Dancing with Death

by Amy Myers

  She craned her neck to see where he was – sure enough, he was whizzing around with Elise. He looked so splendid too in his Tutankhamun costume, though the headdress seemed rather odd. Elise looked a tramp as Cleopatra. When will it be my turn? Helen thought anxiously. My turn for Charlie’s dance.

  ‘Sweetheart,’ Rex murmured in a rare protest, ‘don’t keep looking over my shoulder.’

  Helen tried to pull herself together. ‘Darling, you’re imagining things.’

  ‘It’s Charlie, isn’t it?’ he said quite conversationally. ‘That’s whom you’re staring at all the time.’

  ‘Nonsense. Why would I?’ she responded with as much affection as she could summon up.

  ‘It could be because he’s been dancing with Elise all night,’ he replied, sharply for him.

  This had to be stopped. Helen realized she was beginning to tremble. ‘And that, darling Rex, is only because I’m dancing with you – much more fun than with horrid Charlie.’ She managed a happy laugh.

  But Rex didn’t laugh back. ‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Helen. He was at Ma Meyrick’s Forty-Three Club with her the other evening.’

  The tremble became worse. She must dance with Charlie tonight, she really must. ‘He was only with her because I wasn’t in London. Why do you think he came down here this weekend instead? Besides, brother Richard is keen on Elise so Charlie wouldn’t dare try and take her away.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that either.’

  Nor was she. Helen knew just why Charlie had come this weekend. And Elise. And several others here too. They couldn’t do without Charlie or his dance, and he’d promised to see them during or after the ghost hunt this evening. After the joke on Aunt Clarice, of course.

  The band was playing ‘It Had To Be You’ and at last Richard had managed to secure Elise as a partner. He’d managed to despatch Charlie temporarily to the library to check all was well with the you-know-what, and with luck he wouldn’t be back before the dancing stopped in time to rally for the ghost hunt. And then, thankfully, Charlie would be well out of the way as arranged.

  ‘Cleopatra dancing with an eighteenth-century soldier. A good mix, isn’t it?’ Richard tried to joke. He was a good dancer but Elise was better and was apt to make her partner’s mistakes all too publicly known. ‘Seventh heaven,’ he added.

  ‘So glad you think so, my sweet.’ Elise replied automatically. ‘Dancing with Charlie was becoming the most awful bore. And so is this music. Ask for a Charleston, darling.’

  Thrilled though he was that Charlie had blotted his copybook, Richard was thrown into confusion. There was talk of this Charleston dance about to reach England and that it would even take over from jazz, but so far he hadn’t learned how to do it. And then there was some joke about Charlie’s dance too, which he didn’t understand. He’d had plenty of dances with her.

  He tried to brazen it out. ‘The band won’t know the music. How about the King Porter Stomp or the Black Bottom?’

  ‘You’re so sweetly out of tune,’ she sighed. ‘You poor things, living in the country. The Charleston really is the coming thing.’

  ‘Nothing can be better than dancing anything with you, Elise.’

  She laughed. ‘Dear, sweet Richard. You’ll be asking me to do the cake-walk next.’

  Richard did not reply. He didn’t want to be her sweet anything. He wanted to be masterful, like Rudolph Valentino or Charlie, come to that, to sweep Elise off her feet. But somehow that wasn’t easy. When they were married, it would all be different. At least Charlie wouldn’t be around.

  Elise broke away from him, ran up to the band, had a word with the leader and then gaily beckoned to him.

  ‘They can play the Charleston,’ she cried triumphantly. ‘So let’s have fun!’

  Richard tried his best but he had no idea what he was doing and soon Elise was dancing alone, the wonderful, beautiful, sultry Elise, whose legs were flying in all directions, kicking with stocking tops on show as she hitched up the Cleopatra skirt. Nothing stopped Elise. Richard was intoxicated with watching her flying feet and arms. During the ghost hunt he could kiss her in the dark because Charlie would be out of the way. As soon as she whirled past him again he would seize her in his arms and spin her round masterfully.

  But as he did so Charlie came back. ‘I’ve had a look at the you-know-what. Still time for a whirl before I creep away, so you won’t mind, old chap, will you, if I take Cleopatra off your hands?’

  Richard did mind. Very much. And, even worse, Elise didn’t object.

  No avoiding it now, Nell thought in resignation. It was eleven forty-five and time to take up her responsibilities for the ghost hunt. She had been swotting up on the ghosts and felt as ready as she ever would for the hunt. When she arrived in the great hall Mr Peters had already taken up his post. He had decided, he told her, that this should be close to the door on a corner of the corridor linking the grand staircase hall to the breakfast room, a good spot for keeping an eye on what was happening. The great hall was a hive of activity. Lady Clarice, Lord Richard, Lady Helen and Lady Sophy were busy handing out equipment to the guests already gathering for the hunt. The phonograph was in place and the cameras and their paraphernalia were ready to capture images of the great hall ghosts.

  Thankfully Nell realized that few of the guests would be participating in the hunt; the others must have sensibly preferred to walk and talk in the ballroom or gardens, accompanied by champagne and not ghosts. At least there was full lighting in the ballroom, as there was in the two wings to the house. Roll on the day that Wychbourne Court would be blessed with a better electrical supply. Meanwhile, the faithful oil lamps still did their duty in much of the main house. The ghost hunt would see them turned to their very lowest and the electric lighting elsewhere turned off. Much of the route therefore would be in the semi-dark, lit only with their lanterns. In Nell’s opinion, these ghosts were far too choosy about what they required in order to make an appearance.

  ‘We shall be twenty in all,’ Lady Clarice announced, her eyes sparkling. She was wearing a soldier’s helmet for some reason, although she was not otherwise in fancy dress. Did she think the ghosts were going to conk her on the head? Nell wondered. Her affection for Lady Clarice grew. ‘I shall lead the first group and Miss Drury will escort the second,’ Lady Clarice continued. ‘You all have your route plans?’

  It appeared they all did, but what use would they be in the semi-dark? Nell would be taking her group into the west wing, save for the ballroom and supper room, and returning through the library to the great hall, where they would be meeting Lady Clarice’s group returning from hunting through the main house. They would then change routes and Nell would be beginning – as Lady Clarice would now do – with the great hall and minstrels’ gallery, where a total of five ghosts spent their haunting time.

  ‘We shall not be visiting the servants’ east wing,’ Lady Clarice continued, presumably, Nell thought, on the grounds that no self-respecting ghosts would so demean themselves as to haunt that. Even the cook ghost pre-dated the east wing. ‘The two groups will exchange information at twelve thirty here in the great hall,’ Lady Clarice explained, ‘in order not to put our ghosts under stress. Be gentle with our friends, everyone. They only want their case to be heard. Justice!’ she bellowed in conclusion.

  ‘What if we do see a ghost?’ Elise asked languidly. ‘Do we ask him to dance?’

  She was fixed with a stern look by Lady Clarice. ‘Be polite to him, that is all. Listen if he sends a message.’

  ‘Over the wireless?’ Elise drawled.

  ‘No. Record it on the phonograph.’

  Match point to Lady Clarice, Nell thought with pleasure. She had been given her set of equipment by Lady Sophy, but had a sudden panic. Who had actually been deputed to take photographs in the great hall? No one, as far as she knew. Too late now, and anyway, ghosts weren’t going to hang around to have their photographs taken.

  Here we go, she thought, summoning
her courage. Holding her feeble lantern light before her, she led her group to the main staircase. Lady Clarice’s group included Lord Richard, Lady Helen, Lady Sophy, Miss Harlington, Mr Beringer, Lady Warminster and other familiar faces, but in her own party Nell recognized nobody, although Mr Fontenoy had said he might join it later.

  Fortunately the dowager had not joined either group. Lady Sophy had confided in Nell that her grandmother had departed the drawing room after coffee with a second unprecedented comment to her arch enemy – on this occasion a pointed reference to the bone of contention between them.

  ‘Do not fear, Mr Fontenoy. I shall not be accompanying you on this expedition. I have no plans to become a ghost in the near future.’

  In the semi-darkness everything felt out of proportion, the familiar disappeared and the imagination took over. Nonsense, Nell, she told herself. Even so, the same mood seemed to have fallen on her party because the laughing and joking had greatly diminished by the time they reached the new chapel on the first floor of the west wing. Calliope was a ghostly singer in the corridor of this wing; Adelaide, a Victorian lady, appeared from time to time (according to Lady Clarice’s notes), and so did a former butler who had displeased an earlier marquess in the eighteenth century and met an unfortunate end while running for his life. He was, Lady Clarice had noted, sometimes to be seen at the place of his death, but at others in the great hall where he was still trying to serve drinks and answer the bell.

  Tonight there was nothing – no noise, no atmosphere – just the sound of breathing: unsteady breaths as though unease had replaced the early jollity. Nell did her best to enliven the proceedings with the ghosts’ stories, although she was guiltily aware that the laughter they evoked would, in Lady Clarice’s view, scare any potential manifestations away. Perhaps the original chapel in the main house, which no longer existed, might have produced more positive results. As the group made its way back to the great hall neither the morning room nor the billiards room revealed any ghosts, however, and nor did the library, although much of that seemed to be curtained off. Nell almost felt responsible for this failure as Lady Clarice was going to be disappointed.

  On the contrary. Lady Clarice could barely wait for Nell to finish her account of the ghostless journey before conveying her exciting news.

  ‘There is a presence here. A groan was heard. Here in this hall. It was just after you left. I believe it came from the minstrels’ gallery, in which case it was undoubtedly the wronged Sir Thomas killed by that traitorous minstrel. The phonograph was not yet switched on so that remarkable opportunity was squandered. But, nevertheless, we all heard it. That we could be so fortunate! If you are similarly blessed this will be such a night, such a night indeed.’

  Lady Clarice called her flock to her and they departed in great anticipation of what might await them next. It seemed to Nell there weren’t quite as many in Her Ladyship’s group as there had been before, and having heard the three young Ansleys trying hard not to giggle she wondered if there had been deserters. Who could blame them? Her own group seemed to be intact, although Nell hadn’t even produced a groan for them so far, and Arthur Fontenoy was now joining her as well.

  The great hall was in almost complete darkness and had enough atmosphere of its own without adding ghosts, in Nell’s view. She quickly gave her followers a brief introduction to the ghosts of the great hall, thinking longingly of the kitchen, with its leftovers from the banquet and a cup of hot chocolate followed by a welcoming bed. Not yet, though. She steeled herself for the task ahead.

  ‘Onward, troops,’ she encouraged her flock. ‘Up the staircase to the minstrels’ gallery. If you’re lucky, that medieval minstrel who serenaded Her Ladyship in bed in the twelfth century will pop out and give us a tune.’ That raised a general titter, but the joie de vivre had vanished. Then she jumped as she felt someone clutch her arm. A ghost? No, it was Guy, of all people.

  ‘This tour, dear Nell, is ridiculous,’ he whispered.

  Where had he sprung from? ‘Of course,’ she hissed defensively. ‘But this is the nineteen twenties. We can be ridiculous. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to protect you from your ghosts. Are there any?’

  ‘I think the other party heard a moan or two.’

  ‘You’re joking, of course.’

  ‘That’s what Lady Clarice told me.’

  ‘In that case I shall definitely remain behind you and you can protect me.’

  Nell had only been up to the minstrels’ gallery once before but remembered thinking that she pitied any minstrels (or their ghosts) who used it. The narrow spiral staircase to the gallery was just through the open door where Mr Peters was standing, and the corridor by which it stood ran past the far end of the gallery, to which a twin staircase also gave access. There was little room on the gallery itself because a dividing screen, half panelled, half latticed, ran its full length, giving a narrow space behind it and a wider passageway in front looking down over the great hall. Even so, it was only single file and Nell had to edge her way along it with her faithful followers behind her.

  She could smell the old woodwork which gave the gallery a creepy atmosphere, as though those minstrel songs could still be heard if one listened hard enough, although there was another sweeter smell mingled with it. The scent of a ghost? She heard no moans or groans, but nevertheless, she would be glad when they were down those stairs again. Perhaps Sir Thomas really was here …

  She waved the lantern in front of her just in case, and its light picked up something she couldn’t see clearly.

  Something was oozing out under the screen’s central door.

  What the flaming fritters was it? There was nothing but that empty narrow space behind the screen. Without thinking, she reached out and pulled the doorknob and the door shot open in front of her – not because of the pressure she had applied but because of the force of something behind it.

  The something fell out, falling half this side of the door and the rest lying inside. It was wrapped in cloth – no, more than that. Nell leapt back in horror as even the dim light revealed what it was. It was a body, now lying half in, half out of the screen door, clad in fancy dress. Alive? Dead?

  Instinctively she fell to her knees to find out and be sure that in this dim light she wasn’t imagining things. She wasn’t. There was blood on her hand and no movement. Swinging the lantern, she moved closer to see the face and froze with shock.

  It was Charles Parkyn-Wright.

  THREE

  Get moving, girl. As she knelt at Mr Parkyn-Wright’s side, images raced through her mind: her father shaking her awake in the small hours when it was time to leave for Spitalfields and the barrow; the day she had woken up at the Carlton to hear the news that the country was at war; the terrible feeling in the pit of her stomach on the day her mother had died. Nell knew she had to force herself into action. What action, though? How could death strike in so ugly a fashion during a dance? This had nothing to do with ghosts and the ghost hunt. The blood was all too real and some was on her. Automatically she felt for a pulse, but there was none and the hand fell away as she dropped it.

  Someone was shouting, ‘Doctor, police …’ and she saw Mr Fontenoy leaning over the balustrade. Lamps were already being turned up in the great hall and she could hear Mr Peters’ voice below.

  Police? It was only then that she took in the significance of the thing sticking out of the chest in front of her. Pull it out? No, leave it in, despite the fact that it looked so horrific. Nothing could hurt Mr Parkyn-Wright now. Was it a knife? No, the handle was too ornate. There was blood on his clothes as well as on the floor. He seemed – she forced herself to look again at the bloodstained Tutankhamun costume – to have been stabbed more than once. And that thing must be a dagger. She was aware that Mr Fontenoy was at her side again, peering down at the body. Not since the Zep had flown over the Carlton during the war dropping its bombs had she felt so helpless.

  Who would want to kill someone in this
terrible way? Mr Parkyn-Wright had been visiting Wychbourne for many years and was of course well known in the servants’ hall, so much so that most of them talked of him as Mr Charles. She longed to rush downstairs as many of the guests on the balcony with her had already done, but someone had to stay here. Mr Charles had been the life and soul of the party, but now the party was over.

  Then she felt a hand on her shoulder. Mr Fontenoy? No, it was Guy Ellimore, who was helping her to her feet and no one else was left in the narrow gallery but he and Mr Fontenoy.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do, Nell,’ Guy said.

  ‘Who would want to murder him?’ she blurted out.

  ‘That’s for the police to find out, Nell. You go down. We’ll stay.’

  ‘No. I’ll have to stay here. It’s my job.’

  ‘As leader of the ghost hunt?’ he said, perhaps teasingly.

  She couldn’t cope with that. ‘No.’ She looked down and shuddered again at what she saw. ‘Because this has happened here,’ she tried to explain. ‘At Wychbourne Court.’

  Gerald, Eighth Marquess Ansley, hung up the receiver as Gertrude came hurrying to join him in his office near the morning room. ‘I’ve heard this terrible news, Gerald,’ she cried. ‘I was in the ballroom when Peters found me. Is it true?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, my dear,’ he said gravely. ‘Our party is over. Peters has sent for the doctor and the police. We can expect a chief inspector here, several constables and a photographer. But there is more,’ he added gently. ‘I have made a telephone call to the assistant commissioner.’

  ‘Of Scotland Yard?’ Gertrude was aghast. ‘But surely this is some local matter. An accident. It can be dealt with—’