Dancing with Death

by Amy Myers

  ‘Do they permit you to do that?’ Nell asked seriously.

  ‘In certain circumstances, yes, such as the events that have overtaken this household. I do not believe that Peters could have committed these murders, and therefore I have decided to make plans now. I would be glad of your cooperation. The suitable places for the gathering are only two in number: one is the great hall and the other is the chapel.’

  ‘The chapel is in the newest part of the house,’ Nell pointed out. ‘Would the older ghosts travel there?’

  ‘That is the new chapel,’ Lady Clarice said. ‘I talk of the old one. Although that is no longer holy ground its former use might prejudice the results. At least one murderer will be present, albeit penitent.’

  Nell was confused. ‘The murderer of Mr Charles and Miss Harlington?’

  Lady Clarice looked irritated. ‘The murderers among the ghosts, Nell. I believe they will choose the great hall, however, which means that Charlie, at least, will join them.’

  ‘Who will be coming? I mean,’ Nell added hastily, ‘among their audience.’

  ‘Everyone involved in this terrible affair. The police, of course. I’m also informing my brother, since it’s his house, and you, Nell, should inform anyone you feel should be present. I’ve no objection to the presence of servants, even gardeners, if they are relevant to the purpose.’

  ‘When do you expect it to happen?’ Nell had been peering out of the window at some new arrivals in the forecourt.

  ‘The ghosts will tell me in due course. We need to know about Peters first.’

  ‘Then we will know soon.’ Unexpectedly, Nell was full of hope. ‘He’s walking across the forecourt.’

  But so, she saw, were the police. Inspector Melbray and his sergeant had just stepped out of the van.

  ‘Released without charge.’ Mr Peters sat down in the servants’ hall looking very tired to Nell’s concerned eyes, and all the kitchen staff were crowded around him, together with Miss Checkam. Mrs Fielding stood proudly at his side. ‘Thanks to Mrs Fielding, here,’ he added, ‘and to Miss Checkam.’

  ‘We told them, didn’t we, Miss Checkam?’ Mrs Fielding boasted, pressing a cup of tea on him. ‘Why ever did they think it was you in the first place?’

  ‘All a mistake,’ Mr Peters said delicately.

  ‘Why would you want to kill him, though?’ Mrs Fielding was getting into her stride now. ‘They’re daft. All them coppers. And to think we pay their wages. Arresting good people like you and letting murderers go free. I don’t know what the world’s coming to.’

  ‘It won’t be coming to much harm with people like you around,’ Mr Peters said valiantly.

  A mistake? Nell pondered that. There must have been more evidence against him than his lack of an alibi. Was Mr Charles blackmailing him? Very possibly. But there must be more to it.

  Nell skipped back to the theory that Miss Harlington knew who had killed Mr Charles. How could she have known? Answer: she was in the first group on the ghost hunt and noticed someone had slipped away or did she merely deduce who had killed him? She had been dancing with Mr Charles non-stop that evening. If blackmail was the root cause of his murder and she, as well as he, had been gathering gossip, then that could have provided the reason for her murder. She knew Mr Charles’s clients, she moved in the right circles, and she was a determined and beautiful woman.

  Hold on, Nell, she warned herself. Where are you going with this?

  Evidence. The police had been looking for evidence in Elise’s room. Of what, though? Of who had killed her? Of drugs? Yes, but what about the blackmail angle? Assuming that Mr Charles and Miss Harlington were in that racket together, how did that affect the drugs issue? Why did Miss Harlington have a large supply in her room and Mr Charles did not? She recalled that the inspector had asked her whether that suggested anything to her and when she answered he had told her she hadn’t gone far enough. Very well, she’d go further. Could it be that she and perhaps the police too had been seeing it the wrong way round? That Miss Harlington was the blackmailer-in-chief and the dealer too?

  Excitement began to well up inside her. Suppose Mr Charles was as much a victim as they had thought Miss Harlington to be, and that he was under her control? Wouldn’t that work? Inspector Melbray had said that in the drugs scandal of 1922, Chan’s clients were mainly high-class women, not men. Why shouldn’t they be dealers too?

  ‘Miss Drury, what brings you here?’ Inspector Melbray looked trapped when she invaded his sanctum in the morning room on Wednesday morning. ‘Is this about Frederick Peters?’

  ‘No. Well, yes. I’m glad he’s not guilty.’

  ‘Not quite accurate. We haven’t enough evidence to charge him now that Mrs Fielding’s evidence, true or false, has to be taken into the equation.’

  He must have taken note of her surprise. ‘I’m being remarkably frank but I believe it’s time to be so. I understood that you were behind the two ladies coming forward with their stories. Thank you, but what are you here for now?’ His stern expression almost persuaded her it might be wiser to flee the room. He clearly was not in the mood for discussion.

  ‘I have a theory—’ She broke off, seeing his face change, but then braced herself. ‘I shall tell you what it is and you can judge whether it’s true or false. It might be a line that you’re working on anyway.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ he said stonily.

  ‘Miss Harlington might have been the drug dealer and the blackmailer, not Mr Parkyn-Wright. You told me that Chan’s clients were women.’

  His expression was unreadable. ‘Brilliant Chan, he was called,’ he said absently. ‘He smuggled the stuff out of Germany through Holland. It wasn’t illegal in Germany. I believe Chan did have some women dealers.’ He didn’t seem overwhelmed by her contribution.

  ‘And the blackmail?’ she persevered.

  ‘She could well have been Parkyn-Wright’s partner in that,’ he agreed – grudgingly, it seemed to her.

  ‘What about her being the driving force in that too?’ she said obstinately.

  He looked at her steadily. ‘I’ll consider that. She could have taken over after his death.’

  Silence. ‘I had to tell you, anyway,’ she said inanely.

  Still silence. Then at last: ‘Diaries,’ he said after a while. ‘We keep them, you know. Every day. It’s the Scotland Yard rule. We write down everything that has happened to us that day, and on the same day, not later. We write down our expenses too. They’re checked every week. It’s a good system. That’s why I can give precise evidence in court. Elise Harlington kept a diary too. She died roughly between nine and ten o’clock and we found the diary when we searched her room in the morning. It was well hidden. It looked like a leather-bound Bible until we opened it and found it was a wooden box with a diary inside. Charlie Parkyn-Wright didn’t keep a diary, or at least didn’t have one among his possessions. Her diary had all the details of the clients, all the gossip which could have come in handy. We thought that meant she was his secretary, Miss Drury, but the world is changing. Perhaps you’re right. I’ll consider what you’ve said.

  ‘And now,’ he continued, ‘I’ll tell you why we arrested Peters. In confidence, of course. We suspected, and now we know, that his evidence about his whereabouts that night was false. We also checked his past record, particularly during the war. Checking records is all part of our job. Dull work, mostly, unless you come across something interesting. This case has proved far from dull in one or two instances. War records are seldom checked in later life. A private can call himself a colonel and no one will doubt it if he behaves like a colonel. In Peters’ case, he had been in a military court on charges of theft. It was noted that there had been too many queries over missing items among the possessions of the fallen for it to go uninvestigated. It was traced to Frederick Peters. Major Noel Ansley saved his bacon and Peters has never put a foot wrong since. When Noel Ansley was killed, the service warned Lord Ansley, and it could be that his sons know the truth as well
. Nevertheless, Peters is a reformed man now. A powerful motive for killing Charles Parkyn-Wright if he, working – as you would have it – with Elise Harlington, discovered Peters’ background.’

  ‘Not if Lord Ansley already knew the story,’ Nell pointed out.

  ‘Peters wasn’t aware that Lord Ansley knew, so his motive remains. Motive, opportunity, means. That’s why we arrested him.’

  ‘Did Miss Harlington’s diary have more victims in it, other than Mr Peters?’

  He remained silent. Capering carrots, she’d gone too far. ‘I know about Mr Beringer,’ she blurted out, ‘and probably Miss Checkam and Lady Warminster.’

  ‘Ah.’ He managed a smile. ‘Lady Warminster. You told me you were to be the chef at the party on Saturday.’

  ‘Will you be there?’

  ‘She has been kind enough to invite me, so yes. As to whether she was in Miss Harlington’s diary, you probably already know the story and there is no need for me to tell you.’

  Checkmated. She longed to ask if the Ansleys were in the clear but managed to refrain. Instead, she asked mildly, ‘Where do your investigations go now?’

  ‘Officially, we carry on interviewing, digging away like archaeologists. Some day we’ll find our Troy.’

  ‘And unofficially?’

  ‘I’ll consult the ghosts on what we do then.’

  FOURTEEN

  Nothing so simple, nothing so glorious as the menus she had suggested to Lady Warminster, Nell thought wistfully. French cuisine was mandatory for Her Ladyship. Nell’s own ideas had been for the most exquisite dishes yet devised by man – or woman – but haute cuisine to Lady Warminster went no further than price and name, alas. Faced with the dilemma of whether the garnish should be the true black truffle of the Périgord or the more expensive artificially produced one, the taste came second, as it had with Nell’s Kentish cherry wine jelly, which had been replaced with a more showy pêches à l’Aurore. Nevertheless, Monsieur Escoffier would have been proud of her, Nell thought. He too believed in simplicity, and by dint of her assuring Lady Warminster that this or that dish was a favourite of his she had ended up with a compromise, which remained as French in appearance as Monsieur le President Deschanel or the Comte d’Orleans themselves could desire. Pity they wouldn’t be coming.

  ‘What about the ices, Miss Drury?’ Kitty asked anxiously. The buffet was to be served at nine p.m. and it was already eight. The party was in full flow and, even from the Stalisbrook kitchen, Nell could hear Guy’s band.

  ‘Not yet, Kitty,’ she called back. Thank goodness she had been able to bring Kitty and Michel with her, she thought. Mrs Squires would be looking after Lord and Lady Ansley who had deemed it improper for them to be attending a ball after the two recent deaths in their home. Lord Richard, Lady Helen and Lady Sophy were here, however, as was Mr Beringer. Nell was beginning to warm to him. He almost seemed part of the family as he had been a guest for so long. Luckily he was a force for good. He kept Lady Helen calm, he was good company for Lord Richard and even Lady Sophy approved of him. ‘He discussed the Iliad with me,’ she had told Nell in awe. ‘He was up at Oxford.’

  The dowager had declined her invitation but Arthur had murmured that he could not resist. ‘Lady Warminster,’ he had declared, ‘is such a character. I do wonder what her poor husband will make of this merry-go-round. I fear the Charleston, which I understand Her Ladyship has demanded, is not yet known in the wilds of Mesopotamia.’

  While sharing Arthur’s views on Lady Warminster, Nell had unexpectedly enjoyed working with the kitchen staff at Stalisbrook Place. She had overcome their natural resentment of her intrusion by the simple method of asking their advice from time to time, even pleading for their help. Their interest had increased when Lady Sophy bounced into the kitchen and, to their astonishment, instead of demands and complaints they heard her say: ‘Can I help, Nell? Oh, please let me.’

  Nell had to stifle a laugh. ‘Thank you, Lady Sophy,’ she replied grandly, ‘but I have such excellent assistance from everyone here’ – she swept an all-encompassing arm around the kitchen – ‘that everything is in hand.’

  Lady Sophy understood. ‘I can see you have,’ she enthused. She looked at the array of dishes on the kitchen table awaiting the footmen who would carry them in. ‘It all looks wonderful. Do show me the supper room, Nell,’ she pleaded. ‘I can’t wait.’

  Nell took the hint, and as soon as they were out of earshot of the kitchen, Lady Sophy announced: ‘This place gives me the creeps. It’s got the curse of Tutankhamun hanging over it.’

  ‘Just because it’s done up like an Aladdin’s cave?’ Nell asked curiously.

  ‘It’s all so artificial. Not like Wychbourne Court. I know that’s home but I’m sure guests find it welcoming. Look at those mock lilies and lotuses. Why not give the general a bunch of roses?’

  Nell laughed. ‘You can take him for a walk in the garden for his roses. Anyway, Mr Escoffier rather liked artificial flowers.’

  ‘It’s more than that, Nell. This place is full of money with no heart. It’s that woman, of course.’

  ‘Could you possibly mean your hostess?’ Nell solemnly enquired.

  Lady Sophy giggled. ‘Yes. Oh, Nell, if you see William, do tell him I want a dance with him – he’ll be too embarrassed to ask me.’

  Nell grimaced. Lady Warminster would pass out with shock if she saw the servants joining her precious ball, particularly her beloved gardener. ‘Is that fair on William?’

  Lady Sophy pouted. ‘I suppose not.’ Then she brightened up. ‘Suppose I clear it with the general? Everyone now knows the story about William coming to the Wychbourne dinner and if the general hasn’t heard it, I’ll tell him. It would be a scream.’

  ‘On your head be it,’ Nell warned her.

  ‘I’m a let’s-see-what-happens person. Just like you.’

  Nell grinned. ‘Bully for you, Lady Sophy. Go ahead if you think you can stand Lady Warminster bearing down on you in full force.’

  ‘The general’s word goes, so madame would find it hard to give William the boot now. Anyway, the general’s a real sport. She wouldn’t moan too much because he might think her majesty had been carrying on with the gardener in his absence.’ She glanced at Nell who, caught by surprise, was too late to react innocently. ‘Oh ho,’ Lady Sophy continued with glee, ‘I do believe you’ve been holding out on me, Nell. Has she been getting off with William?’

  ‘Go and ask a policeman,’ Nell retorted crossly.

  Phew. Thankfully Lady Sophy didn’t seem upset at the notion that there might be more to Lady Warminster’s relationship with William than had previously occurred to her. That put an end to Nell’s fears that Lady Sophy might have a romantic interest in William as well as her seeing him as a guinea pig for her social equality programme.

  ‘It looks grand, Nell.’ Guy strolled up to her, clarinet in hand and in evening dress; with his medals prominent, he looked as dashing as the Prince of Wales. She’d just finished her inspection of the buffet table and there was only fifteen minutes to go now. ‘All set?’ he asked, looking quizzically at the loaded table. ‘Does the band get a share of this?’

  ‘Ask the hostess.’

  ‘She’s nowhere to be seen. Last spotted dancing decorously with an ancient mariner otherwise known as vice-admiral something or other. Leftovers in the kitchen?’ he added hopefully. ‘Better than their usual rations, I’d guess.’

  ‘You’ll have to wait, Guy,’ she said in exasperation. ‘Leftovers won’t be back in the kitchen for hours.’

  ‘Feed the troops and keep them happy, that’s what we reckoned in the officers’ mess during the war.’ With that Guy seemed prepared to go, but then they were joined by an elderly man of medium height, grey hair and, Nell noted, sharp eyes. His uniform and medals immediately made it clear who he was.

  Guy’s demeanour changed instantly. ‘We met earlier, General. Miss Drury, may I introduce General Warminster, our host. Miss Drury is your chef for the even
ing, General.’

  ‘An honour, Miss Drury, but one glance at this table would immediately have informed me you were present. I dined frequently at the Carlton during the war and remember you as Mr Escoffier’s favourite apprentice there, although I don’t believe we ever met. He told me you have a fine line in expressing your feelings.’

  Nell laughed. ‘Tipsy turtles, fancy your remembering that.’

  ‘You’re at Wychbourne Court, of course,’ General Warminster continued. ‘Two murders, I understand. I have sent my condolences to Lord and Lady Ansley. My wife tells me she was there on the night of the first murder. A great pity she was there alone. It was the chauffeur’s night off but our under-gardener could have driven her there. It seems he too was otherwise engaged. A gentleman with ambitions in his field, I gather. I’m told that he and Lady Sophy met through their mutual interest in horticulture. Unusual, but we must keep up with the times. Miss Drury, busy though you are, I trust you will keep a dance free for me?’

  It was clear, Nell realized, that whether from his wife or from Lady Sophy, General Warminster did know about William’s escapade at Wychbourne, if not the full story. Before she could answer his question, though, Lady Warminster appeared out of the blue. She was a vision in bright yellow Arabian trousers and a sleek tunic, glittering in diamonds and looking for all the world as though she were to do a belly dance, save that her dress was decorously covered in the relevant portions of her body. Nell had to admit that she looked spectacular.

  ‘You can’t dance with the hired help, darling Tiddles.’ Lady Warminster issued a tinkling laugh. ‘Really, you can’t. That will be all, Miss Drury.’

  ‘Until later, Miss Drury,’ the general remarked, apparently oblivious that his wife had spoken.

  ‘That will be all,’ Lady Warminster snapped.

  Not, Nell thought with amusement, if the general had anything to do with it. Nevertheless, this whole evening had a jarring element. The décor looked like something out of The Arabian Nights and, extreme though it was, it was well done. Rich hangings made a tented roof, palm trees stood by the walls and above them photographs from The Sheik showed Rudolph Valentino’s smouldering eyes surveying the dancing beneath. If only she had been able to provide a buffet drawing on the exotic fruits and spices of the East, with rose water and apricots and aubergines. Back to reality, Nell. It had to be French. And that perhaps was why it jarred. There was no heart in this ball, no warmth. It was merely a statement, a show without substance.