At the bar were Dr. Chalmers and another local doctor, who had once played rugger for England and was broad in proportion; he wore a red-and-white bandanna handkerchief round his neck and a black mask pushed up on his forehead, and his hands were splashed with red. The two were discussing, in the way of doctors, some obscene innard belonging to one of their less fortunate patients, which Dr. Mitchell had been engaged that afternoon in yanking out. Beside them stood, angrily, a thin, dark lady. Roger recognised her as the Mrs. Maybrick with the leg-of-mutton sleeves who had been dancing with David Stratton.
“Ah, Sheringham,” Dr. Chalmers greeted him. “We’re talking shop, I’m afraid.”
“Do you ever talk anything else?” observed the thin, dark lady acidly.
“Mr. Sheringham, my wife,” said Dr. Chalmers, with the greatest cheerfulness. “And this is Frank Mitchell; another of our local medicos.”
Roger professed himself enchanted to meet Mrs. Chalmers and Dr. Mitchell.
“But whom,” he added, scrutinising the latter’s bandanna and mask, “are you supposed to represent? I thought I had them all at my finger-tips, but I can’t place you. Are the two of you Brown and Kennedy?”
“No, Jack the Ripper,” said Dr. Mitchell proudly. He displayed his red-splotched hands. “This is blood.”
“Disgusting,” said Mrs. Chalmers-Maybrick.
“I quite agree,” Roger said politely. “I much preferred your methods. You used arsenic, didn’t you? Or never used it, according to another school of thought.”
“If I did, it’s a pity I used it all,” said Mrs. Chalmers, with a short laugh. “I might have saved some up, for a better purpose.”
A little mystified, Roger produced a polite smile. The smile died away as he observed a significant glance pass between the two doctors: a glance which he could not quite interpret, but which seemed to convey a kind of mutual warning. In any case, both doctors immediately began to speak at once.
“I suppose you don’t know many— Sorry, Frank.”
“Talking of arsenic, I wonder if— Sorry, Phil.”
There was an awkward pause.
This is odd, thought Roger. What the devil is going on in this place?
To fill up the pause he said: “And you still baffle me completely, Chalmers. You don’t seem to be made up as anyone at all.”
“Phil never will dress up,” remarked Mrs. Chalmers resentfully.
Dr. Chalmers, who appeared to have remarkable powers of blandly ignoring the observations of his wife, replied heartily:
“I’m an undiscovered murderer. That’s out of compliment to you. I know it’s a theory of yours that the world’s full of them.”
Roger laughed. “I don’t call that quite fair.”
“And anyhow,” put in Mrs. Chalmers, “Philip couldn’t murder anyone to save his life.” She spoke as if this was an old grievance of hers.
“Well, I’ll be an undiscovered doctor-murderer if you like,” said Dr. Chalmers, with complete equanimity. “I expect there are plenty of them about. Eh, Frank, my man?”
“Sure to be,” agreed Dr. Mitchell with candour. “Hullo, is that the music stopping? I think I’ll …” He finished off his drink and strolled towards the ball room.
“He’s only been married four months,” remarked Mrs. Chalmers tolerantly.
“Ah,” said Roger. The three exchanged smiles, and Roger wondered why it should be amusing when a man has only been married four months. He could not quite see why, but undoubtedly it was. Roger decided that almost anything to do with marriage was either comedy or tragedy. It depended whether one was looking at it from the outside or the in.
“Good gracious,” exclaimed Dr. Chalmers, “you haven’t got a drink, Sheringham. Ronald will never forgive me. What can I get you?”
“Thanks,” Roger said. “I’ve been drinking beer.”
He stood hopefully by, as one does when someone else is manipulating a bottle for our benefit. Watching, he could not help noticing the unhandy way in which Dr. Chalmers carried out that same manipulation. Instead of holding both bottle and tankard on a level with his chest in the usual way, he held them much lower; and after he had filled the latter, Roger noticed that he put down the tankard, which he had been holding in his right hand, and gave his left arm a jerk upwards with that hand before he could lift the bottle over the edge of the table. The disability was so obvious that Roger remarked on it.
“Thank you,” he said, taking the tankard. “Got a bad arm?”
“Yes. A bit of trouble from the war, you know.”
“Philip had the whole of his left shoulder shot away,” said Philip’s wife, in an annoyed way.
“Did you? That must be rather a nuisance to you, isn’t it? I suppose you can’t operate?”
“Oh, yes,” Dr. Chalmers said cheerfully. “It doesn’t bother me much, really. I can drive a car, and sail a yacht, and do a bit of flying when I can get off; and operate, of course. It’s only the shoulder that’s gone, you see. I can’t raise my upper arm from the shoulder, but I can lift my forearm from the elbow. It might have been a lot worse.” He spoke quite naturally, and without any of the false embarrassment which seems to overtake most men when forced to speak of their war-wounds.
“Rotten luck,” said Roger sincerely. “Well, here’s the best. Mrs. Chalmers, aren’t you drinking anything?”
“Not just yet, thank you. I don’t want to make an exhibition of myself.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t do that,” said Roger, a little taken aback. The remark had seemed so pointed that it could only have been directed at himself, but he could not understand why Mrs. Chalmers should have thought it necessary to be so rude.
“No, and I don’t intend to,” said Mrs. Chalmers grimly, and looked fixedly in his direction.
The next moment Roger saw that she was not looking at him at all, but over his right shoulder. He turned round and followed her eyes.
Several people had drifted in from the ballroom, and among them was Ronald Stratton’s sister-in-law, the woman dressed as Mrs. Pearcey. It was on her that Mrs. Chalmers’s gaze was fixed.
She was standing by the bar, in company with a youngish, tall man whom Roger had not yet met, and he was evidently asking her what she would like.
“I’ll have a whisky-and-soda, thanks,” she said, in a voice which was just loud enough to be a shade ostentatious. “A large one. I feel like getting drunk to-night. After all, it’s the only thing worth doing, really, isn’t it?”
This time Roger joined in the significant glance which passed between Dr. and Mrs. Chalmers.
He finished up his beer, made his excuses to the Chalmers, and went off to look for Ronald Stratton.
“I must meet that woman,” he said to himself, “drunk or sober.”
IV
Ronald was in the ballroom, twiddling with the wireless. The music to which they had been dancing had been provided by Königswusterhausen, and Ronald had decided it was too heavy; something French was indicated.
Three persons were remonstrating with him, for no particular reason beyond the strange prejudice most people have against seeing the owner of a large wireless set twiddling its knobs. One of them Roger knew to be Ronald’s sister, Celia Stratton, a tall girl, picturesquely dressed as eighteenth-century Mary Blandy; the other two were Crippen, and a small woman dressed as a boy who was not difficult to recognise as Miss Le Neve.
A piercing soprano voice shot out from the wireless in one momentary shriek, instantly cut off, but not quickly enough for the manipulator’s critics.
“Leave it alone, Ronald,” begged Miss Stratton.
“It was perfectly all right as it was,” reinforced Miss Le Neve.
“It’s a funny thing,” pronounced Dr. Crippen with some weight, as one who has given considerable thought to the point, “that people who have a wireless can’t leave it alone for more than two seconds at a time.”
“Blah,” said Ronald, and continued to twiddle the knob.
; A burst of jazz music rewarded him.
“There !” he said with pride. “That’s a great deal better.”
“It isn’t a bit better,” his sister contradicted.
“It’s worse,” opined Miss Le Neve.
“It’s rotten,” Dr. Crippen supported her. “Where is it?”
“Königswusterhausen,” replied Ronald blandly, and with a wink at Roger walked quickly away.
Before the latter could follow him a question from Celia Stratton took his opportunity away. Did he know Mr. and Mrs. Williamson? Roger had to admit that he did not know Mr. and Mrs. Williamson. Dr. Crippen and Miss Le Neve were made acquainted with him under that title. Roger politely expressed admiration of their disguises.
“Osbert only had to put on a pair of gold-rimmed glasses,” volunteered Mrs. Williamson. “He’s just like Crippen, isn’t he, Mr. Sheringham?”
“How unsafe you must feel, Lilian,” said Celia Stratton.
“Can you wonder I want to leave the studio and get a place with a few more rooms? If the fit came on him there, I could never get away in time.”
“You know perfectly well, Lilian,” remonstrated her husband, “that you only wanted me to be Crippen so that you could be Miss Le Neve. Lilian never loses a chance of getting into trousers,” explained Mr. Williamson with candour to the group in general.
“Why shouldn’t I get into trousers if I want to?” demanded Mrs. Williamson, and sniffed.
“I hope you’ve got them fastened with a safety-pin at the back,” said Roger fatuously.
Everyone looked at him inquiringly, and he wished he had not spoken.
“Miss Le Neve’s trousers were too large for her,” he had to explain, “and she took a tuck in them at the back with a safety-pin. The captain of the liner noticed it, and thought it rather odd.”
“Lilian’s certainly aren’t too large for her,” said Mr. Williamson, with a rude, husbandly laugh, “though they may be quite as odd. Eh, Lilian? What?”
“I like my trousers tight,” said Mrs. Williamson, and sniffed again.
Roger, who was not so interested in these garments as the others appeared to be, turned the conversation with a jerk.
“I haven’t met your sister-in-law yet, Miss Stratton,” he said, in a blandly conversational tone. “I wonder if you’d introduce me?”
“David’s wife? Yes, of course. Where is she?”
“She was at the bar a minute ago.”
“She’s mad,” observed Mr. Williamson, with some interest.
“Really, Osbert!” expostulated his wife, with a glance at Celia Stratton.
“Oh, don’t mind me,” said Miss Stratton kindly.
Roger could not let this promising opening pass. “Mad? Is she? I like mad people. What particular form does your sister-in-law’s madness take, Miss Stratton?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Celia Stratton said lightly. “She’s just generally mad, I expect, if Osbert says so.” Roger noticed that, in spite of the lightness of her tone, there was an undercurrent of caution in Miss Stratton’s voice. It was almost as if she had been glad to accept the idea of her sister-in-law’s madness, in order to hide something worse.
“She wants to talk about her soul,” explained Osbert Williamson with some gloom.
“Osbert isn’t interested in souls,” Mrs. Williamson explained. “Not having one of his own, he can’t very well be.”
“I’m not interested in her soul,” pronounced Mr. Williamson. “But I’d keep an eye on her, Celia, if I were you. When I was with her she was swigging down double whiskies nineteen to the dozen and saying she wanted to get tight because it was the only thing worth while, or some nonsense.”
“Oh, dear,” sighed Miss Stratton, “is she in that mood? Perhaps I’d better go and look after her then.”
“Why does she want to get tight?” Mr. Williamson asked her as she moved away.
“She thinks it clever. Mr. Sheringham, you’d better come with me if you want to meet her.”
Roger went, with alacrity.
CHAPTER II
NOT A NICE LADY
I
It was Ronald Stratton’s custom to enliven his parties with charades. As he candidly explained, this was solely because he happened to like charades, and as the party was his, he did not see why he should not play them. Unfortunately for Roger, Ronald had decided upon charades at just that moment, and before the introduction could be effected Celia Stratton had been called in to search the sitting-out places for unwilling players. Meanwhile sides were chosen out of those who were present; and since Mrs. David Stratton and Roger were on opposite sides, the acquaintanceship had again to be postponed. Roger was interested, however, to find that the lady’s husband was on his side.
Although he had known Ronald Stratton slightly for some years, Roger had never before met David. As with so many brothers, the two were utterly unlike. Ronald was not particularly tall, David was quite six feet; Ronald was broad, David was slight; Ronald was dark, David fair; Ronald had a snub nose, David an aquiline one; Ronald was enthusiastic and, sometimes, rather childish in his amusements, David had a wearily disillusioned air, and his wit (for he was witty) had a cynical trend; one would have said that Ronald was the younger and David the elder, instead of the other way about.
Celia Stratton, who had been appointed captain of the side, took her duties seriously. It was their turn to perform first, and shepherding her flock out of the ballroom, she called firmly upon Roger for an actable word of two syllables. Roger instantly found his mind an utter and complete blank, and could only eye the bar with distant longing. In the end it was David Stratton who produced the word, and a neat little three-act drama to fit it, which, as an impromptu, impressed Roger considerably.
“Your brother’s very much on the spot to-night,” he remarked casually to Celia as they looked out props suitable to the inhabitants of Nineveh prior to the engulfment of Jonah by the whale.
“Oh, David can usually be relied on for something like that,” said Miss Stratton.
“Can he? I wonder he doesn’t try his hand at writing.”
“David? He used to do a little before he married. Punch, you know, and some of the weeklies. We thought at one time that he might do something quite good. He began a book which promised very well.”
“Why didn’t he finish it?”
Celia Stratton bent a little lower over the drawer into which she was delving. “Oh, he got married,” she said; and once again Roger felt that she was hiding something under the apparent indifference of her tone.
He looked at her curiously, but did not pursue the topic. Of two things, however, he felt quite sure: that somehow David Stratton’s marriage had spoilt what might have been a successful career, and that Celia Stratton was not nearly so indifferent about it as she pretended.
More mystery, he thought.
Under cover of the general badinage he observed David Stratton more closely. At a first glance the latter looked animated enough, as he laughingly tried to persuade a pretty, plump woman whom everyone called Margot, to impersonate the whale; but it needed little more than a casual look to see that underneath the temporary excitement was an immense weariness. Indeed, the man looked tired to death, and not only tired, but positively ill; and yet Roger knew that his job of acting as his brother’s estate agent was not at all an exacting one. Why, then, did he look as if he had hardly slept for a month?
Roger wondered if he were making mountains out of molehills.
The charades pursued their usual and hilarious course, and Roger found himself enjoying them absurdly. The Williamsons were on his side, and so was Dr. Mitchell and his pretty young bride, to whom her groom was as patently and as unselfconsciously devoted as any wife could have hoped. Roger found himself becoming quite sentimental in contemplation of the two of them. Jean Mitchell was dressed as Madeleine Smith, in crinoline and poke-bonnet, and looked quite charming enough to deserve all the attentions that were being poured out on her.
; It was not until their own turn of activity was ended and they were sitting on a row of chairs at one end of the ballroom, waiting to deride the efforts of the other side, that a hint of drama underneath the froth began to show itself.
Roger found himself rather marooned.
On his left sat Celia Stratton, with Dr. Mitchell and his wife beyond her; on his right the plump lady called Margot, whom Roger had now discovered to be Ronald Stratton’s late wife, with David Stratton separating her from her fiancé, a large and somewhat silent young man, whose name Roger had gathered to be Mike Armstrong. And almost immediately Celia Stratton had begun to engage in a low-toned and extremely earnest conversation with Dr. Mitchell, while ex-Mrs. Margot Stratton at the same time embarked on an exactly similar one with David Stratton. Roger hid his yawns, and wished that the other side would be a little quicker.
Then, willy-nilly, scraps of the two conversations began to reach him.
“But are you sure it was Ena who was responsible for it?” he heard Celia Stratton ask, in a worried voice.
“Positive,” Dr. Mitchell replied grimly. “I went straight round to Mrs. Farebrother as soon as Jean told me, and she said that Ena had told her. In the strictest confidence, of course. Confidence! I told Mrs. Farebrother it was an infernal lie, of course, and I think I’ve stopped it going any farther in that direction, but how many other …” Dr. Mitchell lowered his voice.
Ena, observed Roger pensively to himself, is Mrs. David Stratton.
He became aware of David Stratton’s voice, unguardedly loud, on his other side.
“I tell you, Margot, I can’t stand it much longer. I’m about at the end of my tether.”
“It’s a damned shame, David,” his late sister-in-law replied warmly. “You know what I thought about her. Ronald used to say I made things very awkward for him, but I couldn’t help that. After that Eaves business I swore I’d never have her in any house of mine again, and I never did.”
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