Dancing with Death

by Amy Myers

  Nell felt herself beginning to doze. It seemed to her she was in a far-off land, over the hills and far away, where none of the usual rules of her trade or job applied. Perhaps a ghost or two would come and cheer her up, she thought grimly … and then surprisingly it was Sir Thomas who was visiting her, questioning her closely about the recipe she had used for the geranium jelly. She told him it had been an old one she had found in the library, handed down by generations of ghosts …

  In thanks, Sir Thomas had the nerve to shake her shoulder.

  No, someone was shaking her shoulder.

  ‘Are you the cook?’ the someone was demanding to know before she could even clear the sleep from her eyes and mind.

  ‘Chef,’ she murmured automatically.

  ‘Same thing.’

  ‘Not the same thing,’ she whipped back.

  Regarding her was a man she hadn’t seen before. Steely blue eyes, medium height, probably in his mid-thirties, fair hair, suit, waistcoat. He wasn’t dressed for a party, so, macerated mushrooms, who was this?

  ‘Miss Drury?’ The voice was pleasant enough but those eyes weren’t building any bridges between them. No apologies for waking her.

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘Melbray. Detective Inspector Alexander, Scotland Yard. I’m told you found the body.’

  FOUR

  Nell struggled to sit upright and rub the sleep from her eyes. While she had lain huddled in the armchair the skirts of the grey dress had risen uncomfortably high and her hair seemed to be all over her face. It annoyed her that she even worried about this. That blankety-blank man waiting in the armchair opposite her, brown-covered notebook lying on the table between them, wouldn’t care two hoots about her legs.

  ‘I need you to come with me,’ Inspector Melbray informed her.

  She pulled herself together, defences to the fore. ‘That was quick. Are you arresting me?’

  He didn’t even smile, which annoyed her even more.

  ‘I didn’t have that in mind – not yet,’ he replied. ‘We’re going to the minstrels’ gallery.’

  Nell froze. ‘Is—?’

  ‘No,’ he interrupted. ‘The body has gone and the photographers and my sergeant have finished up there.’

  ‘Fingerprints,’ she retorted automatically. ‘Well, of course, mine would be there.’ Fingerprints were all important nowadays – much too late for her to remember that now.

  ‘No doubt. Did you touch the dagger?’

  Unwillingly she forced herself to think back to that terrible moment. ‘I had blood on my hands so I may have done,’ she blurted out. Had she? She scrabbled through her memory without success.

  The eyes remained speculatively on her. Already she was beginning to feel guilty. Had she touched the dagger, driven it in further and so killed Charlie? No, of course not. She was half asleep. She couldn’t have done.

  ‘I’m still dozy,’ she said crossly. ‘I don’t know what I’m saying.’

  To which he said nothing but merely waited for her to continue. That made her feel even guiltier. ‘I didn’t kill him. Plenty of folk can swear to that.’

  ‘Good.’

  She glared at him. What on earth was this inspector trying to do to her? Where was that nice, kind, plump, comfortable-looking policeman she’d seen earlier? Not here, anyway. She rose to her feet. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Drury. If you’ll follow me.’

  Follow? She gritted her teeth. ‘Keep your fires burning down below in the range,’ one old chef had said to her. No sense sending for the Merryweathers before they’re called for. They’d been the old fire engines she remembered from her youth. She stalked after Inspector Melbray through the now-empty drawing room and into the great hall. It was beginning to get light outside now but the lamps were still burning within with their soft, comforting glow.

  There were other strange faces milling around in the hall too. These must be the Scotland Yard sergeant and the photographers. The local police were there as well, some in uniform, some not, but not one of the guests or the family was to be seen.

  ‘Where are Lord and Lady Ansley?’ she called out to the inspector.

  ‘Taking some rest,’ he threw back over his shoulder to her.

  ‘And everyone else? Have you begun interviewing the guests yet?’

  He stopped and turned to face her. ‘We’ll look after that side of things, Miss Drury. That is not on your menu.’

  He made it sound an insult, she fumed, and be blowed if it would stop her asking reasonable questions. She had a right to know, especially – as she remembered uneasily – after that rash promise she had made to Lady Ansley. ‘And the band?’ she persisted.

  This time he relented. ‘Departed to the Coach and Horses Inn in the village,’ he told her. ‘To which once we have accomplished all we urgently need here, I, my sergeant and photographer will also go. My superintendent has already returned to London and the case is in my hands. If I might continue my job, however …’

  ‘What would you like me to do?’

  He looked at her in surprise at the note of cooperation in her voice, purposely placed there. ‘I want you to retrace exactly what you did from the moment you began to climb this staircase to the gallery.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that destroy evidence on the stairs? Cigarette stubs, strands of fibre, bus tickets, the odd farthing – that sort of thing?’ she asked innocently.

  He came straight back at her. ‘Fortunately, Miss Drury, my men have already removed any such useful items, together with a black bloodstained cloth found in the inner passageway which was probably used by the victim’s attacker to protect him from any blood when he struck Mr Parkyn-Wright. With so many people around that would be essential. Lady Clarice identified the cloth as part of her photographic equipment.’

  Nell decided that discretion was the better part of valour and so said no more. Instead she braced herself to walk up the stairs again. ‘If you want me to replay exactly what happened shouldn’t we be in the dark? The oil lamps are full on now but the darkness would have affected the way we walked and how slowly. I had a lantern too.’

  Inspector Melbray took the point. ‘You’re right, Miss Drury.’ He gave her a keen look but didn’t seem to be bearing any animosity towards her. It was a modest victory for her, she thought, as one of the men dimmed the lights below and another handed her a lantern. It wasn’t lit but there was a little daylight reaching the gallery now. She needed to concentrate in order to face this ordeal and tried to push the annoying inspector from her mind.

  ‘I had ten people behind me – no, twelve.’ Guy had joined in as well. ‘Mr Arthur Fontenoy was behind me. He and Mr Ellimore joined us halfway through.’ She tried to convince herself that Mr Fontenoy was following her now and not the arrogant inspector. At the top, she hesitated.

  ‘Did you halt like this when you came up before?’ came the voice behind her.

  Nell was startled because she wasn’t sure why she had halted. Had she done so the first time? ‘Yes,’ she remembered, ‘I did. I don’t think I had a particular reason – yes, there was one. Nothing important, though.’

  ‘Everything’s important at this stage.’

  ‘There was a faint smell.’

  ‘Cigarette smoke.’

  ‘I couldn’t tell. Perhaps it was just the woodwork or something that floated up from the hall.’

  A sigh from behind – unless she was just imagining it. ‘So it could be. Advance, Miss Drury.’

  Her stomach churned but she couldn’t refuse. She couldn’t let him see how sick she felt at what lay before her. There’s nothing there, she told herself as she walked forward. Nothing.

  Even without the lamplight it was much lighter now than it had been the first time she made this journey, and that made it easier, less creepy. It also revealed white powder on the woodwork which made her hesitate.

  ‘Go on,’ the voice said, ‘we’ve taken what fingerprints we want from here. You may touch
it if you wish.’

  She didn’t wish. It was almost as if by touching this nightmare would become more real and she had to distance herself as much as she could. When she reached the central door, she stopped. ‘Here,’ she said unnecessarily. Nothing could make her touch that. ‘I caught hold of the doorknob,’ she said.

  ‘What made you do that?’ he asked. ‘You were on a ghost hunt, I gather. Did you see a ghost?’ He came up close behind her.

  ‘I thought I saw this blood on the floor.’ She could see it still there, or at least traces of it, but it had dried now. She willed herself to keep as detached as he was.

  ‘How could you have seen it? It was dark – your lantern would have been too high to pick it up.’

  He was right. ‘I did see it, though,’ she said stubbornly. ‘Perhaps it was still flowing.’ Nausea threatened her again but she wasn’t going to let him suspect that. ‘I had the lantern in my left hand and my right hand was on the doorknob. I must have pulled at it and it opened.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘To see whether the blood was coming from behind the door, I suppose,’ she retorted. The whole horrible episode was back with her now. ‘And then I felt the door move of its own accord and—’ She choked slightly but he still said nothing. ‘I saw this weight falling out. I didn’t realize what it was at first, and then we saw it was a body. He must have been sitting propped or wedged against the door.’ Surely she had told him enough. It seemed not.

  ‘The dagger has gone as well as the body,’ he told her matter-of-factly. ‘The butler recognized it as one taken from the great hall, as was the dark camera cloth. As for fingerprints on that dagger, whoever killed him might have been careful enough to wear gloves or more likely to have wrapped something round the handle. Were you wearing gloves?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then if you touched the dagger your prints might well be on it. My sergeant will take your fingerprints when we’ve finished here,’ he added. ‘Would you show me what happened next? I’ll open the door myself if you prefer.’

  No, she would do it. She was conscious of the inspector’s breathing close behind her as she pulled the doorknob and was instantly back in the nightmare. Would something fall out this time? Had the body really gone or was this a trick being played by Inspector Melbray?

  Nothing fell out, thank the blessed heavens. Nell let out a small whimper of relief, which he must have taken as fear.

  ‘There’s nothing here but us two, Miss Drury. I won’t keep you much longer. What happened next?’

  ‘I knelt down beside him.’

  ‘Humour me, please. Do it again.’

  She obeyed without a word.

  ‘Now are you sure whether or not you touched the dagger?’ he asked her.

  ‘I’m still not sure. I thought I might pull it out. That it might help him. Then I remembered that might make the situation worse. He was bleeding anyway, from one of the wounds—’ She stopped. The nausea was rising again now. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t go on.’

  ‘Just a few more questions. You used the word “we” earlier. Was that you and Mr Fontenoy? It’s only single file here.’

  ‘Yes. He was shouting for help and everyone seemed to disappear apart from him and someone else.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘The bandleader, Mr Ellimore. He joined my group at the last moment.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He heard about the ghost hunt and thought it would be fun.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘It should have been.’

  ‘It wasn’t a serious Harry Price or Society for Psychical Research investigation then?’

  ‘It was only serious for Lady Clarice, Lord Ansley’s sister. She believes fervently in ghosts.’ Should she tell him about the planned hoaxes, the moaning …? No, that wasn’t on her menu, as he had put it. ‘That’s why Mr Parkyn-Wright was behind the screen,’ she then added stupidly.

  A moment’s silence. ‘Thank you. I hoped someone would enlighten me on that point.’

  She could have kicked herself. He would have to know but why did it have to be her who told him and why now?

  ‘Some kind of hoax then,’ he continued. ‘Did you know about this, Miss Drury?’

  She was getting into deep waters here, she realized with terror. ‘Not then.’ Please, please, no more questions, she silently begged him. She was already beginning to feel like a traitor. ‘But why does all this matter?’ she burst out. ‘My group couldn’t have murdered Mr Parkyn-Wright; he was already dead when we reached him.’

  ‘I’ll be talking to the family tomorrow,’ he told her as if reading her mind. Perhaps he was, she thought. There were such methods. ‘Lack of sleep does not become you, Miss Drury. We’ll take your fingerprints and then you can get some rest,’ he said calmly.

  That did it. Whether he meant it as an insult or not, she would choose to take it as one. ‘I hadn’t realized an unbecoming face was evidence,’ she shot back at him.

  He wasn’t in the least thrown. ‘It’s not, but sleep does smooth the path for both interviewer and interviewed. I too am tired.’

  She was still smarting as he conducted her to the morning room, where not only his sergeant awaited her but, it seemed, half the Sevenoaks police force. All eyes followed her as she placed her fingertips on the white paper, duly removed them and watched as the sergeant covered it with black powder and her prints appeared. They were now police evidence. Such a small thing yet it seemed to link her closer to the murder than anything that had gone before. She was involved. She was part of it.

  Then, mercifully, she was allowed to return to her own bedroom high up in the servants’ wing, where she could sleep and sleep and sleep. She was well aware that it wouldn’t help that she had been first to find the body and that she might well have known Mr Charles was behind that screen. That was tomorrow’s problem – no, later today’s, she realized. Dawn had broken at Wychbourne Court.

  The kitchen, to Nell’s relief, looked close to normal when she came down five hours later, and she thanked her lucky stars that she was not responsible for breakfasts and that luncheon was still some hours away. Mrs Squires was busy with rolling pastry and Nell could see that vegetable preparation was well under way in the scullery. The only drawback was that Mrs Fielding was in her element, determined to show how indispensable she was in the absence of the chef.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Drury,’ she declared, exuding importance. ‘I shall be leaving for church now but everything is in hand for luncheon and dinner. I’ve discussed all the household arrangements with Lady Ansley.’

  I bet she has, Nell thought, but she wasn’t going to fight that battle today. ‘How kind of you,’ she said warmly. ‘If you’ll give me the menus I’ll take it from here. I assume we have more visitors than originally planned?’

  Mrs Fielding swelled with pride. ‘The exact numbers are not yet known, of course – just as I foresaw. Mrs Squires will run through the arrangements we’ve made.’

  Nell summoned up yet another warm smile. ‘Thank you. How is Mr Peters this morning?’

  ‘Coping splendidly.’ The implication was that Nell was failing to do the same. ‘He’s in the steward’s room, at hand for Lord Ansley and the family whenever needed.’

  The steward’s room was an outmoded name as the estate no longer had a steward. Lord Ansley and his son, Lord Richard, looked after the estate between them, and the room, being next to Lord Ansley’s, was a convenient office for Mr Peters when discussing the wine lists and so on.

  ‘Have the police come here to question you or summoned you to the house?’ Nell asked.

  ‘Not yet.’ Mrs Fielding looked disappointed, as though Nell were taking an unfair advantage.

  She doesn’t know what she’s in for, Nell thought. ‘Perhaps it would be wise, Mrs Fielding, to list those in this wing who were in the servants’ hall last night, irrespective of whether they could have played any part in the events that took place.’

 
‘A good idea, Miss Drury. I shall do so, if so requested by Lady Ansley.’

  Normal relations were restored, Nell thought. ‘The menus then, Mrs Fielding.’

  ‘Mrs Squires will inform you of those.’

  Victory to Mrs Fielding then. This morning Nell couldn’t have cared less. She had to begin thinking about the best way to follow up her promise to Lady Ansley.

  The steward’s room was a haven, and Peters was relieved to be there and not in the servants’ wing where he would be bothered by question after question. Nor was he being ordered off to be interviewed by the police as though he were being hauled up before the beak. He’d thought about sneaking off to church as if this were a normal Sunday but decided it would be in his interests to stay and know what was going on. He mustn’t look as though he had anything to hide. Here he was in command, no matter what this police inspector had in store for him. It couldn’t be worse than trying to cope with a dozen or so guests making free with the house. The morning room was now solely police territory, Lord Ansley had explained. At least they hadn’t demanded to stay in the house overnight. The village inn was quite good enough for them and they hadn’t left here until six a.m. so they wouldn’t be returning yet.

  He was wrong. There was a knock on the door and in came that Inspector Melbray he’d seen last night.

  ‘Mr Peters? May I have a word with you, if you please?’

  It didn’t seem to matter whether he was pleased or not, as the inspector didn’t wait for an answer. No idea of etiquette, these police. A smart-looking fellow, though. That suit wasn’t Savile Row but near enough.

  ‘You’re the butler here? On duty last night?’

  ‘Correct,’ Peters answered.

  ‘Formerly batman to Lord Noel Ansley during the war?’