by Ngaio Marsh
Roberta found herself shaking hands with an extremely odd couple. The Marquis of Wutherwood and Rune was sixty years of age but these years sat heavily upon him and he looked like an old man. His narrow head, sunken between high shoulders, poked forward with an air that was at once mean and aggressive. His face was colourless. The bridge of his nose was so narrow that his eyes appeared to be impossibly close-set. His mouth drooped querulously and the length of his chin, though prodigious, was singularly unexpressive of anything but obstinacy. His upper teeth projected over his under lip and hinted at a high and a narrow palate. These teeth gave him an unpleasingly feminine appearance increased by his chilly old-maidish manner, which suggested that he lived in a state of perpetual offence. Roberta found herself wondering if he could possibly be as disagreeable as he looked.
His wife was about fifty years of age. She was dark, extremely sallow, and fat. There was a musty falseness about the dank hair which she wore over her ears in sibylline coils. She painted her face, but with such inattention to detail that Roberta was reminded of a cheap print in which the colours had slipped to one side, showing the original structure of the drawing underneath. She had curious eyes, very pale, with tiny pupils, and muddy whites. They were so abnormally sunken that they seemed to reflect no light and this gave them a veiled appearance which Roberta found disconcerting, and oddly repellent. Her face had once been round but like her make-up it had slipped and now hung in folds and pockets about her lips, which were dragged down at the corners. Roberta saw that Lady Wutherwood had a trick of parting and closing her lips. It was a very slight movement but she did it continually with a faint click of sound. And in the corners of her lips there was a kind of whiteness that moved when they moved. “Henry is right,” thought Roberta. “She is disgusting.”
Lord Wutherwood greeted the Lampreys without much show of cordiality. When he saw Lady Katherine Lobe his attitude stiffened still further. He turned to his brother and in a muffled voice said: “We’re in a hurry, Charles.”
“Oh,” said Lord Charles. “Are you? Oh—well—”
“Are you?” Charlot repeated. “Not too much of a hurry, I hope, Gabriel. We never see anything of you.”
“You never come to Deepacres when we ask you, Imogen.”
“I know. We’d adore to come, especially the children, but you know it’s so frightfully expensive to travel, even in England. You see we can’t all get into one car—”
“The fare, third-class return, is within the reach of most people.”
“Miles beyond us, I’m afraid,” said Charlot with a charming air of ruefulness. “We’re cutting down everything. We never budge from where we are.”
Lord Wutherwood turned to Henry.
“Enjoy your trip to the Côte d’Azur?” he asked. “Saw your photograph in one of these papers. In my day we didn’t strip ourselves naked and wallow in front of press photographers but I suppose you like that sort of thing.”
“Enormously, sir,” said Henry coldly.
There was a slight pause. Roberta felt uncomfortably that Charlot’s plan should be amended and that they should leave the field to Lord Charles. She wondered if she herself should slip out of the room. Her thoughts must have appeared in her face for Henry caught her eye, smiled, and shook his head. The Wutherwoods were now seated side-by-side on the sofa. Baskett came in with the sherry.
“Ah, sherry,” said Lord Charles. Henry began to pour it out. Charlot made desperate efforts with her brother-in-law. Lady Katherine leant forward in her chair and addressed Lady Wutherwood.
“Well, Violet,” she said, “I hear you have taken up conjuring.”
“You couldn’t be more mistaken,” said Lady Wutherwood in a deep voice. She spoke with a very slight accent, slurring her words together. After each phrase she rearranged her mouth with those clicking movements and stealthily touched away the white discs at the corners, but in a little while they reformed.
“Aunty Kit,” cried Frid, “will you have some sherry? Aunt Violet?”
“No thank you, my dear,” said Lady Katherine.
“Yes,” said Lady Wutherwood.
“You’d better not, V.,” said Lord Wutherwood. “You know what’ll happen.”
Mike walked to the end of the sofa and stared fixedly at his aunt. Lord Charles turned to his brother with an air of cordiality. “It’s a sherry that I think you rather like, Gabriel, don’t you?” he said. “Corregio del Martez, ’79.”
“If you can afford a sherry like that—” began Lord Wutherwood. Henry hurriedly placed a glass at his elbow.
“Aunt Violet,” asked Mike suddenly, “can you do the rope trick? I bet you can’t. I bet you can’t do that and I bet you can’t saw a lady in half.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Mike,” said Patch.
“Mikey,” said his mother, “run and find Baskett, darling, and ask him to take care of Uncle Gabriel’s chauffeur. I suppose he’s there, isn’t he, Gabriel?”
“He’ll do very well in the car. Your aunt’s maid is there, too. Your aunt insists on cartin’ her about with us. I strongly object, of course, but that makes no difference. She’s a nasty type.”
Lady Wutherwood laughed rather madly. Her husband turned on her. “You know what I mean, V.,” he said. “Tinkerton’s a bad lot. Put it bluntly, she’s damn well debauched my chauffeur. It’s been goin’ on under your nose for years.”
Charlot evidently decided that it would be better not to have heard this embarrassing parenthesis. “Of course they must come up,” she said cheerfully. “Nanny will adore to see Tinkerton. Mikey, ask Baskett to bring Tinkerton and Giggle up to the Servants’ sitting-room and give them a drink of tea or something. Ask politely, won’t you?”
“O.K.,” said Mike. He hopped on one foot and turned to look at Lady Wutherwood.
“Isn’t it pretty funny?” he asked. “Your chauffeur’s called Giggle and there’s a man in the kitchen called Grumble. He’s a—”
“Michael!” said Lord Charles. “Do as you’re told at once.”
Mike went out, followed unostentatiously by Stephen who shut the door behind him. Stephen returned in a few moments.
“I wish you’d tell me, Violet,” said Lady Katherine, “what it is you have taken up. One hears such extraordinary reports.”
“She’s dabblin’ in some damn-fool kind of occultism,” said Lord Wutherwood, turning pale with annoyance.
Roberta noticed that when he stopped speaking his upper teeth closed firmly on his under lip, causing his whole mouth to settle down at the corners in an expression of maddening complacency.
“Gabriel,” said his wife, “believes in what he sees. Nothing else. He thinks himself fortunate in that. He is not so fortunate as he supposes.”
“What the devil d’you mean?” demanded Lord Wutherwood. “Don’t look at me like that, V., I don’t like it. These friends of yours are makin’ a damned unpleasant woman of you. Of all the miserable footlin’ crew! What d’you think you’re doin’ huntin’ up a parcel of spooks? A lot of trickery. I’ve told you before, I’ve a damn good mind to speak to the police about the whole affair. If it wasn’t for draggin’ my name into it—”
“You had better be careful, Gabriel. It is not wise to sneer at the unseen.”
“The unseen what?” asked Lady Katherine who had caught this last phrase.
“The unseen forces.”
Lord Wutherwood made exasperated sounds and turned his back.
“What sort of forces?” persisted Lady Katherine against the combined mental opposition of the Lampreys.
“Do you seek,” asked Lady Wutherwood with a formidable air of contempt, “to learn in a few words the wisdom of all the ages? A lifetime is too short to reach full understanding.”
“Of what?”
“Esoteric Lore.”
“What’s that?”
Charlot suddenly made a bold dash into this strange conversation, and Roberta with something like terror saw that she had decided on the line she would ta
ke with her sister-in-law. Evidently it was to be a line of gentle banter. Charlot leant towards Lady Wutherwood and said gaily: “I’m as bewildered as Aunty Kit, Violet. Is esoteric lore the same as—what? Witchcraft? Don’t turn into a witch, darling.”
Lady Wutherwood stared at Charlot. “It’s a great mistake,” she said in her deep voice, “to laugh at necromancy, Imogen. There are more things in Heaven and earth—”
“I suppose there are, Violet, but I don’t want to meet them.”
“The church,” said Lady Katherine in her loudest whisper, “takes a firm stand in such matters. I imagine you know, Violet, that you are in danger of—”
The Lampreys all began to talk at once. They talked persistently, not raising their voices but overpowering their guests with a sort of gentle barrage. They seemed by tacit agreement to have split into two groups: Frid, Patch and their mother tackling Lord Wutherwood, while Henry and the twins concentrated on his wife. Lord Charles, nervously polishing his eye-glass, stood aside like a sort of inadequate referee. The scene now developed in accordance with the best traditions of polite drawing-room comedy. Roberta was irresistibly reminded of the play she had seen the previous night and, once possessed of this idea, it seemed to her that the Lampreys and their relations had begun to pitch their voices like actors and actresses and to use gestures that were a little larger than life. The scene was building towards some neat and effective climax. There was perhaps a superfluity of character parts and with Lady Katherine Lobe smiling and nodding in her corner the eccentric dowager was not lacking. Partly to dispel this idea and in the hope that she might be of some service to the cause, Roberta moved to Lady Katherine who, true to family form, instantly began to confide in her, saying that she had heard most disquieting news of Violet and asking Roberta if she thought the Lampreys would rather she went away as poor Charles must be given a free hand with Gabriel. All this was fortunately uttered in such a muffled aside that Roberta could hear no more than half of it. Lady Katherine was too insistent, however, for Roberta to divide her own attention and she had no idea of what went forward between the Lampreys and the Wutherwoods until she heard Frid say: “No, Uncle Gabriel, I shall be bitterly humiliated if you don’t ask us to do one for you.” Roberta saw that Lord Wutherwood looked slightly less disagreeable. Frid was presenting herself as a lovely and attentive niece.
“I’m so glad you agree with me,” whispered Lady Katherine. “There is no doubt at all, in my mind, of our duty to these poor things.” Roberta did not know if she spoke of the Lampreys, of ailing children, or of Jewish refugees, in all of whom she seemed to be passionately interested. Frid had refilled her uncle’s glass. Lady Wutherwood was droning interminably to Henry and the twins who appeared to be enraptured with the recital. Charlot suddenly broke up this comparatively peaceful picture by making the much-discussed announcement.
“Children,” she said gaily. “Frid’s been telling Uncle Gabriel about your charades. Do you think you could do a very quick rhyming charade now, for Aunt Violet and Aunt Kit and Uncle Gabriel? Don’t take ages deciding what to do; just do the first thing that comes into your heads. We’ll give you a word. Out you go.”
“Come on, Robin,” said Henry.
Robin, full of misgivings, followed the Lampreys into the hall.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mike Puts the Pot on It
“THIS IS A MISTAKE,” said Henry gloomily as soon as he had shut the door. “Obviously Uncle G.’s in a foul temper and we won’t improve it by cutting capers in front of him. I must say he’s a loathsome old man.”
“Well, let’s compromise,” said Frid. “We won’t do one about bums. Let’s do one about witchcraft. Uncle G. will like that because he’ll think it’s making nonsense of Aunt V. and Aunt V. will be interested if we do it well enough.”
“She’s quite m-mad, you know, poor thing,” said Stephen. “D-don’t you consider she’s mad, Colin?”
“Stark ravers,” said Colin. “Where’s Mike?”
“Talking to Giggle about toy trains, I think. He’s better out of this.”
“Let’s get going,” said Patch. “Mummy said we were to hurry.”
The door opened and Charlot looked out. “It’s to rhyme with ‘pale,’ ” she said loudly and then lowering her voice she hissed: “It’s ‘nail.’ Don’t do either of the other things. Too risky.” The door shut and Charlot called from the other side: “Hurry up!”
Frid made a helpless gesture. “Well, there you are,” she said. “No bums and no witches and the word is ‘nail.’ Evidently Mummy wants us to get it right at the first stab. What shall we do?”
“Bite our nails?” suggested Patch.
“Put a nail in Uncle G.’s coffin,” said Henry viciously.
“Nailing our colours to the mast?”
“I know,” said Frid. “We’ll do Jael and Sisera.”
“What did they d-do?” asked Stephen.
“Something with a nail. What was it, Robin?”
“Didn’t Jael hammer a nail through Sisera’s head?”
“That’s right,” said Colin. “Well, we can be clever and do wail and hail and Jael and nail all at once. A compound charade.”
The Lampreys threw open the door of their enormous hall cupboard and began to dress themselves up.
“I’ll be Jael,” said Frid, “and Henry can be Sisera and the twins guards and Robin a faithful slave.”
“What am I?” demanded Patch, putting on Lord Wutherwood’s bowler.
“Another faithful slave. Wait a moment.”
Frid ran down the passage towards the kitchen. Roberta could hear her shouting: “A skewer, Baskett, a skewer! We’re doing a charade. Quick!”
“Did Jael make love to Sisera,” asked Colin, “before he slew her?”
“Jael’s the female,” said Stephen.
“Oh. Give me that ghastly scarf, will you. Is it Uncle G.’s?”
“Yes. I want it for a loin cloth.”
“I’m going to be a Circassian slave,” said Patch.
“This is most frightfully bogus,” said Henry, taking two yachting caps out of the wardrobe. “I can’t tell you how much I object to cavorting in front of these repellent people. You could use yachting caps as breast-plates, Robin. There’s some string.”
“Thank you. Aren’t you going to dress up, Henry?”
Henry hung a pair of field-glasses round his neck. “I shall play it modern,” he muttered. “Colonel Sisera Blimp.” He drew a pair of fur-lined motoring gloves over his hands.
Frid came back with a long silver-plated skewer.
“Be careful how you muck about my head with that thing,” said Henry.
“I want a hammer.”
“Use your boot. Let’s get it over.”
“In you go, Robin and Patch. Take that rug and hold it like a tent. You too, twins. Say how beautiful I am,” ordered Frid, “and wonder if the day has been Sisera’s.”
Robin, Patch and the twins entered the drawing-room unnoticed. Their audience was sitting with its back to the door.
“We’ve begun,” said Patch loudly. “I wonder how the battle went. Dost thou know if the day is Sisera’s?”
“Nay,” said Stephen.
“Dost thou?”
“Nay,” said Colin.
“And thou?” continued Patch, irritably, to Robin.
“Nay, I wot not,” said Robin and she added hurriedly: “How beautiful Jael is!”
“She is like the new-blown moon,” agreed Patch.
“Lo,” said Colin, “here she comes.”
“How beautiful she is!” said Stephen.
Frid made an entrance. She had removed her stockings and shoes and had hitched her dress up with scarves. She carried the skewer in her sash and a shoe in her hand. She shut the door and leant against it in a dramatic manner.
“That’s my scarf,” said Lord Wutherwood. He turned his back on the charade and began talking in a low, querulous voice to his brother.
“I am awe
ary with watching,” said Frid. “Praise to Allah the day is ours. Ho, slaves!”
Patch and Robin threw themselves on their faces. The twins saluted.
“Lie down, O Jael,” said Colin abruptly.
Frid crawled into the tent. “I am aweary unto death,” she repeated.
“Here comes S-S-Sis-Sis—” began Stephen.
“Hist!” shouted Patch, coming to his rescue. “I hear footprints. Stand to!”
“Stand!” said the twins.
The door opened and Henry came in. He wore a solar topee and his gauntlet driving gloves. He had turned up his trousers to resemble shorts. He focussed his field-glasses on the audience and said: “An arid desert, by gad!”
“ ’Tis Sisera,” said Frid. “Lure him hither, slaves.”
Roberta and Patch made winning gestures. Henry watched them through his field-glasses. When they drew nearer he seized Roberta by the arm. “A damn fine girl, by gad,” he said.
“Come hither, O Sisera,” invited Roberta uneasily. “Come to yonder tent.”
Henry was led to the tent. Frid writhed on the carpet and extended her arms. “Do I behold the valiant Sisera?” she asked. “All hail O Captain.”
Henry was dragged down to the floor. A rather confused scene took place in the course of which Frid gave him a few lines from Titania’s speech to Bottom and he began to snore.
“Vengeance is mine,” observed Frid. “Quick, the nail.” She drew the skewer from her sash and hammered it into the carpet behind Henry’s head. Henry yelled, gurgled, and lay still.
“Wail,” muttered Frid. The twins, Patch and Roberta wailed loudly.
“That’s all,” said Frid. “Were we right? It was a compound charade.”
Charlot and Lady Katherine clapped their hands. Lord Wutherwood glanced at them with annoyance and resumed his conversation. Lady Wutherwood stared out of the window with lack-lustre eyes.
“And now tidy up the mess,” Charlot ordered. “I want to show Aunt Violet and Aunt Kit how we fitted into 26. Where’s Mike?”
