by Rhys Bowen
“I was,” she said. “I ain’t too used to them zip fasteners and I thought it was just stiff. How was I to know I’d got her caught in it? She don’t half have a lot of flesh.”
I sighed. “I suppose you’d better go help Mrs. Rathbone, since Lady Hawse-Gorzley promised you would,” I said.
“I already been with her. She sent me away because I stuck a hatpin in her bum by mistake.”
“Queenie!”
“It didn’t make her bleed or nothing. And she shouldn’t have turned round so quickly. I don’t know why she made such a fuss.”
“What am I going to do with you, Queenie?”
“I never mean no harm, miss,” she said, staring at me with those big cow eyes.
“I know you don’t. But you’re a walking disaster area all the same.”
I brought Dettol, cotton wool and Cuticura cream to Mrs. Upthorpe, who was finally pacified when she saw that the wound would be hidden by the fabric of her dress. Downstairs I could hear the sound of motorcar tires on the gravel as the first guests arrived. I put on the finishing touches to my costume and went down to the ballroom. What an incredible transformation had taken place. The chandeliers in the ceiling were ablaze with electric lights while around the wall tall candelabras sparkled with real candles. Small white-clothed tables, gilt chairs and large potted plants created an air of elegance and on a dais at one end a band was playing a jazz tune. Nobody was dancing yet, but various guests in an interesting array of costumes stood chatting—I saw a black cat, a fat schoolboy and Cleopatra, and someone was even the gorilla. Captain and Mrs. Sechrest were among them, he dressed as King Neptune and she as a water sprite with yards of flowing tulle and a sea green wig, all dotted with pearls and shells. I noticed Johnnie Protheroe eyeing her. He was dressed as a knight of the Round Table, probably Sir Lancelot, and I thought it was a pity the Sechrests hadn’t chosen to come as Arthur and Guinevere.
Then the Wexlers came in, he dressed as a cowboy, she as an Indian. Cherie, as a Spanish senorita, looked as if she were about to die of embarrassment. Only Junior seemed to be having a good time, and he went around poking people with his gun. I hoped the Wexlers had checked to make sure it wasn’t loaded. The Rathbones and Upthorpes joined us, she still looking pale and suffering. Badger, dressed as a cat burglar, made a beeline for Ethel. The band struck up “On the Sunny Side of the Street” and couples moved onto the dance floor. I experienced that moment of panic I always feel at balls—that I’ll be the only wallflower after everyone else has chosen a partner. It’s quite an irrational fear, as I suspect I’m asked to dance as often as anyone else, but I can’t stop it.
Ethel bounced past with Badger, whose dancing looked more enthusiastic than skillful. Monty was with the no-longer-pouting Cherie. I saw Bunty, as a Jane Austen heroine, looking around hopefully and her eyes lit up as Darcy crossed the floor. But to my secret delight he headed straight for me. “My brown-eyed gypsy maiden, I presume,” he said and held out his hand to me. We danced. It was heavenly.
The ballroom filled with people I didn’t know, then some I did. I saw the Misses Ffrench-Finch sitting with Miss Prendergast, the vicar and Mr. Barclay at a table in the corner. They were not in costume but were enjoying themselves watching the spectacle, nodding in time to the music. I remembered that my mother and Noel Coward had promised to come so I searched until I spotted them. He was a maharaja, with darkened face, impressive curly black mustache and huge turban and she was a veiled Eastern beauty. I went over to them between dances.
“You recognized us,” my mother said in a peeved voice. “We thought we were incognito.”
“You are my mother,” I laughed. “I recognized your eyes beneath the veil. Mr. Coward was harder to detect because of the mustache.”
“I know, isn’t it splendid? We found it in Woolworths. And this is much more grand and civilized than I expected,” Noel Coward said. “I thought it would be full of clodhopping peasants.”
I danced with Darcy again and then with Monty and even once with Johnnie Protheroe, who held me very close indeed, although he kept glancing across at the lovely Mrs. Sechrest. Then we had a Paul Jones, in which ladies and men circle each other and each lady must dance with the man opposite her when the music stops. I found myself dancing with the man with whom I had conversed about the master’s horse at the hunt.
“Rum do the other day, wasn’t it?” he said as he twirled me around. “Still no trace of him. Must have ended up in the bog, poor chap. What a way to go and who would have thought it of someone like him? Knew the country around here like the back of his hand.”
I nodded. “It’s horrible.”
“They’re saying that someone put up a wire to deliberately trip his horse. If I find the blighter I’ll personally put my hands around his scrawny neck and strangle him.” He realized that he was shouting, gave an embarrassed cough and resumed dancing. “Can’t let a thing like that ruin our evening, can we?” he added.
At around ten a “Post Horn Galop” led us in to supper—a magnificent buffet with cold poached salmon, cold chicken, a York ham and a cold leg of pork with sage stuffing, as well as various pies, pasties, jellies, blancmanges and petit fours. I wondered how the gorilla was going to eat but I couldn’t spot him.
After supper the music became slower and fewer couples took to the floor. French doors had been opened, as the room was becoming rather warm, and I suppose there must have been a sudden gust of wind because I heard a shout and a scream. I looked around just in time to see one of the candelabras toppling over. Sandra Sechrest was standing beside it. She tried to get out of the way but it fell onto her trailing skirt and we watched in horror as those yards of filmy tulle went up in flames.
Chapter 30
STILL DECEMBER 28
A horrible ending to the day.
Sandra Sechrest screamed as the flames engulfed her. There was a horrid crackling sound and a smell of acrid smoke as the long shimmering wig burst into flame. Futilely she tried to run. For a long moment nobody else moved. Then several men sprang into action. Johnnie Protheroe reached her first. He flung her to the floor, locked her in an embrace and rolled over with her.
“Get away from my wife, you swine,” Captain Sechrest bellowed.
“I’m saving her life, you damned idiot,” Johnnie shouted back as he staggered to his feet and stamped on the last of the flaming fabric. His face was streaked with soot and his gorgeous knight’s outfit was now also scorched and blackened.
The two men stood there glaring at each other while Sir Oswald, Darcy and a couple of others were down on their knees around Mrs. Sechrest. She was moaning and sobbing hysterically and she looked horrible—a blackened, frizzled mess of charred fabric and hair. Someone covered her with a tablecloth.
“Is the telephone working again?” Bunty asked. “We should call for an ambulance.”
“We can’t afford to wait for an ambulance,” Sir Oswald said. “I’ll drive her to the hospital myself.”
“I’ll come with you, Dad,” Monty said.
“And I want to be with my wife,” Captain Sechrest said, pushing in front of Monty.
“Lift her carefully. She’s in a lot of pain,” Sir Oswald said. “I’ll go and get the motor.”
We watched in silence as the somber procession left the room in eerie silence. Mrs. Sechrest no longer moaned.
“Awful. Absolutely shocking. I can’t believe it.” Voices murmured around me.
“How can that have happened?” someone asked.
“That open French window. Must have blown over the candelabra.”
Miss Prendergast had made her way over to the spot and was down on her knees. “That melting wax is ruining your lovely parquet floor, Lady Hawse-Gorzley,” she said as she attempted to pick up the still burning candles. “We should do something about it quickly.”
“Be careful, Miss Prendergast, or you’ll burn yourself,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “The servants will take care of it.” And indeed a footman and a ma
id were hurrying toward the smoldering wreck.
A couple of guests helped them to right the candelabra. I watched them struggling with it. What sort of wind could have blown over a heavy object like that and yet not have blown out the candles? And then, of course, the next logical thought: Was it possible that the killer had struck again, just before midnight? I looked around the room, trying to picture where Mrs. Sechrest had been standing when it happened. Close to that open French door, obviously—which meant that the killer could have crept in from the outside, giving the candelabra a push at the right moment, and then vanished again. Either that or he was still in the room. I looked from person to person, trying to see if anyone was showing undue interest or even emotion. But all the faces appeared stunned and shocked. What’s more, most of them were disguised beyond recognition. A perfect setting if you wanted to kill somebody.
Johnnie Protheroe had been one of those carrying Mrs. Sechrest to the motorcar. He came back, white faced.
“God, I need a drink,” he said. “Something stronger than punch.”
“I’ll get you a brandy,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. She summoned the nearby footman. “A brandy for Mr. Protheroe, and hurry.” He sprinted off.
“I can’t believe how quickly her outfit went up in flames,” Johnnie said.
“That kind of fabric is horribly flammable,” said Lady Hawse-Gorzley. “I suppose we were stupid to open the French doors but people were complaining they were too hot. In fact, I believe she was the one who was complaining.” She paused. “No, it was her husband who came over and said his wife was too hot, could we open the doors.”
The band leader approached from across the floor. “Do you want us to resume playing, my lady?” he asked reverently.
She looked at Johnnie. “I really don’t think anyone will feel like dancing after this, do you?”
“No, I’d send them home if I were you.”
I felt I had to say something. “Wait a minute,” I said. “Shouldn’t someone go for the police before you let people leave?”
“The police?” Johnnie looked alarmed.
I felt self-conscious with everyone’s eyes on me, and flushed scarlet. “I mean, after all these strange deaths, we should consider the possibility that these accidents are not accidents at all.”
“You mean someone deliberately pushed that candelabra onto Sandra Sechrest?” Lady Hawse-Gorzley glared at me in disbelief. “That’s not possible. These are my invited guests. I know them all.”
Johnnie shook his head. “I don’t think it was possible. I was watching her and she was standing alone. Actually, I was plucking up courage to go over and ask her to dance, in spite of that bear of a husband of hers. But there was nobody within three or four feet of her.”
“There was nobody standing near the candelabra?” I asked.
“Well, her husband was hovering nearby, I suppose,” Johnnie said.
I really didn’t want to consider the next thought—that Captain Sechrest has just found out about his wife’s affair with Johnnie Protheroe and was taking his revenge. I had seen what an emotional and quick-tempered man he could be. Maybe he did it in a sudden rush of jealousy and then instantly regretted it. But at last I was looking at a crime for which there was a clear motive. I glanced around the room, wondering if I should voice this opinion or keep quiet. I saw Darcy coming back in, having helped to carry Mrs. Sechrest to the motor.
“I was just saying that I thought the police would want to take a look before we let the guests go home,” I said. “What do you think?”
It was clear this hadn’t occurred to him either. He glanced up with a shocked expression. “You’re not trying to suggest that this is the next attempt at murder, are you?” He shook his head. “No, that’s going too far, Georgie. We can see how it happened. The wind blew over the candelabra. Mrs. Sechrest was unlucky enough to be standing in the wrong place. Accidents with fire happen all the time, don’t they?”
“Yes, but . . .” I locked eyes with him, trying to convey that I suspected more than I wanted to voice out loud. He picked up the cue.
“Well, I suppose there was an open window, which meant anybody could have sneaked in from the outside. Is your telephone working?”
“It wasn’t the last time we tried, but I believe the police station in the village has its line up and running again.”
“We were about to leave anyway, Lady Hawse-Gorzley.” Mr. Barclay had come over to join us. “Might we be of assistance and relay your message to the police station?”
“Most kind, Mr. Barclay. And I’m so sorry that a merry evening has had to end in such tragedy.”
“We are sorry too,” Miss Prendergast said, helping one of the Misses Ffrench-Finch across the room. “But it was a splendid evening and we are so grateful that you allowed us to be part of it. I did so enjoy watching the dancing, and the lovely buffet.”
“Yes, indeed,” the two Misses Ffrench-Finch twittered.
And so they departed. Other guests hovered around, not sure what to do next.
“Should we also be toddling along, Lady H-G?” the huntsman who had danced with me asked. “I’m sure nobody feels much like dancing after witnessing such a shocking thing.”
“I’d be grateful if you stayed a little longer, Mr. Crawley. The police are being summoned and they may want to get statements from witnesses.”
“Police?” Crawley spat out the word. “What the deuce have police to do with this? It was an accident, madam. I actually saw the damned thing fall. Nobody near it, I can attest to that.”
“Then perhaps if you’d be good enough to stay, and any others who saw the actual accident, we can allow everyone else to go home.”
“And I to my bed,” the dowager countess said. “That woman was asking for trouble with all that trailing fabric near live flames.” And she stomped off, clearing a way through the crowd with her stick.
“I think we should go to bed too,” Colonel Rathbone said. “This has quite upset my wife and she’s not a well woman.”
My mother sidled over to me. “Noel wants to stay in case anything exciting happens, but I feel it’s too, too ghoulish. I can’t get that image out of my mind—that poor woman going up in flames. I said to Noel, ‘That could have been me.’ I’m sure this fabric is just as flammable as hers.” She put her hand up to my cheek and patted it. “We’ll see you tomorrow, I suppose. Noel is frightfully keen to watch the ridiculous Lovey Chase thing. I expect it’s all those young men in shorts and singlets that excites him.” She cast a wicked smile in Mr. Coward’s direction as she went to join him.
One by one the guests departed until the ballroom had that abandoned feel of the day after a party. I took Darcy aside and murmured my suspicion to him. He frowned, considering this. “Frankly, if he’d wanted to do away with her, a simple cigarette to her skirt would have done the trick, wouldn’t it?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe he wasn’t taking any chances. All those candles at once meant that her costume would catch fire in many places. And there was a chance she’d be knocked out as well, therefore not able to do anything.”
“You’re a grizzly little thing, aren’t you?” He slipped his arms around me, gazing down at me fondly. “And I was so looking forward to my last waltz with you—a chance to dance cheek to cheek.”
“There will be other chances, I hope,” I said. “Right now I wish we could escape from here. Until now it was people we didn’t know. Now it’s finally come here. I can’t stop wondering who will be next.”
One of the footmen was about to close the French doors. “I don’t think you should touch anything until the police arrive,” I called to him. He looked startled, but stepped away. I went over to stand beside the candelabra. “Was this exactly where it stood before?” I asked.
The footman looked around the room at where the other candelabras had been placed. “Pretty much, my lady. Maybe a few inches to the left.”
I went to move it and couldn’t. It was too heavy for me. And
as I held the shaft in my hand I looked down and saw something moving in the strong wind that was now blowing icy cold air into the room. I dropped to my knees. “Look at this,” I whispered to Darcy. It was a small piece of black thread caught on one of the curly legs of the candelabra.
Chapter 31
VERY LATE NOW, DECEMBER 28
Inspector Newcombe arrived about a half hour later. He looked bleary-eyed and grumpy, as if he had been roused from his bed. He took statements from those who had seen the candelabra topple. Nobody recalled seeing anyone standing nearby. I suddenly thought of the person in the gorilla suit I had noticed at the beginning of the evening. I hadn’t seen him since supper. I mentioned him and no one had any idea who he was.
“Any other time I would have guessed it was old Freddie, if he hadn’t . . . you know,” Mr. Crawley, my hunting friend, said. “Just the sort of thing he’d do. Probably would have swung from the chandeliers too.”
Nobody had seen the gorilla leave. He hadn’t appeared at supper. Certainly he hadn’t been seen standing anywhere near the candelabra, so the inspector dismissed him as unimportant. A constable was dusting around the French door for fingerprints. I waited until the inspector went over to examine the candelabra, then brought his attention to the piece of thread that had been caught on one of its legs.
“You’re suggesting that this was attached to the candelabra and at the right moment someone tugged it over?” he asked.
I nodded.
“It’s a thin sort of cotton to shift a great thing like that.”
“I suspect it’s something like button thread, which is quite strong,” I said, fingering it. “But the candelabra is clearly top-heavy and the least little jerk might have achieved the desired effect.”
He stared at the open door, the candelabra and the spots of melted wax still on the floor.
“So you want me to believe that someone rigged up a way to topple the candelabra in the hopes that Mrs. Sechrest might come and stand in the right spot sometime during the evening? That seems like a long shot to me, especially when it might be rather hard to stand anywhere alone in a crowded ballroom.”
