Dancing Death

by Christopher Bush

  “Suppose you can’t tell if there are prints on the handle?”

  “Only a fool’d leave any!” grunted Travers. He had a good look at it, nevertheless. “Curious sort of affair, don’t you think? Kind of Wardour Street look about it.”

  He slipped a miniature folding rule from his pocket.

  “Blade eight inches. Handle five. Where’d it come from, George? Off that appalling display board in the hall? ... Drop it in the box, will you? I’ll take it down and see.”

  That display board, as he called it, was some six feet deep by ten wide, covered with red baize that went badly with the wall paper. As Travers stood looking at it, his eyes—best part of six feet from the ground—were on a level with its bottom edge. The stout nails that held it to the wall were very necessary: that miscellaneous collection of swords, pistols, and daggers must have weighed well over a couple of hundredweight. But what his eye was following was the semicircle of daggers—twenty-six of them, he counted—held in position by a band of thick red braid through which they were threaded. One or two seemed to have blades of the kind he wanted, but the handles were all different. There were handles in steel and white metal; handles in bone, handles in wood reinforced with metal bands, but not a single one in brass.

  Pollock emerged from the kitchen corridor, and Travers called him over. He waved his hand at the collection of junk.

  “How did all this get here originally, Pollock?”

  “The—er—weapons, sir? The late master bought them at a sale, sir . . . and rather fancied them here.” He evidently gathered from the expression on Travers’s face the opinion he had of them. “Mr. Braishe doesn’t care for them, sir. He talks of having them moved.”

  “I see. But tell me. There are far more loops than weapons. Was that so when they came?”

  “Yes, sir. We thought they’d been stolen from the sale room, sir.”

  “Well, have a look at ’em now! Any missing since yesterday?”

  The butler put himself into an attitude of examination, solemnly ran his eyes over the lot, then shook his head. “To tell you the truth, sir, I never look at them—not purposely, sir.”

  “Don’t blame you! But who cleans ’em?”

  “The housemaids dust them, sir. And they were all cleaned in the spring.”

  That was more like it. Travers covered up the blade and gave the butler a good look at the handle. Everybody in the kitchen was to be questioned forthwith, and a report was to be ready as soon as possible.

  “Don’t forget: brass handle with spiral design curling round it!” Travers called from the staircase. Up in the bedroom Paradine had uncovered the wound and washed it. As Travers entered, he was completing his notes.

  “Anything special about the wound—how it was done?”

  The other went on writing. “If you mean, was it done with left or right hand, I can’t tell you. ... I never could get the hang of those arguments. . . . Depends on the relative positions of the two people.”

  “Would right hand be more natural?”

  “Might be.”

  “Much strength required?”

  “Can’t say till after the post-mortem.” He closed the notebook and put it away. “The rib might have been struck first. Otherwise there’d have been nothing to prevent anybody doing it. Nothing to cut through but flesh—none of those corsets they used to wear years ago. Help me with the hair, will you?”

  Between them they made Mirabel Quest’s last toilet, then drew a rug over the body to the neck. As she lay there with eyes closed and lips slightly parted she might have been asleep. “If Brenda wants to see her now, it won’t be so much of a shock,” mumbled Paradine apologetically.

  Travers nodded. Then, before they went, the wardrobe and the drawers were looked through. In the one Travers had previously opened was a small jewel case, and in the handbag its key on a bunch. Inside the jewel case were a short pearl necklace, a square emerald ring, a turquoise and diamond ring, and three empty boxes.

  “There’s one ring missing,” said Paradine. “She’s only two on her fingers.”

  “I noticed that. Nothing else missing, apparently. Just over six pounds in the bag. No correspondence. . . . Leave them here, shall we? And we might as well leave the door unlocked with the key outside. The dagger can be locked in the safe.”

  “All right, Palmer, you can go now!” said Travers. He let Paradine move off to the landing, then, “Get anything out of her?”

  “She knows something, sir! She spoke very disrespectfully of Mrs. Fewne!”

  “Right! Get her to talk—but go steady!” He raised his voice for Paradine’s benefit. “You’d better bring that chair with you. The door’s not locked now.”

  In the hall was Pollock, with two of the maids and the housekeeper, who scurried away at the sight of the two men. Pollock came to meet them.

  “Sorry we can’t help you, sir. We’ve asked everybody concerned, sir, and they all disagree about the number.”

  “Yes, but they remember the one with the brass handle? There was only one!”

  “Pardon me, sir!” Pollock spoke with a respectful firmness. “There never was a brass-handled one, sir. Mrs. Cairns and Ellen are prepared to swear to that.”

  Travers gave Paradine a look. “Thank you, Pollock. Very good of you.”

  They had another look at the semicircle of daggers. “Take off that third one, will you?” said Paradine “. . . . Try its length. . . . Good God! It’s the very spit of it!”

  Travers agreed; moreover, two others were found that resembled the bloodstained specimen in the box. Still, Pollock had been so certain, that any further argument would have been time wasted. The box was locked in the safe, and with it each felt in some vague way the tragedy for a moment or two to be set aside. Paradine pointed out of the window.

  “Look at that snow! Perfectly awful!”

  “Wonder where Franklin is?” asked Travers.

  “Wherever he is, he’ll stop—if he’s got any sense. Still, it’s worrying.”

  Travers nodded. “I haven’t owned up, George, but I’d give the devil of a lot to be well out of this business. However . . . we’ll knock off for this morning. What about your seeing Celia and finding out how poor Brenda is bearing up? Be about lunch-time then.”

  CHAPTER VII

  IN THE PAGODA

  IT WAS Crashaw who was the success at lunch. It is true that things were easier than most of them anticipated—Brenda Fewne was too distressed to come down, and Celia Paradine stayed with her—but all the same, the little schoolmaster revealed unexpected gifts of conversation. He was rather like a late autumn robin, piping in the absence of more popular songbirds and beneath skies less blue. Outside, the snow was still blinding down, and the wind kept up an eerie howl like the drone of a lathe, but somehow Crashaw kept insinuating himself deftly and inevitably into the conversation—keeping things going and raising a laugh at which he himself seemed timidly surprised. There was that discourse on nicknames, for instance.

  “Well, I don’t agree with you, Ludo,” George Paradine had said.

  “Pardon me,” put in Crashaw. “But is that ‘Ludo’ a nickname? Anything to do with the game?”

  “You’re a bit benighted, old boy,” laughed Challis. “Short for Ludovic. Famous author and all that!”

  Crashaw’s eyes opened. “I say—really? It was you who wrote The Economics of a Spendthrift?”

  Travers admitted it. Crashaw definitely blushed.

  “I say, I seem to be the only nonentity in a house full of celebrities! Too—er—”

  “Don’t worry!” Wildernesse told him. “I’m with you. But what was that you were saying about nicknames?”

  “Well—er—you see, I’m rather interested in nicknames—sort of make a hobby of collecting them, so I wondered whether Mr. Travers’s name was one—or not. What do you think my nickname is, for instance?”

  Even Braishe smiled at that.

  “Do you want the truth, old boy, or is this a riddle?�
� asked Challis.

  “Give it up,” said Travers.

  “Well, it’s ‘Neddy’!” He looked round expectantly.

  “The higher the fewer!” said Braishe. “Don’t see it—unless your name’s Edward.”

  Crashaw smiled. “Not at all. You see the name’s Crashaw—that became ‘Hee-haw’ . . . and so to Neddy!”

  “Ha! ha! Damn good!” said Challis. “Know any more?”

  “Well, I knew a chap at school whose name was Miles, and his nickname, Andy. Do you see that?”

  Nobody did.

  “Well, it’s rather silly, but it shows a perverse kind of logic. Miles and Miles . . . hence, Andy!”

  Then Tommy Wildernesse thought of one, and George Paradine gave a contribution in Swahili. “Rather a jolly idea, don’t you think,” said Crashaw, “guessing the nicknames of complete strangers? Don’t think I’m being personal, but what’s yours, Mr. Paradine?”

  “Lugs!” said George. “Look at ’em!” Everybody roared at that. They did stick out a bit.

  “Martin there’s got a good ’un,” said Tommy. “He doesn’t like it in the least, but I’ll tell it. Broody. Now, then, how’d he get it?”

  “Sleepy at school, perhaps.”

  “You’re wrong. When he was at prep school, he and another bloke thought they’d have a regular supply of fresh eggs, so they bought—at least they said they bought—a hen, and kept it in the pavilion till they got found out.”

  “I say, that’s awfully good!” Crashaw seemed really delighted. “If you don’t mind, I’ll jot that down. Might come in useful. No names, of course.”

  Though Travers had been contemplating the scene with a quiet amusement, he remembered afterwards every word that was said. And he had a contribution to make.

  “Your kids pretty ingenious at that sort of thing?”

  “Well, I suppose all kids are—really.”

  Travers nodded. “What particular line do you do with ’em yourself?”

  Crashaw retreated forthwith into his shell. “I say, don’t let’s talk about me!” He gave a deprecatory smile which seemed perfectly unaffected. “I mean—er—you’re not likely to want my signature for your autograph albums.” He looked up quickly as if the thought was of tremendous moment. “By the way, what’s it feel like to be famous?”

  Travers gave him a dry look. “‘Famous’ is a very relative term, young fellow.” He shook his head. “Present company excepted, as they say in polite circles; the only one of us who might have been so qualified . . . well, you’ll never meet him.”

  There was an intense silence for some seconds, then Crashaw coughed nervously.

  “Frightful bad luck—heart conking out and all that. . . . And you really think Tingling Symbols was—er—so very good?”

  “I thought it extraordinarily good,” said Braishe.

  “Just a bit macabre,” said Travers. “At least, I thought so. But it was good—damn good. I’m looking forward to reading that new manuscript of his—unless there’s an injunction. That reminds me. Tell me, Martin. When did he last mention the manuscript?”

  “Hm! When would it be? Saturday—on the way to town. I asked him how it was coming along, and he seemed extraordinarily pleased with it. He’d only three chapters to do—so he said.”

  “Suppose you don’t know how many he’d done then?”

  “But I do! Twenty-one, he’d done. I don’t know why I know it, but I do. Suppose he must have said something about it.”

  “But he’s—” began Paradine.

  “Just a second, George,” Travers cut in quickly. “We’re just going over to the pagoda again, and as we’re all here there’s something George and I have to say. We’re proposing to have Denis’s body brought over to the house and laid out properly in the same room as Mirabel. It seems too callous—too awful generally—to leave him over there. Do all you fellows agree?—I mean, to share the responsibility if there’s a row?”

  Braishe scowled belligerently. “I’d like to hear anybody start a row!” Wildernesse and Challis nodded.

  “That’s all right, then. I wonder, Martin, if you’d have a settee or something taken up there . . . and perhaps there might be some flowers or something. Brenda might rather like it. And if you’d tell somebody to sweep the path by the hedge . . .” He got to his feet. “When we’re ready and George has got his report for the coroner, we’ll give you a call to lend a hand. You ready, Challis, old chap? Then we’ll make a start.”

  It was lucky that Travers had got those candles from Pollock, for the light in the pagoda was really bad. Challis hovered nervously inside the door as Travers and Paradine stood looking down at the body of the dead man, the maroon stripes of whose pajamas positively shrieked discordancy against the fawn of his dressing gown. But the whole sight was ghastly, as Paradine knew when he placed his own body between the dead man and Challis. Had the pose been placid it might have been merely pathetic; as it was, the body seemed that of a monstrosity; some horrible paralyzed abortion.

  Paradine turned his back on it. He spoke very quietly—almost persuasively. “This isn’t going to be a nice job for you, Challis. Heart attacks are terrible things—merciful too, sometimes. The body’s convulsed”; he drew back and held the candle. “You see, he’s drawn up his legs with the agony of it. Just forget that, if you can. Draw what’s there. Travers’ll hold the candle for you.”

  Challis was not so nervous this time. For one thing, he knew little of the dead man, and from Mirabel’s chatter had rather despised him. There was annoyance that Fewne somehow eluded him; his isolation was an insult. To Challis he had been one of those aloof, aristocratic, supremely indifferent highbrows who miss the good things of life—the things which he himself found so accessible. Perhaps that was why his drawing was now more fluent. He even came forward and verified the position of the left foot against the wall. Travers congratulated him on the effort, and the three of them signed it.

  “Don’t talk about this over there,” said Paradine. “We don’t want to upset people too much. And he won’t be like this when we bring him over.”

  “What are you going to do then, George?” asked Travers when Challis had gone.

  “Move the body on its side so as to inspect the lips and mouth—and alter the position of the hands; move them to the front as if he were curled up asleep. . . . Hold the candle very steady, will you?”

  The face, as Travers saw it by the light of the candle, was even more terrifying. Its colour was a leaden grey, though where the candlelight fell on it, it became as luminous as old parchment. The finely cut features seemed transformed by some incredible and malignant rage. The eyes were screwed up, the forehead puckered, and the lips parted as if in a paroxysm of uncontrollable temper—or was it pain?

  “The light quite close,” came Paradine’s voice. “And perfectly steady. That’s it!”

  Travers closed his eyes for a moment or two, then kept them deliberately away—on the varnished match-boarding that lined the room from floor to ceiling, on the ceiling itself, on the grotesque shadow of George’s head. Then Paradine straightened up, looked round, and let his eyes rest on the curtain of the recess.

  “I’ll just wash my fingers in there.”

  He took one of the candles and pulled back the curtain. Travers followed him inside. Nothing there but what one might expect. Take away the curtain, and the continuity of the room, with its match-boarding, would have remained unbroken.

  “Can’t make it out,” said Paradine. “The face indicates angina—but the colouring’s not right!”

  Travers clicked his tongue—not with annoyance, because he shook his head perplexedly. “That’s all right. You needn’t go into that.” He looked outside at the dull grey sky, seen as a gloomy background to the wildly driving snow. “If it hadn’t been for this damn snow—” He broke off abruptly. “But that’s nonsense. If there’d been no snow there’d be nothing to look for.” Perhaps that horrible face had set his nerves on edge, for he changed the sub
ject again with a suddenness that was rather trying to the listener. “If we pick up those balloons near the door we can make room for the—er—others to get in—and out. Or will you do it while I sprint over to the house?”

  In a couple of minutes he was back with Braishe, Pollock, and the two footmen. Paradine covered the body gently as it lay on the top of the trestle table and put the cushion beneath the head. Pollock looked as if he were going to be ill; the footmen looked startled, and Braishe was as white as a sheet when he saw that awful face. Paradine got them out quickly.

  “I’ll be over in a minute or two. We must go over his effects—for official purposes.”

  As he came back from the door he saw on Travers’s face an expression he’d never seen there before. He looked at him intently, and Travers caught his eye.

  “George, that face terrifies me! Don’t you see it expresses everything that’s been happening here? Do you really think—tell me?—that because he slept here he was shut off from ... all that other business?”

  Paradine shook his head. “I don’t know. I hesitate to know.”

  “You mean you’re terrified, too.” He scowled. “You didn’t see him make that mad rush into the snow last night; those damnable balloons flapping about his head. . . . Still, what’s it matter? Where are the balloons you picked up? . . . Good! We’ll put ’em on the table for a bit. Gather up the rest, will you?”

  “You really think we ought to touch them?”

  “Doesn’t matter in the least. He threw ’em broadcast. We can do the same before the police arrive. As it is, we can’t move about the room.”

  He tried the costume Fewne had removed the previous night but found nothing in the pockets. One thing only was peculiar—that a pocket of the coat, so high comparatively from the snow he’d struggled through, should be soaking wet, and the rest of the coat dry. Still, he thought no more about it as he checked the belongings from his ordinary clothes and put them away in one of the drawers of the desk.

  Then for some minutes he stood contemplating that sheet of paper on which the dead man had striven, as it were, to express something he had intensely felt, though the pen had refused to register what the mind so urgently insisted. Then he looked at that neat pile of manuscript and, on a sudden impulse, lifted it out of its drawer and checked the chapters.