Death and the Dancing Footman (6 page)

Mandrake’s first impression of Hersey Amblington was characteristic of the sort of man his talents had led him to become. As Stanley Footling of Dulwich, he would have been a little in awe of Hersey. As Aubrey Mandrake of the Unicorn Theatre, he told himself she was distressingly wholesome. Hersey’s face, in spite of its delicate make-up, wore an out-of-doors look, and she did not pluck her dark brows, those two straight bars that guarded her blue eyes. She wore Harris tweed and looked, thought Mandrake, as though she would be tiresome about dogs. A hearty woman, he decided, and he did not wonder that Madame Lisse had lured away Hersey’s smartest clients.

Jonathan hurried forward to greet his cousin. They kissed. Mandrake felt certain that Jonathan delayed the embrace long enough to whisper a warning in Lady Hersey’s ear. He saw the tweed shoulders stiffen. With large, beautifully shaped hands, she put Jonathan away from her and looked into his face. Mandrake, who was nearer to them than the rest of the party, distinctly heard her say: “Jo, what are you up to?” and caught Jonathan’s reply: “Come and see.” He took her by the elbow and led her towards the group by the fire.

“You know Madame Lisse, Hersey, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Hersey, after a short pause. “How do you do?”

“And Dr. Hart?”

“How do you do? Sandra, darling, how nice to see you,” said Hersey, turning her back on Dr. Hart and Madame Lisse and kissing Mrs. Compline. Her face was hidden from Mandrake, but he saw that her ears and the back of her neck were scarlet.

“You haven’t kissed me, Hersey,” said Nicholas.

“I don’t intend to. How many weeks have you been stationed in Great Chipping and never a glimpse have I had of you? William, my dear, I didn’t know you had actually reached home again. How well you look.”

“I feel quite well, thank you, Hersey,” said William gravely. “You’ve met Chloris, haven’t you?”

“Not yet, but I’m delighted to do so, and to congratulate you both,” said Hersey, shaking hands with Chloris.

“And Mr. Aubrey Mandrake,” said Jonathan, bringing Hersey a drink. “How do you do. Jonathan told me I should meet you. I’ve got a subject for you.”

“Oh, God,” thought Mandrake, “she’s going to be funny about my plays.”

“It’s about a false hairdresser who strangles his rival with three feet of dyed hair,” Hersey continued. “He’s a male hairdresser, you know, and he wears a helmet made of tin waving clamps and no clothes at all. Perhaps it would be better as a ballet.”

Mandrake laughed politely. “A beguiling theme,” he said.

“I’m glad you like it. It’s not properly worked out yet, but of course his mother had long hair and when he was an infant he saw his father lugging her about the room by her pigtail, and it gave him convulsions because he hated his father and was in love with his mother, and so he grew up into a hairdresser and worked off his complexes on his customers. And I must say,” Hersey added, “I wish I could follow his example.”

“Do you dislike your clients, Lady Hersey?” asked Madame Lisse. “I do not find in myself any antipathy to my clients. Many of them have become my good friends.”

“You must be able to form friendships very quickly,” said Hersey sweetly.

“Of course,” Madame Lisse continued, “it depends very much upon the class of one’s clientele.”

“And possibly,” Hersey returned, “upon one’s own class, don’t you think?” And then, as if ashamed of herself, she turned again to Mrs. Compline.

“I suppose,” said William’s voice close to Mandrake, “that Hersey was making a joke about her subject, wasn’t she?”

“Yes,” Mandrake said hurriedly, for he was startled, “yes, of course.”

“Well, but it
might
be a good idea, mightn’t it? I mean, people do write about those things. There’s that long play, I saw it in London about four years ago, where the brother and sister find out about their mother and all that. Some people thought that play was a bit thick, but I didn’t think so. I thought there was a lot of reality in it. I don’t see why plays shouldn’t say what people feel in the same way as pictures ought to. Not what they do. What they do in their thoughts.”

“That is my own contention,” said Mandrake, who was beginning to feel more than a little curious about William’s pictures. William gave a rather vapid laugh and rubbed his hands together. “There you are, you see,” he said. He looked round the circle of Jonathan’s guests, and lowered his voice. “Jonathan has played a trick on all of us,” he said unexpectedly. Mandrake did not answer, and William went on: “Perhaps you planned it together.”

“No, no. This party is entirely Jonathan’s.”

“I’ll bet it is. Jonathan is doing in the ordinary way what he does in his thoughts. If you wrote a play of him what would it be like?”

“I really don’t know,” said Mandrake hurriedly.

“Don’t you? If I painted his picture I should make him egg-shaped with quite a merry smile, and a scorpion round his head. And then, you know, for eyes he would have the sort of windows you can’t see through. Clouded glass.”

In Mandrake’s circles this sort of thing was more or less a commonplace. “You are a surrealist, then?” he murmured.

“Have you ever noticed,” William continued, placidly, “that Jonathan’s eyes are quite blank? Impenetrable,” he added, and a phrase from
Alice through the Looking-Glass
jigged into Mandrake’s thoughts.

“It’s his thick glasses,” he said.

“Oh,” said William, “is that it? Has he told you about us? Nicholas and Chloris and me? And of course, Madame Lisse?” To Mandrake’s intense relief William did not pause for an answer. “I expect he has,” he said. “He likes talking about people and of course he would want somebody for an audience. I’m quite glad to meet Madame Lisse, and I must say it doesn’t surprise me about her and Nicholas. I should like to make a picture of her. Wait a moment. I’m just going to get another drink. My third,” added William, with the air of chalking up a score.

Mandrake had had one drink and was of the opinion that Jonathan’s champagne cocktails were generously laced with brandy. He wondered if in this circumstance lay the explanation of William’s astonishing candour. The rest of the party had already responded to the drinks, and the general conversation was now fluent and noisy. William returned, carrying his glass with extreme care.

“Of course,” he said, “you will understand that Chloris and I haven’t seen Nicholas since we got engaged. I went to the front the day after it was announced, and Nicholas has been conducting the war in Great Chipping ever since. But if Jonathan thinks his party is going to make any difference…” William broke off and drank a third of his cocktail. “What was I saying?” he asked.

“Any difference,” Mandrake prompted.

“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 startled 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 doubtfully. 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.”

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 moustaches 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 to-morrow, 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.”

“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, do 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 happened?” Hersey repeated.

“Hersey, that man, Jonathan’s new friend, I can’t meet him again.”

“Aubrey Mandrake?”

“No, no. The other.”

“Dr. Hart?”

“I can’t meet him.”

“But why?”

“Don’t look at me. I know it’s foolish of me, Hersey, but I can’t tell you if you look at me. Please go on dressing and let me tell you.”

Hersey returned to the dressing-table and presently Mrs. Compline began to speak. The thin exhausted voice, now well-controlled, lent no colour to the story of despoiled beauty. It trailed dispassionately through her husband’s infidelities, her own despair, her journey to Vienna, and her return. And Hersey, while she listened, absently made up her own face, took off her net, and arranged her hair. When it was over she turned towards Mrs. Compline but came no nearer to her.

“But can you be sure?” she said.