False Scent by Ngaio Marsh Page A

quite brutally if I think you’ve wasted my time.”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “Ah, Dicky!” Marchant said. “May I inquire if you’re a party to this conspiracy?”
    Richard was there again, beside her. “Conspiracy?” he said. “I’m up to my neck in it. Why?”
    Gantry said, “The cloak-and-dagger business is all mine, however. Dicky’s a puppet.”
    “Aren’t we all!” Marchant said. “I need another drink. So, I should suppose, do you.”
    Richard had brought them. “Anelida,” he asked, “what have they been cooking?”
    For the third time, Anelida listened to her own incredible and immediate future.
    “I’ve turned bossy, Richard,” Gantry said. “I’ve gone ahead on my own. This child’s going to take a running jump at reading your wench in
Heaven
. Monty’s going to have a look at the play and see her Eliza. I tell him he’ll be pleased. Too bad if you think she can’t make it.” He looked at Anelida and a very pleasant smile broke over his face. He flipped the brim of her hat with a thumb and forefinger. “Nice hat,” he said.
    Richard’s hand closed painfully about her arm. “Timmy!” he shouted. “You’re a
splendid
fellow!
Timmy
!”
    “The author, at least,” Marchant said drily, “would appear to be pleased.”
    “In that case,” Gantry proposed, “let’s drink to the unknown quantity. To your bright eyes, Miss Potential.”
    “I may as well go down gracefully,” Marchant said. “To your Conspiracy, Timmy. In the person of Anelida Lee.”
    They had raised their glasses to Anelida when a voice behind them said, “I don’t enjoy conspiracies in my own house, Monty, and I’m afraid I’m not mad about what I’ve heard of this one. Do let me in on it, won’t you?”
    It was Miss Bellamy.
    Miss Bellamy had not arrived in the conservatory unaccompanied. She had Colonel Warrender in attendance upon her. They had been followed by Charles Templeton, Pinky Cavendish and Bertie Saracen. These three had paused by Gracefield to replenish their glasses and then moved from the dining-room into the conservatory, leaving the door open. Gracefield, continuing his round, was about to follow them. The conglomerate of voices in the rooms behind had mounted to its extremity, but above it, high-pitched, edged with emotion, a single voice rang out: Mary Bellamy’s. There, in the conservatory she was, for all to see. She faced Anelida and leant slightly towards her.
    “
No, no, no, my dear. That really is not quite good enough
.”
    A sudden lull, comparable to that which follows the lowering of houselights in a crowded theatre, was broken by the more distant babble in the further room and by the inconsequent, hitherto inaudible, excursions of the musicians. Heads were turned towards the conservatory. Warrender came to the door. Gracefield found himself moved to one side; Octavius was there, face to face with Warrender. Gantry’s voice said:
    “Mary. This won’t do.”
    “I think,” Octavius said, “if I may, I would like to go to my niece.”
    “Not yet,” Warrender said. “Do you mind?’ He shut the door and cut off the voices in the conservatory.
    For a moment the picture beyond the glass walls was held. Mary Bellamy’s lips worked. Richard faced her and was speaking. So were Charles and Gantry. It was like a scene from a silent film. Then, with a concerted movement, the figures of Gantry, Charles, Richard and Warrender, their backs to their audience, hid Miss Bellamy and Anelida.
    “Ah, there you are, Occy!” a jovial not quite sober voice exclaimed. “I was going to ask you, old boy. D’you remember…”
    It was Octavius’s old acquaintance, Dr. Harkness, now rather tight. As if he had given a signal, everybody began to talk again very loudly indeed. Charles broke from the group and came through the glass door, shutting it quickly behind him. He put his hand on Octavius’s arm.
    “It’s all right, Browne, I assure you,” he said. “It’s nothing. Dicky is