Dancing with Death

by Amy Myers

  ‘Thank you, Miss Drury.’ Miss Checkam hesitated, then continued in a flurry of words, ‘To tell you the truth, I’m worried about Her Ladyship.’

  Nell leapt at this opening. ‘Just what I wanted your advice on. I’m concerned about her too,’ she said to Miss Checkam tentatively, hoping this wasn’t a step too far. The servants’ hall wasn’t used to exchanging confidences. Miss Checkam’s face grew rather pink but she did not comment or retreat, Nell noted with relief.

  ‘There’s something wrong, I know there is. It’s not just the murder. It’s all this dancing and so on,’ she said.

  ‘Dancing?’ Nell was puzzled. ‘The new Charleston dance?’ Surely Lady Ansley was too sensible to be worried by that on her children’s behalf? She’d been a dancer herself in her youth.

  Miss Checkam waved this aside impatiently. ‘No. It’s the way Lady Helen talks sometimes and behaves – not only to me but to young lady visitors. Sometimes I’m called on to dress their hair, as well as Lady Helen’s. Sometimes they’re all giggling and dancing around, as though they’re in some conspiracy. I think it worries Lady Ansley too. She’s not herself nowadays.’ Too late, she cast a glance at Mr Briggs, but he was placidly working his way through Mrs Squires’s steak and kidney pie.

  ‘What about Lady Sophy?’ Nell asked.

  ‘No. She isn’t one of them, if you know what I mean.’

  Good. Nell did. ‘Charlie’s dancing,’ she said, remembering that odd thing Arthur had mentioned. Could this have any relevance to his murder?

  Miss Checkam looked startled. ‘I’ve heard Lady Helen and that Miss Harlington talk about that, not that she’s a friend of Lady Helen’s exactly.’

  ‘Did you ask Lady Helen about it?’

  ‘I did presume to once. She wasn’t very pleased. She told me that it was nothing to do with me because I was only there to do her hair. I was very upset.’

  ‘She didn’t mean it,’ Nell comforted her. ‘Lady Helen’s up and down like a yo-yo. She was keen on Mr Charles – and you must have come to know him through his visits here. Did you like him?’

  Miss Checkam stiffened. ‘He was always very polite to me.’

  She’d moved too quickly and put her foot in it, Nell realized, but her reply was forestalled.

  ‘Not good man.’ Mr Briggs startled them both as he leapt to his feet, shouting out: ‘G/26420 Corporal Briggs, sir.’

  This occasionally happened when Mr Briggs was upset and reverted to his wartime memories, but it was odd that he had been so agitated by Mr Charles’s name. ‘You knew Mr Charles, Mr Briggs?’ Nell gently enquired. ‘Did you see him on Saturday evening?’

  His face went blank. ‘Panama,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Charles wore one?’ Nell asked, mystified.

  ‘No, it’s Lord Ansley’s hat,’ Miss Checkam explained. ‘You must have seen him in it. He loves wearing it round the estate although it’s so unfashionable now. Mr Briggs likes it, don’t you?’ she asked him.

  Back in the familiar territory of Lord Ansley’s wardrobe, Mr Briggs was calmer now. He nodded and carefully put down his knife and fork. ‘Thank you,’ he said simply. ‘Goodbye.’

  With that he rose to his feet and left. Nell watched him through the window as he walked past on his way to the gardens. Had it been the mere mention of Mr Charles’s name that had upset him or was it that he now associated it with death and had blotted it out? It was hard to tell. He was just Mr Briggs. He must have a Christian name but she’d never heard it or seen it used.

  ‘Do you know where Mr Briggs was on Saturday night, Miss Checkam?’

  ‘No. I didn’t see him. Out watching for owls, I expect. He said he heard a nightjar a few days ago but that’s very unlikely.’

  ‘He had no reason to dislike Mr Charles, did he?’

  Miss Checkam glanced at her. ‘Who knows what goes through his head? Whatever it is, I don’t see him killing anyone, do you?’

  ‘No, but he might have seen something?’

  ‘Such as what?’ Miss Checkam asked sharply.

  ‘All five of us,’ Nell pointed out mildly, ‘spend our time between the servants’ hall and the main house, so we’re in a position to see what goes on in both places. We might pick up some reason why someone wanted to kill him.’

  ‘He was a lovely man,’ Miss Checkam said firmly.

  Too firmly? Nell wondered.

  ‘I never heard any of the family say anything against him either,’ Miss Checkam continued.

  She was very flushed and it was clear that Nell was going to hear no more. If, Nell pondered, Mr Charles had regarded it as his right to force his attentions on women who were unlikely to be able to fight back, could Miss Checkam have been one of them?

  ‘Did you know about the joke he was going to take part in?’ Nell asked.

  Miss Checkam was hostile now. ‘Of course I didn’t. How would I have known?’ she snapped.

  In for a penny, in for a pound. ‘I thought Lady Helen might have mentioned it to you and that you might have been in the great hall when Mr Charles provided a groan or two from the other side of that screen.’

  ‘I wasn’t, and she didn’t.’

  ‘I merely thought you might have been helping Lady Helen move the equipment,’ Nell said hastily.

  Miss Checkam calmed down. ‘No. I went to the servants’ hall dance briefly and then to my room. The next thing I knew there was a lot of noise and that must have been when the police came. That’s what I told the nice inspector.’ She looked at Nell defiantly.

  Nice inspector? If the inspector had a nice side she had yet to see it, Nell thought crossly. She must put all thoughts of Inspector Melbray out of her mind, however, and consider how to tackle Mr Peters. Of all of them he was, as butler, the most likely to have seen what was happening on Saturday evening and to have any interesting information on Mr Charles. Mr Peters was the most obliging and helpful butler she had ever known. That was understandable, as he’d been through the war and like so many must have found it hard to get a job afterwards. She knew he hadn’t been in service before the war, so he was fortunate indeed to be at Wychbourne Court and must still be anxious not to put a foot wrong. He had been on her side when the former chef had tried to get her dismissed and even reasoned with Mrs Fielding when she’d informed Lady Ansley that she wouldn’t work with a female. That was good of him because he was fond of Mrs Fielding. He must be over forty now, and Mrs Fielding couldn’t be much older, so she might be right in thinking there was a closer link between them than met the eye of the servants’ hall.

  Guessing he would be in the steward’s room, she forced herself to walk through the great hall, schooling herself to think happy thoughts and not about what had happened on Saturday night. She thought of all the banquets that had been held here over the years. In Elizabethan days there had been a separate banqueting hall in the grounds where the desserts were served but today it lay in ruins while the great hall remained a tribute to the Ansley family over the ages. Portraits looked down benignly (or sometimes not so benignly) on their successors. Just one solitary police constable stood beneath the minstrels’ gallery, nodding politely as she passed. On the far side of the hall she could see the entrance to the morning room where she supposed the police must now be gathered – including that nice inspector.

  Mr Peters was indeed in the steward’s room and fortunately alone. He was looking somewhat forlorn, she thought.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here, Miss Drury,’ he greeted her.

  She was instantly alarmed. It wasn’t like him to make such an informal comment – except when they all got tiddly at the servants’ New Year dance.

  ‘You look as drained as a pan of boiled spuds.’ She had hoped to raise a smile, although she was concerned at how ill he looked.

  ‘Too many late nights,’ he said. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘I wish I was over the hills and far away,’ she said lightly, ‘but that’s not possible, so I thought I’d escape from the east wing for a whil
e.’

  ‘There’s no escaping murder,’ he said gloomily.

  How to reply to that? ‘We can keep a watchful eye.’

  He stiffened. ‘On what?’

  ‘The family,’ Nell said. ‘All those guests and so on. All these police. The family will want to be polite but they have their own worries. Have the police interviewed you yet?’

  ‘I felt like a fried onion after it,’ he replied, again unexpectedly human.

  ‘Me too. And I was finely chopped first.’

  ‘How long are those fellows going to be here?’ he asked plaintively after he had managed a laugh. ‘Everyone’s upset, everything’s upset. I ought to be managing the lot, Miss Drury, but I’m not. Not doing my job.’

  ‘None of us is,’ Nell said. ‘We’ve just got to look as though we are. Keep on butlering, keep on cooking, that’s us.’ She was relieved that he showed signs of perking up. ‘Are there any more guests arriving?’ she asked. ‘Mr Charles’s family, perhaps.’

  ‘They live in Derbyshire. They’re coming down today for the inquest on Wednesday. The son lived in a London flat most of the time.’

  Inquest! She hadn’t even thought about that. Of course there would be an inquest and she might even have to give evidence. ‘Where will it be?’ she asked. ‘Here?’ That would be too much to cope with.

  ‘The Coach and Horses in the village. They always use that upper room for inquests. Used to be a ballroom in the old days and then they did music hall there. Still do, sometimes.’

  And hold village dances there, Nell knew. She’d been to one once. ‘Are the parents staying here?’

  ‘Over at Stalisbrook Place with Lady Warminster.’

  She’d been on the ghost hunt, Nell remembered. Stalisbrook Place was a sizeable Georgian mansion closer to Ightham and Tonbridge than Wychbourne. ‘One less thing for the Ansleys to put up with,’ she observed.

  ‘Plenty to take its place.’

  ‘There seem to be mixed views about Mr Charles. You liked him, didn’t you, Mr Peters?’

  Another defensive answer. ‘He was pleasant enough.’

  ‘Someone didn’t think so. He doesn’t seem very popular in the servants’ hall.’

  Mr Peters looked trapped. ‘Mere tittle-tattle. He was a most pleasant gentleman. It must have been one of the guests on the ghost hunt who lagged behind and killed him. I was down below in the hall all the time and I’d have seen if anyone else had gone up those stairs other than ghost hunters.’

  ‘Even though there are two staircases and neither of them leads up from the hall itself? I suppose someone could have gone up at the far end and edged along behind the screen.’

  ‘Don’t see how. I’d either have seen or heard them,’ Mr Peters said defensively again. ‘I told the inspector that and he saw my point.’

  Ambiguous, Nell thought, if those were the nice inspector’s exact words. ‘Mr Charles must have slipped away from the dancing some time before the groups gathered. Did you see him go up to the gallery? You must have known about the joke being played on Lady Clarice.’

  Mr Peters was growing restless. ‘Lord Richard told me about it earlier that day and Mr Charles must have gone up while I was briefly in the boot room giving a helping hand with the equipment.’ He paused and then added, ‘I’ve read a lot of detective stories, Miss Drury, and it’s my belief that all those brilliant sleuths would have to conclude someone killed him during the ghost hunt, not before or after.’

  ‘That moan you heard rules out that happening before the group got up there,’ Nell agreed. ‘Unless the moan came from one of Lady Clarice’s ghosts,’ she ended lightly.

  Mr Peters managed a laugh. ‘How delighted Lady Clarice would be if that were true. No, I am quite sure that it was someone on the hunt itself.’

  He was very obstinate on that point, Nell thought, but she still wondered whether anyone could have stolen up that far staircase in the darkness.

  ‘Why do you think he was killed, Mr Peters? You think he was a very pleasant man, but it wasn’t very pleasant of him to have danced with Miss Harlington all evening when he must have known Lord Richard wanted so much to do so, and that Lady Helen was longing to dance with him.’

  ‘Minor matters, Miss Drury. They’re young. They tease each other.’ But he did not look her in the eye.

  ‘Do the words “Charlie’s dancing” mean anything to you?’ Nell asked at random.

  He shook his head, but he hadn’t asked her the reason for the question, she noted. On the contrary, he seemed all too anxious to get rid of her.

  At Lady Ansley’s request Nell had postponed her usual morning meeting with her, and when she rang on the house telephone to see if it was convenient to come now even though it was usually her teatime, Lady Ansley sounded relieved.

  ‘Yes, Nell, do come,’ she replied loudly. ‘My visitor is just leaving. Now is most convenient.’

  Nell took the heavy hint and hurried to the Velvet Room or parlour as Lady Ansley called it fondly. If she took the grand staircase she might even catch a glimpse of the departing visitor and satisfy her curiosity. Not a welcome visitor clearly, but why not? Perhaps, she thought, she was beginning to develop a taste for detective work. Was it any more complicated than disentangling what lay behind some of the old recipes she used? If you took some of them at face value you could be floundering around with culinary disasters. There was an old eighteenth-century recipe ‘to disguise a leg of veal’ that had caused her a few problems, not to mention the fourteenth-century one for Brewet of Almony which she’d found in the library.

  To her disappointment she passed no one on her way to the Velvet Room. The small parlour, tucked away from the grander rooms, was the only one where Her Ladyship displayed mementoes of her former life. Here, clad in wonderful Edwardian skirts and hats, Gaiety Girls kicked their feet modestly in photographs and posters. There was Gertie Millar who became the Countess of Dudley. There was George Edwardes himself, owner and manager. There too were Lady Ansley’s family photos – gentlemen, ladies and children looking earnest with Victorian scowls as they waited motionless for the picture to be taken – and Nell’s favourite, the much-loved dog Napoleon that had belonged to the late marquess. According to Lady Clarice, Napoleon still haunted the boot room waiting for his master’s return.

  ‘Come in, Miss Drury,’ Lady Ansley called when Nell knocked. She could tell from the tone of her voice that the visitor was still present. Who could it be? It took a lot to drive Lady Ansley dotty.

  It was the Honourable Elise Harlington, draped half sitting, half lying on a daybed, her striped, full-sleeved afternoon frock clinging to every inch of her long, snaky body. She looked most elegant and Nell mentally smoothed the wrinkles from her own humble pleated skirt and overblouse. At least she had removed her apron and chef’s hat.

  The Honourable Elise looked her studiedly up and down and smiled at her through the cupid’s bow of her heavily rouged lips. Nell realized that she was now the target. ‘Such exquisite food,’ Miss Harlington drawled. ‘Wychbourne Court is so fortunate to have your services, Miss Drury, at such a terrible time for us all. I’m quite envious, Lady Ansley. It was simply gorgeous.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Harlington,’ Nell said meekly, hoping that Lady Ansley would not pick up the sarcasm in her voice.

  She didn’t seem to notice. She had a fixed smile on her face, although her eyes suggested a different emotion. Fear? But why? Nell wondered.

  ‘Dear Lady Ansley, I really must depart. Do consider my suggestion.’ A note of steel had entered Miss Harlington’s voice. What, Nell wondered, was that about?

  ‘You don’t look well, Lady Ansley,’ Nell said in concern once they were alone.

  ‘Lack of sleep, Nell,’ she replied hastily. ‘The strain of the last two days. That’s all. It’s all been quite terrible.’

  ‘What can I do to help?’

  ‘Try to find out – you know what we talked about. And hurry. How is the servants’ hall. How are they taking it?�
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  ‘Those who aren’t involved find it exciting,’ Nell said frankly. ‘The rest of us are in the same position as you. We’re possible suspects for Mr Parkyn-Wright’s murder.’

  Lady Ansley shuddered. ‘How and why? Why should any of us have wished to kill him? Why should anyone here?’

  ‘He was not as popular as he seemed, Lady Ansley – at least not in the servants’ hall.’

  When Lady Ansley did not reply, Nell wondered where she could delicately tread next. ‘He attacked one of the chambermaids,’ she added. ‘And he liked teasing people and upset people at the dance.’

  Still Lady Ansley said nothing, just stared at her.

  ‘Charlie’s dancing, Lady Ansley,’ Nell continued in desperation. ‘Do you know about that?’

  There was real fear in Lady Ansley’s eyes now. ‘It means absolutely nothing, Nell,’ she managed to say at last. ‘Only that Charlie was leading everyone a dance, I’m afraid. You were right. He teased poor Richard and poor Helen by dancing with Elise. That must be what’s meant by his dancing. Now what did you want to see me about?’

  Nell had been shut out. She was going to learn no more. ‘The menus, Lady Ansley.’

  The arrangement over using Jimmy’s services seemed to work well, as when Nell arrived at the old dairy that evening Arthur was already there. Certainly it was a bleak place and with the light fading it seemed forbidding. It was an old eighteenth-century building classically designed with portico and rotunda. Some of the old equipment was left inside and the fountain still worked. But the dairymaids had long gone and the ceramic tiles were grimy and broken.

  Arthur looked around and sighed. ‘I’m sure Clarice must love this place, home perhaps to at least one dairymaid ghost, but it’s been sadly neglected. Perhaps I’ll bring champagne next time in order that we may see it with rose-coloured spectacles. How have you progressed, Nell?’

  ‘Only by inches. Mr Parkyn-Wright seems to have had a penchant for chambermaids, however likeable he is at his own social level.’

  ‘That is interesting.’

  ‘And the words Charlie’s dancing or dance brought reactions but no explanation.’