Spinsters in Jeopardy

by Ngaio Marsh

  ‘I don’t think so. I’ve only seen Dr Baradi.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she said restlessly and added, ‘you wouldn’t know, of course. I mean Oberon, our Teacher, your know. That’s our name for him – Ra. Are you interested in The Truth?’

  Troy was too addled with unseasonable sleep and a surfeit of anxiety to hear the capital letters. ‘I really don’t know,’ she stammered. ‘In the truth – ?’

  ‘Poor sweet, I’m muddling you.’ She sat up. Troy had a painter’s attitude towards the nude but the aspect of this lady, so wildly and so unpleasingly displayed, was distressing, and doubly so because Troy couldn’t escape the impression that the lady herself was far from unselfconscious. Indeed she kept making tentative clutches at her scarf and looking at Troy as if she felt she ought to apologize for herself. In her embarrassment Troy turned away and looked vaguely at the tower wall which rose above the roof-garden not far from where she sat. It was pierced at ascending intervals by narrow slits. Troy’s eyes, glazed with fatigue, stared in aimless fixation at the third slit from the floor level. She listened to a strange exposition on The Truth as understood and venerated by the guests of Mr Oberon.

  ‘… just a tiny group of Seekers … Children of the Sun in the Outer … Evil exists only in the minds of the earth-bound … goodness is oneness … the great Dark co-exists with the great Light …’ The phrases disjointed and eked out by ineloquent and uncoordinated gestures, tripped each other up by the heels. Clichés and aphorisms were tumbled together from the most unlikely sources. One must live dangerously, it appeared, in order to attain merit. Only by encompassing the gamut of earthly experience could one return to the oneness of universal good. One ascended through countless ages by something which the disciple, corkscrewing an unsteady finger in illustration, called the mystic navel spiral. It all sounded the most dreadful nonsense to poor Troy but she listened politely and, because her companion so clearly expected them, tried to ask one or two intelligent questions. This was a mistake. The lady, squinting earnestly up at her, said abruptly: ‘You’re fey, of course. But you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Indeed, I don’t.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she persisted, nodding like a mandarin. ‘Unawakened perhaps, but it’s there, oh! so richly. Fey as fey can be.’

  She yawned again with the same unnatural exaggeration and twisted round to look at the door into the tower.

  ‘He won’t be long appearing,’ she whispered. ‘It isn’t as if he ever touched anything and he’s always up for the rites of Ushas. What’s the time?’

  ‘Just after ten,’ said Troy, astonished that it was no later. Ricky, she thought, would sleep for at least another hour, perhaps for two hours. She tried to remember if she had ever heard how long an appendicectomy took to perform. She tried to console herself with the thought that there must be a limit to this vigil, that she would not have to listen forever to Grizel Locke’s esoteric small-talk, that somewhere down at the Hôtel Royal in Roqueville there was a tiled bathroom and a cool bed, that perhaps Miss Locke would go in search of whoever it was she seemed to await with such impatience and finally that she herself might, if left alone, sleep away the remainder of this muddled and distressing interlude.

  It was at this juncture that something moved behind the slit in the tower wall. Something that tweaked at her attention. She had an impression of hair or fur and thought at first that it was an animal, perhaps a cat. It moved again and was gone but not before she recognized a human head. She came to the disagreeable conclusion that someone had stood at the slit and listened to their conversation. At that moment she heard steps inside the tower. The door moved.

  ‘Someone’s coming!’ she cried out in warning. Her companion gave an ejaculation of relief but made no attempt to resume her garment. ‘Miss Locke! Do look out!’

  ‘What? Oh! Oh, all right. Only, do call me Sati.’ She picked up the square of printed silk. Perhaps, Troy thought, there was something in her own face that awakened in Miss Locke a dormant regard for the conventions. She blushed and began clumsily to knot the scarf behind her.

  But Troy’s gaze was upon the man who had come through the tower door on to the roof-garden and was walking towards them. The confusion of spirit that had irked her throughout the morning clarified into one recognizable emotion.

  She was frightened.

  II

  Troy would have been unable to say at that moment why she was afraid of Mr Oberon. There was nothing in his appearance, one would have thought, to inspire fear. Rather, he had, at first sight, a look of mildness.

  Beards, in general, are not rare nowadays though beards like his are perhaps unusual. It was blond, sparse and silky and divided at the chin, which was almost bare. The moustache was a mere shadow at the corners of his mouth which was fresh in colour. The nose was straight and delicate and the light eyes abnormally large. His hair was parted in the middle and so long that it overhung the collar of his gown. This, and a sort of fragility in the general structure of his head, gave him an air of effeminacy. What was startling and to Troy quite shocking, was the resemblance to Roman Catholic devotional prints such as the ‘Sacred Heart.’ She was to learn that this resemblance was deliberately cultivated. He wore a white dressing-gown to which his extraordinary appearance gave the air of a ceremonial robe.

  It seemed incredible that such a being could make normal conversation. Troy would not have been surprised if he had acknowledged the introduction in Sanskrit. However, be gave her his hand, which was small and well-formed, and a conventional greeting. He had a singularly musical voice, and spoke without any marked accent though Troy fancied she heard a faint American inflection. She said something about his kindness in offering harbourage to Miss Truebody. He smiled gently, sank on to an Algerian leather seat, drew his feet up under his gown and placed them, apparently, against his thighs. His hands fell softly to his lap.

  ‘You have brought,’ he said, ‘a gift of great price. We are grateful.’

  From the time they had confronted each other he had looked fully into Troy’s eyes and he continued to do so. It was not the half-unseeing attention of ordinary courtesy but an unswerving fixed regard. He seemed to blink less than most people.

  His disciple said: ‘Dearest Ra, I’ve got the most monstrous headache.’

  ‘It will pass,’ he said, still looking at Troy. ‘You know what you should do, dear Sati.’

  ‘Yes, I do, don’t I! But it’s so hard sometimes to feel the light. One gropes and gropes.’

  ‘Patience, dear Sati. It will come.’

  She sat up on her Li-lo, seized her ankles and with a grunt of discomfort adjusted the soles of her feet to the inside surface of her thighs. ‘Om,’ she said discontentedly.

  Mr Oberon said to Troy: ‘We speak of things that are a little strange to you. Or perhaps they are not altogether strange.’

  ‘Just what I thought.’ The lady began eagerly. ‘Isn’t she fey?’

  He disregarded her.

  ‘Should I explain that we – my guests here and I – follow what we believe to be the true Way of Life? Perhaps, up here, in this ancient house, we have created an atmosphere that to a visitor is a little overwhelming. Do you feel it so?’

  Troy said: ‘I’m afraid I’m just rather addled with a long journey, not much sleep and an anxious time with Miss Truebody.’

  ‘I have been helping her. And, I hope, our friend Baradi.’

  ‘Have you?’ Troy exclaimed in great surprise. ‘I thought … but how kind of you … is … is the operation going well?’

  He smiled, showing perfect teeth. ‘Again, I do not make myself clear. I have been with them, not in the body but in the spirit.’

  ‘Oh,’ mumbled Troy. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Particularly with your friend. This was easy because when by the will, or, as with her, by the agency of an anaesthetic, the soul is set free of the body, it may be greatly helped. Hers is a pure soul. She should be called Miss Truesoul instead of Miss Truebody.’ He la
ughed, a light breathy sound, and showed the pink interior of his mouth. ‘But we must not despise the body,’ he said, apparently as an afterthought.

  His disciple whispered: ‘Oh no! No, indeed! No,’ and started to breathe deeply, stopping one nostril with a finger and expelling her breath with a hissing sound. Troy began to wonder if she was, perhaps, a little mad.

  Oberon had shifted his gaze from Troy. His eyes were still very wide open and quite without expression. He had seen the sleeping Ricky.

  It was with the greatest difficulty that Troy gave her movement towards Ricky a semblance of casualness. Her instinct, she afterwards told Alleyn, was entirely that of a mother-cat. She leant over her small son and made a pretence of adjusting the cushion behind him. She heard Oberon say: ‘A beautiful child,’ and thought that no matter how odd it might look, she would stand between Ricky and his eyes until something else diverted their gaze. But Ricky himself stirred a little, flinging out his arm. She moved him over with his face away from Oberon. He murmured: ‘Mummy?’ and she answered: ‘Yes,’ and kept her hand on him until he had fallen back to sleep.

  She turned and looked past the ridiculous back of the deep-breathing disciple to the figure in the glare of the sun, and, being a painter, she recognized, in the midst of her alarm a remarkable object. At the same time it seemed to her that Oberon and she acknowledged each other as enemies.

  This engagement, if it was one, was broken off by the appearance of two more of Mr Oberon’s guests: a tall girl and a lame young man who were introduced as Ginny Taylor and Robin Herrington. Both their names were familiar to Troy, the girl’s as that of a regular sacrifice on the altars of the glossy weeklies and the man’s as that of the reputably wildish son of a famous brewer who was also an indefatigable patron of the fine arts. To Troy their comparative normality was as a freshening breeze and she was ready to overlook the shadows under their eyes and their air of unease. They greeted her politely, lowered their voices when they saw Ricky and sat together on one seat, screening him from Mr Oberon. Troy returned to her former place.

  Mr Oberon was talking. It seemed that he had bought a book in Paris, a newly-discovered manuscript, one of those assembled by Roger de Gaignières. Troy knew that he must have paid a fabulous sum for it and, in spite of herself, listened eagerly to a description of the illuminations. He went on to speak of other works; of the calendar of Charles d’Angoulême, of Indian art, and finally of the moderns – Rouault, Picasso and André Derain. ‘But, of course, André is not a modern. He derives quite blatantly from Rubens. Ask Carbury, when he comes, if I am not right.’

  Troy’s nerves jumped. Could he mean Carbury Glande, a painter whom she knew perfectly well who would certainly, if he appeared, greet her with feverish effusiveness? Mr Oberon no longer looked at her or at anyone in particular, yet she had the feeling that he talked at her and he was talking very well. Yes, here was a description of one of Glande’s works. ‘He painted it yesterday from the Saracens’ Watchtower: the favourite interplay of lemon and lacquer-red with a single note of magenta, and everything arranged about a central point. The esoteric significance was eloquent and the whole thing quite beautiful.’ It was undoubtedly Carbury Glande. Surely, surely, the operation must be over and if so, why didn’t Alleyn come and take them away? She tried to remember if Carbury Glande knew she was married to a policeman.

  Ginny Taylor said: ‘I wish I knew about Carbury. I can’t get anything from his works. I can only say awful philistinish things such as they look as if they were too easy to do.’ She glanced in a friendly manner at Troy. ‘Do you know about modern art?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m always ready to learn,’ Troy hedged with a dexterity born of fright.

  ‘I shall never learn however much I try,’ sighed Ginny Taylor and suddenly yawned.

  The jaws of everyone except Mr Oberon quivered responsively.

  ‘Lord, I’m sorry,’ said Ginny and for some unaccountable reason looked frightened. Robin Herrington touched her hand with the tip of his fingers. ‘I wonder why they’re so infectious,’ he said. ‘Sneezes, coughs and yawns. Yawns worst of all. To read about them’s enough to set one going.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Mr Oberon suggested, ‘it’s another piece of evidence, if a homely one, that separateness is an illusion. Our bodies as well as our souls have reflex actions.’ And while Troy was still wondering what on earth this might mean his Sati gave a little yelp of agreement.

  ‘True! True!’ she cried. She dived, stretched out with her right arm and grasped her toes. At the same time she wound her left arm behind her head and seized her right ear. Having achieved this unlikely posture, she gazed devotedly upon Mr Oberon. ‘Is it all right, dearest Ra,’ she asked, ‘for me to press quietly on with my Prana and Pranayama?’

  ‘It is well at all times, dear Sati, if the spirit also is attuned.’

  Troy couldn’t resist stealing a glance at Ginny Taylor and Robin Herrington. Was it possible that they found nothing to marvel at in these antics? Ginny was looking doubtfully at Sati and young Herrington was looking at Ginny as if, Troy thought with relief, he invited her to be amused with him.

  ‘Ginny?’ Mr Oberon said quietly.

  The beginning of a smile died on Ginny’s lips. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘Yes, Ra?’

  ‘Have you formed a design for today?’

  ‘No. At least … this afternoon …’

  ‘I thought, if it suited general arrangements,’ Robin Herrington said, ‘that I might ask Ginny to come into Douceville this afternoon. I want her to tell me what colour I should have for new awnings on the afterdeck.’

  But Ginny had got up and walked past Troy to Mr Oberon. She stood before him white-faced with the dark marks showing under her eyes.

  ‘Are you going, then, to Douceville?’ he asked. ‘You look a little pale, my child. We were so late with our gaities last night. Should you rest this afternoon?’

  He was looking at her as he had looked at Troy.

  ‘I think perhaps I should,’ she said in a flat voice.

  ‘I, too. The colour of the awnings can wait until the colour of the cheeks is restored. Perhaps Annabella would enjoy a drive to Douceville. Annabella Wells,’ he explained to Troy, ‘is with us. Her latest picture is completed and she is to make a film for Durant Frères in the spring.’

  Troy was not much interested in the presence of a notoriously erratic, if brilliant actress. She had been watching young Herrington, whose brows were drawn together in a scowl. He got up and stood behind Ginny looking at Oberon over the top of her head. His hands closed and he thrust them into his pockets.

  ‘I thought a drive might be a good idea for Ginny,’ he said.

  But Ginny had sunk down on the end of the Li-lo at Mr Oberon’s feet. She settled herself there quietly, with an air of obedience. Mr Oberon said to Troy: ‘Robin has a most wonderful yacht. You must ask him to show it to you.’ He put his hand on Ginny’s head.

  ‘I should be delighted,’ said Robin and sounded furious. He had turned aside and now added in a loud voice: ‘Why not this afternoon? I still think Ginny should come to Douceville.’

  Troy knew that something had happened that was unusual between Mr Oberon and his guests and that Robin Herrington was frightened as well as angry. She wanted to give him courage. Her heart thumped against her ribs.

  In the dead silence they all heard someone come quickly up the stone stairway. When Alleyn opened the door their heads were already turned towards him.

  III

  He waited for a moment to accustom his eyes to the glare and during that moment he and the five people whose faces were turned towards him were motionless.

  One grows scarcely to see one’s lifelong companions and it is more difficult to call up the face of one’s beloved than that of a mere acquaintance. Troy had never been able to make a memory-drawing of her husband. Yet, at that moment, it was as if a veil of familiarity was withdrawn and she looked at him with fresh perception.

  She
thought: ‘I’ve never been gladder to see him.’

  ‘This is my husband,’ she said.

  Mr Oberon had risen and came forward. He was five inches shorter than Alleyn. For the first time Troy thought him ridiculous as well as disgusting.

  He held out his hand. ‘We’re so glad to meet you at last. The news is good?’

  ‘Dr Baradi will be able to tell you better than I,’ Alleyn said. ‘Her condition was pretty bad. He says she will be very ill.’

  ‘We shall all help her,’ Mr Oberon said, indicating the antic Sati, the bemused Ginny Taylor and the angry-looking Robin Herrington. ‘We can do so much.’

  He put his hand on Alleyn’s arm and led him forward. The reek of ether accompanied them. Alleyn was introduced to the guests and offered a seat but he said: ‘If we may, I think perhaps I should see my wife and Ricky on their way back to Roqueville. Our driver is free now and can take them. He will come back for me. We’re expecting a rather urgent telephone call at our hotel.’

  Troy, who dreaded the appearance of Carbury Glande, knew Alleyn had said ‘my wife,’ because he didn’t want Oberon to learn her name. He had an air of authority that was in itself, she thought, almost a betrayal. She got up quickly and went to Ricky.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Alleyn said, ‘I should stay a little longer in case there’s any change in her condition. Baradi is going to telephone to St Christophe for a nurse and, in the meantime, two of your maids will take turns sitting in the room. I’m sure, sir, that if she were able, Miss Truebody would tell you how grateful she is for your hospitality.’

  ‘There is no need. She is with us in a very special sense. She is in safe hands. We must send a car for the nurse. There is no train until the evening.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Robin Herrington said. ‘I’ll be there in an hour.’

  ‘Robin,’ Oberon explained lightly, ‘has driven in the Monte Carlo rally. We must hope that the nurse has iron nerves.’

  Alleyn said to Robin: ‘It sounds an admirable idea. Will you suggest it to Dr Baradi?’