False Scent (4 page)
Authors: Ngaio Marsh
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #det_classic, #Mystery & Detective, #Police Procedural, #Police, #England, #Alleyn; Roderick (Fictitious character)
“Pinky, this is going to be your Great Thing.”
“I know it! I feel it myself,” Pinky said soberly and added, “Please God, I’ll have what it takes. Please God, I will.”
“My dear, you will,” she rejoined and for the life of her couldn’t help adding, “Of course, I haven’t read the play.”
“The
purest
Bongo! Comedy with a twist. You know? Though I says it as shouldn’t, it’s right up my cul-de-sac. Bongo says he had me in mind all the time he was writing it.”
Miss Bellamy laughed. “Darling! We do know our Bongo, don’t we? The number of plays he’s said he’d written for me and when one looked at them—!”
With one of her infuriating moments of penetration, Pinky said, “Mary! Be pleased for me.”
“But, sweetie,
naturally
I’m pleased. It sounds like a wonderful bit of luck and I hope with all my heart it works out.”
“Of course, I know it means giving up my part in Richard’s new one for you. But, face it, there wasn’t much in it for me, was there? And nothing was really settled, so I’m not letting the side down, am I?”
Miss Bellamy couldn’t help it. “My dear,” she said with a kindly laugh, “we’ll lose no sleep over that little problem: the part’ll cast itself in two seconds.”
“Exactly!” Pinky cried happily and Miss Bellamy felt one of her rare onsets of rage begin to stir. She said:
“But you were talking about Bertie, darling. Where does he come in?”
“Aha!” Pinky said maddeningly and shook her finger.
At this juncture Gracefield, the butler, arrived with a drinks tray.
Miss Bellamy controlled herself. “Come on,” she said, “I’m going to break my rule, too. We
must
have a drink on this, darling.”
“No, no no!”
“Yes, yes, yes. A teeny one. Pink for Pinky?”
She stood between Pinky and the drinks and poured out one stiff and one negligible gin-and-bitters. She gave the stiff one to Pinky.
“To your wonderful future, darling,” she said. “Bottoms up!”
“Oh
dear
!” Pinky said. “I shouldn’t.”
“Never mind.”
They drank.
“And Bertie?” Miss Bellamy asked presently. “Come on. You know I’m as silent as the grave.”
The blush that long ago had earned Pinky her nickname appeared in her cheeks. “This really
is
a secret,” she said. “Deep and deadly. But I’m sure he won’t mind my telling
you
. You see, it’s a part that has to be dressed up to the hilt — five changes and all of them grand as grand. Utterly beyond me and my little woman in Bayswater. Well! Bertie, being so much mixed up with the Management, has heard all about it, and do you know, darling, he’s offered,
entirely
of his own accord, to do my clothes. Designs, materials, making—
everything
from Saracen. And all completely free-ers.
Isn’t
that kind?”
Wave after wave of fury chased each other like electrical frequencies through Miss Bellamy’s nerves and brain. She had time to think: “I’m going to throw a temperament and it’s bad for me,” and then she arrived at the point of climax.
The explosion was touched off by Bertie himself, who came tripping back with a garland of tuberoses twined round his person. When he saw Pinky he stopped short, looked from her to Miss Bellamy and turned rather white.
“Bertie,” Pinky said. “I’ve split on you.”
“How could you!” he said. “Oh Pinky, how could you!”
Pinky burst into tears.
“I don’t know!” she stammered. “I didn’t mean to, Bertie darling. Forgive me. I was high.”
“Stay me with flagons!” he said in a small voice. Miss Bellamy, employing a kind of enlargement of herself that was technically one of her most telling achievements, crossed to him and advanced her face to within four inches of his own.
“You rat, Bertie,” she said quietly. “You little, two-timing, double-crossing, dirty rat.”
And she wound her hands in his garland, tore it off him and threw it in his face.
Mary Bellamy’s temperaments were of rare occurrence but formidable in the extreme and frightening to behold. They were not those regulation theatre tantrums that seem to afford pleasure both to observer and performer; on the contrary they devoured her like some kind of migraine and left her exhausted. Their onset was sudden, their duration prolonged and their sequel incalculable.
Bertie and Pinky, both familiar with them, exchanged looks of despair. Miss Bellamy had not raised her voice, but a kind of stillness seemed to have fallen on the house. They themselves spoke in whispers. They also, out of some impulse of helpless unanimity, said the same thing at the same time.
“Mary!” they said. “Listen! Don’t!”
They knew very well that they had better have held their tongues. Their effort, feeble though it was, served only to inflame her. With an assumption of calmness that was infinitely more alarming than raging hysteria she set about them, concentrating at first on Bertie.
“I wonder,” she said, “what it feels like to be you. I wonder if you enjoy your own cunning. I expect you do, Bertie. I expect you rather pride yourself on your talent for cashing in on other people’s generosity. On mine, for instance.”
“Mary,
darling
! Please!”
“Let us,” she continued, trembling slightly, “look at this thing quite calmly and objectively, shall we? I’m afraid it will not be a delicious experience, but it has to be faced.”
Gracefield came in, took one look at his mistress and went out again. He had been with the family for some time.
“I am the last woman in the world,” Miss Bellamy explained, “to remind people of their obligations. The last. However—”
She began to remind Bertie of his obligations. Of the circumstances under which she had discovered him — she did not, to his evident relief, say how many years ago — of how she had given him his first chance; of how, since then, he had never looked back; of how there had been agreement — “gentlemen’s,” she added bitterly — that he would never design for another leading lady in the Management without first consulting her. He opened his mouth, but was obliged without utterance to shut it again. Had he not, she asked, risen to his present position entirely on the wings of her patronage? Besieged as she was by the importunities of the great fashion houses, had she not stuck resolutely to him through thick and thin? And now—
She executed a gesture, Siddons-like in its tragic implications, and began to pace to and fro while Pinky and Bertie hastily made room for her to do so. Her glance lighting for a moment on Pinky she began obliquely to attack her.
“I imagine,” she said, still to Bertie, “that I shall not be accused of lack of generosity. I am generally said, I think, to be a good friend. Faithful and just,” she added, perhaps with some obscure recollection of Mark Antony. “Over and over again, for friendship’s sake, I’ve persuaded the Management to cast actresses who were unable to give me adequate support.”
“Now, look here…!” Pinky began warmly.
“—Over and over again. Timmy said, only the other day: ‘Darling, you’re sacrificing yourself on the altar of your personal loyalties!’ He’s said, over and over again, that he wouldn’t for anybody else under the sun accept the casting as it stood. Only for me…”
“What casting?” Pinky demanded. Miss Bellamy continued to address herself exclusively to Bertie.
“Only for me,” Timmy said, “would he dream of taking into any production of his an artist whose spiritual home was weekly rep. in the ham-counties.”
“Timmy,” Pinky said dangerously, “is producing my play. It’s entirely due to him and the author that I’ve got the part. They told the Management they wanted me.”
Bertie said, “I happen to know that’s perfectly true.”
“Conspiracy!” Miss Bellamy shouted so loudly and suddenly that the others jumped in unison. She was ravaged by a terrible vision of Bertie, Pinky and Timmy all closeted with the Management and agreeing to say nothing to her of their plots and plans. In a Delphic fury she outlined this scene. Bertie, who had been moodily disengaging himself from the remnants of his garland, showed signs of fight. He waited his chance to cut in.
“Speaking,” he began, “as a two-timing, double-crossing rat, which God knows I am
not
, I take leave to assure you, darling Mary, that you’re wrecking yourself for nothing. I’m doing Pinky’s gowns out of friendliness and my name isn’t going to appear and I must say I’d have thought…”
He was allowed to get no further.
“It’s not,” Miss Bellamy said, “what you’ve done, both of you, but the revolting way you’ve done it. If you’d come to me in the first instance and said…” Then followed an exposition of what they should have said and of the generous response they would have enjoyed if they’d said it. For a moment it looked as if the row was going to degenerate into an aimless and repetitive wrangle. It would probably have done so if Pinky had not said abruptly:
“Now, look here, Mary! It’s about time you faced up to yourself. You know jolly well that anything you’ve done for either of us has been paid back with interest. I know you’ve had a lot to do with my getting on the Management’s short list and I’m grateful, but I also know that it’s suited you very well to have me there. I’m a good foil to you. I know all your gimmicks. How you like to be fed lines. And when you dry, as nowadays you very often do, I can fill in like nobody’s business. In the gentle art of letting myself be upstaged, cheated out of points and fiddled into nonentity, I’ve done you proud and you’ll find I’m damn hard to replace.”
“My
God
! My
God
! that I should have to listen to this!”
“As for Bertie…”
“Never mind, Pinky,” he said quickly.
“I do mind. It’s true you gave Bertie his start, but what hasn’t he done for you? Your decor! Your clothes! Face it, Mary, without the Saracen Concealed Curve you’d be the Grand Old Lady of the Hip Parade.”
Bertie gave a hysterical hoot of laughter and looked terrified.
“The truth is,” Pinky said, “you want it both ways, Mary. You want to boss everybody and use everybody for your own ends and at the same time you want us all to wallow in your wake saying how noble and generous and wonderful you are. You’re a cannibal, Mary, and it’s high time somebody had the guts to tell you so.”
A dead silence followed this unexampled speech.
Miss Bellamy walked to the door and turned. It was a movement with which they were familiar.
“After this,” she said very slowly, dead-panning her voice to a tortured monotone, “there is only one thing for me to do and much as it hurts me, I shall do it. I shall see the Management. Tomorrow.”
She opened the door. They had a brief glimpse of Charles, Warrender and Richard, irresolute in the hall, before she swept out and shut the door behind her.
The room seemed very quiet after she had gone.
“Bertie,” Pinky said at last, “if I’ve done you any harm I’m desperately sorry. I was high. I’ll never, never forgive myself.”
“That’s all right, dear.”
“You’re so
kind
. Bertie — do you think she’ll — do you think she can…?”
“She’ll try, dear. She’ll try.”
“It took everything I’ve got, I promise you, to give battle. Honestly, Bertie, she frightened me. She looked murderous.”
“Horrid, wasn’t it?”
Pinky stared absently at the great flask of the scent called Formidable. A ray of sunshine had caught it and it shone golden.
“What are
you
going to do?” she asked.
Bertie picked up a handful of tuberoses from the carpet. “Get on with me bloody flowers, dear,” he said. “Get on with me bloody flowers.”
Having effected her exit, Miss Bellamy swept like a sirocco past Richard, Warrender and her husband and continued upstairs. In her bedroom she encountered Florence, who said, “What have
you
been doing to yourself?”
“You shut up,” Miss Bellamy shouted and slammed the door.
“Whatever it is, it’s no good to you. Come on, dear. What’s the story?”
“Bloody treachery’s the story. Shut up. I don’t want to tell you. My God, what friends I’ve got! My God, what friends!”
She strode about the room and made sounds of outrage and defeat. She flung herself on the bed and pummelled it.
Florence said, “You know what’ll be the end of this — party and all.”
Miss Bellamy burst into tears. “I haven’t,” she sobbed, “a friend in the world. Not in the whole wide world. Except Dicky.”
A spasm of something that might have been chagrin twitched at Florence’s mouth. ’’Him!” she said under her breath.
Miss Bellamy abandoned herself to a passion of tears. Florence went into the bathroom and returned with sal volatile.
“Here,” she said. “Try this. Come along now, dear.”
“I don’t want that muck. Give me one of my tablets.”
“Not now.”
“Now!”
“You know as well as I do, the doctor said only at night.”
“I don’t care what he said. Get me one.”
She turned her head and looked up at Florence. “Did you hear what I said?”
“There aren’t any left. I was going to send out.”
Miss Bellamy said through her teeth, “I’ve had enough of this. You think you can call the tune here, don’t you? You think you’re indispensable. You never made a bigger mistake. You’re not indispensable and the sooner you realize it, the better for you. Now, get out.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Get out!”
Florence stood quite still for perhaps ten seconds and then left the room.
Miss Bellamy stayed where she was. Her temperament, bereft of an audience, gradually subsided. Presently she went to her dressing-table, dealt with her face and gave herself three generous shots from her scent-spray. At the fourth, it petered out. The bottle was empty. She made an exasperated sound, stared at herself in the glass and for the first time since the onset of her rage, began to think collectedly.
At half-past twelve she went down to call on Octavius Browne and Anelida Lee.
Her motives in taking this action were mixed. In the first place her temperament, having followed the classic pattern of diminishing returns, had finally worked itself out and had left her restless. She was unwilling to stay indoors. In the second, she wanted very badly to prove to herself how grossly she had been misjudged by Pinky and Bertie, and could this be better achieved than by performing an act of gracious consideration towards Richard? In the third place, she was burningly anxious to set her curiosity at rest in the matter of Anelida Lee.
