Dance to Your Daddy

DANCE TO YOUR DADDY

Gladys Mitchell

"Dance to your daddy

My bonnie babby,

Dance to your daddy

My bonnie lamb.

You shall hae a fishie

In a wee dishie,

You shall hae a fishie

When the boatie comes hame."

SCOTS SONG

CHIVERS

THORNDIKE

This large print book is published by BBC Audiobooks Ltd, Bath, England and by Thorndike Press, Waterville, Maine, USA.

Published in 2003 in the U.K. by arrangement with the author's estate.

Published in 2003 in the U.S. by arrangement with Gregory & Company.

U.K. Hardcover ISBN 0-7540-7310-6 (Chivers Large Print)

U.K. Softcover ISBN 0-7540-7311-4 (Camden Large Print)

U.S. Softcover ISBN 0-7862-5671-0 (General Series)

Copyright © Gladys Mitchell 1969

All rights reserved.

The text of this Large Print edition is unabridged.

Other aspects of the book may vary from the original edition.

Set in 16 pt. New Times Roman.

Printed in Great Britain on acid-free paper.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Mitchell, Gladys, 1901-

Dance to your daddy / Gladys Mitchell.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-7862-5671-0 (lg. print: sc : alk. paper)

1. Bradley, Beatrice Lestrange (Fictitious character)-Fiction.

2. Women detectives-England-Fiction. 3. England-Fiction.

4. Large type books. I. Title.

PR6025.I832D35 2003

823'.912-dc21 2003053311

To

Irene Fleming,

with love from Mike

CONTENTS

1 Galliard-Heartless House

2 Ritual Dance-Lamb to the Slaughter

3 Morris Dance-Beansetting

4 Pieds-en-l'Air-Family Gathering

5 Danse Macabre-The Wicked Uncle

6 Sarabande-Dancing Ledge

7 Sword Dance-Kirkby Malzeard

8 Coranto-Felix Napoleon's Fancy

9 Bolero-Mother and Son

10 St Vitus' Dance-Three Wise Monkeys

11 Oxdansen-Crowner's Quest

12 Zapatos-Goody Two-Shoes

13 Basse Danse-Confrontation

14 Danse Champêtre-Joy in the Morning

15 Country Dance-Parson's Farewell

16 Calushari Dance-Evil Spirits

17 Country Dance-Mage on a Cree

18 Hornpipe-The Boat Comes Home

CHAPTER ONE

GALLIARD-HEARTLESS HOUSE

'...unmannerly modest as a measure, full of state and ancientry.'

Measure for Measure.

(1)

Eiladh Beatrice Margaret Gavin, having put her fist in the minister's eye, submitted with placid fatalism to the ceremony of baptism. She was a happy baby and, since happiness has no history, she passes, for the purposes of the chronicler, into almost total obscurity.

'Well, that's that,' observed Laura, her mother, when the cortege had returned to the Stone House in the village of Wandles Parva, 'and now it's time I got back to work.'

'I may not need you yet,' said Dame Beatrice Adela Lestrange Bradley, who employed her as secretary and treated her as a favourite daughter. 'I am invited to pay a visit of indefinite length to a certain Romilly Lestrange, who claims to be a distant connection of mine by marriage. He lives, it seems, at a place called Galliard Hall.'

'Romilly? You haven't mentioned him before, have you?'

'For the sufficient reason that, until I received his letter, I was unaware of his existence.'

'Funny he should suddenly pop up out of a trap. I'd give him a two-eyed look, if I were you.'

'He has offered me a commission on top of the invitation. It appears that he has been extremely worried lately by the strange behaviour of his wife.'

'What does she do?-make spells and incantations?-dance naked on the greensward by the lee light of the moon?'

'He says that she has contracted a habit of drowning things.'

'Drowning things?'

'She began with a toy trumpet and followed this by consigning to the deep a transistor radio set and a dozen gramophone records.'

'Not a music lover, wouldn't you say?'

'I might leave it at that, if she had not continued by drowning, at intervals of nine months, a small cat, a pet monkey and a life-sized baby doll.'

'Well, there seems to be an obvious explanation. Either her husband won't give her a baby, or else she's had a miscarriage.'

'You mean she has aborted. Justice may miscarry; human beings do not.'

'Just as you say.'

'We must remember, however, that, in her journal, Marie Bashkirtseff informs us that on one occasion she felt impelled to throw the dining-room clock into the sea. I have the impression that, at the time, Marie was unmarried and, most probably, therefore, according to the fashion of the age, a virgin.'

'Oh, just an anti-mother complex, no doubt. I expect her action relieved her mind of all sorts of inhibitions and frustrations. Mrs Romilly has a different set of worries, that's all.'

'Worries-yes,' said Dame Beatrice thoughtfully.

'If this Romilly is a relative of yours,' said Laura, 'I think I had better write him our official letter before you go and see him. Relations always think they're entitled to get something for nothing.'

The so-called official letter was Laura's own invention and she was proud of it. It did nothing so crude as to give a scale of charges, or even to state, in unequivocal terms, that Dame Beatrice's services had to be paid for; nevertheless, people who received it, signed L. Catriona Gavin, Secretary, had no reason to be unaware that they were to expect a far from moderate bill. What was more, without reference to Dame Beatrice, Laura was always prepared to chase up any laggards. As she herself expressed it to her husband (although not to Dame Beatrice), 'There's always the State. If they're choosy, and want us, they've got to pay through the nose.'

'Oh,' said Laura's employer, on this occasion, 'there is no need for an official letter. I have accepted the invitation, and am off to Galliard Hall tomorrow afternoon.'

'Galliard Hall?' said Laura. 'Didn't somebody commit suicide there, or something, a few years back? The place was up for sale and the owner kept reducing the price, so I heard, because nobody would buy.'

'Because of the suicide?' asked Laura's husband, Assistant Commissioner Robert Gavin.

'I suppose so. Besides, it's an enormous old barracks of a place. I can't think who'd buy it.'

'My relative has either bought it or rented it, it seems,' said Dame Beatrice. 'Romilly? Romilly? It sounds the kind of name by which a male Lestrange would very likely be called, but I cannot say that it strikes any other chord. However, a family tree has many branches.'

'What was all that about the girl who chucked the dining-room clock into the sea?' asked Gavin.

'Clocks, so I understand,' said Laura's son Hamish, who was holding his baby sister in hickory-tough young arms, 'are thought, in morbid psychology, to symbolise the female cycle of...'

'Not in front of the child,' said his father, hastily. 'Chuck the brat over here. They talk about bouncing babies. Let's see if this one does.'

(2)

'Well,' said Laura, on the following afternoon, 'if Mrs. Romilly asks you to go swimming with her, find some cast-iron excuse.' They had finished lunch, the car had been ordered round to the front of the Stone House, and Dame Beatrice was about to set out for Galliard Hall.

'It is scarcely the right time of year for sea-bathing, and, in any case, I am not as fond of strenuous personal aquatics as you are,' she observed, 'so you may spare yourself all anxiety on my behalf.' She entered the car and waved her hand as it moved off down the drive; then she settled her small, spare elderly body comfortably against the upholstery, and as the car moved on to the New Forest road which linked Ringwood with Burley, she gazed out of the window at the passing scenery.

The vast stretches of Forest pasture on the common near her home gave way to woods and then to what seemed to be a limitless expanse of undulating country covered in brown bracken with a wayside edge of rough grass, broken by still and shining ponds and stretches of gorse and withered heather.

The road was a minor one until it merged, at Picket Post, with the highway between Ringwood and Romsey. The car swung off to the left, skirted most of the town and then, speeding up, made for Wimborne. Here a one-way street took a tour round the two-towered minster and then went left again at insignificant crossroads and over an ancient bridge.

Up a long and winding hill and through a long, dull village ran the road, then it dipped past a farm and alongside a tree-bowered estate until, at a major roundabout, it dropped sharply south-west to Wareham.

After Wareham, with its defensive earthworks, its Saxon church-on-the-wall, its prominent priory church of Lady St Mary, its river and its flooded, riverside meadows (for the time was late February, a few days away from March), the scenery changed. The road wound on towards the Purbecks and across the moors of Slepe, Middlebere and Creech. Corfe Castle, a stark, defiant shell, reared itself, frowning, on the mound which bridged the only gap in the range. The road skirted skittishly round it.

One stone-built village followed another, once Corfe was passed, and then, at last, there was nothing to be seen but the clean and lovely lines of the rounded hills. Suddenly, from a valley which dropped to sea-level on the south, a magnificent headland shouldered into the sky and a flat, wide, sea-lapped moorland stretched away into the distance.

The road soon divided a large, partly-timbered estate into two unequal parks, and on the lesser of these, backed and sheltered by the hills, lay, at the end of a sloping drive, an impressive, intimidating mansion.

'I think we're here, madam,' said George. They had arrived at Galliard Hall.

The house belonged to the early years of the Stuart dynasty, having been built in about the year 1610. The front entrance faced north, and two gabled wings had Jacobean bay windows with the mullions and transomes of the period. It was clear that successive owners had done little to alter the original facade. It was equally obvious that this had begun to crumble, and the whole place, including the unweeded, untended drive and the cracked and broken steps which mounted in two flights to an ornate but battered front archway, gave an overall impression of poverty, neglect and decay.

George drew up in front of the terrace. At the top of the steps an elderly man, whom Dame Beatrice took to be her host, was waiting to receive her. Behind him, and a little to one side, were another elderly man wearing a green baize apron and, in the doorway itself, a couple of youthful maidservants.

The first elderly man seized Dame Beatrice by her thin shoulders and kissed her rapidly on both cheeks. The second elderly man went gingerly down the worn steps to help George with the luggage. The maidservants stood aside, curtsied, and followed their master and the visitor into the house. Dame Beatrice found herself in the great hall, a magnificent room with windows looking towards the drive, a heavy brass chandelier hanging from the middle of the ceiling and two carved figures, two-thirds life-size, standing at either end of the mantelpiece. There was a gilt-framed Corot on the chimney-breast between them. There were other pictures around the walls. Dame Beatrice thought she recognised a Lely and a Raeburn among them.

The floor was uncarpeted and was of black and white tiles, each a foot square. At some time the floor of the room above had been cut away and a balustered gallery substituted, giving the great hall height and light appropriate to its size. It was all extremely impressive and, after the dilapidated appearance of the exterior of the house, considerably surprising, for the interior seemed beautifully kept and maintained.

'You will like to go straight to your room,' said the host. Amabel will show you the way.' The older of the two girls took Dame Beatrice up a splendid, broad, oak staircase, which had finely-carved and pierced panels in place of the usual balusters, and three flights of nine treads each. These, with right-angle turns, led to the gallery which Dame Beatrice had seen from below. From this she was shown to her room, which opened off it.

Heavy plasterwork covered the ceiling with scrolls, cupids and flowers. The bed was a magnificent four-poster and the walls were hung with tapestries depicting young men and maidens of the eighteenth-century for ever (or until the tapestry fell to pieces) at dalliance in summer woodlands. Dame Beatrice murmured a line or two from Keats and received from the maid the information that there would be tea in the drawing-room as soon as she was ready for it, and that the bathroom was two doors along to the left.

'Would that be poertry loike, as ee was sayen, m'lady?' she concluded respectfully. [No attempt made to reproduce the local dialect, but merely to suggest country speech. (Author)]

'Ode on a Grecian Urn,' Dame Beatrice replied.

'"Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu."'

'Oi loikes poertry. Tes a koind o' wetchcraft, Oi rackon.'

'How right you are, Amabel. It is Amabel, isn't it?'

'Yes, thank you, m'lady. Oi've put ee a can of hot water in the barthroom. There eddn't nothen laid on. You tells me what toime you warnts your barth and Oi sees to getten et for ee. Tes best in the marnen, ef that suit ee.'

'Excellent. How do I find the drawing-room, where I believe I am to have tea?'

'Down the stairs, through the hall, turn left into the doinen room and left again through the arch.'

In the drawing-room Dame Beatrice found a young woman of striking appearance, black-haired, red-cheeked and bold-eyed, in charge of two tea-pots. Of her elderly host there was no sign. The young woman gave her a brilliant smile and said, 'Hullo! In case you think I'm Trilby, well, I'm not. Do you prefer Ceylon or Indian tea?'

'Ceylon, thank you,' said Dame Beatrice, seating herself. 'I have to confess that, except as the title of a book which I have not read for many years, the name Trilby means nothing to me.'

'Uncle Romilly's wife. Isn't that the girl you've come to see?'

'I believe it is, but I was not told her Christian name.'

'Christian indeed!-Bread and butter or a toasted tea-cake?-A limb of Satan, if you ask me! The dance she's led poor Uncle Romilly these last few months!'

'Suitably so, perhaps, in a house named Galliard Hall.'

'It isn't any joke, believe you me! Poor Uncle Romilly is nearly off his head with worry. There's no piece of wickedness that Trilby can't think up when she's in the mood.'

'I understand that she has a habit of drowning things.'

'That's the least part of it. I suppose I shouldn't say such a thing, but the pity is that she hasn't, so far, poor idiot, drowned herself. And now she's invited all these mixed relations to the house, and, of course, as they are relations, Uncle Romilly can't exactly say he doesn't want them.'

'I wonder what you mean by "mixed" relations?'

'Oh, well, some are hers, you see, and some are his, and I can't think what will happen when they all get together.'

'May I ask why you say that?'

'Well, it would seem about as sensible to put the Montagues and the Capulets together in one house as the Lestrange family and the Provosts.'

'I seem to remember that the Montagues and Capulets were reconciled by virtue of the deaths of Romeo and Juliet.'

The young woman gave her a very sharp glance and continued:

'I wanted Uncle Romilly to let them know what is happening, and plan to have them at different times, but Trilby wants them all to come together, and, since she's been so difficult, Uncle Romilly gives in to her over everything. Well, if I'm not very much mistaken, this time there'll be murder done. They'll be at one another's throats from the word Go.'

'You do not, of course, speak literally, when you talk of murder being done?'

'Oh, don't I, just! You don't know them as well as I do.'

'I have relatives (of a sort) called Marshall-Provost, but the name Provost, of itself, is strange to me. However, as you probably know, I am a Lestrange myself by my first marriage.'

'Are you? Uncle Romilly didn't tell me that. He said your name was Bradley, but, if you are connected with the Lestrange family, I expect you know some of those who are coming. There are Hubert-he's a parson-Willoughby-he's a private secretary, I believe-the twins Corin and Corinna...'

'My late husband, of course, has been dead for many years, and these people would be of a younger generation. I doubt whether I have met any of them.'

'You might know Corin and Corinna. They changed their names when they became pop singers, I believe. As for the Provosts, well, there are Giles and Tancred-he's a poet-and, lastly, Humphrey and a girl named Binnie, Humphrey's wife, so she's only a Provost by marriage. I don't know what her maiden name was.'

'At all events, if it comes to a battle, the sides would appear to be well-matched,' suggested Dame Beatrice lightly.

'There is no "if" about it. It will come to a battle, if the Provosts run true to form. As it will also come to a matter of no holds barred, I'm not clear where to place my bets. Tancred, as you'd expect, is a minor poet-very minor-one slim volume published at his own expense-but he can be a menace, from what Uncle Romilly tells me. I don't know much about Giles, except that he's keen on horses. Humphrey is a master at a third-rate private day-school and Binnie is the original dumb blonde. Quite a nice child, if you don't worry about her having a vacuum where her brain ought to be, but completely moronic, poor dear. The Lestrange twins-you know, those I told you are in show business-take off her and Humphrey in their act. It's terribly funny-not that Humphrey cares much about it, of course. He hates Tancred, too.'

'All you tell me is most interesting. You refer to Romilly Lestrange as your uncle. Are you a Montague or a Capulet?'

'Oh, I've no connection with either the Lestranges or the Provosts. My name is Judith Dean, and I'm Romilly's housekeeper. He likes me to call him my uncle, but, between ourselves, my sugar-daddy would be more like it. After all, Trilby, in her present state, is hardly a wife, so Romilly brought me along to sort of fill the bill. You're not shocked, I hope?'

'Irregular unions are solely the business of the parties concerned, and are now too numerous to be interesting,' said Dame Beatrice. 'When am I to see Mrs. Romilly Lestrange, I wonder? You know, I gather, that she is to be my patient.'

'I shouldn't worry about being in a hurry to see her, if I were you. You'll have had a bucketful by the time you've finished with her,' said the black-haired siren coarsely. 'We've given you Romilly's old room; I hope you like it. Of course, he only rents the house, you know. I don't know how long he'll stay.'

(3)

Dame Beatrice did not see her nominal hostess that afternoon and did not mention her again. Dinner was a ménage à trois, with Romilly at the head of the table, Judith (barbarically regal in a flame-coloured dress with a neckline which plunged recklessly to her waist and barely contrived to cover her breasts), seated opposite him at the foot, and Dame Beatrice next to her host on his right-hand side. They were waited upon by the elderly manservant. He had exchanged the green-baize apron, and the trousers and shirt which went with it, for the black and white livery of a butler. The meal was simple and good and the talk was of local affairs, in which, it appeared, Romilly took a landowner's interest, however recent this was.

When dinner was over, the three retired to the drawing room to drink coffee, and then Judith played the piano and sang. She had a beautiful contralto voice and it had been well trained. It was dark by the time she began to sing, and candles had been brought in. They filled the room with shadows which flickered and moved, and more than once Dame Beatrice thought that a darker, more substantial shadow, had joined them. She wondered whether the nominal mistress of the house had crept in to enjoy the music.

At ten o'clock Dame Beatrice went to her room and by the light of her candle examined the only picture, apart from the tapestry, which was on the walls. It showed two young men, hardly out of their boyhood, dressed in mid-eighteenth century costume. They were evidently brothers, for they were much alike. She was about to turn from the picture and prepare for bed when there came a tap at the door. 'Come in!' she called. The door opened, and for a moment Dame Beatrice thought she was confronted by Joan of Arc. The figure which entered was clad in a suit of armour from the top of which emerged a flaxen head with page-boy haircut, wide-set eyes and a strangely gentle, expressive, beautifully-shaped mouth. 'You will be Mrs. Romilly Lestrange, no doubt. How do you do?' went on Dame Beatrice, recovering her self-possession.

The girl closed the door quietly and came forward.

'Don't tell them you've seen me,' she said. 'That's a treat they're keeping for tomorrow. I don't know who you are, but they're up to something. Shine the candle on to your face. I want to see whether you're friend or foe.'

Dame Beatrice complied with this request. The mellow candlelight shone on her yellow skin, her sharp, black eyes, her scrawny, old-woman's throat and turned her diamond necklace into a thousand tiny pools of almost unbearable brilliance.

'Does it matter so much whether I am a Montague or a Capulet, a Macdonald or a Campbell, a Guelph or a Ghibelline, a Roundhead or a Cavalier?' she asked. The girl said solemnly and with conviction:

'It matters whether you're on my side or on theirs, that's all I know. They're as wicked as hell, and, although I try to show fight, I'm pretty helpless here. I don't know how they're going to kill me, but they will.'

'Indeed?' Dame Beatrice studied the speaker. The girl returned her gaze, and said:

'If you decide to help me, you do so at your own risk. It's only right that I should warn you. Who are you, anyway? I saw the car drive up, and Amabel told me which was your room, so I've come while they're still downstairs. You don't mind, do you?'

'Not at all,' Dame Beatrice replied. 'Why do you commit your lares et penates to the sea?'

The visitor looked perturbed.

'I know they say I drown things,' she said, 'but I don't, you know. I don't get much chance while they make me dress like this, do I? I mean, I can't leave the house. It would look so odd. People would think I was mad.'

'That is a point,' Dame Beatrice admitted. 'Why, though, should anybody want to kill you, or, for the matter of that, keep you confined to the house?'

'Oh, money. Always money. But I'm not going to give in, whatever they do or say. The money is mine when I'm twenty-five, and I'm not going to give it away.'

'Certainly not. One should never give in to bullying.'

'I know, but it takes a lot of courage to stand one's ground. They're having lots of people to come and stay, you know. They hope, that way, to frighten me. But I shall face them, all of them. Some of them might even help me. What do you think? They can't all be wicked, can they?' Her voice had risen to a note of panic. Her hearer wondered whether she was play-acting.

'I think I would go to bed, if I were you. We shall meet again in the morning,' said Dame Beatrice.

'Do you think we shall? I am not so sure. They don't like me to meet people from outside. Why did they ask you to come?'

'They thought I might be able to help you.'

'I don't think they meant it. You are in great danger, you know, if you help me in the way I need help.'

'I am accustomed to take care of myself.'

'Are you a relative of this family?'

'Mr Romilly tells me that I am. Let me see you back to your room.'

'Oh, no. I like to keep it to myself. Good night. I hope you will sleep well.'

'Thank you. Good night.'

The visitor did not depart immediately. There were two candles on the dressing-table. She walked across the room, picked up one of them and held it up to light the picture of the two young men.

'How do you like it?' Dame Beatrice asked.

'I'm wondering why they put it there, that's all. It wasn't there before you came. That makes me suspicious, you know.'

'Is your name really Trilby?' Dame Beatrice asked.

'Is that what they told you? You don't need to believe them. It's not a bad name to give me, all the same. Romilly is rather like Svengali, don't you think? Have you heard that song called Puppet on a String? Well, that's how I think of myself. Watch out for them. Good night.'

(4)

The maid who had shown Dame Beatrice to her room brought early tea and asked whether she would breakfast in bed.

'What is the household custom? Do visitors usually breakfast in bed?' Dame Beatrice enquired.

'Us don't have visitors, m'lady. Not they as stop the noight. Messus Judeth have hern in bed, but Master, he have hisn downstairs. Only ever had one house-party all the toime Oi been here.'

Thinking that an opportunity for a tête-à-tête with her host might be advisable after last night's visit from his wife, Dame Beatrice said that she would breakfast downstairs.

'In the small doinen-room, m'lady. Oi'll get your barth ready.'

'You should address me as Dame Beatrice. I am not the daughter of a hundred earls, you know, Amabel.'

'Yes, mum. Thank ee, Dame Beatrice. Oi'll tell our Voilert.'

Dame Beatrice found her host already at breakfast. He apologised for having no morning newspaper to offer her.

'I generally drive into one of the villages, or to Wareham or Swanage, to get one,' he said. 'Perhaps you'd care to come with me. There are things I ought to tell you about your patient which can be better said away from the house. Trilby is cunning and sly. It is part of her disability, poor creature, and cannot be helped, but it can be very disconcerting to find her listening to matters not intended for her ears, and watching happenings which do not concern her.'

'I should have thought that some of them did concern her,' Dame Beatrice mildly remarked.

'Ah, you have been in conversation with Judith,' said Romilly, in a matter-of-fact tone. Trilby knows nothing of that relationship, I hope. To her, Judith is the housekeeper, nothing more.'

'Yesterday at tea-time your housekeeper mentioned that you are expecting a houseful of guests. I need not explain that I could hardly hope to do much for my patient in the midst of an exciting house-party.'

'Oh, the house-party won't be exciting and will have nothing to do with Trilby.'

'She can scarcely fail to be aware that the number of people here has been considerably increased.'

'Judith talks too much,' said Romilly. 'Well, while you are finishing your breakfast, I will go and get my car out of the garage and bring it round to the front of the house.'

'If you are going to tell me about your wife, it will be better if my man takes us in my own car. In that way you and I can give one another our undivided attention, and I am anxious to learn all I can about my patient.'

'Very well, then. Shall we say in half an hour from now? I have just remembered a letter I have to write. We can post it on our way.' He did not sound particularly pleased. Apparently he was not accustomed to having his plans subedited.

'Which way will that be?' asked Dame Beatrice.

'I suggest we go to Swanage. That will give me time to tell you everything about Trilby that I think you ought to know.' He left her and went out, humming a little tune. Dame Beatrice poured herself some coffee, and five minutes later she returned to her room. While she was there she wrote a short letter to Laura saying only that her surroundings were pleasant and her room comfortable and that she was hoping to begin the treatment of her patient later on that morning, and then she descended to the great hall and stepped out into the February sunshine to find that word had been conveyed to George and that he had the car at the foot of the steps.

'Good morning, George,' she said. 'Are they making you quite comfortable?'

'Oh, yes, madam, thank you, perfectly comfortable. One of the maids brought word you wanted the car this morning to go to Swanage, so I brought it round.'

'George,' said his employer, 'are you psychic?'

'I trust not, madam. It must make for fear and discomfort. All the same,' the stolid chauffeur added, opening the door of the car for her, 'I would not be surprised if I can guess why you asked the question. Something funny going on around these parts.'

'I wonder what makes you think that, George?'

'Talk in the servants' hall, madam, and talk which only takes place when the old man Luke isn't with us. Would you wish me to repeat what I have heard, madam?'

'I think it might help. We appear to have discovered a household which, in some respects, is out of the ordinary.'

'Sinister, madam, one might call it. It seems there is a lady living here who never goes outside the house at all, no further than an enclosed and overgrown bit of garden. Nobody acts unkind to her, but she always wears a suit of armour or other fancy dress, and, according to the maids, can't get at any ordinary clothes. The girls don't much like the set-up, but they get good wages and the work, they say, is easy, and the lady doesn't complain.'

'I have met the lady in question. She seems to be Mrs. Romilly Lestrange. She came to see me in my room last night. She appears to believe that her life is in danger. The whole atmosphere would tend to suggest that we find ourselves in the midst of Victorian melodrama, for me a unique experience. While I should not wish to betray too much interest in the gossip of the servants' hall, I feel that, for once, I am justified in asking you to keep your ears open and to report to me anything which you can learn concerning this somewhat extraordinary household. In short, George, I have been brought here to serve, I think, an infamous purpose, although what infamous purpose I have not yet worked out.'

CHAPTER TWO

RITUAL DANCE-LAMB TO THE SLAUGHTER

'Or, like a nymph, with long, dishevelled hair,

Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen.'

Venus and Adonis.

Romilly's behaviour on the drive to Swanage and back added nothing to George's conviction that there was 'something funny going on.' He spoke of the girl with affection and concern, and, at Dame Beatrice's invitation, agreed to give a detailed account of what he referred to as 'poor little Trilby's aberration.'

'Although whether you or anybody else can rid her of the obsession is more than I can hope for,' he concluded. 'It seems to be very deep-seated.'

'I should wish to have as complete an account of her behaviour as you can give me,' said Dame Beatrice. 'It will help me to make my diagnosis. Confine yourself, if you please, to those matters which have come to your own personal notice. I may be able to fill in the details from other sources.'

'Very well. I married Trilby nearly three years ago-my second marriage and, as I soon discovered, a mistake. Did you ever read a poem by Charlotte Mew...'

'The Farmer's Bride? Yes, indeed. As I have interrupted you, may I ask whether Trilby is your wife's real name?'

'No, it is not. She was married to me in the name of Rosamund. She chooses to call herself Trilby.'

Dame Beatrice had heard the girl's own version of this, but she made no comment except to say:

'Well, it is quite a pretty name, I suppose, if one dissociates it nowadays from men's hats.'

'It makes no odds what she calls herself, so far as I am concerned,' said Romilly. 'If you have read the poem, you will realise my difficulties. Here was I married to this girl who was more like a pixie than a creature of human kind. I soon found that she was terrified of the physical side of marriage, so I took her to a psychiatrist who uncovered the history of an unpleasant episode in her early life for which she was in no way to blame and which she had forgotten. After that, she seemed much improved, and consented to co-habit with me. A child was conceived, but, as I think I told you in my letter, it was stillborn.'

'No, you did not mention it. How disconcerting for you both! And this threw her off balance again?'

'Well, as a matter of fact, she behaved rather strangely while she was still carrying it. She took to wandering off alone, and if I attempted to accompany her, or went after her in the car, or even went to the length of locking her in her room (as I did on one occasion), she flew into such violent fits of rage that I was afraid she would do the child or herself, or both of them, some serious injury. I believe, in fact, that this is what must have happened. The doctor told me that she was perfectly healthy. There was no obvious reason why she should lose the baby.'

'But, until she lost the baby, she did not have this obsession about drowning things?'

'I did not recognise it at first as an obsession. When she flung gramophone records and a transister radio set into the sea, I regarded it as the slightly unbalanced reaction of a woman under emotional stress, and took little notice of it. It happened before she lost the child.'

'You mentioned in your letter a toy trumpet.'

'That was used at the séance.'

'Dear me! I had no idea that you and she dabbled in spiritualism.'

'My dear Beatrice!' Romilly's tone blended amusement and polite protestation. 'You surely don't think that, with the baby almost due, I would have assisted Trilby to play such a dangerous game as taking part in a séance? Of course I knew nothing about it, nothing whatever. For some three or four weeks previously, Trilby had been less than well, so I engaged a private nurse. It seems that this woman asked what we were going to call the baby, and when Trilby said she did not know, and did not want a baby anyway, the nurse said she knew of a medium and that it would be fun-fun, mark you!-to hold a séance and ask "those who had passed over" for suggestions, and for an assurance that both Trilby and the child would come through safely at the time of delivery.'

'How did you come to hear of this nurse?'

'My doctor recommended her to me, but, of course, when I dismissed her and explained to him why I had done so, he was appalled that she should have encouraged her patient (who was in a highly nervous state) to indulge in such a pastime.'

'You yourself were not in the house, I take it, when the séance was held?'

'No, of course I was not. The nurse must have known quite well that I should disapprove. I had to go to London for a couple of days, and it was while I was out of the house that this pernicious nonsense took place.

'What appeared to be the effect on Rosamund?'

'She was in a state of semi-collapse when I reached home. The trumpet, as I said, had been used at the séance, and, after this was over, she seems to have taken the trumpet down to the coast near Dancing Ledge and hurled it into the sea.'

'How did you know?'

'When I found that she had gone out alone-she developed a streak of animal cunning just at that time, and evaded me whenever she could-I went to look for her, but I had no idea which way she had gone, and I did not catch up with her until she had thrown the thing over the cliffs. I am glad I did not know sooner where she had gone. I should have been mortally afraid that she would lose her balance and go over with it, but, thank goodness, she did not.'

'And this happened before she lost the baby, but her drowning of the cat and the monkey came later. Is that so?'

'And, of course, she also drowned the baby doll. That was the latest of all. I thought the baby doll was highly significant. It proved to me that, not only did she not want her baby, but that she might have murdered it if it had lived.'

Dame Beatrice offered no comment on this opinion. She said, 'And that was when you decided to consult me.'

'Just so. I thought things had gone far enough.'

'I shall be interested to hear her own explanation of these actions.'

'I doubt whether she will remember anything at all about them. Besides, do you think that total recall is necessarily a good thing?'

'All things are relative, of course. Is it possible for you to set aside a room in the house solely for my use as a consulting-room?'

'That presents a slight difficulty. I have to find sleeping accommodation for eight extra people, as I think Judith told you, and as only two of them can be asked to share, space is at a premium. I wonder whether you could use your own room? It is spacious, and I can supply you with a table on which to write your notes, and a couch on which Trilby could lie. I thought that, if you had your sessions with Trilby between tea and dinner, you could still take your afternoon walk, or your nap, or anything else you choose to do, between lunch and tea, and so have that time and your mornings and evenings to yourself or with us.'

'That would appear reasonable. Very well. I will see her at a quarter to six.'

'Excellent. Then we will dine at eight, if that will suit you. I don't know how long you will spend with her each day?'

'Not more than an hour, and it may be a good deal less.'

'I suppose you use the "stream of consciousness" method.'

Dame Beatrice did not reply to this. She said, as though she had not heard him, 'Or we could use Rosamund's own sanctum, I suppose. She might be more at ease there than in my bedroom.'

Romilly laughed.

'She might, but I do not think you would,' he said. 'She is the most untidy young creature in the world. The servants try to maintain some kind of law and order among her things, but I'm afraid it's a thankless task. However, they are quite devoted to her in their bucolic, country-bumpkin way. Not over-blessed with intelligence, I'm afraid, but there seems to be so much inbreeding in small villages that it is scarcely surprising to find the indigenous people not much better than morons.'

Dame Beatrice thought of the willing, kindly Amabel, who 'loiked poertry' and who, with her sister, had given George some information which he, a notably intelligent man, had certainly accepted at its face value, and she found herself by no means in agreement with Romilly's summing-up of his servants' mentality. However, she did not contradict him. She was interested to hear that she was expected to turn her bedroom into a consulting-room. She had not been shown the whole house, but it was a three-storey building and, even allowing for the long gallery which went from the front to the back of the house on the first floor, and the loss of the floor or floors over the great hall which had been demolished to leave the three-sided inside balcony from which her own and other rooms opened, Galliard Hall must contain at least twenty bedrooms, apart from those occupied by the servants.

The only conclusion she could come to was that possibly all the rooms on the second floor, except the servants' quarters, were unfurnished and out of use. With only two maids, a manservant, a cook (whom Dame Beatrice had not seen) and a housekeeper, it was probable that not nearly all the rooms in the mansion received attention.

She went up to her room when the trip to Swanage was over, taking with her the newspaper which Romilly had bought for her. It was almost time for lunch, so she tidied herself and listened for the sound of the gong. While she waited she walked over to the picture of the two young men and studied it afresh. For some reason, her thoughts turned to her secretary Laura, who displayed at times a vivid imagination and a sense of the dramatic. Laura she thought, having been apprised of the fact that the household was, in some respects, a strange one, and having encountered Rosamund, with her complaints, fears and suspicions, would have regarded the picture with a prejudiced and jaundiced eye. On impulse, she reached up and took it down. Behind it there was a neat, foot-square hole in the party wall, and the picture, which was on thin canvas with no protecting glass, had been put up to conceal this.

It was clear, she thought, why her own room had been chosen for her treatment of Rosamund Lestrange. Somebody-most likely the master of the house-must be determined to overhear all that passed between Dame Beatrice and her patient. She realised now why Rosamund had sought her out while Romilly was downstairs. Rosamund must also know that there was an opening in the wall behind the picture.

She was far too old and experienced to be surprised by the lengths to which human curiosity can go, but, in view of the facts in this particular case, so far as she knew them, the large, neat hole seemed to indicate something a little more reprehensible than mere curiosity. She replaced the picture and, hearing the gong sound for lunch, went thoughtfully down the stairs. Once again there were only the three of them at table.

'Well,' said Judith brightly, 'how did you think Swanage was looking?'

'I saw little of it,' Dame Beatrice replied. 'It is a pleasant town, and I am thinking of taking my patient to visit it this afternoon. It will help with the beginning of her treatment.'

'Oh, but, my dear Beatrice,' said Romilly, in the utmost dismay, 'surely that would be most unwise! The very thing we have to watch most carefully is that she does not go near the sea!'

'That may be your opinion, but it is not mine, and, as I am in charge of the case, I must be permitted to conduct it in my own way. My theory is that we should give your wife every opportunity to drown anything she pleases. It is the best way to cure her of her obsession. I have decided to follow the principle laid down by makers of cream cakes and sweetmeats, that of allowing their workpeople to eat as much as they wish of the product they are making. The novelty wears off and the appetite is very soon satiated. In my opinion, the frustration which your wife must feel in not being allowed to follow a course of conduct which satisfies her-'

'But there is the risk that Trilby may drown, not merely trivial objects and small mammals, but herself!' exclaimed Romilly.

'That risk, in any case, will be considerably less from a bathing-beach, where I shall be in charge of her, than from the cliffs, for instance, above Chapman's Pool, or-according to the photographs I have seen-I do not know the place-the rocks of Dancing Ledge. As you yourself have told me, she has been able, on occasion, to elude your vigilance and to reach that part of the coast alone.'

'Well, I think it's a lot of nonsense!' Judith blurted out. 'Of course she mustn't go near the water!'

'My dear girl!' said Romilly. 'You must not talk like that! My cousin Beatrice, in her own field, is an expert. If,' he went on, turning to her, 'you feel that to take poor Trilby to the seaside will help her in any way, of course you must do as you wish. The only thing is that either Judith or myself must come with you. I could not permit you to take the risk of being alone there with my poor, misguided little girl.'

'Even at this time of year, we should hardly be alone at Swanage. Besides, my chauffeur will be there if I need any help. The worst thing for Rosamund, in my opinion, would be for those nearest her to be eavesdroppers on our conversations,' said Dame Beatrice equably.

'Eavesdroppers?' cried Judith, indignantly.

'For want of a more euphemistic term, yes, eavesdroppers,' Dame Beatrice repeated firmly. 'That is how the patient would interpret your presence, I'm afraid.'

Judith rose from the table.

'I give up,' she said. 'The whole idea is crazy, and your reference to Uncle Romilly and myself is extremely offensive.'

'Sit down at once, Judith,' said Romilly, in a mild tone but with a clear command behind the softly-spoken words. 'We must allow Beatrice to act in the way she thinks best. After the first time, I doubt whether she herself will wish to continue the experiment alone.'

Dame Beatrice had no hope that she would be able to see her charge before the other two had spoken to her. She also wondered whether Rosamund would appear in the Joan of Arc costume. Before they rose from table-Judith having preserved a sulky silence after her last outburst, and Romilly having avoided the disputed subject and chatted with apparent amiability on trivial matters-Dame Beatrice said smoothly:

'Can Mrs Romilly be ready to join me at half-past two?'

Judith shrugged her shoulders. Romilly bowed and replied:

'Of course, of course, my dear Beatrice. I am afraid you'll find her incredibly costumed. She refuses to wear modern dress, and flies into a paroxysm if I suggest it.'

'Well, I'm often incredibly costumed myself,' said Dame Beatrice, accurately. At half-past two, then, I look forward to meeting her.'

'I wonder how she'll get herself up?' said Judith. 'Oh, well, it's her affair-and yours. Not that she hasn't plenty of sensible clothes if she chooses to wear them.' She turned to Romilly. 'Why don't you make her unlock that wardrobe and get out some respectable clothes and insist she put them on?'

'How does one insist, my dear? I can hardly threaten her, and, even if I did, I doubt whether she would take much notice.'

'You're far too soft with her, don't you think so, Dame Beatrice?'

'Oh, come, my dear girl! How can Beatrice answer such a question when, so far, she knows nothing whatever about Trilby?'

'I would not say I know nothing whatever about her,' objected Dame Beatrice. 'You yourself have been most informative. As for insisting on what a patient does or does not do, well, that depends either upon the patient's intelligent and friendly cooperation or, of course, her fear of death.'

'Fear of death?' echoed Romilly, forcing himself to laugh. 'Good heavens, there's no question of her fearing death! Why should there be?'

'Most people fear death to a greater or a lesser degree, and for a variety of reasons, do they not?'

'Oh, I see what you mean,' said Romilly. 'Yes, well, look here, Judith, my dear, if Beatrice is going to take Trilby out, it will be a convenient time for me to go over the household accounts with you.'

Judith pouted at this, and said that it was quite unnecessary.

Dame Beatrice went to her room to get ready for the outing, then she rang the bell.

'Oh, Amabel,' she said, 'will you ask my man to bring the car round? I am taking Mrs Romilly for an outing to Swanage.'

'Be rare and cold on the beach this toime of year, Dame Beatrice, mum. Swanage be bracen. Face east, that do, more nor south.'

'Yes, I had thought of that. We may need rugs. Will you tell George to get them out of the boot, and perhaps you or Violet will make sure that they are aired before he puts them ready for us on the back seat.' (If Rosamund's costume were a little too bizarre, she thought, the rugs would cover it up to some extent.)

'Oi'll do that, Dame Beatrice, mum. Be noice for poor Messus Trelby to go out proper. A fair old lettle hen en a pen her be, I do believe. Can't thenk how she aboide et, really Oi carn't.'

'She looks well enough on it,' said Dame Beatrice carelessly. Feeling herself dismissed, which was indeed the case, Amabel went downstairs to rout out George and the rugs. As soon as she was out of hearing, Dame Beatrice stepped out on to the gallery and turned the handle of the door next to her own. It was locked. This she found especially intriguing in view of the hole which had been made in the wall.

She went back to her own room, took down the picture and studied the hole again. It was not cut flush with the wall, which was of brick, but had been made in the form of one of those so-called squints in old churches which are cut obliquely through a wall or a pillar to give a view of the high altar from a side-chapel or a transept.

The purpose of the squint in her bedroom seemed to be to give a view of the head of the bed. Again she thought of the romantically-minded Laura. Anybody pointing a gun through the squint from the room next door would stand a pretty fair chance, she decided, of putting a bullet through the head of anybody asleep in the four-poster. Although its frame-work, consisting of four tall posts and the tester they supported, was complete, there were no curtains to the bed.

'I wonder how many persons have been done to death in this room since the early days of the seventeenth century?' she asked herself pleasurably. Then she reflected that the squint might have been made for beneficient purposes-to watch over a sick person or to make certain that a beloved child was sleeping soundly. She replaced the picture once more and then went across to the bed and attempted to move it out of the line of fire. She realised that, apart from George and the two maids, there was nobody in the house whom she could trust. This included Rosamund, although why she felt so deeply suspicious of the apparently friendless and lonely girl she would have found difficult to explain.

She went over in her mind the last night's interview. 'I don't know how they're going to kill me, but they will.... They're having lots of people to come and stay, you know. They hope in that way to frighten me.' Neither expression rang true. 'They don't like me to meet people from outside.' That remark was illogical, to say the least, considering that Dame Beatrice herself, and the number of people who were to come and stay, were all from outside. 'I like to keep my room to myself.' Why did she, Dame Beatrice wondered. Rosamund had noticed that the picture which hid the squint had not been there before the room was prepared for Dame Beatrice. If that were so, it seemed to indicate, even more clearly than her surreptitious visit had done, that she must have known of the squint. Yet, this being so, she had still chosen to come, in apparent secrecy, to the room, knowing all the while that anybody in the adjoining apartment could have heard her voice, known who she was and listened to the conversation between herself and Dame Beatrice.

Dame Beatrice could not move the bed. It appeared to be fastened to the floor, like a bed in a cabin at sea. Dame Beatrice borrowed another of her secretary's favourite quotations. 'Curiouser and curiouser,' she murmured, and, having studied the iron clamps, she straightened up, hearing footsteps on the wooden floor of the gallery.

CHAPTER THREE

MORRIS DANCE-BEANSETTING

'...some to dance, some to make bonfires...'

Othello, the Moor of Venice.

(1)

Amabel had returned with a message.

'Mr Straker says O.K. about the rugs, Dame Beatrice, and well et be all roight ef he breng the car round to the soide door, as Mester have gev orders Messus Trelby ent to be seen front the house.'

'Oh, you all call her Mrs Trilby, not Mrs Lestrange, do you? She is still in fancy costume, then?'

'Never don't wear nawthen else nowadays, though there's a beg locked-up wardrobe in her room.'

'I see. Tell George that I will be at the side door in five minutes' time. Where do I find this door, by the way?'

'Roight through the hall, along the corridor off to the roight, through the arch as ee'll foind there, and there et be. Carn't mess et, ef you go loike Oi say.'

Dame Beatrice found Rosamund under guard, as it were, with George standing on one side of her, the elderly, sour-faced Luke on the other, and Amabel's younger sister hovering in the doorway just behind the other three. This time Rosamund was wearing a heavily-caped George III costume, with a tricorne on her head and buckled shoes on her feet. Her brown wig, Dame Beatrice noted, was not powdered, but was loosely tied at the back with a black, watered silk ribbon. She looked extremely attractive.

George opened the door of the car, saw his employer seated and then went round to the other side and helped Rosamund in.

'Swanage, George,' said Dame Beatrice, for Luke's benefit, in case he had been told to report back to his master. George saluted, shut the car door with the brisk click of a man who cares for his car's doors sufficiently not to slam them, and took his seat at the wheel. The gravel side-path up which he had backed the car (for there was no room to turn) was narrow and weedgrown, and, as he drove slowly towards the main drive, overhanging branches struck the car on both sides. At each sharp crack Rosamund flinched and glanced quickly at Dame Beatrice. Over-acting again, her companion thought.

'Surely,' said the latter, 'they don't offer you violence, do they?'

'Not yet, but I feel it's only a matter of time,' the girl responded. 'It's the car. It makes me nervous. I haven't been in a car since Romilly brought me back from Dancing Ledge.'

'Where you drowned what?'

'I don't drown things. I told you I don't! That's just a story they put about. They try to convince me, too. They're trying to prey on my mind.'

'I see. What were you doing at Dancing Ledge, then?'

'I was running away.'

'When was that?'

'Just over a year ago. It was soon after Romilly became my guardian.'

'You mean your husband. And it was three years ago.'

The girl stared at her.

'Romilly isn't my husband. I'm his ward,' she said. 'I've only lived with him and Judith for about a year.'

'I see.' Dame Beatrice betrayed no surprise at receiving this information. 'Why did you want to run away?'

'Wouldn't you want to run away if you knew that they were after your money, and would get it, even if they had to kill you first?'

'You mentioned money and murder to me yesterday. What money would this be?'

The girl pulled off hat and wig, flung them down and kicked at them. As she did so, something heavy in the pocket of her long travelling-coat struck her companion on the knee.

'My money,' she replied. 'It was left me, but there are some silly, unfair conditions. You see, when I die, unless I have children, Romilly and Judith will have it all. That's why I'm so frightened. Of course, until I'm twenty-five, I can't have it, but neither can they, so I'm sure they want to keep me alive until then. After that, unless someone will help me, I think I'm doomed. Those two are capable of anything, and, alone and friendless, I'm helpless against them.'

'You say that until you reach the age of twenty-five you cannot claim your inheritance. That I can understand. Many families prefer the heir to be older than twenty-one before trusting him or her with a fortune. I also understand that the next heir, should you die without issue, is Romilly Lestrange. What I do not understand is why he cannot inherit if you die before you are twenty-five.'

'I don't understand it, either. It's something to do with my grandfather's will. It's all very unsatisfactory and puzzling. It seems, according to the lawyers, that if I die before the age of twenty-five, all the money goes to some old lady called Bradley. That's as much as I know. That's if Romilly has told me the truth, of course.'

'I thought you said that the lawyers had told you all this.'

'Oh, well, yes, so they did, but Romilly told me something more. According to him, if it could be proved that I was unfit to handle the money either before or after I inherit it, it would all be taken out of my hands and administered for me. I know what that would mean. In effect, Romilly would have it. He's my guardian.'

'Let me get this clear,' said Dame Beatrice, testing the girl. 'To inherit your grandfather's fortune, you must reach your twenty-fifth birthday. Should you die before that birthday, the money would go to an old woman named Bradley, whom you do not know. If you reach that birthday, and then either die or are considered incapable of managing your affairs, the fortune goes to Romilly Lestrange.'

'Or if I'm considered incapable before I'm twenty-five. Why did he ask you to come here?'

'I understand I am not to be the only guest,' said Dame Beatrice, side-stepping the question. 'Is there not to be quite a large houseparty?'

'Oh, I believe so. Why should all these idiotic relations come to Galliard Hall?'

'Perhaps Romilly thinks that Miss Judith is in need of young society.'

'I think she's Mrs Judith. I think they're married. And do you know what else I'm beginning to think? I think he dare not kill me himself, and he's going to sound out these others, and find which one can be bribed to do it for him. I suppose he's brought you here as a second string to his bow, in case the killing doesn't come off. You're a psychiatrist, he tells me, and your name is Professor Beatrice Adler. Are you related to the famous Adler, by any chance?'

'There are two famous Adlers,' Dame Beatrice responded. 'There is Alfred Adler, the pupil of, and, later, the dissentient from, Sigmund Freud, who, to my mind, was inestimably the greater man, and there is also, of course, the musician Larry Adler, of whom I hear good reports from my younger relatives.'

'Oh, yes, I adore him and his harmonica-playing. I think he's wonderful,' said Rosamund.

'They allow you a radioset, then,' said Dame Beatrice, deciding to shelve the question of her name. In Romilly Lestrange, she was beginning to think, she had hit what Laura would call 'a new high' in her catalogue of smooth villains. She was also beginning to wonder whether Rosamund was quite what she seemed.

'Well, they did, until they took it out of my room and threw it away. From that time they haven't let me have any proper clothes. That's to stop me running away again, of course,' said the girl.

'And you did not throw the radio set into the sea?'

'Of course I didn't! I wanted it. I miss it terribly.'

'Nor did you drown the gramophone records, the cat, and the monkey?'

'Of course I didn't. They made it all up. They've also got some silly story about a baby doll. It's all such a lot of nonsense-but it's very wicked, all the same. I'm in a trap, and I'm dreadfully frightened.'

'Were you ever pregnant?'

'How could I be? Surely they didn't tell you that! I'm not even married.'

'That, of course, is not necessarily an obstacle to a pregnancy.'

'You're not on their side, are you? I thought you were my friend! Have you brought me out here to kill me? I've got a pistol in my pocket, you know!'

George spoke for the first time since the car had moved away from the house.

'Don't be silly, miss,' he said, in a severely avuncular tone. 'I beg your pardon, madam. I ought to tell you, though, that ever since we turned off B3351 I've had an idea I was being followed, and now I'm sure I am. Would there be any instructions?'

'No, George. Just carry on to Swanage, as planned.' She turned to her charge. 'What was your grandfather's name?'

'Felix Napoleon Lestrange. He died in April, 1966.'

'So you are a Lestrange by birth? Most interesting.'

As they passed the obelisk on Ballard Down, George reported that the other car had turned off to the left for Studland.

'Was it Romilly's car?' asked Rosamund.

'To the best of my knowledge and belief, miss, it was the old Standard I've seen in the garage. The colour was the same, but they've been keeping far enough away-I've lost them now and again on the bends-for me not to be able to read the number plate, so, of course, I couldn't take my oath on it.'

(2)

'Do we dare to ask how you got on this afternoon, my dear Beatrice?' asked Romilly, when they were gathered ready for tea.

'Certainly. We spent a short time-twenty minutes, perhaps-gazing at the sea. We also had our first session.'

'Were other people there?' asked Judith. 'If so, didn't they stare?'

'Why should they stare?'

'Oh, well, surely they would think Trilby's get-up rather unusual.'

'Have you been in London recently?'

'No, I haven't. Why?'

'If you had, you would see nothing unusual in the way Mrs Romilly was dressed. The latest fashions for the young are so bizarre that even a Georgian costume, complete with jabot, lace ruffles, knee-breeches and buckled shoes, would be considered rather unenterprising, and, in any case, Rosamund had covered her finery with a heavy, caped coat.' She thought it unnecessary to mention that she and Rosamund had not left the car. They had lowered the windows and sat warmly wrapped up in the car rugs.

'Really!' said Judith. 'I wonder how Trilby has learnt about the London fashions, then?'

'Oh, they are pictured in the newspapers, no doubt,' said Dame Beatrice. 'I suppose you allow her to see a newspaper from time to time?'

'Never mind the fashions,' said Romilly. 'How did she behave?'

'She was no trouble, if that is what you mean. Of course, I have yet to gain her full confidence.'

'But you have already had an effect on her?'

'Very possibly. I should have even more effect on her if I could remove her from this house for a time.'

'She made no attempt to throw anything into the sea?' pursued Romilly, completely ignoring the suggestion.

'Certainly not; neither did we make any attempt to drown one another.'

'You are being facetious, my dear Beatrice.'

'In my opinion, you yourself have been treating matters all too seriously. There is nothing more debilitating for any invalid than to allow her to think she is worse than is really the case.'

'Well,' said Judith, 'I hardly see how Trilby could be worse than we think her. To change the subject, Uncle Romilly, our guests begin to arrive tomorrow. I wonder, Dame Beatrice, whether you would care to see what arrangements I have made for them? I imagine that you will not take the after-tea session Uncle Romilly had arranged, as you have been with Trilby all the afternoon?'

'No, I shall not need to see her again today.'

'While you are showing Beatrice over the house, I think I would like to talk to Trilby myself,' said Romilly. 'I am interested to find out what she thought of her afternoon out.'

'Not if you wish me to continue the treatment. Any interference at present would set her back, I'm afraid,' said Dame Beatrice. 'I do beg of you not to question her.'

'I am her husband.'

Dame Beatrice shrugged her thin shoulders.

'I have no desire, of course, to make an issue of it,' she said, 'but, after all, you may be her husband in name, yet you neither have her at your table nor in your bed.'

'Plain speaking!' Romilly looked surprised and amused.

'There are times in every doctor's life when there is nothing else for it. The professional, not the individual, speaks, so you must bear with me and allow me to give the orders where my patient is concerned.'

'Very well.' They were seated in front of one of the two fireplaces in the great hall. 'Shall we go into the drawing-room?'

'No, let's have tea in here,' said Judith. 'I'm warm and comfortable by this beautiful log fire. It seems a pity to move. Ring the bell, Uncle.' Romilly did this, but the bell was not answered quickly enough to please Judith, who spoke sharply when Amabel's sister, at the end of five minutes, appeared from the corridor which Dame Beatrice had traversed twice that afternoon. 'You've been a long time coming, Violet!'

'Sorry, Messus Judeth, Oi'm sure. Us ben looken after Messus Trelby. Such a lovely tea her've etten, ee'd hardly credet, her haven such a poor appetoite as a rule.'

'Really!' said Romilly. 'That is excellent news, Violet. She's found an appetite, has she? I'm delighted.'

'Tea in here, and at once,' said Judith. 'Bring that small table forward, and we may need another one. You and Amabel can carry it here from the drawing-room.'

'Ee can have Messus Trelby's trolley. That ud be best, Oi reckon.'

Violet, having proved her independence, retired to bring in the tea.

'You'll have to speak severely to that girl,' said Judith, flushing until her face looked as round and as red as an apple. 'She is becoming quite impossible.'

'It is only her country manner,' said Romilly soothingly, yet with a note of warning in his voice. 'I think we must overlook it, especially as maids are difficult to obtain. We don't want her giving notice. If she goes, I'm pretty sure that Amabel will go with her, and they're very clean, good workers. You've said as much yourself.'

'That girl is on the verge of insolence!'

'Oh, no, I think not, my dear. And if she brings the things in on a trolley, there really is no need for a second table.'

'She'll have to do as she's told when our visitors come. I won't have her insolent to them. I'm sure Dame Beatrice doesn't take insolence from her servants. I've noticed how very respectful her chauffeur is.'

'George has been with me for many years,' said Dame Beatrice, 'and my other servants, except for the kitchenmaid, who is a country girl from Warwickshire, are French.'

'That might account for it,' said Judith. She looked balefully at Romilly. 'Uncle can't manage servants, anyway. He's much too soft with them.'

Romilly traced a pattern on the handsome rug with the toe of his shoe. Without looking up, he said:

'You are right, of course, my dear, but, if you can understand a syllogism, think of this: all housekeepers are servants. You are a housekeeper, therefore you are a servant.'

'How can you talk like that, when you have me call you Uncle?'

'Wait. I have not finished. I cannot manage servants, therefore I cannot manage you. And, of course, I cannot, but, at any rate, I can continue to try. I forbid you, utterly and absolutely, to attempt to take Violet to task for what she said about the tea-trolley. Think, my dear girl, think! How could you run a house this size without the help of the maids?' He raised his eyes and looked her straight in the face. There was an awkward moment of silence before Judith said sullenly:

'All right. You're only storing up trouble for yourself, but I suppose you must have your own way.' She made an attempt to smile, and added, in a light and playful tone, 'You're a very wicked old man!'

Dame Beatrice, who had been casually working at an indeterminate piece of knitting, dropped it on the rug as the tea-trolley made its noisy approach to them across the tiled floor.

'How nice to have a cup of tea,' she said. What she thought was a different matter. It was that, in this particular household, even impudent servants had to be conciliated.

(3)

Dame Beatrice that night wrote to Laura.

'The situation here is fascinating, macabre and in many ways incredible. I am living in a world of Sheridan Le Fanu, Edgar Allan Poe, Wilkie Collins and the Brontes. Imagine-a simple matter for a romantic such as yourself-a house inhabited by a smiling villain, a light-of-love who calls him her uncle, a sinister manservant, two country maidens of unblemished character, and an heiress who is permitted to wear nothing but fancy dress for fear she will elude the villain and his paramour and make her escape from their clutches!

'Of course, I do not know how much I should believe of the victim's story, but I have so little liking for her (alleged) persecutors that, when you have leisure to spare from attendance upon Eiladh, I wish you would make a few enquiries for me.

'I want to know details of the Will of a certain Felix Napoleon Lestrange, who died in April, 1966. I do not know where he lived, but, with that sufficiently unusual name, identification should be a reasonably simple matter.

'You will wish to know what has befallen me since my arrival in this house. I was made welcome with an effusiveness which aroused my suspicions. My bedroom, which, I have been informed, must also be my consulting-room, has had an interior wall breached so that a foot-square hole communicates with the adjoining room. Any conversations I may have with my patient, therefore, can be overheard. I have circumvented this invasion of our privacy, so far, by taking the patient out in my car and holding a conversation with her during the drive. We went to Swanage, and were followed. This added to the general impression of what I feel sure you would refer to as Rosamund being trapped in the Den of the Secret Nine. I feel that my move to talk with my patient in private has scarcely found favour with her captors, who were most anxious to accompany us on our outing, a policy with which I found myself unable to agree. Their attempt to follow us was indicative, I thought, of their state of mind.

'I have also discovered why I was sent for at this particular time when, according to Romilly's own statement, it would have been better, from the patient's point of view, to have called me in a year or more ago, but, when I have mastered the contents of the Will, I shall know whether my interpretation of the evidence is justified and what is the best course to pursue. My patient appears to have no idea of my identity. I have been recommended to her, it seems, under the name of Professor Beatrice Adler. I mention this because, if what she has told me is correct, something in the terms of Felix Napoleon's bequest may surprise you.

'I would not trouble you so soon did I not think (as she herself does) that my patient is in extreme danger either of death or (which appears to be my role) found incapable of managing her affairs and so losing all control of her fortune. I hasten to assure you that I myself am in no danger whatsoever. I am thought far too valuable to be liquidated, and George, the good, reliable fellow, is alive to the nuances (if I may put it in that way) of the situation as they strike both of us at present, and is prepared to cope with anything untoward which may crop up.'

Having closed and stamped her letter, Dame Beatrice descended to the great hall with the intention of walking to the end of the drive and putting it into Galliard Hall's own post office collecting box, a neat affair affixed to the outside of the wall which abutted on to the road. She had reached the hall door when she was intercepted by Romilly.

'You are surely not thinking of taking a walk in the dark, my dear Beatrice?' he said.

'A walk? No, that is an exaggeration,' she replied. 'I am going as far as the postbox at your gate.'

'A letter? Oh, I see. You had better give it to me. We let the dogs loose at night.'

'You are nervous of being burgled?'

'Well, you will admit that this house is in a lonely situation and there are valuables. These pictures, for example'-he waved his hand towards those which Dame Beatrice had noticed upon her arrival at Galliard Hall-'I am told are probably worth several thousand pounds, and I have treasures of my own. Then there are some quite valuable trinkets which, from time to time, I have given Judith. They, like the pictures, are insured, of course, but I should be loth to lose them, and so would she.'

'I am not in the least afraid of dogs,' said Dame Beatrice, 'but as you will not wish me to run the risk of being attacked, you will not be averse to accompanying me as far as the gate.'

'Oh, nonsense! Give the letter to me. I could not dream of allowing you to run your own errands when I can so easily do them for you.'

Dame Beatrice had not the slightest intention of delivering her letter into his hands. She smiled her reptilian smile and said:

'My only object was to study the stars. It is a singularly clear and beautiful night, but, as late as this, there will be no collection of letters. It will do equally well in the morning. It is only a note to my secretary about some work I want her to do while I am away. Rosamund tells me that she has a birthday coming along. When would that be? I should wish to give her a present.'

'She didn't tell you when it was?'

'She merely mentioned that she would be twenty-five years old.'

'Oh? Well, it's on the twenty-ninth of May.'

'I must remember to wear an oak-apple in my hat,' said Dame Beatrice genially.

'I hope she has not been stuffing you up with any nonsense?'

'What kind of nonsense?'

'Well, she expects to come into this money of hers when she is twenty-five, and she seems to have some manifestly absurd idea that other people are after it, and will stick at very little in order to get hold of it. All part of her aberration, of course, but I just thought I'd warn you not to take her accusations seriously, particularly if they refer to Judith and myself.'

'Of course I shall not pay attention to her fears unless they are well-founded. The twenty-ninth of May? How interesting!' She gave him a little nod and went upstairs to her room, her letter still in her hand.

CHAPTER FOUR

PIEDS-EN-L'AIR-FAMILY GATHERING

'Oh, master, if you did but hear the pedlar at the door,

you would never dance again after a pipe and tabor.'

The Winter's Tale.

(1)

The first of the guests arrived on the following day. The morning was damp and misty. Dame Beatrice, returning from dropping her letter into the pillar-box, saw that the hills behind the house were shrouded in grey and that the clouds promised rain before noon.

She joined Romilly, as before, for breakfast, and remarked that it looked like becoming a wet day. She wondered, she added, whether he was going into Swanage for a morning paper.

'No,' he replied. 'I'm expecting Tancred and some others. No telling when they're likely to turn up, so I had better stay in, and there's nobody I can send, unless your man would like to go.'

'Tancred?'

'Yes. He's a ruddy poet. I can't stand him, but he had to be asked, you know. Can't leave anybody out. Matter of fact, I can't stand any of them. Hubert might be all right, but I don't know him as well as I know the others. In any case, I have very little use for clergymen.'

Tancred Provost turned up in a taxi which he had shared with his presumed cousins Humphrey and Binnie. Humphrey, as Judith had indicated, was a somewhat seedy schoolmaster and (Romilly explained to Dame Beatrice when the visitors had been shown to their rooms) must have married Binnie in a fit of scholarly absent-mindedness or in a state of mental aberration, for they were, in all respects, a notably ill-assorted couple, he thought.

Dame Beatrice herself thought it far more likely that the shabby, ineffectual, unprepossessing man had been tempted into marriage by his partner's flaxen head, characterless, innocent, half-open mouth and babyish blue eyes which she widened, as though in surprise, in response to every remark which was made to her.

Tancred was an attractive young man, and it was clear that he was prepared to champion Binnie against her husband's weak spitefulness, for Humphrey, like most of his kind, compensated for his own shortcomings by making a butt of his dim-witted spouse. What appeared to be a typical exchange between them occurred as soon as they appeared downstairs again.

'Well, Binnie, my dear,' said Romilly, 'I expect you are ready for your lunch.'

'I'm dieting, Uncle Romilly. What are we having?'

'Well, really!' exploded Humphrey. 'What a question to ask your host!'

'A perfectly proper question, if she's dieting,' said Tancred. 'What are we having for lunch, Uncle Romilly?'

Humphrey glared at him. Romilly replied, 'I've really no idea. It's Judith's pigeon.'

'I wish it could be pigeon,' said Binnie wistfully. 'Oh, boy! How I love pigeon pie!'

'I'm afraid it won't be that. How charming you look, my dear,' said Romilly. 'If that's the result of dieting, I must admit that the sacrifice is worth it.'

'Oh, do you like my legs? These minis do something for legs, don't they? I mean, if you've got nice legs, why shouldn't you show them off? And a mini does show them off.'

'At twenty-three that might, possibly, be desirable,' said Humphrey. At thirty-three, no! You seem to forget that you are almost middle-aged, my dear. I've told you before, and I tell you again...'

'"He said it very loud and clear; he went and shouted in her ear,"' said Tancred. 'Oh, come off it, Humphrey!' He turned to Binnie, rolled his dark eyes and declaimed:

'Ah, shall I have you only in my dreams,

And long for sleep, and loathe to be awake?'

'What are you babbling about?' snarled Humphrey.

'I am quoting the first two lines of a little thing of my own,' said Tancred. 'If you talked poetry to the poor girl instead of criticising her legs...'

'I'm not criticising her legs, damn your impudence! I merely stated...'

'We are none of us criticising her legs. We are admiring those, and talking about her diet,' said Romilly. 'Ah, here comes Judith. Judith, my dear, Binnie is on a diet. What are we having for lunch?'

'A diet? Oh, dear!' said Judith. 'I'm afraid it's not diet-y food. We're having Scotch broth, turbot and a saddle of mutton. Binnie could have the turbot, I suppose, but...'

'I shall have it all,' said Binnie. 'Heavenly, heavenly lunch! We never get a lunch like that at home, not even on Sundays. I suppose Humphrey doesn't earn enough money. Perhaps, if they made him a housemaster in a big public school-'

Humphrey's snort of fury at this remark was taken by Binnie as agreement, and she seemed about to enlarge upon her theme when Tancred took her by the arm.

'What you want,' he said, 'is to hear the rest of that smashing sonnet of mine. It's all about you. Come along into the hall. The acoustics are better in there. They suit my voice.'

During lunch the wrangling between the married couple went on. Dame Beatrice could not believe that Binnie's capacity for exasperating her husband was not the result of a careful study of his vanities and his weaknesses. On the other hand, when Binnie interpolated one of her banal and meaningless remarks, Humphrey contested it with a blunt cruelty which left her, more often than not, in tears, but which induced in Dame Beatrice some sympathy for both partners in such a mesalliance. Matters were not helped by Tancred, who, as though moved by a disposition of kindness towards Binnie, invariably criticised Humphrey's arguments and, having the better brain and a poniard of wit against which Humphrey's bludgeonings seemed always to come off second best, reduced his opponent to teeth-grinding fury. At this the imbecile Binnie would leap into the arena with, 'Oh, Tancred, you beast! Oh, leave him alone! He can't help it if he isn't rich and clever!'

Dame Beatrice wondered which of them Humphrey would murder first. She extricated herself from the unseemly exchanges as soon as she could, stating that she was ready for a session with her patient.

'But it isn't the right time,' said Romilly. 'It's after tea you are to have her, isn't it? I thought you said...'

'What's this about a patient?' asked Binnie, interrupting him. 'Can I help with the nursing? I love sick-beds.'

'Yes, you may help,' said Dame Beatrice, neatly circumventing Humphrey's comments. 'Come along up to my room.'

'Oh, but, really, Beatrice!' protested Romilly. 'I thought all your sessions were to be held in secret.'

'Yes, so did I,' she replied. 'Since, however, a certain picture in my room has indicated that they are not to be so held, I see no reason to refuse Mrs Provost's reasonable and helpful request.'

'Will you call me Binnie?' the dumb blonde asked, as they went side by side up the splendid stair.

'With pleasure, my dear.'

'What's the matter with the patient? Why is she in your room? What did Uncle Romilly mean about secrets? Do you think I could get a divorce? Of course, it would ruin Humphrey's career, and I love him really, and I haven't any money of my own, so perhaps I'd better not try.'

'The patient is suffering from slight melancholia brought about by the circumstances in which she finds herself. She is not in my room, but I shall send for her. Your Uncle Romilly thinks her condition is worse than it is, and so he wishes my work here to be kept secret except, of course, from himself and his housekeeper. I do not know whether you could get a divorce, although, if you did, you could claim alimony from your husband, if you had right on your side.'

'Do you mean I could get money without having to work for it? That would be very nice, wouldn't it? I'd like to model clothes, but you need brains for that, and Humphrey is always telling me I haven't any.'

'There is no need for you to believe him, is there?'

'Do you know why we've come?'

'I thought it was to join in a family gathering.'

'No, not quite. Uncle Romilly has made all sorts of promises to make sure we came along. He has promised Humphrey a headship. There's an interview. But what would Humphrey do with a wife like me? I wouldn't know what to say to the parents, and, of course, I'd have to have better clothes. Humphrey is dreadfully mean about clothes. Just look at the rags I'm wearing!'

'I think you look very nice, and, of course, as you pointed out to us, his salary may not be large.'

'I don't know what it is. He never tells me.'

Dame Beatrice opened the door of her room to find that Rosamund had already installed herself in it. She gravely introduced the two girls.

'Oh, we've met once before,' said Binnie. 'You're not the patient, are you? I'm prettier than you, but I expect you've more brains than I have. How oddly you dress! Do you like dressing up? I did, when I was a little girl.'

'So you do now,' said Dame Beatrice. 'Didn't you tell me you wanted to model clothes?'

'I wish you'd show me your clothes, and let me try them on,' said Rosamund quickly to Binnie. She was wearing Joan of Arc's armour again. 'Could we go to your room?'

'No, you cannot go now,' said Dame Beatrice. 'We are to have our session at once, instead of after tea.'

'I love my tea,' said Binnie, 'and I can see that Rosamund is quite as well as I am. I think I'll go downstairs.'

She left them. Rosamund said:

'Is she quite all there?'

Dame Beatrice did not reply. She scribbled a few words in her notebook and handed it over. Rosamund read the sentences she had written and nodded intelligently.

'War,' said Dame Beatrice, loudly.

'And peace,' said Rosamund automatically.

'Peace-makers.'

'Pace-makers. People who help people to win races.'

'Race-antagonism.'

'There was a young lady named Starkey...'

'That, surely, was fusion, not antagonism. Let us begin again.'

They played out the farce until the sound of a door being shut told Dame Beatrice what she wanted to know.

'I'll go now,' said Rosamund, who had heard it, too.

'Do not attempt to do what you had thought of, even if Binnie lends you some clothes,' said Dame Beatrice.

'Very well. I see you know what it was.'

'It was obvious, of course. But that is not the way.'

'You mean I should be found and brought back?'

'I could not prevent it, at this stage. Have a little patience. Why has Romilly invited all these people here?'

There was a tap at the door.

'So sorry to intrude,' said Romilly. He went over to Rosamund, who shrank back as he approached her. 'I think you had better do as you suggested just now, my dear,' he said. 'Make yourself scarce. You may join the others downstairs, if you wish to do so, but you must behave yourself, mind. No nonsense and no tantrums, and you are to pay no attention to anything Tancred may say to you. You know which one is Tancred. You met him the last time he came. He will flatter you, maybe, and talk all kinds of nonsense about his poetry, but it is all meaningless. Do you understand me?'

'Yes,' said Rosamund sullenly, 'but I don't want to go downstairs. I like it here with Professor Adler.'

'Yes, my dear, I am sure you do, but I wish to speak with her in private, so run along, there's a good child. If you ask Amabel, she will give you some lemon drops. You like lemon drops, don't you?'

With obvious unwillingness, Rosamund left them. There was silence until she had closed the door. Then Dame Beatrice said:

'This is an intrusion, you know. I do not care to have my sessions interrupted.'

'I am sorry about the interruption, but, with all these people in the house, I had to find a way of seeing you alone.'

'For any particular reason?'

'For one thing, I need to know why you dislike me. I suppose there is a connection with Trilby. I ought to have stressed that she is a pathological liar, but I am certain you have far too much experience of these cases to be taken in by her. She was planning to run away again, was she?'

'How did you know that?'

'I did not know it. I made a guess that it would be the first thing over which she would attempt to enlist your aid.'

'Did you also guess that I should refuse it?'

'I gave you credit, of course, for ordinary common sense.'

'I think you have been eavesdropping, you know. You overheard our conversation, did you not?'

'My dear Beatrice!'

'It would be rather naive of you to deny it. I have found the hole in the wall, as I thought I had sufficiently indicated.'

'I simply do not understand you!'

'Do you not?'

'The hole in the wall? Whatever can you mean?'

'If you will take the trouble to remove the picture of those two young men, you will see for yourself what I mean, and then perhaps we shall both know where we stand.'

'Remove the picture?' He stepped across the room. 'You mean there is a hole in the wall which is being covered by it?'

'You may satisfy yourself that that is so.'

Romilly studied the picture before he took it down. His surprise, when he did so, was either genuine or remarkably well simulated. He put the picture on the floor with its face against the wall and stared at the foot-wide squint. He ejaculated, as he turned and met the sharp black eyes of his guest:

'Good gracious me! Who would ever think of such a thing!'

'Most people would recognise this as a house of secrets, I think. Perhaps the hole was there when it was built.'

'I see that you have a suspicious mind.'

'It is a feature of my profession.'

'Ah, yes, of course. Of both your professions, perhaps. Beatrice, I did not only bring you here to examine Trilby. My life is threatened.'

'By whom?'

'I don't know. The would-be murderer may be one of my guests. I want you to spot the guilty party. That is one reason why I invited you.'

'Since your demise has not yet been accomplished, there can be no guilty party.'

'Guilty by intent, I mean, of course. You will be wondering how I know that I am in danger. I will tell you. One of these visitors must, I think, be my own child. Which one I do not know, but, whichever it is, that one will attempt to kill me.'

'What makes you think so?'

A gipsy warned me.'

'Really, now!'

'Oh, I take it seriously, I assure you.'

'Well, I am sorry, but I have not the slightest intention of following that example. If you mean what you say, why have you invited them here?'

'To get the matter settled once and for all, and I need your expert help. As a psychiatrist...'

'I decline to be a party to such nonsense.'

'Even if I accede to your request?'

'What request would that be?'

'To allow Trilby to be treated in your own home or at your clinic.'

'I think you must have read my mind.'

'In what respect?'

'If you had not been willing to release her, I should have laid an information against you for detaining the girl here by force and for refusing her the rights of liberty and the pursuit of happiness.'

'You must be joking! Trilby is my wife.'

'I am in expectation of being able to prove that she is nothing of the kind.'

'You've gone behind my back?'

'Certainly, if you choose to put it like that. I will go further. Rosamund is completely compos mentis, and you know it. What your object has been in keeping her here without modern clothing, so that she cannot escape, and why you have seen fit to pass her off as your wife, I have no idea. However, there must be an end to it. I shall take her with me tomorrow morning.'

'Not just yet, Beatrice. At least allow her to stay until my house-party is assembled.'

'I see no reason for that. Binnie, who seems reasonably well-disposed, will lend Rosamund some clothes which will do for a day or two, until I can get her properly fitted out. As for your own troubles, whether they be real or imaginary, I suggest that you contact the police.'

'But what should I tell them?'

'What you have told me.'

They might not believe me.'

'Well, I don't believe you, either.'

'Beatrice, if you leave me in the power of these monsters, my blood will be upon your head.'

'I have borne greater responsibilities than that.'

'I won't let you go!'

'No?' said Dame Beatrice. 'Well, well!' She seated herself composedly in an armchair. 'You can scarcely guard that door for the rest of the day. You have guests arriving at this very moment.' She had heard a car drive up.

'I can lock you in!' said Romilly, with an attempt at playfulness.

'You could, perhaps, if you had the key. I took the liberty of removing it from the door almost as soon as I arrived here, and have been carrying it about with me ever since.'

'Well, I shall not think of attempting to gain possession of it by force,' said Romilly, laughing. 'But, my very dear Beatrice, please do not think of leaving me at present, whether you believe or not that my life is in danger. At least allow Trilby to meet her guests and enjoy their company for a day or two. Oh, and another thing! You must not think that I keep her shut up in this house. She has a wardrobe full of women's clothes, but she keeps it locked. When you have won her confidence you may be able to persuade her to attire herself normally.'

'We shall see,' said Dame Beatrice. 'Meanwhile, your visitors continue to arrive.'

'Yes, we had better go down and meet them.' He hung up the picture he had taken down, and then shook his head at it. 'Very strange,' he said. 'Most strange. This used to be my room, you know, but I certainly did not realise that there was a hole in the wall. I wonder what other secrets this fine old house contains?'

Dame Beatrice made no attempt to guess, and Romilly led the way downstairs. In the hall they found Judith and Rosamund in conversation with a long-haired youth and a crop-headed girl who, it was easy to see, were the twins, Corin and Corinna.

'It's too terribly good of you to put us up for a whole week,' said Corinna to Romilly.

'Too terribly good,' echoed her brother. 'Saves the expense of digs, and seaside digs are ghastly, anyway. Hullo, Great-aunt,' he added to Dame Beatrice. 'I don't suppose you remember us, because you haven't seen us since we were babies. How are you? This quiet chap beside me is Giles. Tancred I expect you've already met, likewise Humphrey and Binnie, who are having a row in the parlour. Well, now that we all know one another, I'm bound to inform you that my twin is dying on her feet for a cup of tea. I know it isn't tea-time, but if you want to save a life...'

'It is quite time for tea,' said Judith, 'but we were hoping that Hubert and Willoughby would have joined us. It doesn't matter, though. They can have theirs later.'

'Well, we can't very well have our meeting until they arrive,' said Romilly.

'What meeting would that be, Uncle Romilly?' asked Tancred.

'I want to acquaint you all with the provisions of my will.'

'Oh, goody!' exclaimed Binnie. 'Is your fortune big enough to go round?'

'If it isn't, you shall have my share, Binnie,' said Tancred, 'and this evening, in the twilight, I'll read my poems to you. You'd like that, wouldn't you?'

'I like money, but I don't understand poetry very much.'

'You don't need to understand mine.'

'I suppose it's quite incomprehensible, anyway,' said Humphrey, sneering, 'as well as being thoroughly poor stuff.'

'An usher wouldn't know whether it is or whether it isn't,' said Tancred. 'What do you dish out to your pupils? Longfellow, or Mrs Hemans?'

Tea was brought in, dinner followed at seven and, after dinner, Judith played and sang. At half-past ten a move was made

towards bed.

'We can't expect Hubert and Willoughby tonight, it seems,' said Romilly. On gaining her room, Dame Beatrice rearranged her bedding so that she was sleeping head-to-foot in the big fourposter. She left the picture leaning against the foot of the wall, although what whim had caused her to take it down again she hardly knew, any more than she knew what instinct had made her change her bedcoverings round. She did know that, in spite of his laughter, which had sounded spontaneous and unforced, she had made an enemy of Romilly. There was also the slight mystery as to which member of the household had actually invited the guests, and there was Romilly's anxiety, which had been apparent during the whole of the evening, because two of the guests, Hubert, the clergyman and Willoughby, the secretary, had neither put in an appearance nor sent a letter of excuse. Romilly had fumed and fidgeted and made several references to their absence, so much so that Judith, who did not seem to share his feeling of unease, had at last chided him sharply.

'For heaven's sake,' she had exclaimed, 'stop worrying over the wretched pair! What does it matter whether they're here or not? You didn't have them last time, anyway.'

'I don't want to hold my meeting without them,' Romilly had pettishly replied. 'It will spoil everything if we're two people short.'

Dame Beatrice was glad that the evening was over. What with the bickering of Humphrey and Tancred, Binnie's tears, which started up readily when her husband was more than usually unkind, Romilly's fretting and a certain restlessness which all this not unnaturally induced in the quiet and inoffensive Giles, together with the vapid and (she thought) nervous chatter of the twins, the hours between tea and dinner and then between dinner and bedtime, had been anything but pleasant.

She got ready for bed in a leisurely manner, for it was very much earlier than her usual time for retiring. On the other hand, there was no point in staying up, for she had too much respect for her aging eyesight to strain it by attempting to read by candlelight, which was the only form of lighting in her vast and shadowy room. Neither, at that hour, did she expect to fall asleep, and she was lying contentedly in the huge, comfortable bed, glad of her own company after the uneasy and boring hours downstairs, when she was aware of slight sounds coming from the direction of the hole in the wall. The next moment there was a startling report from a firearm. Dead silence followed for a moment and then came the sound of a door closing. Dame Beatrice had locked her own door. She slipped out of bed, made her way to the locked door and listened, but even her keen hearing could detect no further sound.

The silence, however, was not prolonged. There were footsteps on the stairs and in the gallery, and voices raised excitedly. Then came a hammering on the door of her room and a shouted question from Romilly.

'Beatrice! Beatrice! Are you all right?'

'Perfectly all right,' she replied. 'I thought I heard the sound of a shot, though. Could it be so?'

'Well, I certainly heard something,' said Corin's voice. 'Hullo! Talk about a gathering of the clan!'

There were excited exclamations in various tones. It was clear that most, if not all, of the household, were gathered on the landing outside. Dame Beatrice lit a candle, put on dressing-gown and slippers, hung the picture up again and opened the door.

'Where did the sound seem to come from?' she mildly enquired.

'Certainly from this part of the house,' said Romilly, shading his candle against a draught from the staircase. Dame Beatrice glanced around her. The absentees were the servants and also Binnie, Rosamund and Tancred. The others wore dressing-gowns, except for Giles, who had pulled his trousers on over his pyjamas, and Humphrey, who was wearing an overcoat over his nightshirt.

'It sounded like a shot,' said Romilly, 'but it could hardly have been that. What did you think it was, Beatrice?'

'I thought it was a shot,' she replied. 'But, as you say, it seems unlikely.'

'You don't suppose,' said Giles, 'that Hubert and Willoughby have arrived, and what we heard was their car back-firing?'

'That seems possible,' said Judith, who was looking particularly handsome in a scarlet dressing-gown embroidered with gold thread. 'Perhaps somebody had better go downstairs and find out.'

'An excellent idea,' said Romilly. 'You girls get back to bed, and you, too, Beatrice. Giles and I will investigate.'

The crowd dispersed. Dame Beatrice closed her door and locked it. Then she found the powerful electric torch which always accompanied her and made an inspection of what had become the foot of her bed. She was interested but not surprised to find that the marksman, whoever he or she might have been, had not tailored the shot. As nearly as she could judge, the bullet would have travelled in a direct line to her pillow, had her bedding not been rearranged. She would probably find the bullet embedded in the mattress, she thought. She returned to bed and slept lightly but soundly until six.

At breakfast there was some speculation, but not as much as might have been expected, as to the origin of the noise. Dame Beatrice, who, after rising, had rearranged her bed so that the pillows were at the right end of it, contributed little to the pointless discussion, and it very soon changed to a peevish monologue from Romilly concerning the non-arrival of Hubert and Willoughby. Since she knew neither of them, for her any real interest was lacking. However, as she had found not only the bullet hole in the bedclothes, but the bullet itself (which she decided had come from a .22 rifle), her interest lay in wondering who had fired it, and whether the would-be murderer had expected to kill not herself but Romilly, as the room she occupied had at one time been his own. In view of the fears he had expressed to her, and which, at the time, she had treated lightly, she thought that he might have been the intended victim. It was clear, later in the day, that he himself thought so. He said to her, when they chanced to find themselves alone:

'I suppose it was a shot?'

'Oh, yes,' she replied. 'It was a shot. It came from the direction of the hole in the wall in my room.'

'It was intended for me, no doubt. What a lucky escape you have had.'

'I have no idea for whom it was intended.'

'I should imagine it has substantially reduced the value of the picture.'