False Scent by Ngaio Marsh Page B

done,” he said.
    Charles said, “There must be. You don’t know. There must be. Try. Try something. My God, try!”
    Warrender, in his short-stepped, square-shouldered way, walked over to Harkness and looked down for a moment.
    “No good,” he said. “Have to face it. What?”
    Charles satt on the bed and rubbed his freckled hand across his mouth. “I can’t believe it’s happened,” he said. “It’s
there
—it’s—
happened
. And I can’t believe it.”
    Florence burst noisily into tears.
    Dr. Harkness turned to her. “You,” he said. “Florence, isn’t it? Try to control yourself, there’s a good girl. Did you find her like this?”
    Florence nodded and sobbed out something indistinguishable.
    “But she was…” Harkness glanced at Charles. “Conscious?”
    Florence said, “Not to know me. Not to speak,” and broke down completely.
    “Were the windows open?”
    Florence shook her head.
    “Did you open them?”
    She shook her head again. “I didn’t think to — I got such a wicked shock — I didn’t think…”
    “I opened them,” Charles said.
    “First thing to be done,” Warrender muttered.
    Gantry, who from the time of his entry had stood motionless near the door, joined the others. “But what
was
it?” he asked. “What happened?”
    Warrender said unevenly, “Perfectly obvious. She used that bloody spray thing there. I said it was dangerous. Only this morning.”
    “What thing?”
    Warrender stooped. The tin of Slaypest lay on its side close to the clenched right hand. A trickle of dark fluid stained the carpet. “This,” he said.
    “Better leave it,” Dr. Harkness said sharply.
    “What?”
    “Better leave it where it is.” He looked at Gantry. “It’s some damned insecticide. For plants. The tin’s smothered in warnings.”
    “We told her,” Warrender said. “Look at it.”
    “I said don’t touch it.”
    Warrender straightened up. The blood had run into his face. “Sorry,” he said, and then, “Why not?”
    “You’re a bit too ready with your hands. I’m wet as hell and half frozen.”
    “You were tight. Best cure, my experience.”
    They eyed each other resentfully. Dr. Harkness looked at Charles, who sat doubled up with his hands on his chest. He went to him. “Not too good?” he said. Timon Gantry put a hand on Charles’s shoulder.
    “I’m going to take you to your room, old boy. Next door, isn’t it?”
    “Yes,” Dr. Harkness said. “But not just yet. In a minute. Good idea.” He turned to Florence. “Do you know where Mr. Templeton keeps his tablets? Get them, will you? And you might bring some aspirin at the same time. Run along, now.” Florence went into the dressing-room. He sat beside
    Charles on the bed and took his wrist. “Steady does it,” he said and looked at Gantry. “Brandy.”
    “I know where it is,” Warrender said, and went out.
    Gantry said, “What about the mob downstairs?”
    “They can wait.” He held the wrist a little longer and then laid Charles’s hand on his knee, keeping his own over it. “We’ll move you in a moment. You must let other people think for you. It’s been a bad thing.”
    “I can’t…” Charles said. “I can’t…” and fetched his breath in irregular, tearing sighs.
    “Don’t try to work things out. Not just yet. Ah, here’s Florence. Good. Now then, one of these.”
    He gave Charles a tablet. Warrender came back with brandy. “This’ll help,” Dr. Harkness said. They waited in silence.
    “I’m all right,” Charles said presently.
    “Fine. Now, an arm each and take it steady. His room’s next door. Lie down, Charles, won’t you?”
    Charles nodded and Warrender moved towards him. “No,” Charles said quite strongly, and turned to Gantry. “I’m all right,” he repeated, and Gantry very efficiently supported him through the door into his dressing-room.
    Warrender stood for a moment, irresolute, and then lifted his chin and followed them.
    “Get him a hot bottle,”