False Scent by Ngaio Marsh

the stairhead and pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes. They heard him fetch his breath with a harsh sound that might have been a sob. He stood there for some moments like a man who had lost his bearings and then struck his closed hand twice on the newel post and went quickly downstairs.
    “What did I tell you,” Florence said. She stole nearer to the door. It was not quite shut. “Trouble,” she said.
    “None of his making.”
    “How do you know?”
    “The same way,” Ninn said, “that I know how to mind my own business.”
    Inside the room, perhaps beyond it, something crashed. They stood there, irresolute, listening.
    At first Miss Bellamy had not been missed. Her party had reverted to its former style, a little more confused by the circulation of champagne. It spread through the two rooms and into the conservatory and became noisier and noiser. Everybody forgot the ceremony of opening the birthday presents. Nobody noticed that Richard, too, was absent.
    Gantry edged his way towards Charles, who was in the drawing-room, and stooped to make himself heard.
    “Dicky,” he said, “has made off.”
    “Where to?”
    “I imagine to do the best he can with the girl and her uncle.”
    Charles looked at him with something like despair. “There’s nothing to be done,” he said, “nothing. It was shameful.”
    “Where is she?”
    “I don’t know. Isn’t she in the next room?”
    “I don’t know,” Gantry said.
    “I wish to God this show was over.”
    “She ought to get on with the present-opening. They won’t go till she does.”
    Pinky had come up. “Where’s Mary?” she said.
    “We don’t know,” Charles said. “She ought to be opening her presents.”
    “She won’t miss her cue, my dear, you may depend upon it. Don’t you feel it’s time?”
    “I’ll find her,” Charles said. “Get them mustered if you can, Gantry, will you?”
    Bertie Saracen joined them, flushed and carefree. “What goes on?” he inquired.
    “We’re waiting for Mary.”
    “She went upstairs for running repairs,” Bertie announced and giggled. “I
am
a poet and
don’t
I know it!” he added.
    “Did you see her?” Gantry demanded.
    “I heard her tell Monty. She’s not uttering to poor wee me.”
    Monty Marchant edged towards them. “Monty, ducky,” Bertie cried, “your speech was too poignantly right. Live forever!
Oh
, I’m so tiddly.”
    Marchant said, “Mary’s powdering her nose, Charles. Should we do a little shepherding?”
    “I thought so.”
    Gantry mounted a stool and used his director’s voice, “Attention, the cast!” It was a familiar summons and was followed by an obedient hush. “To the table, please, everybody, and clear an entrance. Last act, ladies and gentlemen. Last act, please!”
    They did so at once. The table with its heaped array of parcels had already been moved forward by Gracefield and the maids. The guests ranged themselves at both sides like a chorus in grand opera, leaving a passage to the principal door.
    Charles said, “I’ll just see…” and went into the hall. He called up the stairs, “Oh, Florence! Tell Miss Bellamy we’re ready, will you?” and came back. “Florence’ll tell her,” he said.
    There was a longish, expectant pause. Gantry drew in his breath with a familiar hiss.
    “
I’ll
tell her,” Charles said, and started off for the door.
    Before he could reach it they all heard a door slam and running steps on the stairway. There was a relieved murmur and a little indulgent laughter.
    “First time Mary’s ever missed an entrance,” someone said.
    The steps ran across the hall. An irregular flutter of clapping broke out and stopped.
    A figure appeared in the entrance and paused there.
    It was not Mary Bellamy but Florence.
    Charles said, “Florence! Where’s Miss Mary?”
    Florence, breathless, mouthed at him. “Not coming.”
    “Oh God!” Charles ejaculated. “Not
now
!”
    As if to keep the scene relentlessly theatrical,