Dancing with Death

by Amy Myers

  Nell was all too thankful for Mr Charles’s reticence as she edged past the cupboard, her heart thumping. To her, at least, this gallery had a distinctly unpleasant atmosphere – one that all the lavender polish in the world would not smother, although there was no evidence of that smell that had pervaded the air that Saturday night.

  The thumping reduced a little as, at the foot of the gallery stairs, Lady Clarice turned into the corridor and led them along the back of the gallery towards the gunroom. ‘Don’t disturb the dog,’ she pleaded as Inspector Melbray strode too boldly into the room.

  Startled, he jumped aside, looking round cautiously. ‘I don’t see one,’ he said.

  ‘Napoleon is around somewhere, I’m sure. He always waited for his master in the gunroom. That would be my father, the seventh marquess in the 1880s. And next door you’ll find poor Violet in the boot room. A maid, but a maiden no longer. She was betrayed by the fourth marquess.’

  It seemed to Nell that the inspector was having some difficulty with these two residents, as he rather speedily decided to bypass the breakfast room and asked where they would be going next. This was all very well, she thought uneasily, but where was it leading? His silence on the real reason for their being here was increasingly unnerving.

  ‘Up the back stairs to the upper floors of the main house,’ Lady Clarice replied to him. ‘There you’ll meet Henrietta, murdered for unfaithfulness to her lord; Dorcas, who waited in vain for her husband’s return; and if you are lucky, Calliope will be singing in the corridor and it’s even possible you’ll hear the baby crying in the nursery.’

  The inspector received this information with an impassive face as Lady Clarice led them past the cellar room where Mr Peters and Mrs Fielding had had their romantic interlude to a flight of stairs to the upper floor.

  ‘Could the people in the group you were leading, Lady Clarice, have changed their positions in the group while climbing these stairs?’ he asked. ‘This staircase is wider than the corridor that brought us here, which suggests that is possible.’

  ‘I suppose it is.’ Lady Clarice showed little interest.

  Nell realized with alarm what the inspector might be driving at. The family. ‘Lord Richard and Lady Helen were bringing up the rear along the corridor,’ she said, ‘but at this point that might have changed. They had a plan’ – careful here, Nell – ‘that might have taken their attention off who was here and who wasn’t.’

  Lady Clarice looked mystified but the inspector’s eyes rested on Nell thoughtfully. ‘Miss Drury,’ he asked, ‘could you work out which would be the easiest route in terms of time for someone to leave the group, get hold of the dagger and the photographer’s cloth in the relative darkness, slip up to the gallery, down again and then either catch up with the group by using these stairs, or go up the main staircase and hope to join it en route, or wait for the group to return to the great hall. Would you put yourself in the murderer’s shoes please?’ He paused. ‘Do you wear a watch to time it by?’

  ‘I do.’ At least concentrating on this would ease her tension, stop these nightmarish guesses at what and whom he suspected. If her job was to be a Baker Street Irregular, so be it. Nell set off, leaving her companions to salute whatever ghosts they wished upstairs. Should she use the gallery stairs nearest to her where Mr Peters might see her, or the stairs at the other end? The latter. Off she went – no, she hadn’t yet seized the dagger and cloth from the hall. Unless, she realized with growing excitement, she had already snatched them in the chaos before the groups left. It was quite possible given the low lighting.

  Now she must run up these gallery stairs then either go along the gallery passageway visible from below or squeeze along behind the screen to where Mr Charles would be hidden. Access from either end whether behind the screen or in front carried the risk of being seen or heard by Mr Peters. But then the murderer wouldn’t have known that Mr Peters had planned to stay in the hall. Yes, that was it!

  Sure she was on the right track now, she continued timing her movements and hurried back down the gallery stairs. Decision time: would she have chosen to catch up the group or wait? Much safer to remain here. If she stood in the well of the staircase, she would be in darkness and even if someone should pass she would escape notice. The murderer would have his own torch to time his departure and at twelve thirty he had emerged when he heard familiar voices.

  ‘Excellent, Miss Drury,’ the inspector greeted her as she joined them in the hall, where people were now gathering for the great event. ‘How long to get to the gallery and back down again?’ he asked.

  ‘Ten minutes.’

  ‘Including taking the dagger and cloth?’

  ‘I’d already taken them.’

  He looked at her. ‘Thank you.’

  He seemed pleased but not disposed to discuss it further – naturally enough, she supposed, although questions shot up in her mind like mushrooms. Why was he pleased? Did her contribution point to someone in particular? And who was it? Stop this, Nell, she told herself. There’s nothing more to be done. It’s in his hands now. She tried instead to concentrate on the gathering now assembling. There was no sign of any ghosts, at least.

  Lord and Lady Ansley had arrived and Lady Clarice went over to join them, as did the inspector. As far as Nell could see, everyone seemed to be present. Perhaps Lady Sophy had had a hand in the family wardrobe, for jewels and tiaras were flashing. Lady Helen was in bright green and Lady Sophy in red, so they clearly had no fears about frightening the ghosts. The dowager had chosen purple and Lady Ansley blue. Lady Warminster, clad in a muddy stone-coloured satin, looked positively dowdy, to Nell’s pleasure. She saw Lady Enid walking with great determination to join Lord and Lady Ansley with her back firmly to Arthur, who came up to whisper to Nell.

  ‘I may be wrong, Sherlock, but do I deduce that Inspector Melbray has something to tell us this evening?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Nell swallowed. Even just putting the obvious into words made her stomach tense again.

  ‘I’m all agog. I see General Warminster is here too, anxiously protecting his wife from the foul embraces of their gardener-cum-chauffeur.’

  ‘Arthur!’ Nell said warningly.

  ‘Consider that unsaid. I shall join them with their permission. I see the gardener is present, sitting with Mr Ellimore. Dear me, is the inspector gathering us together for a grand dénouement?’

  He must be right. She could see Mrs Fielding, Mr Peters, Miss Checkam and Mr Briggs all in their Sunday best and sitting at a table with Jimmy and Muriel, the latter looking terrified. She saw Mrs Fielding put a motherly arm round her, a side of her that Nell had never seen before. Perhaps she had a warm heart after all.

  ‘Eerie,’ Nell thought with a shiver. Everyone gathered, sipping Mr Peters’ excellent cocktails, and yet there was a muted air, not just because of what had happened here just over a month ago but the probability that tonight might see its ending. It was as though they were all moving like ghosts themselves on a course directed by Inspector Melbray.

  At that moment it was growing even eerier as the lights went out and it took a few moments for the table lamps to be lit. Where should she sit? Nell wondered. It was settled for her as Inspector Melbray touched her arm. ‘Join me, Miss Drury. I noticed you shiver. We should shiver together. This champagne cocktail that the butler just brought me is excellent. Is he new to that job? It wasn’t Peters or your footman.’

  She sat down with him at a table at the back, half reluctantly, half gratefully. ‘It must have been Mr Peters, because only he is serving. The footman is preparing the drinks. Should I be shivering at the ghosts or at what is to come?’ she asked boldly.

  ‘I’m sure your buffet will be scrumptious.’

  Checkmated again. She hadn’t meant the buffet. ‘I hope the ghosts agree,’ she managed to reply lightly.

  ‘I’m sure they will. After all, you’ve kindly marked the dishes for each one’s use. I would fear to fight Napoleon’s for his, however. Your role
seems to be that of politician as well as chef, Miss Drury. Two roles, not one.’

  ‘Just as your investigations are two cases, not one,’ she said. ‘Is that why you’re here tonight?’ She’d said this on the spur of the moment but now she thought it through. Were they separate cases? She’d assumed that Mr Charles’s killer had also killed Miss Harlington, but suppose there were two killers? That would dramatically alter the picture.

  His eyes flickered but before he could answer – if he had intended to – Lady Clarice had risen to her feet to speak. Nell’s sense of dread overcame her. It was about to begin and, regardless of any ghosts, would sweep on to its inevitable end masterminded by Inspector Melbray.

  Lady Clarice performed in style. ‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, we are here to welcome some very special guests who have lived and dined in this house over the centuries. They will dine with us again tonight – if enough food remains for them, of course.’

  There was a titter of nervous laughter, which Nell could see Lady Clarice had not intended. She, like Nell, must have seen premature small raids on the buffet table, and was truly anxious on the ghosts’ behalf.

  ‘I do plead with you to take care if you move about,’ Lady Clarice continued. ‘Remember each sound you hear, each sense, every touch, every sight. Even if there are no full materializations, there will be signs. We have equipment here to record and photograph what we can. I shall now summon my friends the ghosts, and please turn down the wicks on your tables to their lowest point or preferably out.’

  Nell reached out to the wick on their table but the inspector was quicker, putting his hand over hers to stop her. ‘A little light never hurt anyone, even ghosts,’ he whispered.

  Nell watched as the hall fell dark and Lady Clarice became a distant figure, arms outstretched to her precious ghosts. What if nothing happened? Or if it did, would somebody stop it? Yes, Inspector Melbray would. She grasped at that, thankful of his presence.

  ‘Come forth, Alfred, son of Alefric,’ Lady Clarice intoned as the lights went out. ‘Come forth, Sir Ralph, come forth, Dorcas and Lord William. Come forth, Henrietta and Sir Thomas. Let us hear you, Violet, come forth, Hubert – and come forth, Charles Parkyn-Wright.’

  Nell held her breath. And then it began.

  Someone screamed, someone hushed whoever it was, and there were more cries, more gasps, even sobs, and the sound of chairs being scraped back. Fear took over and spread like a fog among them. Nell blinked. Was she imagining this? Were her eyes playing tricks on her? She could hear the inspector’s deep breathing at her side; he was as glued as she was to the spectacle before them.

  ‘What is it?’ she half croaked to him.

  Up on the gallery there were tiny pinpricks of light and, very slowly, they were moving. A procession of ghosts, monks perhaps, like that haunted house at Bilsington. No, she thought fearfully, it was the Wychbourne ghosts coming to dine.

  ‘They’re here!’ she heard Lady Clarice shriek. ‘Dear Sir William, dear Sir Thomas – and Lady Adelaide. Oh, welcome!’

  This was crazy. Some of the portraits hanging on the walls were illuminated by lights – cold, harsh lights as though to indicate those depicted in the portraits were alive, coming to join the feast. Only with difficulty did Nell hold back a shriek herself, clutching at the inspector’s arm before she could stop herself.

  Someone shrieked again – Lady Warminster, Nell thought. She even heard the dowager yelp.

  ‘Silence,’ Lady Clarice pleaded. ‘Oh, please, silence. Our friends the ghosts must dine with us.’

  This was madness. It couldn’t really be a gathering of ghosts, could it? Nell was shivering. Those lights on the gallery screens were still slowly, slowly moving, one or two already coming down the panelling. She was still clutching the inspector’s arm as he leaned closer to her.

  ‘I have to stop this, Nell,’ he whispered. ‘Are you all right if I leave you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she managed to reply.

  ‘Don’t move, then.’

  She watched him make his way through the gloom and as the room quietened down she could hear him talking to Lady Clarice. ‘The ghosts have asked me to stop the gathering,’ he told her firmly. ‘It’s far too noisy for them to dine here tonight.’ Nell saw Lady Clarice make a gesture of dissent but thankfully it was too late. ‘Lights, please!’ he shouted to the room at large. ‘Every one of them. And then,’ he said, lightening the tension, ‘I suggest we eat this superb buffet.’

  His words were an anti-climax but seemed to calm the gathering down. To Nell, though, they made it worse. There had to be more. Had to be. The inspector wouldn’t have come here just for this.

  Mr Peters and Jimmy rushed to light the wall lamps, while the table lamps now revealed sheepish grins and strained faces. No one instantly moved to the buffet, though. There was still too much uncertainty and fear. Gradually a semblance of normality was restored and Nell saw the glories of food and drink gradually helping to calm the company. She had ceased to care whether the ghosts were lingering to admire her cuisine and their nameplates. There were other matters more important.

  Something more must be about to happen. This lull must have been deliberately planned by the inspector, she realized. A glance at the door to the entrance hall, which had briefly opened, had told her that there were uniformed police in the entrance hall. Had she been right in thinking there were two cases, not one? How was this evening going to end? Not with her buffet, she was sure of that.

  Arthur came over to her, beaming, with Lady Clarice at his side. ‘My dear Nell, what a triumph.’

  Nell stared at him, wondering what he meant. He must have seen her bewilderment and hastened to continue.

  ‘Clarice and you have provided us with such a splendid show. I quite thought for a moment that Parkyn-Wright was going to appear in person. Or perhaps that phantom butler would serve me a drink. Even Napoleon would have satisfied me. But do tell me what will happen next. I have a feeling that the ghosts are going to be followed by something quite different.’

  ‘I do too,’ she said quietly. ‘And it won’t be long now.’

  Lady Clarice was oblivious to everything but her ghosts. ‘Had we waited longer,’ she wailed, ‘there might have been materializations.’

  Nell soothed her and watched with relief as the buffet continued, although she could not bear to take anything for herself. Mr Peters was kept busy (without the help of any phantom butler) serving drinks. Whether or not he had met Jeremiah, the smuggler in the cellars, he was managing splendidly now. She was not, though. She would almost welcome the ghosts’ appearance; it would be preferable to what the inspector might have in store.

  She could see him with Lord and Lady Ansley and the dowager, and he beckoned her and Lady Clarice to join them. ‘I have to thank you, Lady Clarice,’ he announced loudly so that everyone present could hear. ‘The ghosts have been most helpful to my investigation. You pointed out,’ he continued, ‘that Charles Parkyn-Wright’s ghost fell silent after Miss Harlington’s murder. You also told me that people often return as ghosts to the place in which they were murdered, but only as long as the case remains unsolved and justice remains to be done. When Miss Harlington died, however, Mr Parkyn-Wright’s ghost was no longer active. That suggested to me that his mission was accomplished.’

  ‘In what way, Inspector?’ Lady Clarice asked, puzzled.

  ‘Because Miss Harlington, his killer, was dead.’

  ‘She killed Mr Charles?’ Nell reeled in shock. Even as she grappled with this, though, she realized what it would mean: that there were indeed two cases, not one. And that would mean, if the inspector was right about Miss Harlington, that there was still worse to come. But was he right? Why would she want to kill him? Then she remembered that strange scent in the gallery – that could have been Miss Harlington’s.

  ‘There is no doubt of that,’ the inspector replied. ‘We’ve found plenty of evidence that would have enabled us to charge her, but one question remained to be
answered. How did she manage it in the time? Thanks to you, Miss Drury, it has been answered. With your working out that she took the dagger and dark cloth before they began the ghost hunt and also where she could have hidden to await the rest of the group’s return, the picture was complete.’ A pause. ‘That is, where Mr Parkyn-Wright’s murder was concerned.’

  ‘I can’t believe that, Melbray,’ Lord Ansley said. ‘Why should Elise want to kill Charlie? She was his victim.’

  ‘We proved, again thanks to Miss Drury’s suggestion, that Miss Harlington was a blackmailer and the actual drug dealer. Parkyn-Wright worked for her, not the other way around. These are modern times, Lord Ansley. Women as well as men can take the wrong path in life.’

  ‘But who killed Elise?’ Lady Helen burst out as everyone began to gather round. ‘Did the ghosts tell you that too?’

  Nell couldn’t think coherently. Mr Beringer? William Foster? Not Mr Peters, surely?

  ‘Unfortunately the ghosts failed to help on that score,’ the inspector replied, ‘but we mere police are capable of finding our own evidence. Lady Warminster—’

  ‘It wasn’t me!’ Lady Warminster screamed, leaping up from her chair. ‘It wasn’t. She was dead when I reached that awful place. I was late, you see. I was supposed to be there at nine fifteen but I wasn’t and she was dead. It was horrible.’

  ‘Kindly explain, Melbray,’ the general said quietly, comforting his sobbing wife.

  ‘Of course. You weren’t at the dinner following the reconstruction, Lady Warminster, and no doubt Miss Harlington had promised you a full account of your gardener’s light-hearted appearance at the ball. I expect she told you she had business to discuss with Miss Drury and Mr Fontenoy at the old dairy and she could talk to you there after that. You could hardly refuse as your gardener had placed you in such an impossible situation with Lord Ansley. Were it revealed, it would be most embarrassing for you socially to have to admit that your own gardener was accepting His Lordship’s hospitality under an assumed name.’