False Scent

‘There isn’t a part for her in it,’ he blurted out.

After a moment she said: ‘Well, no. But does that matter?’

‘It might. If, of course, it ever comes to production. And, by the way, Timmy Gantry’s seen it and makes agreeable noises. All the same, it’s tricky about Mary.’

‘But why? I don’t see –’

‘It’s not all that easy to explain,’ he mumbled.

‘You’ve already written a new play for her and she’s delighted with it, isn’t she? This is something quite different.’

‘And better? You’ve read it.’

‘Immeasurably better. In another world. Everybody must see it.’

‘Timmy Gantry likes it.’

‘Well, there you are! It’s special. Won’t she see that?’

He said: ‘Anelida, dear, you don’t really know the theatre yet, do you? Or the way actors tick over?’

‘Well, perhaps I don’t. But I know how close you are to each other and how wonderfully she understands you. You’ve told me.’

‘That’s just it,’ Richard said, and there followed a long silence.

‘I don’t believe,’ he said at last, ‘that I’ve ever told you exactly what she and Charles did?’

‘No,’ she agreed. ‘Not exactly. But –’

‘My parents, who were Australians, were friends of Mary’s. They were killed in a car smash on the Grande Corniche when I was rising two. They were staying with Mary at the time. There was no money to speak of. She had me looked after by her own old nanny, the celebrated Ninn, and then, after she had married Charles, they took me over, completely. I owe everything to her. I like to think that, in a way, the plays have done something to repay. And now – you see what I go and do.’

Anelida finished her tulips and looked directly at him. ‘I’m sure it’ll work out,’ she said gently. ‘All very fine, I dare say, for me to say so, but you see, you’ve talked so much about her, I almost feel I know her.’

‘I very much want you to know her. Indeed, this brings me to the main object of my pompous visit. Will you let me call for you at six and take you to see her? There’s a party of sorts at half-past which I hope may amuse you, but I’d like you to meet her first. Will you, Anelida?’

She waited too long before she said: ‘I don’t think I can. I’m – I’ve booked myself up.’

‘I don’t believe you. Why won’t you come?’

‘But I can’t. It’s her birthday, and it’s special to her and her friends. You can’t go hauling in an unknown female. And an unknown actress, to boot.’

‘Of course I can.’

‘It wouldn’t be comely.’

‘What a fantastic word! And why the hell do you suppose it wouldn’t be comely for the two people I like best in the world to meet each other?’

Anelida said: ‘I didn’t know –’

‘Yes, you did,’ he said crossly. ‘You must have.’

‘We scarcely know each other.’

‘I’m sorry you feel like that about it.’

‘I only meant – well, in point of time –’

‘Don’t hedge.’

‘Now, look here –’

‘I’m sorry. Evidently I’ve taken too much for granted.’

While they stared aghast at the quarrel that between them they had somehow concocted, Octavius came tapping back. ‘By the way,’ he said happily, ‘I yielded this morning to a romantic impulse, Dakers. I sent your patroness a birthday greeting: one among hundreds, no doubt. The allusion was from Spenser. I hope she won’t take it amiss.’

‘How very nice of you, sir,’ Richard said loudly. ‘She’ll be enchanted. She loves people to be friendly. Thank you for finding the picture.’

And forgetting to pay for it, he left hurriedly in a miserable frame of mind.

III

Mary Bellamy’s house was next door to the Pegasus bookshop, but Richard was too rattled to go in. He walked round Pardoner’s Place trying to sort out his thoughts. He suffered one of those horrid experiences, fortunately rare, in which the victim confronts himself as a stranger in an abrupt perspective. The process resembles that of pseudo-scientific films in which the growth of a plant, by mechanical skulduggery, is reduced from seven weeks to as many minutes and the subject is seen wavering, extending, elongating itself in response to some irresistible force until it breaks into its pre-ordained florescence.

The irresistible force in Richard’s case had undoubtedly been Mary Bellamy. The end-product, after twenty-seven years of the treatment, was two successful West End comedies, a third in the bag, and (his hand tightened on his dispatch-case) a serious play.

He owed it all, as he had so repeatedly told her, to Mary. Well, perhaps not quite all. Not the serious play.

He had almost completed his round of the little Place and, not wanting to pass the shop window, turned back. Why in the world had he gone grand and huffy when Anelida refused to meet Mary? And why did she refuse? Any other girl in Anelida’s boots, he thought uneasily, would have jumped at that sort of invitation: the great Mary Bellamy’s birthday party. A tiny, hand-picked group from the topmost drawer in the London theatre. The Management. The producer. Any other girl … He fetched up short, not liking himself very much, conscious that if he followed his thoughts to their logical conclusion he would arrive at an uncomfortable position. What sort of man, he would have to ask himself, was Richard Dakers? Reality would disintegrate and he would find himself face-to-face with a stranger. It was a familiar experience and one he didn’t enjoy. He shook himself free of it, made a sudden decision, walked quickly to the house and rang the bell.

Charles Templeton breakfasted in his study on the ground floor. The door was open and Richard saw him there, reading his Times, at home among his six so judiciously chosen pieces of chinoiserie, his three admirable pictures, his few distinguished chairs and lovely desk. Charles was fastidious about his surroundings and extremely knowledgeable. He could wait, sometimes for years, for the acquisition of a single treasure.

Richard went in. ‘Charles!‘ he said. ‘How are you?’

‘Hallo, old boy. Come to make your devotions?’

‘Am I the first?’

‘The first in person. There are the usual massive offerings in kind. Mary’ll be delighted to see you.’

‘I’ll go up,’ Richard said, but still hovered. Charles lowered his newspaper. How often, Richard wondered, had he seen him make that gesture, dropping his eyeglass and vaguely smiling. Richard, still involved in the aftermath of his moment of truth, if that was its real nature, asked himself what he knew of Charles. How used he was to that even courtesy, that disengagement! What of Charles in other places? What of the reputedly implacable man of affairs who had built his own fortune? Or of the lover Charles must have been five-and-twenty years ago? Impossible to imagine, Richard thought, looking vaguely at an empty niche in the wall.

He said: ‘Hallo! Where’s the T’ang Musician?’

‘Gone,’ Charles said.

‘Gone! Where? Not broken?’

‘Chipped. The peg of her lute. Gracefield did it, I think. I’ve given her to Maurice Warrender.’