jonathan seemed to be more genuinely upset by this turn of events than by anything else that had happened since his party assembled.

“It will ruin everything,” he muttered, and when Mandrake asked him if he meant that the death of Nicholas Compline from exposure would ruin everything, he replied testily: “No, no, his
departure
. The central figure! The whole action centres round him. I couldn’t be more disappointed.”

“Honestly, Jonathan, I begin to think you are suffering from some terrible form of insanity. The
idée fixe
. People may drown in your ornamental waters or perish in your snow-drifts, and all you can think of is your hell-inspired party.” Jonathan hastened to protest but in a moment or two he was looking wistfully out of the window and declaring that surely even Nicholas could not be so great a fool as to attempt the walk over Cloudyfold in such a storm. As if in answer to this speech there came a tap on the door and Nicholas himself walked in. He wore his heavy khaki waterproof and carried his cap. He was rather white about the mouth.

“I’m off, Jonathan,” he said.

“Nick, my dear fellow — I implore—”

“Orders is orders. There’s a war on. Will you let me leave my luggage? I’ll collect the car as soon as possible.”

“Do I understand,” said Mandrake, “that you are walking over Cloudyfold?”

“Needs must.”

“Nick, have you considered your mother?”

“I’m not telling my mother I’m going. She’s resting. I’ll leave a note for her. Good-bye, Mandrake. I’m sorry you had the role of my stand-in forced upon you. If it’s any satisfaction you may be quite certain that in a very short space of time I shall be just as wet and possibly a good deal colder than you were.”

“If you persist, I shall come as far as Deep Bottom with you,” said Jonathan, wretchedly. “We’ll have some of the men with shovels, and so on.”

“Please don’t bother, Jonathan. Your men can hardly shovel a path all the way over Cloudyfold.”

“Now listen to me,” said Jonathan. “I’ve talked to my bailiff who came in just now, and he tells me that what you propose is out of the question. I told him you were determined, and he’s sending two of our men—”

“I’m sorry, Jonathan. I’ve made up my mind. I’m off. Don’t come down. Good-bye.”

But before Nicholas got to the door, it burst open and William, scarlet in the face, strode in and confronted his brother.

“What the hell’s this nonsense I hear about you going?” he demanded.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I’m going. I’ve got orders to report at—”

“Orders my foot! You’ve got the wind up and you’re doing a bolt. You’re so damn’ frightened, you’d rather die in a snow-drift than face the music here. You’re not going.”

“Unusual solicitude!” Nicholas said, and the lines from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth deepened.

“Don’t imagine I care what happens to you,” said William, and his voice broke into a higher key. He used the clumsy vehement gestures of a man who, unaccustomed to violence of speech or action, suddenly finds himself consumed with rage. He presented a painful and embarrassing spectacle. “You could drown yourself and welcome, if it weren’t for Mother. D’you want to kill her? You’ll stay here and behave yourself, my bloody little Lothario.”