Murder at the Masquerade Ball

by Margaret Addison

  An army of housemaids brought up specially from Sedgwick for the purpose were sent to each corner of the house, feather dusters and cloths in hands as they removed every last speck of dust. Everywhere the housekeeper looked there seemed to be a footman busy on some errand or other assigned to him by either Manning, the butler, or by the officious caterers.

  Of the family itself there was fortunately little sign. Keen not to hinder the work of their servants, they had very wisely sought refuge in the bedrooms on the second floor, even to the extent of taking their meals in Lavinia’s boudoir. Here, at least, was some semblance of peace and inactivity as the frantic action of the house took place over the three floors below. Even so, the odd raised voice, clatter of dishes or scraping of furniture as it was moved unceremoniously reached their ears and after a time of self-imposed exile they retired to the Green Park to enjoy a gentle stroll among the trees.

  To Rose, who was not used to keeping late hours at Sedgwick Court, it seemed rather odd that the ball should not commence until ten o’clock in the evening, a time when she might reasonably have expected to be preparing for bed. She understood from Lavinia that such a time was quite fashionable in London and that, indeed, some balls did not begin until eleven o’clock. Moreover, despite the elaborate preparations for the buffet and sit-down supper, guests frequently attended other dinner and cocktail parties beforehand and might only come to the masquerade ball for a short time before going on to other balls. Personally, Rose thought it highly unlikely that their guests would consider doing anything of the sort given the outrageous nature of their costumes. The idea that any person in Georgian attire, complete with heavily powdered face, and wig, and wearing a mask, should contemplate attending a cocktail party or going on to another ball while exhibiting such a disguise, brought a smile to her lips.

  ‘Of course,’ said Lavinia, as if reading her thoughts, ‘I desperately hope most will choose to remain until the end of the ball when they’ll be able to remove their masks and discover who they have been talking to and dancing with all evening. I am even giving a prize for the best disguise.’ She giggled suddenly. ‘Priscilla was telling me just the other day that at one masked ball she attended, she spent the whole evening dancing in the company of a chap whom she found absolutely charming and captivating, only to discover when he removed his mask that his face resembled a wrinkled old prune and he was heaps older than her. I can’t tell you how upset she was; she was quite certain she’d found the ideal husband. Not,’ she added, ‘that I should make the same mistake. One can usually tell the age of a man by his voice, don’t you agree? And handsome men always sound handsome, if you know what I mean?’

  Of one thing Rose was particularly grateful. Lavinia was quite adamant that no one should be able to tell one person from another, including the identity of their host and hostess. She would not, therefore, be required to stand at the head of the grand staircase to receive the guests as she had originally feared.

  Lavinia looked appraisingly at Rose’s figure. ‘The style of your dress disguises your stomach perfectly. But if you greet the guests as they arrive they will know who you are. And besides,’ her sister-in-law had explained not unreasonably, ‘if you receive them they will feel obliged to give you their names. I daresay they won’t mean to, but they will do it almost without thinking, which will simply ruin everything.’

  The day dragged on. An early supper was served, after which the two girls retired to their rooms to prepare for the ball. Due to the simple nature of her costume, it did not take Rose very long to get ready. Her lady’s maid, Edna, wrapped long strands of her hair tightly around strips of paper. When the time came to unfasten them, Rose was delighted to find that these strands had become a mass of dark curls and ringlets, which hung rather becomingly in front of her ears, framing her face. The remainder of her hair was tied back into a loose bun, which Edna decorated with small sprigs of miniature cream roses.

  ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am, miss, that you don’t want nothing fancy,’ Edna had remarked, standing back to admire her handiwork. ‘Awful elegant you look, if I say so myself. I don’t think you need no pearls in your hair. There’s nothing as pretty as rosebuds in my mind. They’ll look lovely with your embroidered taffeta frock; almost the same colour, they are.’ She took a step forward and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I don’t mean to speak out of turn, miss, but Miss Denning is having an awful job with Lady Lavinia’s wig, so she is. It wouldn’t be so bad if her ladyship didn’t want all those things fastened to it. The ribbons are all right, but those pieces of waxed fruit are awful heavy. They weigh the wig down, you see, and make it sit at a slant. Ever so cross her ladyship is with Miss Denning, though I don’t see how it’s Eliza’s fault if she can’t get the wig to sit straight, laden as it is. Lady Lavinia, she keeps saying how, if the Duchess of Devonshire could wear little model ships in her wig, Eliza ought to be able to fasten a bit of fruit without making it go all awry.’

  Rose, who could well imagine the scene, stifled a grin. Feeling that she should at least try to help the beleaguered lady’s maid, she made her way to Lavinia’s boudoir. There she found her friend remonstrating loudly with her maid.

  ‘It’s leaning to the left, Eliza; surely you can see that it is? Really, I think you must be quite blind, if you can’t. No, don’t remove that piece of fruit; it will look dreadfully lopsided if you do.’

  Rose caught the unfortunate lady’s maid’s eye and raised her eyebrows in sympathy.

  ‘If I were you, Lavinia,’ she said, addressing her friend who was, as always, staring at her own reflection in the looking glass, ‘I’d forget all about the waxed fruit. For one thing,’ Rose continued, as Lavinia made to demur, ‘it looks quite hideous and for another, I can’t possibly imagine any man wishing to dance with you when in all probability he would be hit on the head by a piece of wayward lemon. You’d do much better to stick with the ribbons and artificial flowers.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ said Lavinia, who obviously thought there was some wisdom to the suggestion, ‘but I simply can’t, even if I wanted to. You see, I promised –’

  The girl stopped abruptly, her face reddening noticeably despite its thick covering of white powder. Rose stared at her curiously while Lavinia averted her gaze and became engrossed with counting the pieces of wax fruit laid out on the dressing table in front of her.

  ‘I do wish,’ said Rose slowly, addressing her friend’s reflection, ‘that you would tell me what you are up to.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ exclaimed Daniel, leaping up from the chair in which he had been sitting, ‘are you going to the ball dressed like that?’ If I’d known you’d be wearing such an outfit, I’d have given a bit more thought to my own.’

  With that, he looked rather disparagingly down at his own clothes.

  ‘I daresay most of the men will be wearing evening dress,’ Priscilla muttered quickly.

  She patted her wig self-consciously with nervous fingers. Even to her own eyes her outfit bordered on the ludicrous and she laughed; a false, high sound that rattled in her ears. She took a deep breath. It didn’t do to appear nervous or apprehensive, not in front of Daniel who had a habit of noticing such things. Today of all days she had no wish to give him cause to study her more closely; much better if he did not realise she was trembling, that her face was unnaturally pale beneath its ridiculous make-up.

  ‘Well,’ said her brother, ‘at least I have this.’ He produced a tricorn hat made of felt trimmed with fur and a large ostrich feather which he proceeded to put on his head, only to remove again to give a sweeping bow.

  ‘Daniel …’ began Priscilla and then stopped. She did not do so sharply or abruptly, but rather falteringly. It was almost as if she had run out of words, or perhaps they had dissolved on her lips. They should be on the tip of her tongue, but they weren’t. She thought she had memorised them to perfection but, when it came to it, she hadn’t. Her eyes filled with tears, more in frustration than any
thing else. She had been rehearsing what she meant to say to him all afternoon, as she had sat making up her face. But, now that the moment had come to utter them, they were quite forgotten. When she had been applying powder, with only half her mind on the words, they had sounded quite reasonable. But in the time it had taken to walk down the stairs, cross the hall and enter the sitting room, she had felt less certain they would suffice. For it was all very well to murmur words to one’s amenable reflection, but quite another thing entirely to say them aloud to a person who was almost certain to react to them in a negative fashion.

  In the end, she spoke bluntly because really there was nothing else she could do.

  ‘Daniel, I … I don’t think you should go to the ball.’ Out of the corner of her eye, she was conscious that her brother scowled. She carried on before she lost her nerve, thankful for the mask that hid her pained expression. ‘In fact, I’d much rather you didn’t.’ She held up her hand as he made to protest. ‘It’s not that I’m ashamed of you, or anything like that; you needn’t think it is. It’s … it’s just that I don’t think it would be a very good idea, that’s all,’ she finished rather lamely.

  ‘Well, I happen to think it’s a marvellous idea,’ Daniel said testily.

  ‘Daniel –’

  ‘I suppose you don’t think I deserve to enjoy myself?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You didn’t need to.’

  ‘Daniel –’

  He sank down on to the chair and said bitterly, his head in his hands: ‘You have no idea what it does to a fellow having to look constantly over his shoulder. It’s no way to live, I can tell you.’

  There were a few minutes of unbearable silence. He raised his head and, when he spoke again, it was more softly with a pleading note in his voice.

  ‘I wanted a few hours of fun, that’s all. The chance to dance with some pretty girls and eat some decent food for a change. Surely that’s not too much to ask, is it?’

  ‘No, of course not. I … I don’t want you to be tempted to do anything foolish, that’s all.’

  ‘Foolish?’ he sounded surprised. ‘At the ball? What had you in mind? He gave a bitter chuckle. ‘I say, don’t tell me you’re afraid I’ll drink too much champagne and propose to a girl?’

  Priscilla did not answer immediately, aware that she must choose her words with care. She wondered whether she should mention the newspaper, remind her brother of the interest he had displayed in the jewel thief’s activities. She remembered his exact words, for they still echoed in her mind. ‘It’s not really in my line, of course,’ he had said, ‘but it does rather give a man ideas.’

  However, when it came to it, she could not bring herself to put her fears into words. Instead she had said rather feebly: ‘I don’t want you to be tempted to gamble, that’s all.’

  ‘Is there to be gambling at the ball?’ Her brother sounded both surprised and mildly interested.

  ‘There will be bridge. Tables are to be set up in the chaperones’ room.’

  ‘Bridge isn’t really in my line,’ her brother said dismissively, ‘and even if it were, I’ve no wish to be confined in a room with a lot of old biddies. Besides, there’s not much money to be made, even were I any good at the game. The stakes are too low for one thing and, for another, at the end of the evening the old dears are likely to discover they’ve forgotten their purses. Not much money to be made there.’

  Priscilla turned aside. How vulgar it was for her brother to talk in such a way. She had known that he had a ruthless streak to his nature, that on occasion he was inclined to view the world only in terms of how it might benefit him. The fact that his debts were now so numerous as to be disastrous, that they hung over his head like the Sword of Damocles, merely accentuated this side of his character.

  The episode had the effect of strengthening her own resolve. That afternoon she had felt certain that she lacked the necessary mettle to undertake a task that was far from savoury. Now, looking at her brother slumped in his chair, it occurred to her that she really did not have any choice. One of them at least must show some courage; it might as well be her.

  Raymond Franklin sat in the taxicab next to his companion and inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t been at all certain that his wife would come to the ball. In fact, he had thought it very likely that she wouldn’t. He had been in a fit of agitation while he had waited for her in the hall, fully expecting Miss Crabbe to appear and announce that her mistress had a headache and would not be accompanying him. It would be just the sort of thing Iris would do, and after he had gone to the expense and trouble of purchasing such elaborate costumes, too.

  He had therefore been somewhat taken aback when Iris had descended the staircase wearing the lavish eighteenth century gown he had chosen for her. It was, he reflected, a very arresting shade of blue, mirrored by the colour of his own waistcoat and breeches. His eyes were instantly drawn to the Florentine paper mask with its gold trimming and little fan attached to one side, which hid his wife’s expression from view so that he could not tell what was passing through her mind.

  It struck him as a pity that the overall pleasing effect of the outfit had been marred slightly by the choice of wig, which he had left to Miss Crabbe’s discretion. The iron grey colour, which admittedly complemented the bright blue of the fabric and mask, was too severe for Iris’ pale complexion, which had been further accentuated by the liberal use of white face powder giving the face something of a ghostly hue. Even the mouth looked artificial in the electric light. The lips had been overdrawn to resemble a cupid’s bow and painted a garish scarlet colour. The result was quite at odds with Iris’ natural appearance of thin, pale lips and inherent good taste. So unsettled was he by the stark transformation, that the rather bizarre thought occurred to him that he was not looking at the face of his wife at all, but rather that of a china doll.

  The impression of staring at an inanimate object was not alleviated by the fact that Iris stood remarkably still and had not uttered a single word since she had joined him in the hall. That she was vexed and resentful, he did not doubt, nor that she meant to punish him with her stubborn silence. When he had greeted her she had given him the vaguest of nods, appearing more interested in examining her fan than in addressing her husband, a fact not lost on Miss Crabbe, who had set about straightening her mistress’ gown in a rather obvious attempt to disguise any awkward silence from developing between the two.

  The lady’s maid had watched them as they left. Raymond had felt her eyes on him, trailing them all the way to the cab. When he had chanced to look back, he had inadvertently caught Miss Crabbe’s eye. He found it difficult to read the woman’s expression. He thought it was possibly a strange mix of anxiety and grudging admiration, but of whom he did not know. The effect had been to make him feel a little foolish in his disguise. Certainly, as he had emerged into the London square, he wished he had not chosen breeches and waistcoat of such a vivid colour.

  ‘Well, she’s got guts, I’ll say that for her,’ remarked Miss Crabbe to no one in particular. ‘But it don’t do to play with fire, not when a man’s got a temper.’ She wrung her hands. ‘Still, there’s nothing to be done about it now because she won’t be told. And I should know, because no one can say as how I haven’t tried.’

  Chapter Nine

  Rose looked about her with considerable interest. It was barely an hour since the masquerade ball had begun and already it was in full swing. The guests had seemed to arrive all together, huddled before the front door to Kingsley House, waiting for it to be opened. Unmistakeable notes of excitement and anticipation had filled the air in equal measure as the guests clutched their invitations, each eager not to miss a minute of the festivities. The queues had spilled out over the pavement and on to the road, the effect being to hinder the departure of the very vehicles that had brought them.

  Rose had stood inconspicuously in the shadows of the great entrance hall, watching as the guests entered, catching odd snippet
s of their animated conversations and expressions of wonderment at each other’s costumes. In between the noise and the chatter the melodic notes of Strauss’ Viennese Waltz had reached her ears, drifting down to her from the floor above where the band was playing with obvious skill and enthusiasm.

  The entrance hall had been transformed almost beyond recognition. With its elaborate floral displays it no longer appeared a sparsely furnished room. Instead, its pale ivory walls provided a stark contrast, and perfect backdrop, to the brightly coloured, ostentatious outfits of the people who populated it. The hall had, however, retained something of its likeness to a peripheral room, which added to the impression that it was little more than a vast stage on which the guests might parade as if they were marionettes. Indeed, as many wore Georgian themed outfits and gowns, Rose had the odd impression that she was watching a tableau or dramatization of a children’s fairy tale. Charles Perrault’s Cinderella, or Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve’s Beauty and the Beast sprang readily to mind.

  The effect was spoilt slightly by the masks, which gave a vaguely sinister air to the proceedings. Though the women generally wore delicate black satin or lace filigree ones, the men wore more substantial masks of a greater variety. These ranged from the simple highwayman style to the half-face joker and jester masks, the latter including three-pointed headdresses, similar to those worn by jesters in the Medieval courts, complete with pearls and little silver bells which rattled softly with the wearer’s every movement. Some of the men wore long-nosed, beaked masks, like Cedric’s, the length of the noses varying in dimension depending on the daring of the wearer. One or two guests even wore the traditional Bauta mask, with its blunt, square lines and resolute jaw-line.

  ‘What a pity Count Fernand isn’t here,’ muttered a voice in Rose’s ear. ‘This would have been right in his line; he’d have fitted in a treat.’