Dancing Death

by Christopher Bush

  “Your words to Palmer were, ‘She did it.’ Will you explain them?”

  Her gesture implied that nothing could be easier. “You see sir, after the misunderstanding that night, I thought—I mean I spoke without thinking. I was all upset. I didn’t know what I was saying, sir.”

  “But you definitely thought at the moment that Mrs. Fewne had murdered her sister!”

  “Oh, no, sir! . . . It was an unkind thing to say, sir, and I didn’t ought to have said it.”

  “I see. And have you ever heard your mistress threatened by Mrs. Fewne?”

  “Oh, no, sir!” The question appeared absurd. She even smiled faintly.

  Travers nodded, then tried a bluff. “Well, we’ll be a little more definite, but, first of all, may I give you a word of advice? Everything you tell me now will have to be repeated to the police. If your evidence has altered by the time they get here—and that may be at any moment—then I shall recommend that you be held in custody. You understand that?”

  Her very tentative, “Yes . . . sir,” showed that this was worrying her somewhat.

  “Very good! For my own part, I shall respect any confidences you care to make. . . . That ring that was given you by your mistress.” He saw her hand go to the pocket of her skirt. “You have it with you, I think. May I see it?”

  He held it to the light and examined it carefully. “Quite a good ring! You’re a fortunate person! You could get twenty pounds for it anywhere.” He handed it back. “Why, exactly, was it given you?”

  The answer was pat. “She was always giving things away, sir. She’d get a fit of it sometimes when she was in a good mind.”

  “I see. And will you explain some words used by you to the effect that people who want to get on in this world must use their eyes and ears?”

  This time the answer was so very pat that the words came in a flood. “It was really like this, sir. Miss Quest was worried when we came down about some bills that had come in, and she was talking to me about them before dinner and saying there was nothing coming in till the show started, and then I remembered something, sir. I said, ‘If you remember,’ I said, ‘Mrs. Fewne owes you some money—that forty pounds you told me about—so why not get it off her? They say that book Mrs. Fewne’s written has brought in a lot of money,’ was what I told her . . . and she was ever so pleased, sir, and gave me the ring!”

  “She didn’t think of selling her jewellery or pawning it to raise money?”

  “She couldn’t do that, sir! If she went anywhere it’d have been noticed.”

  “Hm! Mrs. Fewne give her the money?”

  “I believe she did, sir.”

  “What was the quarrel about, then?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I wasn’t there. I expect it was about the money. Mr. Fewne wasn’t supposed to know anything about it.”

  “One other thing. Miss Quest told you you needn’t wait up that night. Surely a most unusual thing!”

  “Well, I’d had a headache, sir, so when I saw she was in a good mind I asked her if she needed me to stay up.”

  He thought that statement over. As far as he remembered, the message Mirabel Quest had given Pollock had been entirely for Brenda’s benefit and more in the nature of a sneer. The thought prompted the question.

  “Mrs. Fewne knew that she had you to thank for reminding her sister about that money?”

  “She might have done, sir.”

  “Hm!” He sat up in the chair. “You and your mistress used to have rather violent scenes at times?”

  “Well . . . I always did my best, sir—”

  “No doubt you did! . . . Ellen, I understand, is a heavy sleeper.”

  She moistened her lips. For the first time she looked really scared.

  “You see, you’ve been none too sure of your statements! You say you think this, you believe that, and so on. That won’t do for the police. They might even think you asked your mistress to excuse you so that you might be waiting in the room . . . with that dagger!”

  She shook her head vehemently. “Oh, no! I didn’t do it, sir! I couldn’t have done it!”

  “I’m glad to hear you say so! . . . Now, something very personal. Mr. Challis and your mistress: did they quarrel—much?”

  “I don’t know, sir. . . . It wasn’t my business, sir.”

  “Exactly! But you knew there were quarrels?”

  She hesitated, then, “Everybody quarrels sometimes, sir.”

  “Hm!” He got to his feet. “Well, that’s all—for the moment, Ransome, thank you. I have a lot of work to do here now. Not a word to a soul, mind you, about what we’ve—er—discussed!”

  He led the way to the door and opened it for her with a grave courtesy. But as soon as the door to the servants’ hall closed behind her, he sprinted up the stairs. The door of his own room he left open, and stood watching round the angle of the corridor. If what he had seen on Ransome’s face was any indication of what she was thinking, and if his deductions were correct, then she’d soon be coming upstairs. That story of hers was a deliberately arranged explanation. Logically, it was as full of holes as a sieve. To give a ring of that value for the reminder of a debt! And Mirabel forgetting such a debt! The thing was, of course, the precise value of Denis Fewne in the affair. Would he really have been furious at discovering that his wife had borrowed money from—of all people—Mirabel? Travers thought not. A man as uxorious as he was seen to be could easily be got round by his wife. And since he was dead, what did it matter? Then he nodded. That explained the ingenuity of the tale! Denis Fewne was dead.

  A moment or two later those arguments came to an end with startling suddenness. Challis was coming up the stairs—glancing nervously from side to side! On the first landing he looked towards the left, beckoned, then came straight on. Then Ransome appeared round the angle of the short corridor. Travers nipped back into his room like a stoat, closed the door, and put his ear against it. Almost at once, Challis’s door was opened—it shut again—a key turned. When Travers peeped cautiously out, stairs and landing were deserted.

  He closed his door again with infinite care, then tiptoed with preposterous precaution over to the chair by the window. As he put the cold pipe into his mouth, he shook his head and frowned. Everything was different from his calculations. It was Brenda Fewne the maid should have seen by rights! What she was doing in a locked room with Challis was altogether beyond him—unless that ridiculous bluff he’d tried had turned out to be no bluff but a direct accusation! Challis and Ransome must have some sort of understanding. Had she really done the murder—by arrangement? After all, Challis had more influence over Mirabel than anyone else. Had he manipulated the strings for the change over to that remarkably convenient room? Had the whole thing been worked out before they left London? That woman must be deeply in his confidence; thrown in as she was with the flat and the rest of the quid pro quo.

  Then another idea. Could Challis have done the killing himself? Surely not. As soon as the lights went out he was in that corridor outside. But, had the murder really been done just after the lights failed? If not, why was the cord cut at all, seeing it might be repaired in a second or two once the nature of the failure was discovered? Or had Ransome worked the light while Challis did the killing? If so, that housemaid, Ellen, must have been the heavy sleeper he’d pretended she was. But then again, if Celia had really seen a harlequin? . . .

  Two minutes more of that and he made up his mind. George Paradine would have to be confided in. And it’d have to be a desperately tactful job. Any approach to Brenda, and Celia’s ears would prick up—and George would spill the beans. Still, there seemed nothing else for it, and, as it happened, George was in the breakfast room.

  “Been looking for you, Ludo. Do you know, I can’t make head nor tail out of that drink business!” He waved his sheet of notes. “Here’s the recipe for that special punch. Pollock made it himself—put it in the bowl, saw to glasses and ladle; did everything, in fact. We saw Charles bring it in and Martin hand i
t out!”

  “You imply that Charles did the tampering!”

  “Well, it looks like it. Pollock guarantees the—er—ingredients.”

  Travers thought back for a moment to the actual scene. Charles had deposited the tray on the side table, and Braishe had gone over to him. And the lights were still out, as Mirabel had suggested! Then Charles had gone, and Braishe had handed out the drinks himself. He’d asked everybody separately. “Just a spot for you, Aunt Celia?” and taken it over. “What about you, Mirabel?” then poured out hers, and so on round the circle. Travers looked up to catch Paradine’s eye.

  “As you say, George—Charles seems to be the right spot. As soon as the phone’s working, Martin ought to look him up.”

  He fussed round for a moment or two, then got it off his mind. “There’s something I’m tremendously worried about, George. It’s ticklish—rather. Perhaps you’d better hear it as I did.”

  The account he gave stopped short of the visit of Ransome to Challis’s bedroom. Paradine attempted no interruptions, but his face was an open book. Travers could read his utter rejection of the idea that Brenda Fewne could even have come near contemplating murder. He could read, too, the desperate attempts that were being made to find some adequate explanation, and he saw the appreciation of the inconsistencies in Ransome’s story. But the mention of the money interested him most.

  “Do you know, that was very curious!” he said. “Part of her story is correct. Keep this to yourself, but yesterday morning, just before lunch, Celia asked me to let her have ten pounds—in cash. She said a check wouldn’t do. Between ourselves, I hardly like to ask her direct, but do you think she wanted it for Brenda?”

  “Possible, of course. But why yesterday morning? Mirabel hadn’t any use for money then?”

  That stumped Paradine completely. Travers watched him shrewdly, then came to a decision.

  “We’ll let that settle for a bit, George, and think it over. What about that competition I asked you to do? Got it on you?”

  Paradine confessed he’d forgotten all about it.

  “Well, have a shot at it, there’s a good chap! Time’s up long ago. The synopsis? Isn’t it in the dining room?”

  When Paradine came back, in a matter of five minutes, he seemed rather more enthusiastic. For one thing he had six envelopes with him.

  “Splendid!” Travers looked really pleased. “Watch me seal them up, George!” and he ran his tongue across the flap of the first envelope.

  “But aren’t you going through them now!”

  “Good Lord, no! We’ve got to have a meeting about it—and I rather thought of offering a couple of prizes.”

  Paradine went over to the writing desk and set to work. Travers finished the sealing up, then glanced at the clock. Almost eleven. For five minutes, as he sprawled in front of the fire, the room was quiet except for the scratching of George’s pen. Then his voice was heard excitedly.

  “I say—the end of this problem where the woman looks at The Times and has an idea! Don’t you think that’s a strange coincidence? I mean that scrawl of Denis’s—on the desk?”

  Travers nodded at the fire. “That’s it, George! That’s why I started the competition!”

  Paradine turned round in his seat. “This very competition you’ve given us to do is the one that was worrying him. He didn’t know how to finish the story! That’s what drove him into a breakdown! That’s what was on his mind and made him write all that rubbish just before he died!”

  Travers had a look at him. “That sounds all right, George, only . . . there’s a flaw in it. Unless he had in his mind what he intended Isabel Lake to do, he’d never have mentioned it!”

  The other wasn’t to be beaten. “I can explain that. As a matter of fact, I’m glad you mentioned it! He did know—when he wrote it down. But, the first symptoms of breakdown—and I should say, the results persist after partial recovery—are loss of memory. The subject can’t remember names, for instance. He wrote down those last words, knowing—as you say —what he intended this Isabel Lake to do. Then he forgot the idea. It worried him. The whole book depended on it. The more he tried to remember it, the more it eluded him. That’s what drove him mad!”

  “Splendid!” He gave a nod of satisfaction. “You’re a damn sight cleverer than I gave you credit for, George, and that’s saying something!” He took the envelope, sealed it up, and put the collection into his breast pocket. Then he fumbled at his glasses.

  “I want to put something to you, and I’m not going to act unless you’re with me. I’m suggesting this to you. Brenda didn’t know till after lunch yesterday that her husband was dead. Mayn’t this woman Ransome have had the idea that Denis would have been furious if he’d known Brenda had borrowed money from Mirabel, and isn’t it probable therefore that she put the screw on Brenda and collected the money for herself—possibly with the added threat to tell the police some tale or other as well?”

  “Blackmail!”

  “If you like. The proposal’s this: Is Brenda to be asked point-blank before the police get here, so as to clear the matter up finally? We don’t want them raking up non-essentials like that for everybody to hear at the inquest. Are we to see her and ask for her account? Or shall we search that woman’s box? Or shall we confront her here and get the truth out of her?”

  “Not that, I think! She might make trouble.”

  “What do you suggest, then?”

  “Hm!” Paradine was worried. He started to speak a couple of times before he made a definite suggestion. “I don’t like disturbing Brenda. I’d rather do the other. But—er—what powers have we got?”

  Travers’s announcement that he’d accept full responsibility, and his request that Paradine should bring along all the keys he’d got, were enough to give a start to an affair in which one member was a decidedly nervous helper. Mrs. Cairns, too, was rather in a flutter when halted just past the door of the room where those bodies were lying. But she was quite prepared to be a witness: Ransome seemed to be no favourite of hers. At the top of the narrow staircase Travers stopped.

  “Let me have those keys, George. You stay here, and if Ransome comes, go and meet her and say we want her in the breakfast room. Then take her there.”

  It was a typical servants’ bedroom with its white enamelled furniture. By the side of one of the low iron bedsteads was a fibre cabin trunk, locked and strapped.

  He motioned the housekeeper over, then set to work. One of his own keys fitted, sufficiently if uncomfortably. The trunk was practically full of miscellaneous garments, but on the top lay a leather handbag. But there was no money in it. Then he felt carefully among the layers of clothes. At the very bottom was a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied round with an old silk stocking. He gave the housekeeper a look as he checked the contents. The bundle of notes, as he flicked them off, numbered twenty-four and amounted to twenty pounds!

  In another couple of minutes they were out on the landing again, the trunk apparently undisturbed. Paradine, too, had neither seen nor heard a soul. Travers suggested a minute’s conference in his room, and as soon as they got inside Mrs. Cairns had to let off steam.

  “What’d she want that money for, sir? There’s nothing to spend it on here. And they were going straight back to town! That was that other poor thing’s money, sir, that’s what that was!”

  “You may be right,” said Travers. “However, not a word! Don’t let her see you suspect anything, or you may do a terrible lot of harm, besides getting the three of us into trouble.”

  “That’s all right, sir. I know my way about!”

  “I’m sure you do,” smiled Travers. He turned to George. “What now? Have her in and hear what she’s got to say?”

  “But we can’t tell her her trunk’s been searched!”

  “I know we can’t. But we can make her talk. The more lies she tells, the better. Would you mind sending her to the breakfast room at once, Mrs. Cairns?”

  Downstairs they had a five-min
ute conference as to the best method of approach. After that was settled came five minutes’ fidgeting. Finally Mrs. Cairns came in.

  “I’m sorry sir, but we can’t find Ransome anywhere. We’ve looked everywhere, sir.”

  “What about Mrs. Paradine’s room?” asked George.

  “She’s not there, sir. They haven’t seen her since just after breakfast.”

  “Have another look, Mrs. Cairns, will you?” said Travers. “I suppose she couldn’t be in one of our rooms, talking to a housemaid?”

  “The bedrooms were finished long ago, sir.”

  “Well, have a good look!” When she’d gone he turned to Paradine. “Do you realize, George, that we’ve actually got on to something at last? Wait till we suggest to Ransome that she shows us her trunk!” He shook his head complacently. “There’ll be some funny happenings before lunch, you mark my word!”

  The other nodded—but with much less enthusiasm.

  “Wait till the police get here!” went on Travers. “They’ll turn that scheming little brain of hers inside out—and show it to her!”

  He got to his feet and began a restless promenade of the room. A couple of minutes of that and he clicked his tongue.

  “Curious she can’t be found just when she’s most wanted! . . . I think I’ll have a look upstairs.”

  Paradine got up too. “I’ll go with you. She might be in Celia’s room by now.”

  Travers left him at the top of the stairs, then set to work to look into the rooms for himself. As he returned to the first landing Paradine joined him.

  “I didn’t suggest anything to them, but she wasn’t there!”

  Travers shook his head. “I don’t like it, George. Hallo! Somebody coming!”

  The somebody was Mrs. Cairns. Travers produced a smile.

  “Any luck?”

  “No, sir. We can’t find her anywhere!”

  “Well, never mind. She’ll roll up sooner or later. Just send her along when she does turn up.”

  He stood there for a good minute, like a man trying to make up his mind. He clicked his tongue, then he frowned. Then as he looked round, his eye caught something—the sill of the window above the servants’ stairs.