Dancing Death

by Christopher Bush

  Challis hopped in, still talking. “What are you going to do about the band, old boy? Do you know, I think that gramophone arrangement’ll be perfectly efficient. I’ve brought some new records, by the way. We’ll try ’em over after tea.”

  “The band have cried off in any case,” said Braishe. “They say they daren’t risk it with the weather as it is. They got rather badly snowed up once last year.”

  “Preposterous people—bands! Better get somebody to officiate at the gramophone. What’s yours do, old boy? Fifty at a time?”

  “Somewhere about that. We’ll get the programme out after tea. Decided on your costume yet?”

  “Chinaman, old boy. Mandarin. Pigtail and so on. You know, that stunt I’m doing at the show.”

  Braishe smiled. “You’re the chap Aunt Celia’s looking for. She’s the Dowager Empress, or something like that. By the way, the balloons have come. Couple of hundred of ’em! Have you brought the cylinder for filling ’em?”

  “I have, old boy. What I was thinking was, we’d try that big scene in the new show—kind of game plus dance sort of thing. Of course, we can’t get the lighting effects. . . .”

  The last member of that house party—Denis Fewne—was in the fortunate position of not having to travel. For the previous seven weeks he had been at Little Levington Hall, installed in the pagoda that fronted the old croquet lawn.

  That needs explaining, unless you have discovered at once that temperament must have been the explanation. What had actually happened was that until Lady Barbara died, in April, the Fewnes had lived with her. Unfortunately her annuity died with her, and as his mother’s house was too unwieldy, Denis and his wife—three years of marriage, by the way—made shift for a bit till something turned up within their means. Then the Fowlers had carted Brenda off to Switzerland for six weeks or so, and as her husband was wrestling with the final third of a new novel, he had fallen in with Martin Braishe’s offer of quietude at Little Levington, where Brenda was to come for a short stay on her return from Switzerland.

  Fewne was undoubtedly unfortunate. People interpreted his reticence as swollen-headedness or gratuitous superiority, instead of the natural timidity which it was. There were two things in life for which he had an intense passion—his wife and his work; the rest was something he did rather forlornly or clumsily or damned offhandedly, according to how you took it. As for the pagoda, old Henry Braishe had had it modernized—open fireplace put in, parquet flooring, and all the rest of it, and more than once when the house was chock-a-block it had been used as a spare bedroom. Fewne went one better—or Martin did for him. A recess was screened off for a bathing corner, a writing desk with typewriter well was installed, and altogether it was as cosy a den as a natural hermit might wish for.

  And yet Fewne wasn’t working. Five days before, three chapters had been left to do. Those chapters remained untouched, and yet, except for meals and two short trips to Folkestone, he had never left that workroom. On the bed, at the moment, lay the costume he was to wear that night as a street seller of toy balloons, and by it on the bed were a score of unfilled balloons in gaudy colours. Behind him on its special shelf above the low bed the acetylene lamp burned brightly. Outside the wind was getting up, and the air was bitingly cold.

  Fewne sat in the easy chair before the fire, eyes scarcely flickering, his thin aesthetic face so expressionless, and his whole body so motionless, that he might have been asleep. Half an hour later he was still there. Had you been with him in the room, his stillness would have made you want to shriek, so unnatural it was. Half an hour later you would have wondered whether he was mad or sane. Pollock—Braishe’s butler—wondered something of the sort as he peeped at him through the slit of the blind, before knocking at the door.

  “Mr. Braishe’s compliments, sir, and they’d like your help over the programme, sir. There’s a meeting, sir.”

  Fewne looked round dreamily, then smiled.

  “Thank you, Pollock. What’s the weather like? More snow coming?”

  “Bound to come, sir. The sky’s very bad.”

  “Hm! Tell ’em I’ll be over at once.”

  He stood for a moment thinking. Then his lips pursed to a smile that the shadows made almost evil in its deliberate irony. Pollock, who had heard him move, turned back and closed the door after him, then followed him along the paved path in the shelter of the box hedge.

  CHAPTER III

  AFTER THE BALL WAS OVER

  THE room looked sadly empty as they trooped back from the entrance hall. Mirabel Quest gave a little shiver and a giggle and scurried to the fire to warm her hands. Brenda Fewne floated in her Pre-Raphaelite way to the cosiest chair and sat demurely regarding the fire while the others stood round idly. On the floor lay scores of the coloured balloons that a quarter of an hour before had been flicked and fisted and blown hilariously over the heads of the dancers. Palmer still sat on his chair where he had been superintending the gramophone, and he’d probably have gone on sitting if Travers hadn’t caught sight of him.

  “I’d go and get some supper, Palmer, if I were you,” he told him. “You’ve done some very sound work.”

  Palmer was gratified. “Thank you, sir. And shall I be required again, sir?”

  “Don’t think so. I’d push off to bed if I were you.”

  It was about five minutes later when Braishe came back, presumably from seeing off the last of the guests from the front porch. He seemed rather worried.

  “What do you feel about it, everybody? Think we did right?”

  “Of course you did right!” snapped his aunt. “They never ought to have come. It was sheer lunacy.”

  Braishe laughed. “Well, we are lunatics, aren’t we? Take a peep, Aunt Celia!” He looked round and explained. “You see, when Pollock told me it’d been snowing hard for a couple of hours, I didn’t quite know what to do. It seemed pretty rotten, after those twenty sportsmen—and women—had rolled up, to hint they should kick ’emselves out before the show was over.”

  “The only thing to do, old boy.” Challis patted him effusively on the back. “And they knew it.”

  “Jolly lucky they’d all got chains,” said Travers.

  “The Payne girls hadn’t,” said Braishe, “but Bewly’s taken them in his saloon. And now, then. What are we going to do?”

  “Sit round and have a yarn,” suggested Franklin.

  “Go on dancing!” gurgled Mirabel. “I’m like an icicle.”

  George Paradine started to speak, then caught his wife’s eye. “What do you think, my dear?”

  “Bed!” was the reply, and everybody laughed.

  “I know,” cut in Challis quickly. “Let Mirabel and Brenda do their stunt for us!” He twisted the pigtail round his neck, backed his way out and indicated a comparatively open space. “Just clear these balloons away, you fellows! Come on, girls! Tommy, you take the piano!”

  “So sorry!” came Brenda’s voice plaintively. “Really I’m most frightfully tired. I’d much rather sit and talk to Denis.”

  “How frightfully jolly!” drawled her sister, with such a perfect imitation of the voice that everybody laughed again. Except Fewne, that is. He sat in the Chesterfield corner by the door, quietly watching. Ho-Ping yapped, and his mistress soothed him. “There! Didums sit up too late, darling.” Again everybody laughed. Perhaps all the odd drinks had something to do with it; perhaps the realization that everybody was looking so unusual, from George Paradine with his corduroys and brass buttons to Franklin with his appalling air of ferocity.

  Mirabel leaned back in the chair, kicked her heels in the air, then sprang up.

  “Sit down, folks! I’ll do the show myself. Come on, Broody! Make ’em all gather round!” She bustled the men unceremoniously into chairs and took the floor. “Come on, Tommy! Hit ’em up! You know the tune.”

  Tommy, face all smiles, swayed at the piano to the tune of the latest fox trot. Mirabel gave a yell.

  “Hold on a minute, Tommy, while I say my little
piece! You see,” she explained, “this is one of the impersonations I’m going to do in the new show. As you see by the costumes, my sister and I are featuring the Sally Sisters. She’s Beauty and I’m Cutie—only, of course, in the show I’m doing both myself. Get ready, Tommy! Let her go!”

  Whether Wyndham Challis had a hand in it or no, the turn was an uproarious success. If you knew the Sally Sisters you would have recognized with your eyes shut Beauty’s affected little lisp and Cutie’s nasal huskiness. Even when you opened your eyes you’d have sworn there were two dancers as Mirabel leaned forward, almost overbalanced by the monstrous feather headdress, fingers resting on the shoulders of her imaginary sister. The music was enough to set feet tapping and Ho-Ping yapping. Tommy swayed like one mesmerized as he pounded the ivories. Another minute, and the men were joining in the chorus—except Denis, that is, who sat quietly smiling in his corner. When it was over there was a hurricane of applause. Challis poured Tommy a hasty drink.

  “What about you, Myra?”

  “Just a spot, old dear!” She looked round, face flushed with excitement.

  Travers came over. “Extraordinarily good! Haven’t laughed so much for years!”

  “Jolly fine! Myra, you’re a wonder!” That was Braishe. “And you, Tommy!” He turned to Challis. “Haven’t you got room for Tommy in the show?”

  Challis laughed. “Wait till you see my little turn!” He began a preparatory unwinding of his pigtail; then Celia’s voice cut in with cold decision.

  “No more shows to-night. Come and sit down, everybody! What time is it, George?”

  “Just gone half-past.”

  In a couple of minutes the chairs were in a semicircle round the open fireplace. Franklin put another log on the fire.

  “I say, do let’s have the lights out. It’s so romantic!”

  “That’s the idea, Mirabel!” Tommy hopped up and switched off the lights. With the flicker from the logs and the glow that reached the circle of chairs, the room looked deliciously cosy. Then Braishe spotted that something was missing.

  “Hallo! Where’s Denis?”

  “Here I am.” There was something curiously fine about the voice, after the noise of the last few minutes.

  “What on earth are you doing over there? Come along, old chap! Open out the chairs, everybody!”

  “No, really! I say . . . don’t move. Do you know, I’ve got rather a headache. It’s quite cool . . . and jolly over here.”

  You could just catch the colour of the yellowish scarf he was wearing, and above his head the mass of balloons, fastened to his coat, or the settee, by a string, looked like a futurist picture on the wall by the door.

  “Poor darling!” Brenda’s voice was like a caress. “You’ve been working much too hard.”

  Everybody suddenly realized that Fewne had been rather out of it that evening. True, he had danced once or twice, but generally he had sat watching the others or talking to Travers or Celia Paradine Poor old Denis! Quite a decent sort in his retiring way. Everybody felt an overwhelming itch to show him that he was really one of the party.

  “How’s the book going, old boy?” asked Challis.

  “Not so bad,” said Fewne very quietly. “Sorry to be such a—er—conspicuous—”

  “That’s all right, old boy!” Challis assured him. He looked round the circle. “We all know what work is and—er—inspiration and so on.”

  “What’s the book about?” asked Travers quickly.

  “The book? Well—er—the usual thing.”

  “What’s the title?”

  “Oh—er—Distressful Virtue. It’s a sort of sequel to the other . . . you know.”

  “What, Tingling Symbols?”

  “Far too gloomy for me!” broke in Celia. “Why don’t you write something more cheerful, Denis?”

  “Talking of cheerfulness, what are we going to do if we’re snowed up?” asked Mirabel.

  “Do!” Braishe laughed. “There’s a bridge four and some over; and the billiard room—and the gramophone. Much better than a band, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, much better!”

  “There’s plenty of food in the house, that’s more to the point!” said Celia Paradine decisively. Then everybody laughed again.

  It was just over an hour later when Franklin and Travers with George and Celia Paradine reached the top of the stairs, where their ways separated. George gave a prodigious yawn.

  “I don’t know; I’m feeling uncommonly sleepy. Must be the air.”

  Travers laughed. “Air out of glasses, George!” Then he yawned.

  Celia yawned too. “Do stop it. You’re starting everybody off!”

  Travers laughed again. “Well, good-night, Celia. Sleep well. Good-night, George, old chap. Jolly happy New Year to you both!”

  Franklin said good-night too, and they moved off round the corridor.

  “Damn glad we dodged that last drink!” whispered Franklin.

  “What do you mean ‘we’?”

  “You and me. I saw you take a sip and tip yours into the log holder, so I did the same with mine.”

  Travers felt for the switch and turned on the light. “Do you realize we’ve probably put a hoodoo on this party? There’s the final toast of ourselves and the New Year, and we go and libate the logs, so to speak.” He had a look at himself in the glass. “My God! I look horrible!”

  Franklin laughed. “You weren’t so bad till you put your glasses on.” He looked round the room as if he’d seen it for the first time. “Jolly decent of Mrs. Paradine fixing us up in a couple of beds here.”

  “Wasn’t it! If Fewne hadn’t stayed in the pagoda she’d have been in rather a hole. As it is, Brenda’s got one of the small rooms.”

  Franklin removed his villainous scarf and the velveteen coat. “I say, that sister of hers is pretty hectic! What was all the row about after tea?”

  Travers shrugged his shoulders. “Myra’s a bit temperamental. She and Brenda don’t hit it off very well. Challis had to pour oil on the waters.”

  “Curious!” said Franklin, “sisters being like that.”

  “One’s such an absolute topper, and the other . . . phew!”

  “Mirabel’s all right, for what she is,” protested Travers. “She’s a darned attractive woman. The other one’s too statuesque for my money. However, she and Fewne suit each other, so there we are.”

  “I rather like Fewne. Gloomy sort of cuss, but quite a good sort, if you know him, I should say. Delightful voice he’s got!”

  “Eton and Balliol!” grunted Travers. “Not much—”

  Then the light went out. There was a second’s silence.

  “Hallo! What’s up now?”

  “Fuse, probably,” suggested Franklin. They pottered round the room for a good minute till there was the sound of a voice outside, then another, and they moved gingerly across to the door and out to the corridor. Travers, in the darkness, hacked somebody’s shins.

  “Hallo! Who’s that? Oh, sorry, Challis! What’s gone wrong with the lights?”

  “Damfino!” began Challis. Behind them there was the snapping of a blind as Franklin released it. The clear moonlight suddenly lighted up the corridor behind them, and outside his door they could see George Paradine, still in his costume. He came along to the corridor to where they stood by the twin doors.

  “Any use going downstairs to see if Pollock’s got any candles?”

  “Probably be on again in a second,” Travers told him.

  “What about the women?” asked Franklin. “Won’t they be alarmed?”

  Challis sneered. “Take a bit more than darkness to scare women nowadays, old boy.”

  Paradine stifled a yawn. “Do you know, I haven’t felt so sleepy for years!”

  They stood there making conversation for a couple of minutes, then Franklin had an idea. Why not draw the curtains of the bedrooms? The others watched him while he tried the experiment on his own room. The effect was wonderful; one couldn’t perhaps see much detail,
but all the main objects in the room stood out clearly, as in an early twilight interior but more subdued and silvery.

  “It’s stopped snowing!” announced Franklin from the window, but Travers wasn’t there. Challis and Paradine could be heard saying a further good-night, but it was a minute or so before Travers came in.

  “Just went to tell Tommy to draw back his curtains, but he wasn’t there. One of the women’s just come up. Think it was Mirabel.”

  “I say—quick!” exclaimed Franklin. “Just look out there, Ludo! There—in the snow!”

  Outside, on the path that led direct from the porch to the pagoda, a figure could be seen. When Franklin had first caught sight of it, it had made a wild rush as if to take the snow by storm. In the first few yards, where the house sheltered from the driving wind, the going had been fairly easy; then, as the drift gradually deepened towards the pagoda, it seemed incredible that a sane man should attempt it, especially in that incongruous garb, with the tails of that outlandish coat trailing in the snow where he stuck, and the mass of toy balloons dangling round his head. With the snow knee deep he floundered heavily and scrambled from step to step. The last few feet became a crawl, with hands pawing at the snow. A violent lurch, and he clutched a pillar of the veranda and drew himself to the platform. There he stood a second or two, then disappeared round the angle.

  “My God!” said Franklin. “What is he? Mad or tight?”

  “Why didn’t he go round by the hedge?” asked Travers, as if reproaching himself. “It wouldn’t have been deep there. That reminds me: You know when we all went out to the porch? I heard Pollock say, ‘Shall I have the hedge path swept again?’ and Fewne said, ‘Don’t bother, Pollock. There won’t be much snow there.’”

  “I expect he was a bit tight,” said Franklin. “Probably not used to taking much—and he’s had a few this evening.”

  Travers shook his head. “Something’s the matter with that chap. I’ve been thinking so all the evening. I’d say he’s been doing a bit too much: heading for a breakdown, or I’m a Dutchman.”

  “You know him pretty well?”