False Scent by Ngaio Marsh Page A

Florence cried out in a shrill voice,
    “A doctor. For Christ’s sake. Quick. Is there a doctor in the house!”

Chapter four
Catastrophe
    It might be argued that the difference between high tragedy and melodrama rests in the indisputable fact that the latter is more true to nature. People, even the larger-than-life people of the theatre, tend at moments of tension to express themselves not in unexpected or memorable phrases but in clichés.
    Thus, when Florence made her entrance, one or two voices in her audience cried out, “My God, what’s happened?” Bertie Saracen cried out shrilly, “Does she mean Mary?” and somebody whose identity remained a secret said in an authoritative British voice, “Quiet, everybody. No need to panic,” as if Florence had called for a fireman rather than a physician.
    The only person to remain untouched was Dr. Harkness, who was telling a long, inebriated story to Monty Marchant and whose voice droned on indecently in a far corner of the dining-room.
    Florence stretched out a shaking hand towards Charles Templeton. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, sir!” she stammered. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, come quick.”
    “—And this chap said to the other chap…” Dr. Harkness recounted.
    Charles said, “Good God, what’s the matter! Is it…?”
    “It’s her, sir. Come quick.”
    Charles thrust her aside, ran from the room and pelted upstairs.
    “A doctor!” Florence said. “My God, a doctor!” It was Marchant who succeeded in bringing Dr. Harkness into focus.
    “You’re wanted,” he said. “Upstairs. Mary.”
    “Eh? Bit of trouble?” Dr. Harkness asked vaguely.
    “Something’s happened to Mary.”
    Timon Gantry said, “Pull yourself together, Harkness. You’ve got a patient.”
    Dr. Harkness had forgotten to remove his smile, but a sort of awareness now overtook him. “Patient?” he said. “Where? Is it Charles?”
    “Upstairs. Mary.”
    “Good gracious!” said Dr. Harkness. “Very good. I’ll come.” He rocked slightly on his feet and remained stationary.
    Maurice Warrender said to Florence, “Is it bad?”
    Her hand to her mouth she nodded her head up and down like a mandarin.
    Warrender took a handful of ice from a wine-cooler and suddenly thrust it down the back of Dr. Harkness’s collar. “Come on,” he said. Harkness let out a sharp oath. He swung round as if to protest, lost his balance and fell heavily.
    Florence screamed.
    “I’m a’right,” Dr. Harkness said from the door. “Tripped over something. Silly!”
    Warrender and Gantry got him to his feet. “I’m all
right
!” he repeated angrily. “Gimme some water, will you?”
    Gantry tipped some out of the ice bucket. Dr. Harkness swallowed it down noisily and shuddered. “Beastly stuff,” he said. “Where’s this patient?”
    From the stairhead, Charles called in an unrecognizable voice, “Harkness!
Harkness
!”
    “Coming,” Warrender shouted. Harkness, gasping, was led out.
    Florence looked wildly round the now completely silent company, wrung her hands and followed them.
    Timon Gantry said, “More ice, perhaps,” picked up the wine-cooler and overtook them on the stairs.
    The party was left in suspension.
    In Mary Bellamy’s bedroom all the windows were open. An evening breeze stirred the curtains and the ranks of tulips. Dr. Harkness knelt beside the pool of rose-coloured chiffon from which protruded, like rods, two legs finished with high-heeled shoes and two naked arms whose clenched hands glittered with diamonds. Diamonds were spattered across the rigid plane of the chest and shone through a hank of disarranged hair. A length of red chiffon lay across the face and this was a good thing.
    Dr. Harkness had removed his coat. His ice-wet shirt stuck to his spine. His ear was laid against the place from which he had pulled away the red chiffon.
    He straightened up, looked closely into the face, reveiled it and got to his feet.
    “I’m afraid there’s nothing whatever to be