by Ngaio Marsh
‘Good-bye, Evelyn. Don’t worry too much—over anything.’
She gave him a startled look and went away. Lord Robert sat down again. The room was nearly full and in ten minutes the Sirmione Quartette would appear on the modern dais.
‘Is she waiting for the lights to go down?’ wondered Lord Robert. He saw Agatha Troy come in, tried to catch her eye, and failed. People were beginning to settle down in the rows of gilt chairs and in the odd armchairs and sofas round the walls. Lord Robert looked restlessly towards the door and saw Sir Daniel Davidson. Davidson made straight for him. Sir Daniel had once cured Lord Robert’s sister of indigestion and Mildred, who was an emotional woman, had asked him to dinner. Lord Robert had been amused and interested by Davidson. His technique as a fashionable doctor was superb. ‘If Disraeli had taken to medicine instead of primroses,’ Lord Robert had said, ‘he would have been just such another.’ And he had encouraged Davidson to launch out on his favourite subject, The Arts, with rather emphatic capitals. He had capped Davidson’s Latin tags, quoted Congreve against him, and listened with amusement to a preposterous parallel drawn between Rubens and Dürer. ‘The extrovert and the introvert of Art,’ Davidson had cried, waving his beautiful hands, and Lord Robert had twinkled and said: ‘You are talking above my head.’ ‘I’m talking nonsense,’ Davidson had replied abruptly, ‘and you know it.’ But in a minute or two he had been off again as flamboyantly as ever and had left at one o’clock in the morning, very pleased with himself and overflowing with phrases.
‘Ah!’ he said now as he shook hands. ‘I might have guessed I should find you here. Doing the fashionable thing for the unfashionable reason. Music! My God!’
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Lord Robert.
‘My dear Lord Robert, how many of these people will know what they are listening to, or even listen? Not one in fifty.’
‘Oh, come now!’
‘Not one in fifty! There goes that fellow Withers whose aesthetic appreciation is less than that of a monkey on a barrel-organ. What’s he here for? I repeat, not one in fifty of these humbugs knows what he’s listening to. And how many of the forty-nine have the courage to confess themselves honest philistines?’
‘Quite a number, I should have thought,’ said Lord Robert cheerfully. ‘Myself for one. I’m inclined to go to sleep.’
‘Now, why say that? You know perfectly well—What’s the matter?’
‘Sorry. I was looking at Evelyn Carrados. She looks damn seedy,’ said Lord Robert. Davidson followed his glance to where Lady Carrados sat beside Lady Alleyn. Davidson watched her for a moment and then said quietly:
‘Yes. She’s overdoing it. I shall have to scold her. My seat is somewhere over there, I believe.’ He made an impatient gesture. ‘They all overdo it, these mothers, and the girls overdo it, and the husbands get rattled and the young men neglect their work and then there are half a dozen smart weddings, as many nervous breakdowns and there’s your London season.’
‘Lor’!’ said Lord Robert mildly.
‘It’s the truth. In my job one sees it over and over again. Yes, yes, yes, I know! I am a smart West End doctor and I encourage all these women to fancy themselves ill. That’s what you may very well think, but I assure you, my dear Lord Robert, that one sees cases of nervous exhaustion that are enough to make a cynic of the youngest ingénue. And they are so charming, these mamas. I mean really charming. Women like Lady Carrados. They help each other so much. It is not all a cutlet for a cutlet. But’—he spread out his hands—‘what is it for? What is it all about? The same people meeting each other over and over again at great expense to the accompaniment of loud noises of jazz bands. For what?’
‘Damned if I know,’ said Lord Robert cheerfully. ‘Who’s that feller who came in behind Withers? Tall, dark feller with the extraordinary hands. I seem to know him.’
‘Where? Ah.’ Davidson picked up his glasses, which he wore on a wide black ribbon. ‘Who is it, now! I’ll tell you who it is. It’s the catering fellow, Dimitri. He’s having his three guineas’ worth of Bach with the haute monde and, by God, I’ll wager you anything you like that he’s got more appreciation in his extraordinary little finger—you are very observant, it is an odd hand—than most of them have in the whole of their pampered carcasses. How do you do, Mrs Halcut-Hackett?’
She had come up so quietly that Lord Robert had actually missed her. She looked magnificent. Davidson, to Lord Robert’s amusement, kissed her hand.
‘Have you come to worship?’ he asked.
‘Why, certainly,’ she said and turned to Lord Robert. ‘I see you have not forgotten.’
‘How could I?’
‘Now isn’t that nice?’ asked Mrs Halcut-Hackett, looking slantways at the blue sofa. Lord Robert moved aside and she at once sat down, spreading her furs.
‘I must find my seat,’ said Davidson. ‘They are going to begin.’
He went to a chair beside Lady Carrados on the far side of the room. Mrs Halcut-Hackett asked Lord Robert if he did not think Sir Daniel a delightful personality. He noticed that her American accent was not quite so strictly repressed as usual and that her hands moved restlessly. She motioned him to sit on her right.
‘If you don’t mind,’ he said, ‘I’ll stick to my chair. I like straight backs.’
He saw her glance nervously at his chair which was a little behind the left arm of the sofa. Her bag was on her lap. It was a large bag and looked well filled. She settled her furs again so that they fell across it. Lord Robert perched on his hideously uncomfortable chair. He noticed that Dimitri had sat down at the end of a row of seats close by. He found himself idly watching Dimitri. ‘Wonder what he thinks of us. Always arranging food for our parties and he could buy most of us up and not notice it, I shouldn’t mind betting. They are rum hands and no mistake. The little finger’s the same length as the third.’
A flutter of polite clapping broke out and the Sirmione String Quartette walked on to the dais. The concealed lights of the concert chamber were dimmed into darkness, leaving the performers brilliantly lit. Lord Robert experienced that familiar thrill that follows the glorious scrape of tuning strings. But he told himself he had not come to listen to music and he was careful not to look towards the dais lest his eyes should be blinded by the light. Instead he looked towards the left-hand arm of the blue sofa. The darkness gradually thinned and presently he could make out the dim sheen of brocade and the thick depth of blackness that was Mrs Halcut-Hackett’s furs. The shape of this blackness shifted. Something glinted. He bent forward. Closer than the exquisite pattern of the music he caught the sound made by one fabric rubbed against another, a sliding rustle. The outline of the mass that was Mrs Halcut-Hackett went tense and then relaxed. ‘She’s stowed it away,’ thought Lord Robert.
Nobody came near them until the lights went up for the interval and then Lord Robert realized how very well the blackmailer had chosen when he lit upon the blue sofa as a post-box, for the side door beyond it was thrown open during the interval and instead of going out into the lounge by the main entrance many people passed behind the blue sofa and out by this side door. And as the interval drew to a close people came in and stood behind the sofa gossiping. Lord Robert felt sure that his man had gone into the lounge. He would wait until the lights were lowered and come in with the rest of the stragglers, pass behind the sofa and slip his hand over the arm. Most of the men and many of the women had gone out to smoke, but Lord Robert remained uncomfortably wedded to his chair. He knew very well that Mrs Halcut-Hackett writhed under the pressure of conflicting desires. She wished to be alone when the bag was taken and she dearly loved a title. She was to have the title. Suddenly she murmured something about powdering her nose. She got up and left by the side door.
Lord Robert rested his head on his hand and devoted the last few minutes of the interval to a neat imitation of an elderly gentleman dropping off to sleep. The lights were lowered again. The stragglers, with mumbled apologies, came back. There was a
little group of people still standing in the darkness behind the sofa. The performers returned to the dais.
Someone had advanced from behind Lord Robert and stood beside the sofa.
Lord Robert felt his heart jump. He had placed his chair carefully, leaving a space between himself and the left-hand arm of the sofa. Into this space the shadowy figure now moved. It was a man. He stood with his back to the lighted dais and he seemed to lean forward a little as though he searched the darkness for something. Lord Robert also leant forward. He emitted the most delicate hint of a snore. His right hand propped his head. Through the cracks of his fat fingers he watched the left arm of the sofa. Into this small realm of twilight came the shape of a hand. It was a curiously thin hand and he could see quite clearly that the little finger was as long as the third.
Lord Robert snored.
The hand slid over into the darkness and when it came back it held Mrs Halcut-Hackett’s bag.
As if in ironic appreciation the music on the dais swept up a sharp crescendo into a triumphant blare. Mrs Halcut-Hackett returned from powdering her nose.
CHAPTER FIVE
Unqualified Success
THE BALL GIVEN by Lady Carrados for her daughter Bridget O’Brien was an unqualified success. That is to say that from half-past ten when Sir Herbert and Lady Carrados took up their stand at the head of the double staircase and shook hands with the first guests until half-past three the next morning when the band, white about the gills and faintly glistening, played the National Anthem, there was not a moment when it was not difficult for a young man to find the débutantes with whom he wished to dance and easy for him to avoid those by whom he was not attracted. There was no ominous aftermath when the guests began to slide away to other parties, to slip through the doors with the uncontrollable heartlessness of the unamused. The elaborate structure, built to pattern by Lady Carrados, Miss Harris and Dimitri, did not slide away like a sand-castle before a wave of unpopularity, but held up bravely till the end. It was, therefore, an unqualified success.
In the matter of champagne Lady Carrados and Miss Harris had triumphed. It flowed not only in the supper-room but also at the buffet. In spite of the undoubted fact that débutantes did not drink, Dimitri’s men opened two hundred bottles of Heidsieck ’28 that night, and Sir Herbert afterwards took a sort of well-bred pride in the rows of empty bottles he happened to see in a glimpse behind the scenes.
Outside the house it was unseasonably chilly. The mist made by the breathing of the watchers mingled with drifts of light fog. As the guests walked up the strip of red carpet from their cars to the great door they passed between two wavering masses of dim faces. And while the warmth and festive smell of flowers and expensive scents reached the noses of the watchers, through the great doors was driven the smell of mist so that footmen in the hall told each other from time to time that for June it was an uncommonly thickish night outside.
By midnight everybody knew the ball was a success and was able when an opportunity presented itself to say so to Lady Carrados. Leaving her post at the stairhead she came into the ballroom looking very beautiful and made her way towards the far end where most of the chaperones were assembled. On her way she passed her daughter dancing with Donald Potter. Bridget smiled brilliantly at her mother, and raised her left hand in gay salute. Her right hand was crushed against Donald’s chest and round the misty white nonsense of her dress was his black arm and his hard masculine hand was pressed against her ribs. ‘She’s in love with him,’ thought Lady Carrados. And up through the maze of troubled thoughts that kept her company came the remembrance of her conversation with Donald’s uncle. She wondered suddenly if women ever fainted from worry alone and as she smiled and bowed her way along the ballroom she saw herself suddenly crumpling down among the dancers. She would lie there while the band played on and presently she would open her eyes and see people’s legs and then someone would help her to her feet and she would beg them to get her away quickly before anything was noticed. Her fingers tightened on her bag. Five hundred pounds! She had told the man at the bank that she wanted to pay some of the expenses of the ball in cash. That had been a mistake. She should have sent Miss Harris with the cheque and made no explanation to anybody. It was twelve o’clock. She would do it on her way to supper. There was that plain Halcut-Hackett protégée without a partner again. Lady Carrados looked round desperately and to her relief saw her husband making his way towards the girl. She felt a sudden wave of affection for her husband. Should she go to him tonight and tell him everything? And just sit back and take the blow? She must be very ill indeed to dream of such a thing. Here she was in the chaperones’ corner and there, thank God, was Lady Alleyn with an empty chair beside her.
‘Evelyn!’ cried Lady Alleyn. ‘Come and sit down, my dear, in all your triumph. My granddaughter has just told me this is the very pinnacle of all balls. Everybody is saying so.’
‘I’m so thankful. It’s such a toss-up nowadays. One never knows.’
‘Of course one doesn’t. Last Tuesday at the Gainscotts’ by one o’clock there were only the three Gainscott girls, a few desperate couples who hadn’t the heart to escape, and my Sarah and her partner whom I had kept there by sheer terrorism. Of course, they didn’t have Dimitri, and I must say I think he is a perfect magician. Dear me,’ said Lady Alleyn, ‘I am enjoying myself.’
‘I’m so glad.’
‘I hope you are enjoying yourself, too, Evelyn. They say the secret of being a good hostess is to enjoy yourself at your own parties. I have never believed it. Mine always were a nightmare to me and I refuse to admit they were failures. But they are so exhausting. I suppose you wouldn’t come down to Danes Court with me and turn yourself into an amiable cow for the week-end?’
‘Oh,’ said Lady Carrados, ‘I wish I could.’
‘Do.’
‘That’s what Sir Daniel Davidson said I should do—lead the life of a placid cow for a bit.’
‘It’s settled, then.’
‘But—’
‘Nonsense. There is Davidson, isn’t it? That dark flamboyant-looking man talking to Lucy Lorrimer. On my left.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he clever? Everyone seems to go to him. I might show him my leg one of these days. If you don’t promise to come, Evelyn, I shall call him over here and make a scene. Here comes Bunchy Gospell,’ continued Lady Alleyn with a quick glance at her hostess’s trembling fingers, ‘and I feel sure he’s going to ask you to sup with him. Why, if that isn’t Agatha Troy with him!’
‘The painter?’ said Lady Carrados faintly. ‘Yes. Bridgie knows her. She’s going to paint Bridgie.’
‘She did a sketch portrait of my son Roderick. It’s amazingly good.’
Lord Robert, looking, with so large an expanse of white under his chin, rather like Mr Pickwick, came beaming towards them with Troy at his side. Lady Alleyn held out her hand and drew Troy down to a stool beside her. She looked at the short dark hair, the long neck and the spare grace that was Troy’s and wished, not for the first time, that it was her daughter-in-law that sat at her feet. Troy was the very wife she would have chosen for her son, and, so she believed, the wife that he would have chosen for himself. She rubbed her nose vexedly. ‘If it hadn’t been for that wretched case!’ she thought. And she said:
‘I’m so pleased to see you, my dear. I hear the exhibition is the greatest success.’
Troy gave her a sideways smile.
‘I wonder,’ continued Lady Alleyn, ‘which of us is the most surprised at seeing the other. I have bounced out of retirement to launch my granddaughter.’
‘I was brought by Bunchy Gospell,’ said Troy. ‘I’m so seldom smart and gay that I’m rather enjoying it.’
‘Roderick had actually consented to come but he’s got a tricky case on his hands and has to go away again tomorrow at the crack of dawn.’
‘Oh,’ said Troy.
Lord Robert began to talk excitedly to Lady Carrados.
‘Gorgeous!’
he cried, pitching his voice very high in order to top the band which had suddenly begun to make a terrific din. ‘Gorgeous, Evelyn! Haven’t enjoyed anything—ages—superb!’ He bent his knees and placed his face rather close to Lady Carrados’s. ‘Supper!’ he squeaked. ‘Do say you will! In half an hour or so. Will you?’
She smiled and nodded. He sat down between Lady Carrados and Lady Alleyn and gave them each a little pat. His hand alighted on Lady Carrados’s bag. She moved it quickly. He was beaming out into the ballroom and seemed lost in a mild ecstasy.
‘Champagne!’ he said. ‘Can’t beat it! I’m not inebriated, my dears, but I am, I proudly confess, a little exalted. What I believe is nowadays called nicely thank you. How-de-do? Gorgeous, ain’t it?’
General and Mrs Halcut-Hackett bowed. Their smiling lips moved in a soundless assent. They sat down between Lady Alleyn and Sir Daniel Davidson and his partner, Lady Lorrimer.
Lucy, Dowager Marchioness of Lorrimer, was a woman of eighty. She dressed almost entirely in veils and untidy jewellery. She was enormously rich and not a little eccentric. Sir Daniel attended to her lumbago. She was now talking to him earnestly and confusedly and he listened with an air of enraptured attention. Lord Robert turned with a small bounce and made two bobs in their direction.
‘There’s Davidson,’ he said delightedly, ‘and Lucy Lorrimer. How are you, Lucy?’
‘What?’ shouted Lucy Lorrimer.
‘How are yer?’
‘Busy. I thought you were in Australia.’
‘Why?
‘What?’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t interrupt,’ shouted Lucy Lorrimer. ‘I’m talking.’
‘Never been there,’ said Lord Robert; ‘the woman’s mad.’
The Halcut-Hacketts smiled uncomfortably. Lucy Lorrimer leant across Davidson and bawled: ‘Don’t forget tomorrow night!’
‘Who? Me?’ asked Lord Robert. ‘Of course not.’
‘Eight-thirty sharp.’
