Dancing with Death

by Amy Myers

  She was mightily relieved that she had no time to finish the sentence: that Mr Charles had been killed by Miss Checkam in the passion of her rejection by him.

  ‘Then there is Peters,’ the dowager interrupted, ‘now arrested, I gather. There was some story about his war career. You are young but you will discover that unfortunate episodes are apt to reappear in one’s life – the wheel turns remarkably accurately at times. The same is true of a gentleman I do not care to discuss – my neighbour, Mr Fontenoy. My late husband was prepared to overlook his foibles. I am not. It has not escaped my notice that you, too, tolerate such modes of life.’

  ‘There may be other victims too,’ Nell said quickly. ‘Others who have past lives they prefer to forget.’

  ‘You have courage, Miss Drury. To you the possibility of murder caused by a long-buried past might seem remote. When you are older you will realize that the past is but yesterday. There remains, unless I include my own family, Mr Rex Beringer.’

  ‘And Lady Warminster,’ Nell put in.

  ‘Ah, yes. I have heard tales and no doubt Charles also heard them. Lounge lizards – I believe that is the current word for such paramours – are all the thing, but spooning with one’s gardener is quite another. I am acquainted with General Warminster and have little doubt of his reaction should I wish to cause trouble. Mr Beringer, however, is a different matter. I do not doubt that he is extremely fond of Helen but I have, like that odious playwright’s Lady Bracknell, been unable to discover anything of his heritage. I do not consider Mr Beringer was placed in a handbag and left at Victoria Station, but nevertheless were something similar the case it would undoubtedly impinge on his career and his suitability as a husband for my granddaughter.’

  ‘Surely Lady Helen would not—’

  The dowager raised her hand. ‘Quite. But Mr Beringer would not wish to place himself in the position of someone, shall we say, moving up in life, a factor on which Charles might have swooped.’

  Nell gulped. ‘Why are you telling me this, Lady Enid?’

  ‘My daughter-in-law, Lady Ansley, tells me you are on good terms with the inspector and that you are discreet. You may wish to make use of my thoughts to him. If Peters is guilty of murder they will be of no use and you may forget them. If not, they might be invaluable. And, Miss Drury, if you have any jars of that delightful rose petal preserve, I should be delighted to receive some.’

  Typical, Nell thought. The preserves came from Mrs Fielding’s still-room.

  THIRTEEN

  Today would be Armageddon, Nell vowed as she wrenched her dress over her head and prepared to face the day before her. It seemed to her that Wychbourne Court grew daily more divided. Every house had its secrets, as did every family and every person, but there came a point at which they had to shake them off and heal the wounds. That point, she decided, was now. It was Monday morning, 13 July, over three weeks since this nightmare had begun. The police would be concentrating solely on proving Mr Peters was guilty and she had to do what she could to find out if they were right.

  Brave words, but could she do it? Well, you never knew whether a new recipe would work until you tried it. Now that Lady Enid also seemed to think Nell had some magic powers enabling her to whisk all the ingredients into an acceptable dish, she couldn’t bury her head in the sand. Inspector Melbray might regard her as a squashed tomato where detective work was concerned but even squashed tomatoes have their uses.

  Nell made a face at her reflection in the mirror. Her face cream hadn’t managed to turn her into the bewitching beauty the advertisement had promised, nor did her curly brown hair lend itself to the obligatory sleekness demanded by the fashion magazines. She just had to work within her own limitations, squashed tomato or not. After all, Dumas, the great French novelist and cook, had not been deterred by limitations. He had bragged about the day his wife had sacked all three of their cooks within hours of a host of friends arriving at his home for a grand dinner. The larder proved to be bare, except for a large stock of rice and tomatoes. With these two ingredients Dumas had concocted a marvellous dish which had his friends rapt in admiration (admittedly with the help of good wine to accompany it). That’s what you should do when you were driven into a corner, although she doubted whether the diners at Wychbourne Court would be enraptured by rice and tomatoes. She could, however, see where working within her limitations on the murder investigations would take her.

  With Mr Peters absent, it seemed wrong to be asking people to gather in the butler’s room that lunchtime, but there was no alternative as it was the only place that Mr Briggs would feel comfortable. He was now sitting there with a pleased smile on his face.

  ‘I can’t think what you want to talk about, Miss Drury,’ Mrs Fielding complained.

  ‘It is inconvenient,’ Miss Checkam chimed in. ‘I was about to begin Lady Ansley’s ironing.’

  ‘It’s about Mr Peters. Do you want him to stay in prison if there’s any chance we can help free him?’ Nell asked mildly.

  ‘No.’ Mr Briggs shook his head vigorously.

  Nell was startled by his rapid response. It was so firm that it might be he knew something he hadn’t yet told them.

  ‘What can you do about it, Mr Briggs?’ Mrs Fielding snarled.

  ‘What we can do is more the point,’ Nell replied. She had been ready for this attitude. ‘We don’t know what evidence the police have against him, but part of it must be that it looks as if he was the only person who could have killed Mr Charles. He was alone in the great hall for about twenty-five minutes between twelve and twelve thirty, which means he must have seen who killed him or committed the crime himself. He would have spoken out if he’d seen anyone else.’

  Mr Briggs looked alarmed. ‘No,’ he cried. ‘Not there.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Mrs Fielding snapped. ‘Of course he was there.’

  ‘Kissing you in the cellar room.’

  A red flush slowly spread over Mrs Fielding’s face. ‘Load of nonsense,’ she said. ‘Really, Mr Briggs, you should be careful what you’re saying.’

  Mr Briggs looked puzzled. ‘Going to see the barn owls. Saw you through the window.’

  Nell held her breath. ‘Can you be sure of the time, Mr Briggs, and that it was that evening?’ He could indeed have taken a route along the pebbled gap between the main building and the east wing. The cellar room, on the ground floor but close to the basement cellar entrance, was at the end of a row of china and other storage cupboards lining the corridor that ran alongside the wall of the great hall – and only a few yards from where Mr Peters had been on duty that evening. The small room was used as a staging post for small quantities of the required wine as it came up from the basement. That Saturday evening it seemed to have had a more interesting purpose.

  There was a dead silence in the room. Nell could hear Mrs Fielding’s heavy breathing as she watched Mr Briggs’s bewilderment. Then he fumbled in his jacket pocket and took out a battered leather-covered notebook.

  ‘Diary,’ he said proudly, turning the pages, found the one he wanted and thrust it under Nell’s nose.

  There it was in Mr Briggs’s all but indecipherable handwriting under Saturday, 20th June. ‘Quarter past midnight. Went to castle. Saw Mrs Fielding and Mr Peters and Albert.’

  ‘Is Albert one of your owls, Mr Briggs?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Yes. Mr Ball, VC.’

  The flying hero during the war who’d won the Victoria Cross. An appropriate name for a swift-flying hunting bird. Nell had no doubt that Mr Briggs had indeed seen Mr Peters and Mrs Fielding together in that room, but it might need more than this diary to convince Inspector Melbray.

  She took a deep breath. ‘Mrs Fielding?’

  Silence. Where to go now? Nell thought despairingly. Then it was broken so suddenly that she jumped.

  ‘He’s right,’ Mrs Fielding blurted out. ‘Mr Peters was with me. We were having a quiet word together, just as Mr Briggs said. He went back into the hall just before you all ret
urned at half past twelve.’

  ‘Didn’t you tell the police about that?’ Nell asked incredulously.

  ‘I never thought,’ Mrs Fielding moaned. ‘They never asked me about Mr Peters, just about what I was doing and seeing as how most of the time I was in the still-room, that’s what I told them.’

  ‘Why did Mr Peters keep quiet about it?’ Miss Checkam asked. ‘It’s his alibi.’

  ‘He’s a gentleman,’ Mrs Fielding sniffed. ‘I suppose he didn’t like to say. It was that dance in the servants’ hall,’ she added with obvious reluctance. ‘He couldn’t get away for it, and he liked a bit of a dance, so when I popped into the hall to see how he was getting on with all that ghost stuff, he said to me, “Let’s have our own dance in the cellar room. They won’t be back for twenty minutes or more”.’

  There wouldn’t be space in the cellar room for much of a dance, save perhaps a bunny hug, Nell thought, repressing an image of Mr Peters and Mrs Fielding employed in a spirited Black Bottom together. It seemed more likely to have been a kiss and a cuddle.

  Mrs Fielding began to weep. ‘Is that why my Freddie’s in prison? I thought it was earlier that gentleman was killed. Before you all came trooping in.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Nell said gently, ‘but it’s certainly going to help if you tell the police where you were. If he was with you, not only could he not have murdered Mr Charles but anyone who knew he was in that cupboard could have got up there unseen.’

  Mrs Fielding began to reclaim her usual self. ‘What about you, Miss Checkam?’ she asked. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘You said you were at the servants’ hall dance,’ Nell said, as Miss Checkam seemed reluctant to reply, ‘and then went to bed.’

  ‘To my bedroom,’ she amended, ‘not to bed.’

  Mr Briggs looked eager to help again. ‘I saw you too,’ he said, and Miss Checkam went very pink. ‘With that bad gentleman who attacked Polly.’

  Miss Checkam stiffened. ‘That was before Mr Charles went up to the gallery. We just passed a few words.’

  ‘That’s what you say,’ Mrs Fielding snorted.

  ‘Tell us, Miss Checkam, please,’ Nell pleaded. ‘We need to get this straight for Mr Peters’ sake.’

  Miss Checkam looked mutinous. ‘I was upset,’ she said unwillingly. ‘I was in my bedroom but I had to lay out Lady Ansley’s night attire. When I was on my way to the grand staircase I saw Mr Charles about to go up the stairs to the gallery. I wanted to talk to him but he wasn’t very pleased to be stopped. He was very rude, so I went away. I’d forgotten all about meeting him since nothing happened. Mr Peters was still in the great hall so he would have seen me if I had come in to take the dagger. But I told you – all this was before he was killed.’

  ‘It’s still relevant,’ Nell said firmly, ‘and you should both tell the police.’

  Mrs Fielding swung in again. ‘Miss Drury’s right. I can’t have my Freddie hanged for something he never did, the darling man.’

  It was a start, Nell thought, no matter if she had broken her word to Inspector Melbray that she wouldn’t go foraging for information. After all, this had been a mere chat between workmates and they hadn’t even mentioned Miss Harlington’s death. Could Mr Peters have been involved in that? Suppose he had killed Mr Charles and Miss Harlington knew that? The key must lie in Mr Charles’s death. Nell had a moment’s doubt – but if she listened to all the doubts in her mind she would never get anywhere.

  Forward then: Lord Richard, she reasoned, had no strong motive for killing Mr Charles, despite his jealousy of him. Anyway, he couldn’t have killed him without his sisters seeing him leave the group. With Mr Peters spooning in the cellar room, however, any of the group might well have slipped away and killed Mr Charles. Poor Lady Helen was in no state to kill anyone, though, and Lady Sophy had no reason to do so, which left Mr Beringer and Lady Warminster. And Arthur? Nell forced herself to consider. Would his sangfroid stretch to killing Charlie? He had chosen to join her group after the changeover. Where had he been before that? Guy now had an alibi, otherwise he would have been in the same position.

  Nell sighed. It was all very well for the likes of Sherlock Holmes to tread on the toes of Scotland Yard but she knew the dangers of her stepping on the inspector’s investigative feet.

  It occurred to her that every morning Arthur set off for his morning stroll to the village at about midday, and if she bumped into him by chance she could hardly be blamed for their having a casual conversation, no matter what the subject.

  ‘My dear Nell, what a pleasure.’ Arthur swept off his Panama hat. ‘Do pray join me if your time permits on this delightful morning. We might take a glass of cider at the Coach and Horses.’

  ‘That would be delightful,’ she agreed solemnly.

  ‘I’m most perturbed to hear that Peters has been arrested,’ he said as they strolled down the drive to the inn.

  ‘Wrongly, I’m sure,’ Nell said stoutly. ‘He has an alibi but seems not to have taken advantage of it.’

  ‘Unfortunate, but gentlemen will be gentlemen if a lady is involved. I take it that is the case?’

  She laughed. ‘It is.’

  ‘Or indeed if another gentleman is involved,’ he continued. ‘We have our own code, but I doubt if Lady Enid would approve. I’m surprised that she has not tried to fix the blame on me for killing Charlie or the beautiful Elise. She does have a nose for old scandals. I’m sure if you have spoken to her, she has remembered mine.’

  ‘She didn’t mention it, even if she knew, and of course—’

  ‘You don’t want to know?’ His turn to laugh. ‘You do, Nell, and I’ve no objection to telling you or anyone else, come to that, save our police, of course. It is a sad story. It preceded my friendship with Lady Enid’s husband, Hugo, the present Lord Ansley’s father. A young man, the son of a well-known family, who was very dear to me. He killed himself when our liaison became as public as the law permits, and his parents discovered his preferences. He was my first love, and first love runs deep. It is never forgotten but lies in a guarded portion of one’s heart. It does not emerge nearly sixty years later and result in murder. It is true, however, that dear Elise murmured in my ear that I might not like the Ansley family or anyone else to know of my inclinations.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’ First love, Nell reflected. Was Guy hers or was her first love the boy on the oyster stall at Spitalfields who had seemed so Godlike to a humble girl of twelve?

  ‘That everyone I care about already knows and that those I don’t wouldn’t be interested. She suggested the police would be. I suggested that she find proof. As both of my loves are, alas, dead and I have not, as did Mr Oscar Wilde, lived an indiscreet life, there is no proof available, merely gossip and rumour and tittle-tattle. Elise was most disappointed, I fear, especially when I informed her that Charlie had made similar threats to no effect.’

  ‘Thank you, Arthur,’ Nell said. Putting aside having to consider whether he could have played a part in Mr Charles’s death, her liking for him grew. It must have taken courage to tell her that sad story of love. True, he might have calculated that the story would become public knowledge at any moment, but she overruled that angle. That was her privilege and one Inspector Melbray was unable to claim.

  ‘Lady Enid also mentioned Mr Beringer,’ Nell continued as they seated themselves outside the Coach and Horses with their cider. What a contrast between this peaceful scene before them and the subject that had brought them here.

  ‘Dear Rex, ah, yes.’

  ‘She told me his heritage was hard to trace. I presume that implied he was either an imposter or’ – she intoned solemnly – ‘presuming to a station in life to which he was not born. But that can’t be a matter for blackmail, surely?’

  ‘He wishes to marry Helen, my dear.’

  ‘Even if the Ansleys did not approve, they would never stand in the way of her happiness. Lady Enid, however, thought that Mr Beringer might not wish it to seem as though he was cour
ting money. Is that reason for blackmail?’

  ‘Charlie Parkyn-Wright would doubtless have said that it was. Elise, also. Nell, I happen to know Rex’s heritage thanks to a conversation I had with Charlie’s parents at the inquest. They know Rex – or did once. He is the son of a local gamekeeper in Derbyshire and is extremely intelligent. Thanks to his father’s wealthy employer he was able to study at Oxford and he has since done well in the Colonial Service. He is far from poor but has hardly enough to support Lady Helen in the style to which she has become accustomed.’

  ‘That’s a good story, though,’ Nell said stoutly.

  ‘For you, yes. Some see it differently.’

  ‘Does he deliberately conceal it?’

  ‘No. It is merely that it never emerges. I don’t doubt that Charlie tried to blackmail him, however. What else troubles you, Nell? I can see that something is on your mind.’

  Nell smiled. ‘Apart from Mr Peters, ghosts are. Has Lady Clarice told you that she believes her ghosts are gathering for a united battlefront against the police?’

  ‘She has, although not in those words. She has told me at great length. If Peters is charged with murder, however, they will have no cause to gather. Justice will have been served.’

  ‘But if he isn’t?’

  ‘Then I fear she is serious.’

  ‘What does she think will actually happen?’

  ‘Of that, not yet being a ghost, I have no prior knowledge.’

  She might find out all too soon, Nell discovered on her return to Wychbourne Court. There had been a special request from Lady Clarice that she would like tea served in the Blue Drawing Room that afternoon and that Nell might care to take tea with her.

  When she arrived, Lady Clarice was sitting by the window overlooking the drive and forecourt and scribbling furiously in a notebook. She looked so thin that Nell wondered where all the cream went. Lady Clarice had a weakness for chocolate cake and French crème anglaise.

  ‘I have been making plans for the ghosts,’ she explained, waving a hand for Nell to sit opposite her.