Dancing Death

by Christopher Bush

  “I did. I had to!”

  “And your birthday was about three weeks ago?”

  That really surprised her. “How did you know that?”

  “I didn’t. Only there was just one other counterfoil after that check. It showed ten pounds—and was made out to B. I guessed that was you!”

  Somehow Travers didn’t think she liked Wharton’s methods, in spite of the half smile that accompanied her comment.

  “Yes . . . he wanted me to get something for myself; something I might like.”

  Wharton nodded. “Now, just one last matter. It’s got to be mentioned, so we might just as well get it over and done with! Precisely why did your sister want to change rooms with you?”

  “I don’t know—quite. She said she liked the room I had.”

  “And why did you give in to her?”

  She shook her head wearily. “I knew . . . well, we were with other people. Anything was better than unpleasantness.”

  “Quite! And when your sister reminded you of the money you owed her, did you think that was a sort of blackmail?”

  “Blackmail!” She gave him a look that made him lower his eyes. “Is that a reflection on my sister—or myself?”

  “On neither, Mrs. Fewne. I ask you to believe that. All I mean is that your husband might not have been very pleased to be told you were in your sister’s debt.”

  “Does that matter so much . . . now?”

  “I don’t know that it does.” Wharton was looking decidedly uncomfortable. “But just one last question. Did your sister take the money?”

  “She did . . . only she didn’t! I mean, it wasn’t her money really. It was Ransome’s!”

  “Ransome’s! You mean you borrowed from Ransome?”

  “Surely you don’t think that of me! Mirabel offered to lend me money—but she could never keep money. When I had to go to her, she had to go to Ransome. I didn’t know it—till that night when she told me. That’s why I gave it to Ransome the next morning. I felt I . . . wanted to get rid of the money . . . to forget all the awful things . . . all but the good ones.” Her eyes filled with tears. As she turned her head away Travers saw her lip quiver. He made a motion to Wharton, then got to his feet. Wharton rose too.

  “That’s all, Brenda. Sorry it’s been so . . . rotten for you! Let me take you upstairs.”

  Wharton hobbled forward to open the door. As she passed, he took her hand.

  “Cheer up, Mrs. Fewne! And thank you for helping us. Er—ask Mrs. Paradine if she can spare a moment, Mr. Travers, will you?”

  He closed the door behind them, then made his way back to the fire again, shaking his head as if at a loss to know just where his questions had led him. In three minutes Travers came back.

  “She’s feeling better now. Mrs. Paradine’ll be down in a minute.”

  Wharton nodded. “She’s a plucky woman—or a coldblooded one!”

  “Women like Brenda don’t shriek,” said Travers rather curtly. “She’s had two days to cry in . . . alone.”

  “So she has,” said Wharton gravely. “And she’s what I’d call a really beautiful woman; sort of unapproachable.”

  “Oh, no, she’s not, George! She’s got a heart underneath—don’t you delude yourself!”

  “I know. Fewne thought so. Paradine told me he gave her everything and kept nothing.”

  “Well, wouldn’t you do as much?”

  “I don’t know.” Wharton spoke more to himself than to Travers. “Perhaps I would . . . but my wife wouldn’t take it!”

  Travers suddenly saw a glimmer of sense in Wharton’s questions. “Is that an aspersion on Mrs. Fewne?”

  “Not at all. But she was pretty poor when he married her—the daughter of a country vicar.” He changed the subject. “By the way, those women know what happened to Ransome. Paradine let it out last night!”

  “I say, that’s bad. Do you know, I rather guessed as much, just now, upstairs.” Then a sudden question. “When’d you get all this from Paradine?”

  “Rang him up at Levington—before breakfast, to hear how things were going.”

  Celia Paradine came in under full sail and was far more gracious to Wharton than Travers had anticipated. She had clearly decided that the occasion was one when a certain amount of nicely graded unbending would not be amiss. Travers smiled to himself more than once, but more often felt a glow of affection. If the heavens had fallen, Celia would have contemplated the ruins. It took more than a murder or two to scare her—particularly with Brenda and Ho-Ping to be mothered.

  Wharton regarded the Pekinese with some interest and put out his hand as if to rub its ears, but at the curled lip and incipient snarl shot his hand back in a hurry.

  “Poor darling! He’s so distressed this morning! He misses his master!” explained Celia.

  “Dr. Paradine’ll be here for tea, at the latest,” said Wharton. “It’s been a responsible time for him, Mrs. Paradine!”

  “And you’ve been simply splendid, Celia!” added Travers.

  “I! Rubbish! I’ve been scared to death. Daren’t put my nose outside my own room!”

  “Mrs. Fewne seems to be bearing up well,” remarked Wharton.

  “Very well!” Her tone was one of approval. “Terrible shock at first, but, there, she’s young. She’ll get over it!”

  “They were a happy couple?”

  “Most affectionate! He adored her, and she simply worshipped him. And admired him. We all did.”

  “Rather well connected, his people, weren’t they?”

  “Oh, very! Lady Barbara—his mother—was an Alveston! No money, but frightfully old—as you know.”

  Wharton nodded comprehendingly, then, “Well, Mrs. Paradine, we mustn’t keep you long. Just one or two things you might help us with—things we couldn’t very well ask Mrs. Fewne for fear of distressing her. For instance, has she told you what she did when the light failed?”

  “Oh, yes! She suddenly remembered she’d left her bag down there, where we were.”

  “And didn’t she see her husband down there?”

  “She did! Most peculiar, if you ask me! Unless he was mad, as George said.”

  “How do you mean ‘peculiar’?” asked Wharton earnestly.

  She shrugged her shoulders. “The man didn’t speak to her! And he must have seen her, because he came close up—and there was a candle there!”

  “Hm! . . . And the quarrel with her sister. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Quarrel!” She snorted. “It takes two to make a quarrel, Mr. Wharton! Brenda’s of my opinion. There’s nothing so undignified as brawling.”

  “Exactly! My own views entirely. And, of course, sisters can’t be alike. You slept pretty well yourself, that night?”

  “Too well!”

  “You’re convinced that last—er—health you drank, was drugged?”

  “I’m certain of it! Everybody’s certain of it!”

  “Quite! We shall have to inquire into that later. I hope we didn’t disturb you last night with our experiments on the landing. Tell me—” he leaned forward confidentially—“you’d swear you saw a man in harlequin costume that night—as you told Mr. Travers?”

  “Swear it! Of course I’d swear it! Haven’t I the evidence of my own senses?”

  Wharton turned to Travers. “Just what I told you! I knew Mrs. Paradine couldn’t be deceived!” Then he rose. “We’re very grateful to you, Mrs. Paradine, very grateful! And in more ways than one.” Wharton was fond of little obscurities like that. “And we shan’t bother to trouble you with inquests: not that you wouldn’t be prepared to do all in your power—because I know you would!”

  Travers, with an ironical smile, watched him shepherd her out; then pulled out his pipe and got his back to the fire. Wharton found the same smile on his face when he returned.

  “Well?” asked Travers.

  “Well what?”

  “What did you mean by shamelessly playing me off against Celia Paradine?”

&nbs
p; Wharton waved his hand with a gesture of superb dismissal. “Pure diplomacy, my boy.” His tone changed. “You heard what she said about that harlequin? There wasn’t a sign of blood or cleaning on either of those costumes!”

  Travers nodded.

  “They’ve gone away now—for detailed inspection. Tell me. Why should that harlequin have gone across to Wildernesse’s room? Was it, as you hinted, to throw suspicion on him?”

  “I’ve changed that view,” said Travers. “Why should Braishe want to throw suspicion on Wildernesse? He didn’t want Mirabel. He didn’t want Wildernesse out of the way. . . . But aren’t you forgetting the other side of the problem? Suppose it was Brenda Fewne that should have been killed!”

  “If that’s so, then you or Franklin or Fewne did the murder, because the others knew of the change of rooms! No. We’ll exhaust one possibility first. Unless—” and he gave the other a wily look—“you can tell me why anybody should want to kill Mrs. Fewne . . . compared with the several who’d have been glad to see her sister out of the way?”

  “I know no reason. If I had one, I’d put it up to you.”

  “I’m sure you would!” Wharton told him, and almost looked as if he believed himself. “But of course you believe Braishe doped that drink!”

  “Yes. Perhaps I do. One thing I didn’t tell you was that he made considerable show about being sleepy and the nasty taste in his mouth next morning.”

  “More show than others?”

  “To be fair—no! Still, he did complain very patently.”

  “Fewne tipped his into his pocket, you said?”

  “Either that or an earlier one. But why not have the coat analyzed—to see if the drink was doped or not?”

  Wharton looked very apologetic. “As a matter of fact, I’ve sent it away already.” He got up again. “What are you doing now?”

  Travers smiled. “I take it you mean, in the immediate future! At this very moment, however, I’m wondering why, with the prints on that dagger, you don’t arrest Braishe?”

  “Hm! Finger prints don’t lie. Isn’t that so?”

  Travers nodded. “So I’m told!”

  “Well, that’s precisely why I’m not arresting him!”

  Travers was puzzled. “What’s your riddle?”

  “Riddle! There isn’t one. If there is, it isn’t harder than the one you set me, in the pagoda. . . . However, what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to get out of this house for a bit. If the road’s clear, I’m going as far as the village. Why don’t you come? Do you the world of good!”

  Wharton shook his head. “Sorry! I’d love to. But I must see Norris.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CRUMBS FROM THE TABLE

  WHATEVER Travers had been thinking out during his hour’s exercise, the fact remains that immediately after lunch he hunted up Wharton again.

  “I want you to do something for me,” he said. “I’ll tell you why afterwards. Is it possible for me to be excused those inquests?”

  Wharton thought it over; hemmed and hawed, then reckoned it might be managed. After all, there’d be merely formal proceedings for the purpose principally of burial orders—except in the case of Fewne, which ostensibly would be finished with. But what were Travers’s reasons?

  Travers blinked away as he polished his glasses. “There are things I feel I must inquire into about Fewne. I’d like to know just what he did with his time while he was doing no writing. I’ve gathered he went out two or three times, and I want to know where and why. I’d like to see his publisher—and I’d like you to see his solicitor.”

  “He’ll be down to-morrow morning.”

  “Splendid! And his bank manager. And I want to find out how he spent the balance of that big check. There wasn’t anything here to spend it on—and he never went out till last week.”

  Wharton nodded. “All very useful information, of course. And after all, every bit of string has two ends. You prefer Fewne’s; I prefer Ransome’s. That doesn’t deny that Fewne leads to Ransome.”

  “As I see it,” said Travers, “Fewne, Ransome, and Brenda Fewne are sides of a triangle—with two sides gone. What’s left for you to get hold of?”

  “Plenty!” said Wharton grimly. “It’s Mrs. Fewne I’m relying on. I’ve got a whole lot of awkward questions to ask her yet.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, how she spent her money!”

  “Good Lord! Why, a woman like that could spend a hundred quid in necessaries without wasting a sou!”

  “She wasn’t forced to go on that holiday. Holidays are never force-work—except by doctor’s orders. And why did her sister use those particular names?”

  Travers shrugged his shoulders. “Merely the unbridled vocabulary of a vulgarian.”

  “Why did she borrow at all, from her sister?”

  “That’s got me. But why do women run into debt?”

  “And why did Fewne have three dances all that evening, as you pointed out yourself; two with one girl—”

  “Cecily Harrise, you mean. That was just for fun. I saw the whole thing.”

  “Very well. And the other with his sister-in-law!”

  “You’re forcing my hand,” said Travers. “I think I know why he danced with her. It was to be in a position to flick that note to Tommy Wildernesse. I think he wrote the note and threw it; and I think he made some remark about Wildernesse so that she appeared to be smiling at him at the time.”

  Wharton looked serious. “Why did he do that? If it was he who lured Wildernesse to the loggia, then it must have been to commit the murder. Even then it doesn’t mean Wildernesse wasn’t in the way!”

  “Don’t ask me why!” said Travers. “I might say lots of preposterous things—that Fewne killed her and his wife; that he and his wife did it between them.” He shook his head. “I know one thing—and only one. Something keeps telling me to find out all about Fewne. No matter which way I turn, I can’t get away from it. That’s why I asked to be excused inquests—and that’s why I’d like to question all of the people in the house—if I have your permission.”

  Wharton waved his hand. “Get on with it—and good luck to you!” He suddenly shot out a finger. “I’ll make a small bet—that we meet at the crossroads!”

  “I won’t bet,” said Travers. “But I hope we do. If I go up from Fewne, and you come down from Fewne, won’t the meeting-place be Brenda Fewne?”

  Wharton nodded. “If you only knew it, that’s the wisest thing you’ve said to-day!”

  Wharton as he heard the case as Travers put it, showed every disposition to help. Travers was convincing about those preliminaries. He painted in colours—almost pure gold leaf, in fact—the admitted fact it would be important to know how Fewne intended to use that book. A clamorous public was waiting for facts—they wanted Fewne; not Fewne and a collaborator. Fewne might have mentioned his intentions to someone in town; that was why it was so important to know just where he’d been and what he’d done.

  “What I can tell you,” said Braishe, “is this: I’d planned on the Friday night that I was going to go to a short conference on the Monday. I wanted to call in at town on my way up—Colonial Office, for one thing—and I wanted to see some people about preliminaries on the Sunday. What happened was that just as I was leaving on the Saturday morning, Denis came over in his dressing gown and asked if I could hang on for a bit, as he’d like to go to town too. Of course, I said I’d wait—and I did.”

  “Did he mention why—on the journey down, for instance?”

  “He didn’t. Now you come to mention it, I wondered why he didn’t, at the time. He was a taciturn sort of chap, you know, always mooning about.”

  “I know. ‘In worlds unrealized.’ Where’d you drop him?”

  “At my club—the Isis. That reminds me. One curious thing did happen there: I told him where I was going and said I might be back there for lunch at twelve-thirty, so he’d better look in then. It so happened that I couldn’t call at the
club till half-past one, and they told me he’d been there twice, asking for me urgently, but well after the time we’d arranged. On the Tuesday night, when I got back, I asked him about it: why he wanted me so urgently and so on. What do you think he said?”

  “Lord knows!”

  “He said, ‘Did I?’—just like that. Then he sort of pulled himself together and said, ‘Oh, yes! I wanted to ask you if you’d mind if I went out in the car with Bruce.’ What do you think of that!”

  “Who’s Bruce?”

  “The chauffeur. I left him behind with the small car and drove the Daimler to town myself.”

  “I see. You mean he needn’t have asked that!”

  “Precisely! What was mine was his—and he knew it. He mumbled something about getting out more; wanted some local colour or something. Scenery, I gathered.”

  It appeared to be all that Braishe knew. Travers judicially noted it all down while he had it on his mind, then went in search of Bruce. The chauffeur was a youngish man—about twenty-five—and swallowed up every preliminary that Travers gave him.

  “Well, sir, I met him at Levington station by the eight-thirty on the Saturday night. No, sir, he didn’t have parcels or anything with him. Just come back and went, sir. How’d I know about him going, sir? The master told me when I brought the car round on Saturday morning.”

  “And what did Mr. Fewne talk about on the way to the station?”

  “Nothing in particular, sir. Then he said, ‘Bruce, I need you to take me in the car to Folkestone on Monday after an early lunch,’ and that’s all he said, sir, so on Monday morning, sir, I sent word by William to see if he’d changed his mind, but it was all right, sir, so after lunch we went to Folkestone.”

  Travers suddenly felt extraordinarily curious. Surely late to start off on a journey like that! And with the nights drawing in at about half-past three!

  “What did he talk about on the way there?”

  “Not much, sir. He sat alongside me in the coupé, and he hardly opened his mouth. He seemed a bit preoccupied about something, sir, but he didn’t tell me what. But he did say, sir, that was he was going to have to go to a house in Kensington. I remember that, sir, the last job was there. Then he said he was going to have a look round the antique shops to see if he could find anything suitable in the way of furniture, sir.”