Dance to Your Daddy

'No, no. I had taken the picture down.' He stared at her, but asked for no explanation, and in this unsatisfactory state the matter rested, except that when she next visited her room it was to find that a kind of rough wooden shutter had been affixed to the hole in the wall, and that the painting of the two boys had disappeared.

CHAPTER FIVE

DANSE MACABRE-THE WICKED UNCLE

If my tongue cannot entreat you to acquit me, ill you command me to use my legs? And yet that were light payment-to dance out of your debt.'

King Henry IV, Part 2.

(1)

Laura was delighted with the letter she had received from Dame Beatrice, her emotion tempered merely by regret to think that, so far, she was excluded from the fun. She would have been even more regretful had she known about the mysterious shot in the night. However, leaving the baby Eiladh in the capable and willing hands of Zena the kitchenmaid, she drove to London in her own small car, parked it on the outskirts and took a taxi to Somerset House.

The provisions of Felix Napoleon's will were straightforward enough, and Laura had no difficulty in memorising them. There was no doubt that Rosamund, subject to the conditions of which Dame Beatrice had been made aware, was the principal beneficiary. The money was left to 'my granddaughter, Rosamund Mary Lestrange,' when she should have attained the age of twenty-five years. Until that time, the estate was to be held in trust by the old man's lawyers, and the interest on the money allowed to accumulate. Laura read the rest of the provisions and stipulations with great interest, for there was no doubt that if Romilly was an unscrupulous and criminally-minded man, the girl's fears for her own safety were not imaginary, and Laura admitted as much in her return letter.

Dame Beatrice received this letter at a quarter to ten on the morning following the shooting. There had been some more speculation as to the cause of the noise which had roused the household, but as, apparently, nothing had resulted from the shot except the somewhat curious circumstance that none of the servants seemed to have heard it-a circumstance confirmed by George and Amabel when Dame Beatrice off-handedly mentioned the matter to them separately-speculation died down in favour of a general discussion, when Romilly had left the breakfast table, as to the reason for his having arranged the house-party.

Dame Beatrice, who did not contribute to the discussion, but who listened with interest to it, realised that one thing which she had been told was, on the face of things, completely untrue. There was no family feud between the Lestranges and the Provosts. There was a running skirmish between Humphrey and Tancred, but it was a private fight, not a family matter. She wondered whether the appearance of the brothers Hubert and Willoughby would prove to be the match which might be applied to the gunpowder, but she could not, at that point, detect any presence of explosives. In the early afternoon, however, more drama, this time of a rather ridiculous sort, was suddenly introduced by Rosamund.

Lunch was over. The last two of the guests, Willoughby and Hubert Lestrange, still had not put in an appearance. The others, with Romilly, Judith and Dame Beatrice, were taking coffee in the drawing-room when Rosamund put in this dramatic and disordered appearance. She was wearing a white nylon nightdress and had a cock-eyed wreath of dripping wet hazel-catkins on her hair. She said:

'Look! I'm Ophelia, all wet from the river.' Then, in a tuneless voice, she began to sing.

'My God!' exclaimed Humphrey. 'What on earth is this?'

'And will he not come again?' mouthed Rosamund, continuing her caterwauling.

'Who?' interpolated Binnie, obviously interested.

'No, no he is dead,

Go to thy death-bed,

He never will come again,' sang Rosamund.

'Who won't?' demanded Binnie, in a louder tone.

'So excellent a king; that was, to this,

Hyperion to a satyr,' replied Rosamund obligingly, in a clear, elocutionist voice.

'Beatrice!' cried Romilly, putting down his cup. 'For God's sake help me out with her!' But it was Tancred who rose from his seat on the settee where he was partnering Binnie.

'Come on, girl,' he said. 'You can tell me all about it upstairs, and, if you're good, I'll read you my poems.'

'Don't believe it,' said Rosamund sulkily. 'You don't want me to sing, that's all.'

'There's one poem I know you'll like,' said Tancred persuasively. 'It's all about you. Come along.'

'I want one about me,' said Binnie. 'You promised one about me. And that's my nightie she's got on!'

Tancred took Rosamund by an unresisting arm, and led her from the room. Dame Beatrice rose in leisurely fashion, placed her empty cup on a small table, and followed them out. After a moment, Binnie followed, too.

'Don't see why she should pinch my nightie,' she said. 'I'm going to get it back. It's not that I grudge it her, but she can't just go about sneaking things. It's not right.'

'She's worse than you told us in your letter, then,' said Humphrey to his uncle. Romilly looked gloomy. Dame Beatrice, who had not gone upstairs in the wake of Rosamund and Tancred, but who had stepped aside to allow Binnie to pass her, noticed this from her vantage point at the side of the archway which did duty for a door. She heard Romilly answer:

'Well, it's bound to be progressive, I suppose, although she's been a little calmer of late.' Dame Beatrice came back into the room.

'She will be calmer again in a minute or two,' she said. 'I warned you that this influx of guests might excite her.' She settled herself composedly in the chair she had previously occupied and looked across at him.

'I can't help that,' he said. 'I had to call the family together for a very good reason, and, as you are an interested party, I had to get you to come along, too. There is nothing you can do for Trilby. She's naughty, not deranged. I expect you have found that out by now. Well, now seems as good a time as any for me to hold the business meeting which is the prime reason for this pleasant little get-together.'

'I don't see how you can,' said Corin. 'We're short of four members of the group. Don't we wait until Binnie and Tancred come down, and Hubert and Willoughby get here?'

'I don't know why all the rest of us should wait,' said his twin sister. Those other two can hear all about it later on. Don't forget we've got a rehearsal at ten tomorrow morning, and we must run over our programme before dinner tonight.'

'The meeting need not take long,' Romilly insisted. 'I have enticed you here on various pretexts. None of my offers was genuine. I had better confess that at once. You, my dear Humphrey, were led to believe that I could obtain for you a House at a minor public school. I am not in a position to do so. Tancred has been told that a publisher is prepared to put out his poems and guarantee him a respectable advance and a scale of royalties. This is untrue. Binnie-I wrote to her separately, Humphrey, and had the letter delivered by special messenger at a time when I knew you would be at school-thinks that I can get her a job modelling clothes. Giles has been promised...'

'Oh, cut it out!' said Giles. The belligerent words were expressed in a quiet voice, but with a degree of menace which encouraged Humphrey, who, so far, had responded only with a red face and a bristling attitude, to put his face almost into Romilly's and exclaim:

'You rotten, lying, oily swine!'

'Just a moment, Humphrey,' said Judith. 'Let Uncle Romilly finish what he has to say.'

'I had to find the means to get you all together,' went on Romilly, 'and to pretend to offer each of you something to his advantage seemed by far the best way. Hubert expects me to get him ecclesiastical preferment, and Willoughby wants to...'

'Knock your block off, I should think,' said Giles. 'Have you forgotten that he has been out of a job for months?'

'I have forgotten nothing,' said Romilly. 'Hear me out. Having gathered you together under these false pretences and lying promises, I propose to acquaint you with the terms of my Will.'

'So you told us,' said Binnie, appearing in the archway. 'I think Trilby and Tancred have gone to bed together. What Will? Do we all share, or have you left everything to Corin and Corinna?'

'Why us, Binnie?' asked Corin, pushing back his shoulder-length, unkempt hair.

'Because-yes, I've been in the next room, listening; so convenient, not having proper doors-because it seems to me that Corin and Corinna are the only people who haven't been promised things.' She advanced into the room. 'You two got your own booking at the Winter Garden, didn't you?' she asked.

'Sure,' said Corin, 'but Romilly offered us free board and lodging and the use of a car while we were down here.'

'The estate which I propose to buy later on, and all my money,' said Romilly deliberately, 'might be willed to whichever one of you murders me, and I am not disclosing the terms of my bequests at this stage. Therefore, as a murderer cannot gain financially by the death of his victim, I have a feeling that I shall remain alive for a good long time, you know. Just my idea of a little bit of fun. That's all. Enjoy yourselves.'

'The murderer could gain financially so long as he wasn't caught,' said Giles grimly.

'He will be caught,' said Romilly, with a significant glance at Dame Beatrice. 'One of you has taken what he thought was a shot at me. I advise him not to try again. Well, I'll leave you to think things over.'

(2)

'But it doesn't make sense,' said Binnie, for the fourth time since the discussion had broken out, which it did upon Romilly's departure.

'It must make sense to one of us,' said Corin. 'As I see it, it's a warning. The old man's got a hunch that one of us intends to do him in. That means it really was a shot we heard last night.'

Binnie squeaked in dismay. Her husband said morosely:

'All that nonsense aside, the fact remains that he's got us all down here by making lying promises to us. If you ask me, he deserves to be shot.'

'Well, I advise you not to have a second go,' said Tancred, coming suddenly into the room. 'I've left Rosamund with Judith, by the way. I suppose their absence is to be desired, rather than deplored, under the present circumstances. Incidentally, Cousin Humphrey, why do you want to liquidate our host and close relative?'

'You'd want to do it yourself, if you had the guts of a flea,' said Humphrey violently. 'Didn't he promise you that he'd got hold of a publisher who would pay for those rhymes of yours? Well, he hasn't, and he won't. He's been leading us all up the garden.'

'Meaning you won't get that better job to which your talents as usher do not entitle you?'

'Look here,' said Giles, 'our quarrel is with Romilly, not with one another. He promised to lend me the money for a part-share in some racing-stables, and the promise is just as worthless as those he made to the rest of you. Don't let's bicker.'

'The promise he made to us isn't worthless,' said Corin.

'Isn't it?' asked his sister. 'What if he doesn't lay on the transport he promised us? Have you realised what it's going to cost if we have to pay for a car to get us to Bournemouth and back each day? The money we're paid for our show is going to look pretty silly with about fifty pounds knocked off it.'

'I hadn't thought of that. He wouldn't be such a swine, would he?' asked her twin.

'I don't know. He's made fools of Humphrey and Tancred and Giles. Why should we escape his morbid little sense of humour? After all, how much do we know about him, anyway? We've been out of touch with him since we were babies, except for that silly house-warming he chose to give, and he doesn't own this place, anyway; he only rents it. I'm not at all sure we were born, in fact, before he went out to Kenya or wherever it was. What I can't understand is what his game is. I mean, why on earth bring us all together like this, on the strength of some lying promises?'

'I wonder what he promised Hubert and Willoughby?' said Giles. 'Perhaps it wasn't enough to make it seem worthwhile for them to show up. Anyway, I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm off. I wouldn't stay a minute longer under his beastly roof if you paid me!'

'Isn't there a New Forest meet in the morning?' asked Tancred, with apparent innocence. 'Pity to miss that, as you're here.'

(3)

When Dame Beatrice came down to breakfast on the following morning it was to find her host alone at the table. The remainder of the previous day had been strange and, to everyone but herself and Tancred, who both enjoyed bizarre situations, very uncomfortable.

Judith had come down to face the glum and grim silence which followed Tancred's last words and observed, with false brightness, that 'poor little Trilby' had been soothed and put to bed and was being watched over by one of the maids, and that Romilly had been called out unexpectedly, but would be back in time for dinner.

'I should think it would choke him,' muttered Humphrey. Aloud he said: 'I suppose you and he have taken it for granted that Binnie and I will be leaving first thing in the morning?'

'Oh, must you go so soon?' asked Judith. 'I must arrange about the car, then.'

'We're all going,' said Tancred. At least'-he glanced at Giles-'most of us, I think.'

Dame Beatrice had also decided to leave, provided that Romilly kept his promise about allowing her to take Rosamund with her. Laura's letter, confirming her own and the girl's own fears, had clinched her determination to remove the prospective heiress from Romilly's clutches and make provision for her safety. After all, the child was related to her, even if somewhat obscurely, and Dame Beatrice had never attempted to shake off the sense of responsibility which was the glory and the curse of her generation. What she was to do with Rosamund ultimately she had no idea. Marriage would be the best solution if matters arranged themselves that way, although whether the possible husband was to be envied, Dame Beatrice had begun to be doubtful.

Romilly stood up as she came to the breakfast-table and placed a chair for her.

'Is anybody else up?' she asked.

'Humphrey and Binnie have breakfasted and are packing.' Romilly laughed as he spoke. 'Humphrey has taken my little jokes rather badly, I'm afraid.'

'Your little jokes?'

'Why, yes. All that clap-trap about the murderer, and so forth. I merely wanted to amuse them all, you know. One thing, Corin and Corinna knew better than to take me seriously.'

'They are staying on, then?'

'Oh, yes. So is Giles. There's a meet of the New Forest hounds this morning. He was up and away an hour ago. I've lent him a horse.'

'What about Mr Tancred?'

'Not up yet. Don't suppose he'll be down before ten. I'm expecting to hear from Hubert and Willoughby by this morning's post. Wonder what they've got to say for themselves? Dashed uncivil to accept an invitation and not turn up. Post doesn't get here until the middle of the morning. That's the worst of living in the wilds. Ah, here's your fresh toast. What are you thinking of doing with yourself today?'

'I thought I would take my patient to the Stone House.'

'You're not throwing me to these wolves?'

'You spoke a minute ago of your little jokes.'

'That, yes. But I still believe my life may be in danger. You must stay and see me through. Humphrey is very angry with me. He believed I could get him that public school place.'

'I shall not stay. Rosamund will be better away from this house, and I decline to be a party to your little jokes.'

'Well, before you go, would you get your man to run Humphrey and Binnie in to Wareham? They want to catch a train to Waterloo. My own car is needed for Tancred, who, for some reason, wishes to go to Shaftesbury.'

Dame Beatrice wondered how he knew this, as nothing, so far as she was aware, had been said about such an expedition on the previous evening. However, she made no demur. She said:

'That means, then, that Rosamund and I will be leaving a little later than I had anticipated.'

'Oh, you must certainly stay to lunch. Judith would never forgive me if you left without saying goodbye to her. Besides, you must be here when the post comes. I am anxious to show you the letters from Hubert and Willoughby. I cannot think why they have not written sooner to tell me they could not come along. I shall accompany Humphrey and Binnie to Wareham to see them off, so I may not be here to receive the letters.'

'You surely will not want to miss the postman when he comes. And if Humphrey is as angry as you say-'

'The letters will still be here when I get back, for surely those two boys will write? The point is, you see, that I want to make quite sure Humphrey and Binnie really do catch that train. Humphrey is in a very unpleasant mood, as I indicated, and I should not wish him to do me the mischief which I am sure he did not contemplate when he came down here.'

'You do not wish him to forestall the murderer?' Dame Beatrice facetiously enquired. Romilly took her seriously.

'Oh, Humphrey would not dare to go so far, but he might resort to fisticuffs, and I have a horror of unthinking violence,' he said.

'There are other kinds of violence, of course. Very well, I will accompany you to Wareham and George will protect you. Humphrey will not care to resort to violence in our presence.'

It was clear that her company was the last thing Romilly wanted, and it gave her inward amusement to watch his struggle with himself before he said:

'Well, that would be very nice, of course, but your man will be sufficient protection. Besides, would it not be better if you spent the time with your patient? With myself out of the house and the others upstairs out of the way, I should have thought...'

'We'll take Rosamund with us,' said Dame Beatrice. 'She will enjoy an outing, and since she and Binnie are of a fashionable slimness, they can sit in front in my car with George, and then there will be plenty of room for the rest of us on the back seat. I can sit between you and Humphrey and keep you apart. That way, you will feel perfectly safe.'

'Well, if you think it a good idea to take Trilby,' said Romilly, with the utmost unwillingness, 'I suppose it's all right.'

'By the way,' said Dame Beatrice, as though struck by a sudden thought, 'if you are going to Wareham in my car, who is to drive Tancred to Shaftesbury?-or is he, perhaps, to drive himself and return here later?'

'Oh, no, he does not propose to return. Luke can take him there and bring my car back.'

'Then I think perhaps I will change my mind. It is a much longer drive to Shaftesbury than to Wareham, and will be more of a treat for Rosamund, as she seems to go out so little. You had better take Humphrey and Binnie to Wareham in your own car, with Luke to protect you, and I will transport Tancred and Rosamund in mine. How will that be?'

(4)

Binnie, whose boneheadedness was almost equalled by her kindness of heart, had left Rosamund a slip, a woollen frock and a cardigan. She informed Dame Beatrice of this loan during the few moments they had together before Romilly took the married couple to Wareham to catch their train.

'Too bad she shouldn't have proper clothes,' said Binnie. 'Humphrey doesn't know I've lent them to her, so you won't say anything, will you? He's always saying I'm stupid, and so I am. If he finds out about the dress and things, I shall say I did it to spite Uncle Romilly. He hates him, you see. If anybody does murder Uncle Romilly, it's almost sure to be Humphrey. I shouldn't really mind if Humphrey went to prison for a good long time. Could you get me a job as a model? I would prefer clothes, but artists or photographers would be all right. If it was an artist, I might be his mistress, mightn't I? I'd like to be somebody's mistress. I wouldn't mind if he beat me and we had to live on bread and cheese and beer. I'd like him to be tempestuous, like some of those people in the Wednesday plays. And we'd make love all night and scratch each other's eyes out all day (except when he'd be painting, of course), and my picture would be in all the picture galleries and the Academy, and all that, and everybody would say, "Isn't she wonderful?" I'd love it, wouldn't I?'

'Yes, it would be very nice,' said Dame Beatrice. 'I think I hear them calling to you that the car is at the door. Thank you very much for lending Rosamund the clothes. It is most kind and thoughtful of you. If you'd care to give me your address, I will keep in touch with you.' Kitty Trevelyan, Laura's friend, she reflected, had her own salon (the foster-child, incidentally, of a prosperous hair-dressing establishment) and might be willing to give Binnie a trial. 'What are your-let me see now...'

'My statistics?' prompted Binnie. 'I'm classical.'

'By that you infer?'

'I don't infer. I know, Thirty-five, twenty-three, thirty-five-but Humphrey wouldn't like me to give you our address. He's ashamed of our little semi-detached.'

Dame Beatrice made a note.

'I will keep those figures in mind,' she said, 'but, of course, I make no promises. Goodbye, Mrs Provost.'

'Goodbye. I do like you,' said Binnie.

'Your kind words are reciprocated,' Dame Beatrice replied.

(5)

Once clear of Galliard Hall, Dame Beatrice stopped at a public telephone kiosk and rang up the Stone House in her own village of Wandles Parva. Laura answered, and was warned to expect her employer and a companion at some time during the afternoon, probably later rather than earlier.

The Wareham road took them past Sleeping Green and Winterborne Zelston to Blandford Forum, bland indeed in its eighteenth century elegance. This was the result of a fire which, in 1731, had destroyed most of the old town and caused it to be rebuilt in a fortunate style of architecture and with a unity of design unsurpassed except, perhaps, in parts of Dublin and Bath.

From Blandford the road ran due north, and a string of villages with their delightful Dorset names-Steepleton Iwerne, Iwerne Courtney, Iwerne Minster, Fontmell Magna, Melbury Abbas-came and went, along a road almost free of traffic.

The journey had begun with Tancred seated in front beside George, and Dame Beatrice beside Rosamund at the back, but after Dame Beatrice had made her telephone call she suggested that Rosamund might care to have Tancred beside her.

'Would he,' asked Rosamund, 'recite to me some more of his poetry?' So the change-over was effected and from time to time the poet's voice broke in on Dame Beatrice's thoughts. His work, she thought, was largely derivative. It was not difficult to pick out what he had been reading at the time of each short composition, and this, in so young a man, and one who fell short of possessing any very striking talent, did not surprise her. What she did find interesting was his obvious lack of interest in anything much later than the 1930s.

'Oh, were my love the sleeping fields,

And I the all-embracing snow,' intoned Tancred in the snuffing voice of a man reciting his own poetry,

'I would enfold her dreaming peace

And veil her lovely brow.'

There was rhyme, rhythm and a certain artlessness about the stuff which had its own attraction, Dame Beatrice decided. She listened to the rest of the short lyric. Later on-with Rosamund saying never a word of praise or criticism-one of the poems showed an even clearer derivation.

'Greatest Lover, ere my youth be gone,

Give me lovely things to muse upon-

Poets' griefs and songs, and lovers' joys,

Girls and sleeping babes and laughing boys;

Pools where the lazy fish serenely lie,

And ploughland furrows mounting to the sky;

Rounded hills where dream the older gods;

Goatfoot prints of Pan on country roads.'

The sestet which followed, to complete the sonnet, was less derivative and therefore less successful, Dame Beatrice thought. Tancred was seated directly behind her, so that it was easy enough-although she did it only once-to turn her head and glance at Rosamund, leaning back in her corner behind George with closed eyes and a slight smile. Rosamund, there could be no doubt of it, was thoroughly happy. There was a pause-dramatic effect, no doubt-and then Tancred began again. This was meant to be the words of a song, he explained.

'Twine your lovely head with flowers,

For their beauty is your own...'

Poets, even the least gifted of them, have extraordinary advantages, thought Dame Beatrice, when it comes to expressing their love-often, she reflected, insincerely.

Laura voiced these thoughts that same evening after Rosamund had been put to bed in the Stone House.

'The patient,' she stated, 'is rapt and starry-eyed. What have you been a-doin' of?'

'Allowing her to make the journey to Shaftesbury in company with a young poet, so-called,' Dame Beatrice replied. 'I fear she may have interpreted some of his words as personal compliments with erotic overtones, but, then, I believe they slept together last night.'

'Glad it's your responsibility, not mine. Incidentally, I don't notice any signs of nervous instability of the kind that I had envisaged.'

'There are none. The child needs a change of environment, that is all.'

'What was Cousin Romilly's object, then, in representing her as a candidate for the bin?'

'Oh, that was made clear. Go to bed. In the morning I will tell you all. How is Eiladh?'

'Flourishing, and no trouble to anybody. Liable to be ruined by spoiling, I'm afraid. I'm hardly allowed to do anything for her myself. Celestine and Zena have taken her over completely, and Hamish writes his weekly letter from school with extraordinary zest. He keeps begging me to put in for special weekend leave for him, so that he can come home and see her again, but, of course, I shall do nothing of the kind. The holidays come quite soon enough as it is, and he gets five weeks at Easter. I've tried to hound him into going with the school party to Brussels, but he's adamant. He's absolutely hooked on the baby.'

'I told you how it would be.'

'Yes, I know you did. I don't understand Hamish, and I never shall.'

CHAPTER SIX

SARABANDE-DANCING LEDGE

'...when you dance, I wish you

A wave o' the sea...'

The Winter's Tale.

(1)

Dame Beatrice had anticipated that repercussions would follow the abortive family gathering to which, for reasons which still seemed obscure, Romilly Lestrange had elected to invite his relatives. The repercussions which did follow, however, were not what she would have expected. They began in the morning succeeding the day on which she had introduced Rosamund into the Stone House, a move of which Laura did not altogether approve.

'She may be in fear of her life, and an escaped prisoner and all those things,' she said to Dame Beatrice when Rosamund, who seemed to favour plenty of sleep, was not up by a quarter to ten, 'but there's something all wrong about her.'

'Yes,' Dame Beatrice agreed, 'mixed up with all my sympathy for her orphan state, and the really great danger I believe her to be in, I have the feeling to which you allude. I will now tell you something interesting, trusting to your native sense of fair play to read nothing into the information which is not contained in the very slight evidence which is all I am able to give you.'

'All right,' said Laura. 'As a former student of history, I will try to keep an open mind. Does this (whatever it is) concern Rosamund?'

'That is where we have to keep an open mind. I simply do not know. However, this is the story, for what it is worth. I think I told you in my letter about the hole in the wall. This was a kind of squint intended not, as in a church, to give a view of the altar, but (as, thinking of you, I soon realised) to give a fair chance to a marksman in the adjoining room of putting a bullet into the head of anybody lying in the bed.'

'I don't understand why thinking of me should give you such an idea.'

'Do you not? I think our dear Robert would. Anyhow, when I also discovered that the bed was clamped to the floor so that it could not be moved, I thought that there was really no point in taking chances. I moved my pillows around so that my head was where whoever had arranged the bed had intended my feet to be, and prepared to sleep soundly.'

'Neat and practical. Don't tell me that, after these precautions, nothing happened?'

'Nothing of any consequence. However, I continued to exercise vigilance during the rest of my stay.'

'You stayed there another night, after finding out a thing like that?'

'For more than one reason. I was not quite ready to leave; also it did not seem likely that any bullet would be intended for me. The master of the house has not only designs (I believe) upon Rosamund's life, but he also fears for his own. As the room used to be his (if what he told me was true), he may have been the intended victim. To conclude, he now has had the hole screened off, not with the canvas-backed picture which had covered it when I was first shown into the room, but with a stout screen which proved to be a fixture.'

'You do see life when I'm not with you! Did you have a quiet night after all that?'

'Certainly, once the household had settled down.'

'Settled down? Then something did happen?'

'There was a certain amount of disturbance. Somebody thought he had heard the sound of a shot, but somebody else-Judith, I think it was-suggested that it might have been a car backfiring, and that the noise might have heralded the appearance of the two brothers Hubert and Willoughby Lestrange. Romilly went to investigate, but with no result.'

'Nobody had been hurt, then, if it was a shot?'

'Nobody.'

'You talked about my native sense of fair play before you told me this Wild West story, but, at the thought of it, beneath a flippant line of talk I am concealing a sensation of horror at the danger you may have been in. By "fair play" I take you to mean that there is the possibility that Rosamund could have taken a pop at you had she wished to do so. After all, she knew Romilly had moved out of that room and that it had been given over to you, didn't she?'

'She did, of course, and I do not lose sight of the fact that she may believe she has a motive for wishing me out of the way.'

'You mean because of the way the Will of her grandfather is worded. But does she know who you are? Anyway, it's a bit of an outside chance that you'd ever inherit, the way I read the provisions.'

'She may have reached the stage when anybody named in the will seems a potential threat to her inheritance. I do not imagine that she is particularly well-versed in these matters.'

'And the next, or equal, subject is Romilly himself, I suppose?'

'Well, not necessarily. It is true that he, Rosamund and Judith-not forgetting Romilly's sinister and dour manservant Luke, who may also have known that Romilly's room had been changed and that I had been given it-all knew where I was sleeping, but there are other considerations. I did not feel it would be fitting to tell you, in front of Rosamund, of Romilly's extraordinary treatment of his guests, but it turned out that he had brought them to his house under false pretences by promising them benefits which he was unable to bestow. The details do not matter at the moment-although I have some plans which I may be able to carry out later on-but the point is that, as some of them had visited Galliard Hall at some previous time, they might have thought that Romilly was still in occupation of the same room...'

'And could have taken a pop at showing that they were displeased with him,' said Laura. 'That sounds much the likeliest theory, I should say. Well, thank goodness they didn't do it-at least, not through the hole in your wall.'

'Of course, it was not until the day after this disturbance that Romilly told his relatives of his April Fool jesting.'

'That does rather knock my theory on the head, then.'

'Therefore we may shelve it, and read our letters,' said Dame Beatrice, reflecting upon how relatively simple it is to use truthful words to give an entirely wrong impression of the truth.

(2)

It was one of Laura's tasks, as secretary, to deal with the morning's correspondence. She collected it from the table in the hall and left there any letters which were addressed to the servants. The rest she sorted at the breakfast table, for most of Dame Beatrice's official correspondence was sent direct to her London clinic and dealt with there. For the rest, Laura sorted out her own letters and passed on, unopened, anything of a personal nature sent to Dame Beatrice. A telegram came addressed to her employer that morning so she handed it over without comment. Dame Beatrice read it and handed it back.

'Hubert and Willoughby were not at the gathering,' she said. 'The inference to be drawn from this telegram is that Hubert has been murdered, but who would want to murder an inoffensive clergyman?'

'Do you intend to go along?'

'I was not particularly attracted to Judith, but she may be in need of help.'

'May I come with you? I mean, Eiladh doesn't really need me and I need a little diversion. Babies are all very well, but, having pleased my husband and my son by giving up nine plus eight months of my rapidly-vanishing life to the procreation and maintenance of one that I didn't particularly want, I do now want some fun. Please let me come.'

'Of course you must come. I will telegraph Judith to expect us this afternoon.'

'What about the girl Rosamund?'

'Celestine can take charge of her for a few hours, I think. I will warn her not to allow her to wander away.'

They arrived at Galliard Hall at half-past three. This time there was nobody on the terrace. Luke, in his butler's garb, answered the door, his customary hang-dog glumness replaced by an equally hang-dog expression of fear and anxiety.

'The master's in the small drawing-room, madam, if you'd come this way,' he said.

'Is he alone?' Dame Beatrice asked.

'Except for Mrs Judith, yes, madam. The police have gone.'

Judith was lying on a settee with the drop-end down. Romilly rose from an armchair when the visitors were announced and managed to smile, although he looked haggard and appeared not to have shaved. The high colour had gone from Judith's cheeks, her eyes were lustreless and she looked extremely ill. She raised herself on one elbow and then lowered her feet to the ground, sat up and held out both hands to Dame Beatrice.

'How good of you to come,' she said simply. 'We're in the most dreadful mess.'

Dame Beatrice introduced Laura, to whom she then gave a small notebook.

'Now,' she said, when they were seated and Laura had produced a ball-point pen, 'to business. What's it all about?'

(3)

'Uncle Romilly and I found the body,' said Judith. 'After you had taken Trilby away yesterday he was very restless and...'

'I was worried about her,' put in Romilly. 'I wondered whether, after all, I'd done the right thing in letting her go. In her condition I thought she might be better in an environment she knew, than among comparative strangers and in unfamiliar surroundings. By the way, did Tancred get to Shaftesbury all right?'

'Oh, yes, and on the way he entertained Rosamund by reciting his poems to her. Are Corin and Corinna still here?'

'They will be returning this evening. They know nothing, so far, about Hubert's death. They went off to rehearsal as soon as they had breakfasted. Luke and I had returned from depositing Humphrey and Binnie at the railway station. The twins, as you are aware, are not early risers, so we were back in time for Luke to take them to Wareham to catch the Bournemouth train. They were to lunch there, and their act-whatever it is-is timed for three o'clock in the afternoon and eight o'clock each evening. They will have to find their own way back. I cannot keep on providing transport. As it is, I am saving them a good deal of money by entertaining them here for the week.'

'The police will want to question them,' said Judith. 'We were asked whether anyone else was staying in the house.'

'Where is Giles?'

'He hasn't come back from the New Forest yet. I expect his friends who were members of the Hunt have asked him to stay. We had to mention him, too, of course, and we had to tell the police that you, Tancred and Trilby, and also Humphrey and Binnie, had been staying here.'

'How did Giles get to the meet?'

'Oh, a friend with a horse-box picked him up and will bring him back-a young man who lives at Lyndhurst and is a follower of the Hunt. I suppose we shall have to ask Giles to stay for dinner, but I do hope he won't expect to be put up for the night again. Perhaps he could stay with the people he stayed with last night, instead of with us. It's no time to have casual visitors in the house,' said Judith. She had regained something of her usual colour and animation.

'Suppose we begin at the beginning,' suggested Dame Beatrice. 'Having disposed of the rest of us, you two were left here alone, except for the servants. Please go on from there.'

'We had lunch at half-past one,' said Judith, 'and then, as it was a fine day and Uncle Romilly seemed restless, as I said, I thought it might be a good idea to go out for a short drive, leave the car at a convenient spot and take a stroll. I drove, and it was left to me to choose the route, so we went to Lulworth Cove and parked the car on the grassy common there, where everybody parks in the summer, but, of course, at this time of year, it's too early for visitors, so we had the parking space pretty much to ourselves.'

'Judith wanted to walk over Dungy Head to Durdle Door,' said Romilly, 'but it is a steep climb and I thought the path might be slippery, so I suggested going down to the Cove and then returning to the car and continuing our drive. We did this, and from Lulworth we took the road to Steeple and then it occurred to me to show Judith where I had found Trilby when she drowned the cat and the monkey...'

'And the life-sized baby doll,' put in Dame Beatrice, who, after her sessions with the girl, no longer believed a word of this story.

'Exactly,' agreed Romilly, with suspicious alacrity. 'And the life-sized baby doll. Well, as you probably know, there is no very direct route from Steeple to Dancing Ledge. We had to go through Church Knowle to Corfe Castle and then branch off for Kingston and go a good part of the way towards Langton Matravers. We left the car at the nearest possible point and took a path to make the rest of the way on foot. Dancing Ledge is not entirely a natural formation. The cliffs have been ridded (as it is called in these parts) by blasting, in order to quarry the stone, and then galleries have been driven into the rocks. Long platforms of stone have been left, and on these, at this particular spot, the waves do appear to dance, and on the Ledge itself a bathing place was blasted out for the use of schoolboys at the end of last century.'

'Uncle Romilly has a poor head for heights,' said Judith, taking up the tale, 'so he did not linger long on the nearby cliff-top, only long enough to say to me, "I can't stay here, my dear, I must retreat. But your eyes are younger than mine. Isn't there a man lying out on Dancing Ledge?" I looked as he pointed, before he walked away, and, of course, it was as he had said.'

'I went to the coastguard station as soon as we got back to the car,' said Romilly, 'and told them I feared someone had fallen over the cliff, but, of course, we never dreamed it was Hubert. The police obtained my address from the coastguards and they've been here since yesterday harassing and harrying us.'

'Has anything been heard of Willoughby, the brother?'

'Not a thing. He has not written and he has not come. I wondered whether I should mention to the police that he seems to have disappeared, but it is somewhat early days to suggest that.'

'Disappeared?'

'Well, I would not think of using such an expression had it not been for this dreadful business about Hubert.'

'You had no difficulty in identifying the body, then?'

'Well, the head and face were greatly disfigured, I suppose through contact with the rocky ledge, but I had little doubt.'

'Why should the police have thought that you might know who the dead man was?'

'I have myself to thank for that. I was greatly upset when I first spotted the body on the ledge, and I blurted out something at the coastguard station about Hubert and Willoughby having failed to turn up at my house, and, of course, that got passed on to the police. It's the most terrible thing! They seem prepared to treat Hubert's death as a case of murder!'

'So I gathered from Judith's telegram. Have they anything to go on?'

'I have no idea. They tell one nothing; they merely put interminable and very searching questions. I suppose they are inclined to rule out suicide, as Hubert was in holy orders, but I think they have ruled out the possibility of accident, too. Their questions suggest as much. Now you, my dear Beatrice, have had a wide experience in these matters. I told you that I had fears for my own life, and now I am beginning to wonder whether Hubert could possibly have been mistaken for me. What do you think about that?'

'Well, I can hardly say, but it seems to me very unlikely. How old would Hubert have been?'

'Yes, I see what you mean. Nobody knowing me can have thought that so young a man-yes, yes, I take your point, of course. But it seems inexplicable. Besides, what was he doing in the neighbourhood of Dancing Ledge? It really is nowhere near this house. He could not have been on his way to us, could he, if he made so stupid a detour as that?'

'When is the murder supposed to have taken place?'

'Oh, if the police know that-as, I suppose, they must do, near enough-they are keeping it to themselves. You know what they are! They never tell you anything if they can possibly help it.'

(4)

'I could bear to go and take a look at Dancing Ledge,' said Laura, when they had thoroughly discussed this latest visit to Galliard Hall. 'Is there any reason why I shouldn't?'

'I do not suppose so. The police will have completed their on-the-spot investigations by the time we go, I should imagine, and the place ordinarily must be open to the public, or Romilly and Judith could not have gone there. Get out the Ordnance maps and let us decide upon the best way to get to the Ledge from here.'

Laura did as she was told. Dancing Ledge was clearly marked. Behind it the hills rose steeply for about a quarter of a mile, and after that the slope was more gentle. Working inland from the cliffs, nothing but a footpath was marked until the map showed the secondary road which ran between Kingston and Langton Matravers and finished at Swanage.

'Bournemouth and Sandbanks for us,' said Laura, 'and then over the ferry, don't you think? Looks a bit of a scramble to get down to the Ledge. Is Romilly capable of it?'

'I shall know better when we have explored the terrain for ourselves. I wonder whether Rosamund would care to come with us? The invitation would come better from you than from me, I think.'

'Is that an order?'

'Yes,' said Dame Beatrice thoughtfully, 'I think it is. I should like to know how she reacts to the suggestion. Approach the matter bluntly. Simply tell her we are going to Dancing Ledge, and ask her whether she would like to accompany us.'

'Does she know about the body?'

Dame Beatrice favoured her secretary with a crocodile grin.

'Oh, I'm sure she does,' she replied. 'There is an account of it in the newspaper which arrived this morning and I am perfectly sure that she has read it.'

Laura found Rosamund in the library and issued the invitation in the forthright manner advised by Dame Beatrice.

'Dancing Ledge?' said Rosamund, turning away from the bookshelf she had been studying. 'Why should I want to go there?'

'For the sake of an outing, that's all.'

'Oh, no, thank you, I'd rather stay here. Henri is going to teach me to cook. I am to help get tonight's dinner ready.'

'Oh, well, keep the arsenic well away from the soup,' said Laura lightly, glad that they were not to have Rosamund's company on the expedition. She reported the brief exchange to her employer.

'Didn't turn a hair at the mention of Dancing Ledge,' she said. 'Just said she'd rather stay here because Henri was going to teach her to cook. Do you suppose her childlike appearance and innocent air have bewitched the staff?'

'I think they feel sorry for her. I gave them an account of her orphaned condition-that was for Zena's benefit-and dropped a hint to Henri that she was a patient of mine who was suffering from melancholia and must be taken out of herself as much as possible. I took Celestine more fully into my confidence, for she is intelligent enough to realise that there is nothing melancholic about Rosamund. Well, let us be off. The days still draw in very early, and we have to allow ourselves time to cover the ground after we have reached our objective. Tell Henri to put us up some sandwiches, and perhaps it would be best for us to use your car, and for you to drive it.'

'Fine! I suppose you want to leave George at home to help keep an eye on Rosamund.'

'I want George to stay behind to keep an eye on the other car. If he were to drive us in mine, there is just the chance that Rosamund, if she can drive, might take it into her head to go off in your car and then she might run into some sort of danger. As I have taken her out of Romilly's sphere of influence, an accident to her might place me in an invidious position.'

'You do think she's irresponsible, then?'

'I did not care much about the Ophelia exhibition. It was most extravagant and unnecessary. Irresponsible, however, is not the word I would have chosen. The point is that, having, one might almost say, abducted her, I must exercise the greatest care to see that she comes to no harm and that Romilly has no opportunity to contact her.'

'There's something you're not telling me,' said Laura.

'My suspicions are possibly unfounded, unkind, and unworthy of me,' Dame Beatrice replied, 'so we had better leave it at-that.'

(5)

The trackway to Dancing Ledge, indicated by an unofficial signpost easily missed unless one was looking out for it, was a roughly-made little road much too narrow to allow two cars to pass. It led to a large house with outbuildings, and for a short distance the road was better surfaced, presumably by the owners of the house, for it deteriorated again beyond it. So far it had been bordered by trees and ragged hedges, but suddenly it ended on open pasture and some farm buildings came in sight, together with a notice which forbade parking on the verges but offered facilities for this at the farm.

Laura had driven with extreme caution over the very rough parts of the road, and, in any case, she had to pull up when she reached the farm gate. A comely young woman emerged from the building, smiled, asked a shilling for a parking fee, and indicated where they might leave the car.

After that, it was country walking. There were gates to be opened and shut, fixed wooden barriers to duck under, and a stile, consisting of two iron bars, to be climbed. Dame Beatrice, thin and wiry, and still remarkably agile considering her years, made nothing of these obstacles, and needed no assistance from Laura. On the far side of the last barrier they had to begin the steep descent which they had seen indicated by the contour lines on the map. It was rough and difficult in places, and they took their time.

'Better keep on the grass,' suggested Laura. 'The path is on chalk, and is bound to be slippery this time of year.'

From the top of the slope they had already seen the sea. The countryside was gloriously open, but stone walls and wire fences marked off the various pastures. To the right was Saint Aldhelm's Head, and beneath their feet, when at last they reached the grassy top of the cliff, lay Dancing Ledge, a long, flat platform of rock parallel with the almost straight line of the coast.

'I suppose the body was found out there on the Ledge itself,' said Laura, pointing to where the sea, in the calm air (for it was an almost windless day, unusual on that coast at that early time of the year), lapped lazily in tiny cream-topped ripples. 'How about if I beetled down and took a closer look?'

Knowing that she wanted to do this, Dame Beatrice agreed, and watched her as she made the scrambling descent. The cliff, at this point, was not high, and, in spite of the fact that the way down, worn smooth by the shoes of summer visitors, was very slippery, Laura negotiated it without difficulty and was soon standing on the broken ground where the cliff face, in former times, had been quarried away.

She soon returned, and announced that there was nothing more to be seen than could be descried, perhaps better, from where Dame Beatrice was standing. Then they began the steep climb back to the farm.

'Don't know what you're thinking,' said Laura, as they halted, half-way up, to take breath and look back at the misty view, 'but whoever got poor Hubert down this way had his work cut out.'

'There are two ways in which it could most easily be done,' said Dame Beatrice. 'Either the corpse was not a corpse when the descent was made, but was killed on the sea-shore itself and then pushed on to the Ledge, or else it was brought round by boat. This was a known spot for smugglers, and it was perfectly possible, so I read, to get a boat up to the Ledge in calm weather to land contraband cargo. I think the first theory is the more likely one, but that is for the police to decide.'

'What, then, is our next move?'

'I think it might be interesting to take tea with Romilly and give him an account of our excursion. His last question to me was whether I thought that Hubert could possibly have been mistaken for Romilly himself. I would say that it seems to me extremely unlikely. As to theorising about the means of bringing the body to the Ledge, I am sure I am right. Even if it had been transported as far as the farm by car, it is clear that it would have had to be manhandled from the farm onwards. This could scarcely have been done by daylight, or by one person, and I cannot see that it would be possible after dark, especially at this time of year and on such a rough and slippery path.'

'Besides, there are those over-and-under barriers, put up, I suppose, by the farm people, to stop the passage of cars over their land. I don't suppose there were any barriers at all when the smugglers were operating, but even they must have had their work cut out, even if they parked the contraband at the farm, as I suppose they did. Up to the farmhouse it must be the best part of a mile from the Ledge, and some of it is horribly rough and steep, and going down is as bad as coming up.'

'Oh, yes, I think we must rule out the possibility that the corpse was carried by the way we have come. The police will have come to the same conclusion. Even if more than one person was involved, the operation would be so hazardous that I cannot think anybody would conceive of it.'

'Of course, we don't know yet-and I suppose we shan't, until we hear the medical evidence at the inquest-the cause of the death, do we?'

They found Romilly and Judith in the same state of alarm and despondency as that in which Dame Beatrice had left them. Romilly, however, cheered up at the sight of them, and Judith rang for tea with an alacrity which suggested that she also welcomed their visit.

'So you have been occupying yourself on my behalf,' said Romilly, when the tea-things had been cleared away. 'I had so much hoped you would. It is extremely good of you, Beatrice. The police have not troubled us again, but, as I think I told you yesterday, they want to question everybody who was staying here. I'm afraid my little jokes have had a most unfortunate aftermath. What do you propose to do now? Dare I hope that you and this charming young lady, your secretary, will stay here for a few days and see us through our ordeal? I am sure we have not seen the last of the police, and I should welcome your advice and support.'

CHAPTER SEVEN

SWORD DANCE-KIRKBY MALZEARD

'Creaking my shoes on the plain masonry,

Till honour be bought up, and no sword worn

But one to dance with.'

The Taming of the Shrew.

(1)

'My first duty, as I see it,' said Dame Beatrice, 'is to return home to be with Rosamund. If, as you say, the police wish to question everyone who was staying at Galliard Hall at the time (so far as this is known) of Hubert's death, then my place is with the child.'

'But you'll come back?' urged Romilly. 'I need you here. I am not accustomed to have dealings with the police.'

'I hope to come back, in due course. Meanwhile, there is always your lawyer if you need advice. I assume you have already made contact with him.'

'Well, no, but I suppose I had better do so. The police seem to think it odd that Judith and I should have chanced upon the spot where the body was lying. I was compelled to protect myself by explaining what had taken us there.'

'I see that Rosamund undoubtedly will need me to safeguard her interests when the police call at my house.'

'I wish you were staying here, at least for today and tomorrow. I quite anticipated that you would be on hand when the police pay us their next visit. It may even be this afternoon. If not, it is certain to be tomorrow. Could you not stay to dinner and spend the night here? It will be no trouble to Judith to provide a bed for Mrs Gavin.'

'She can have Tancred's room,' said Judith at once. 'The maids have put it to rights.'

'It is very kind of you, but I feel we must get back to Rosamund. I take it that you have given the police my address.'

'We had no choice. We had to account for the whereabouts of all of you. I could be certain of where you and Trilby would be, and equally so in the case of Humphrey and Binnie, but I could give no exact address for Tancred, for, beyond mentioning that he was staying in Shaftesbury, he added no details, and the address to which I wrote when I invited him was a London one. However, they have their way of tracking people down.'

Amabel came out to the car when the visitors had taken their leave. She said, when the window was let down, 'Please, Dame Beatrice, mum, could I speak to you? It's the police, mum. Voilert and Oi, us don't fancy stoppen in a place where the police keeps comen.'

'No, mum,' said Violet, who had followed her out.

'Keep coming? Why, how many times have they called?'

'Twoice a'ready, and comen again tonoight or tomorrow, so Mester warned us. Fritten us, they do.'

'There is no need for you to feel frightened. You certainly cannot leave in the middle of their enquiries. They might think that you had something to hide. In any case, I am quite sure they wouldn't allow you to go.'

'But us don't know nothen about what happened to the poor gentleman, mum, and what us don't know us can't say, can us now?'

'Do you think Amabel was telling the whole truth?' asked Laura, as the car approached the great gates.

'I am convinced she was not. I saw, as you did, her sister's tug on her apron. There is something they both know, and it is the knowledge which frightens them, not the police as such.'

'You didn't try to get it out of them, I noticed.'

'At such an early stage I doubt whether it would have been worth the effort. Besides, I do not think they would have answered a direct question. There are other means to the same end.'

'Have you any idea what it is they know?'

'I have as many theories as there were guests, servants and residents at Galliard Hall last week. The most likely one, so far as I can see at present (which, I may add, is almost no distance at all), is something to do with the non-appearance of Hubert and Willoughby at Galliard Hall at the time for which they were invited.'

'But that might be fearfully important!'

'It might. Time will show. Meanwhile, I shall be very glad indeed to get back to Rosamund.'

They were met at the front door by Celestine, who was quivering with righteous wrath.

'Figure to yourself, madame, the police have come here!'

'Oh, yes? I will see them as soon as I have removed my outdoor things.'

'But they are no longer here, madame. I sent them away. "Never," I said, "do I admit intruders when madame and Madame Gavin are both out of the house. How do I ascertain," I asked them, "that you are not thieves and assassins?" They show me little cards. I pouf at their little cards. "Forgeries," I say. "If not, madame will know, when she comes in. I have heard," I say, "of warrants to search. Have you such warrants?" They say there will be no search, but only a few little questions to the jeune fille madame brings home with her. "There is also a little baby in the house," I tell them. "Shall I have a little baby wake up parmi le bruit de pas, le bruit de pas, comme les chevaux de charrette, made by your big, ugly boots? Non," I say, "but certainly not, messieurs."'

'You'll get us all arrested one of these days,' said Laura.

'You did rightly, Celestine,' said Dame Beatrice. 'The jeune fille I brought with me is in a highly nervous state and in no condition to stand up to police questioning when I am not here.'

'There has been, as usual, an assassination, then,' said Celestine, in a resigned tone, 'and madame will once more be toiling to assist the police to arrest a monster.'

Laura followed Dame Beatrice into the library where they had left Rosamund on their departure for Galliard Hall. The girl was reading, but put down the book as they entered and rose to her feet. Her anxious eyes questioned them. Dame Beatrice said:

'Tancred is quite well, so far as we know. Have you ever met Hubert Lestrange, a clergyman? He was to have joined the houseparty, but did not turn up. We now know why.'

'He is dead?' asked Rosamund.

'Yes. By what means we do not know yet, but the police have had to be told.'

'He was killed, then.'

'The police seem to think so. They want to talk to those persons who were at Galliard Hall last week.'

'And I am one of them.'

'So am I. So are a number of other people.'

'Will the police come here, or shall you and I need to go back there?'

'They will come here.'

'I shall have nothing to tell them.'

'That, most likely, will be my case, too, so there is nothing for us to worry about, thank goodness.'

'I should never worry if you were with me.'

'Good. By the way, it is essential to be quite frank with them.'

Rosamund looked scared.

'But I can be nothing else,' she insisted. 'I don't know anything about Hubert Lestrange at all. I had no idea he was dead.'

'They will ask you to account for your movements, and so forth.'

'Suppose I can't remember?'

'Tell them so.'

'But they'll bully me into trying to remember, won't they? Romilly was always bullying me and shouting at me and losing his temper.'

'The police will not behave like that, I promise you. But don't attempt to conceal anything from them, even if it is embarrassing or painful for you to admit some things which you may wish to keep to yourself. We all have our weak points and it is useless to attempt to disguise or hide them.'

Rosamund looked at the keen, black eyes and the quirky, beaky little mouth and then dropped her own eyes and said quietly:

'You are thinking of something in particular.'

'Yes,' agreed Dame Beatrice, 'I am. As I suppose you know, Hubert's body was found on Dancing Ledge.' She saw the girl flinch. 'Yes,' she went on, 'Romilly will have told the police that he saw you drown the cat and the monkey somewhere along that stretch of coast, and throw the large doll into the sea.'

'But you don't believe him, do you?'

'No, I do not, but I am anxious that you shall not deny having run away to those cliffs or that Romilly found you and brought you back-that is, if these things really happened.'

'But the police may believe I drowned things-living creatures-and they may think I'm mad, and that I pushed Hubert over the cliff.'

'Tell the truth, simply and openly. Then I can help you. And now I will tell you the truth about myself. My name is not Beatrice Adler. I did not correct you at the time, because it was unnecessary and, for you, perhaps, alarming. I am Beatrice Adela Lestrange Bradley, and I am attached to the Home Office in the capacity of psychiatric adviser.'

'But then-but then-' she raised her eyes and gazed first at Dame Beatrice, who had seated herself composedly in an armchair, and then at the tall and magnificent Laura, who, like Rosamund herself, was still standing.

'Yes,' said Dame Beatrice quietly, 'failing yourself and Romilly, who is quite as infamous a man as you have always suspected, I am the heiress named in your grandfather's Will. Nevertheless, I have every intention of seeing that you get your rights. I cannot prove this to you at present. I can only ask you to believe me and to tell the police the whole truth.'

'But I-but I-'

'There's nothing else you can do,' interpolated Laura bluntly, 'so there's no point in raising objections. Besides, you're being cagey. You read this morning about the body on Dancing Ledge.'

(2)

The police, called up by Laura and told that Dame Beatrice was at home and would be pleased to see them, turned up in the person of a friend of hers, Detective-Inspector Nicholas Kirkby, recently promoted, youngish, keen, efficient and fair-minded. He was shown into the library, where she greeted him warmly. Laura had already made his acquaintance through Dame Beatrice and her own husband, so Rosamund was introduced and the two young women went out of the room.

'So that's the young girl I've been hearing about,' said Kirkby. 'The lady who chucks things, animate and inanimate, into the sea. The theory at Galliard Hall seems to be that this dead man was one of them. What can you tell me about her, Dame Beatrice? I was told you've been staying at the house, but left before the body was discovered.'

'That is so. I was invited to go to Galliard Hall to examine and treat this girl with a view to curing her of what I was told was an obsession. In my opinion, she is perfectly normal, and the stories which have been put about are lies. I hasten to add that this is only an opinion. After all, I have only known her for about a week. In her own view, she is the centre of a conspiracy to rob her of her fortune. When she dies, after she attains the age of twenty-five, the money goes to the man who claims to be her husband.'

'Mr Romilly Lestrange? Yes, he told me she was his wife. Why, do you doubt it, Dame Beatrice?'

'Yes, I do. I believe the girl, who asserts that she is merely his ward. I think the housekeeper, Mrs Judith, may be married to him.'

'It sounds an odd sort of set-up. Reminds you of a mid-Victorian novel, doesn't it? However, all I have to find out at the moment is who killed the Reverend Hubert Lestrange, so I am trying to discover where everybody was, and what each of the household was doing, at the probable time of his death.'

'And when was that?'

'That's my chief difficulty at present. It's hard to pin the doctors down about it. The furthest they will go is to say that when they examined him he had probably been dead for five or six days, but that, as the body had been in water, it could be as long as seven or eight days. Now, just for the record, could I have an account of your own movements for the past eight days?'

'Certainly. That takes us back to yesterday (Sunday) week, does it not?' She opened a table drawer and took out her engagement book. 'Last Sunday week I was at home here and, apart from a stroll in the garden to look at the early daffodils, I did not leave the house. 'Last Monday I went to London on a routine visit to my clinic. I caught the early train-the slow one, because the fast, which comes through from Weymouth, does not stop at Brockenhurst-and reached my clinic at twelve. I lunched at half-past one at the Dorchester, where they will remember me, took a short stroll in the Park and returned to my clinic at three. I remained there until half-past four, took tea there with the resident staff, had about an hour's conversation with the doctor-in-charge, and caught the six-thirty fast train from Waterloo to Bournemouth, where my chauffeur met me with the car. I arrived home at approximately nine o'clock, dined, talked to Laura, sent her to bed and then I stayed up and read until about midnight.'

'That seems to account very nicely for Sunday and Monday.'

'On Tuesday I attended the baptism of Laura's baby daughter. We lunched at home and the ceremony was at three in the village church. After the ceremony, which was also attended by the Assistant Commissioner and his son, I told Laura that I had received an invitation to stay at Galliard Hall.'

'Oh, yes. When did you receive this invitation?'

'On the previous Thursday. Laura usually attends to my correspondence, but this envelope was marked Personal, so, of course, she did not open it and, as I did not make up my mind immediately whether to accept or not, I did not mention it until I had come to a decision.'

'But you did accept the invitation?'

'Oh, yes, after some thought, I wrote to Romilly Lestrange on the Monday, while I was at my clinic, and posted the letter at Waterloo.'

'May I ask why it took you from the Thursday until the Monday to make up your mind?'

'Certainly you may. I had never heard of Romilly Lestrange, and his claim to be my cousin by my first marriage I mentally queried. This being so, I decided that Romilly might be a scoundrel, and I thought I would add him to my collection of smooth villains. I have done so with the greatest delight.'

'That, then, brings us to Wednesday and the time you actually spent at Galliard Hall.'

Dame Beatrice gave him a detailed account of her stay, including her talks with Rosamund and the others. He did not ask any questions until she had finished. Then he said:

'So you disbelieve Mr Romilly Lestrange's description of the strange conduct of the young lady, and she, in spite of what he told you, insists she is not his wife.'

'At present I am inclined to believe the girl. I think she has been worried, thwarted and unhappy, but that is not all. I believe she has gone in fear of her life. I do not know who Romilly is, but I doubt whether he is a member of my first husband's family. There is much that I intend to find out, but, so long as the girl is safe, I am in no hurry to continue my investigations on her behalf. They can wait until you have cleared up your case. May I ask what makes you regard the Reverend Hubert's death as murder?'

'That he was murdered is only our theory. It may have been suicide, but, considering his vocation, we are doubtful about that. However, if he hadn't been a clergyman we should have been more open-minded about suicide than we are. Our object, when we've heard what our witnesses have to tell us, is to try to find out what on earth he was doing on the cliff at all.'

'I wonder whether he had paid any previous visits to Galliard Hall? I understand that he had not.'

'That's something I hope to find out. You mean he may have been decoyed on to the cliff-top. If he didn't know the countryside, he wouldn't have realised that Dancing Ledge is not on the way to Galliard Hall. I asked Mr Romilly for a list of his guests-and his household. I wonder whether you would be good enough to check it with me?'

'I can only be sure of the people who were in the house while I myself was there, of course.' She checked the list he handed over. 'That is correct, so far as I know.'

'Good. Perhaps I could talk to-I shall have to call her Mrs Lestrange, I suppose-in your presence?'

Rosamund appeared nervous. She was still wearing the clothes lent by Binnie, since there had been no time to get her fitted out, and Kirkby was confronted by a slim, fair-haired, innocent-eyed creature in an unfashionably long skirt-for she was shorter than Binnie-and a cardigan which was almost all-enveloping, since she did not possess Binnie's beautifully-moulded figure.

Dame Beatrice presented the detective-inspector, who said at once:

'I only want to ask you one or two questions which I think you will find easy enough to answer, Mrs Lestrange.'

'No, please,' she said, 'that is not my name. I am Miss, not Mrs Lestrange. Romilly is my guardian, not my husband. I know what he told Dame Beatrice, but it simply isn't true. I'm not married, I'm not mad, I don't drown things and I haven't had a miscarriage. I've never been pregnant. I shall inherit a fortune on May 29th and I don't ever, ever want to go back to Galliard Hall.'

'Well, that seems a pretty comprehensive summing-up, Miss Lestrange, but it isn't what I've come here to find out. When did you last go to Dancing Ledge?'

'I can't remember the date. It would have been quite a long time ago. I was running away from Romilly, but he chased after me and brought me back. It was after that, that he and Judith wouldn't let me have proper clothes to wear. They took all my things away and left me only fancy dress-stage armour and a Georgian costume and that sort of thing-so that I couldn't go out.'

'A Georgian costume, eh? With all the accessories, no doubt. Can you remember what you did last Sunday week?'

'Yes. I read The Woman in White.'

'All day long?'

'Except for meal-times, yes.'

'Then Mr Romilly was mistaken when he told us that you might have slipped out of the house. What about the next day?'

'I went on reading my book.'

'And on the Tuesday, a week ago today?'

'Romilly told me he had sent for Dame Beatrice-only he called her Professor Beatrice Adler-and he said that she was a psychiatrist and would be examining me.'

'Did that cause you alarm?'

'Yes, of course. You see, if Romilly can prove, before I am twenty-five, that I'm not fit to manage my own affairs, my fortune will go to him, provided that he gives me a home and treats me kindly.'

'I see. Well, we can go into that later, perhaps. What did you do for the remainder of the day?'

'I wrote a long letter to Dame Beatrice, telling her all about myself.'

'Did you give it to her?'

'No. I thought I would find out first what she was like and whether she would be prepared to help me. I went to her room on the Wednesday evening, when I knew the others would be downstairs, and I found-I decided-that it wouldn't be necessary to show her the letter. She would be my friend, I felt sure of that. I have the utmost trust in her.'

'And, apart from going to Swanage with Dame Beatrice, during that week you did not leave Galliard Hall until you had an outing to Shaftesbury and then came here?'

'Only to go into an enclosed bit of garden they let me use when I needed fresh air and exercise, otherwise I never went out.'

'Which of the invited guests had you known before they arrived at Galliard Hall?'

'All of them, but only very slightly.'

'I take it you also knew Hubert and Willoughby Lestrange, as they were related to you. Had you known them long?'

'I knew Willoughby, because he was my grandfather's secretary. Hubert conducted my grandfather's funeral service. I did not know him before that.'

'I thought you said you did not know him at all,' Dame Beatrice mildly interpolated.

'Well, you couldn't call that knowing him!' protested the girl. Dame Beatrice let it pass.

'And Willoughby?' went on Kirkby. 'What about him?'

'I don't know what's happened to him. He lived in our hotel, so I knew him quite well, but, of course, he had nothing but his salary, so he had to get another post when grandfather died, and until I heard he was invited to Galliard Hall, I had never heard of him again.'

'How did you know he had been invited?'

'I didn't, at first. I wasn't told who had been invited until they came. It was Tancred who told me that Hubert and Willoughby had been invited and hadn't turned up. He told me so in bed on the second night of his stay. I asked him more about it when we were both in Dame Beatrice's car on our way to Shaftesbury. He recited a lot of his poetry to me on the journey, because, of course, we couldn't do anything but talk. I don't think I love Tancred, but he was sweet and kind, and such fun.'

'How were you treated at Galliard Hall? You say Mrs Binnie Provost and Mr Tancred were kind. How did Mr Romilly treat you?'

'Quite well, in lots of ways. I mean, I had plenty to eat, and the two maids were nice, and I had lots and lots of books. I love reading. I had a radio set, too, but they took that away just before Dame Beatrice came.'

'You had freedom to move about the house?'

'I suppose so. There wasn't much point. I had my meals by myself, but I liked it better that way. When I was with them they always treated me like a child who wasn't right in the head. It was dreadful to fight against that!'

'It must have been. Let me get one thing clear. You knew Mr Hubert and Mr Willoughby when you were with your grandfather?'

'Yes-if you call it knowing Hubert. I only saw him once.'

'Have you ever met them at Galliard Hall?'

'No, never, and I had only met the others once before.'

'At Galliard Hall?'

'Yes. Romilly gave a house-warming and they all turned up to it.'

'Thank you, Miss Lestrange. I think that is all for the present.'

He was turning to go when a thought seemed to strike him.

'Just half a minute,' he said. He went into the hall and returned carrying an unsheathed sword. 'I suppose neither of you has seen this thing before?' he asked.

'It's a rapier, isn't it?' asked Rosamund.

'Could it have come from Galliard Hall?' asked Kirkby.

'It could have done, I suppose. Romilly has a small collection of weapons, I believe, but I've never taken any interest in the things.'

'You did not wear a sword as part of your Georgian costume, then, Miss Lestrange?'

'There was nothing short enough for me, I imagine. Romilly and Judith provided the costumes, but I certainly was never given a sword.'

'Only a horse-pistol,' said Dame Beatrice.

Kirkby stood the weapon upright on its pommel, thoughtfully sparing Dame Beatrice's carpet, for the point of the sword was very sharp.

'This thing is not a rapier,' he said. I am told that it is a small-sword, although, as you see, the blade is of a pretty fair length. It measures, as a matter of fact, thirty-two and a half inches, and, with the hilt, another six and a quarter inches, so, as you say, it would be too long for you to wear as part of your costume, although the date of it, according to my information, would be about right for Georgian dress. You're sure you've never seen it before?'

'I'm perfectly sure. Anyway, oughtn't it to have a sheath? It looks very dangerous like that.'

'We're still in hopes of finding the sheath, but it doesn't matter if we don't.'

'I don't see why you've brought the sword here,' said Rosamund in an unusually spirited tone.

'As I said, Miss Lestrange, to find out whether you could identify it. We're very anxious to know where it came from.'

'Why-is it-is it...'

'We don't know for certain, not yet, but Mr Romilly picked it up on the cliff-top not a long way from Dancing Ledge.'

'By the way,' said Dame Beatrice, 'who identified the body?'

'Mr Romilly Lestrange. We've questioned him about finding the poor young gentleman and he told us that his nephews Hubert and Willoughby had not turned up at Galliard Hall, so we got him to make a formal identification, which, I may add, he was unwilling to do until we pointed out there was nothing to fear.'

'Nothing to fear?' echoed Rosamund. 'When somebody has been killed, and a sword has been found with Romilly's fingerprints on it, and you're questioning everybody who was at Galliard Hall last week? How can there be nothing to fear?'

'Now, now, miss,' said Kirkby. 'Nothing to fear, and nothing to get excited about, so long as you're an innocent party. Now you seem to be in Mr Tancred's confidence to a certain extent, and you went in the car with him and Dame Beatrice to Shaftesbury. It's not where he lives-at least, it's not his permanent address as given by Mr Romilly Lestrange-so do you know how long he intends to stay there?'

'I don't know anything about it. We left him outside a church...'

'St Peter's,' said Dame Beatrice, 'in Shaftesbury.'

'He didn't mention his plans, miss?'

'Not to me.'

'Right. Thank you, Miss Lestrange. I'll have to find him, of course.'

CHAPTER EIGHT

CORANTO-FELIX NAPOLEON'S FANCY

'Will it please you to see the epilogue, or to hear a Burgomask dance between two of our company?'

A Midsummer Night's Dream.

(1)

Tancred was tracked down without the slightest difficulty. Accompanied by Dame Beatrice (her companionship sufficiently accounted for on the score that she knew the people concerned), Kirkby went straight to the police station in Shaftesbury.

'Provost?' said the desk-sergeant. 'Why, yes, sir. He's on bail, on his own recognisances. Charged with causing a breach of the peace- to wit, getting drunk, insisting on reciting poetry and assaulting the landlord when requested to leave. His case comes up tomorrow morning.'

'I'm investigating that case of the clergyman found dead on Dancing Ledge. This man Provost may be able to help me.'

'Well, you'll find him in his caravan on Fuddy's Farm Fields, about four miles from here. He's living there, as usual, with a friend.' He gave concise directions. The friend's a female,' he added.

'Is she also a lover of poetry?' Dame Beatrice enquired.

'She'll have to be, ma'am, with that one. He writes it. Let's hope, for his own sake, he doesn't start reciting to the magistrates. Sir Bentham will send him down without the option if he does.'

'Show me on the map where this place is,' said Kirkby. The sergeant pin-pointed Fuddy's Farm Fields on the large-scale wall-map. 'I see. The Blandford road, and branch off at the foot of Melbury Hill. Doesn't look much like farming country.'

'The farm itself is more than three miles away.'

'Oh, yes, I see. Thanks, Sergeant. Well, I think I can find my way.'

'Anything else I can do, sir?'

'Might be-later on.'

(2)

The caravan was sheltered not only from the north by the noble, beacon-topped hill, but from the south-west by a small wood. They found Tancred, in a sheepskin jacket, jeans and fur-lined boots, seated on the steps of his caravan, engaged, apparently, with his Muse, for he had a large scribbling-tablet on his knees and a pencil in his hand.

'Oh, Lord!' he said, looking up, as, the car having come to a bumping halt on the wheel-rutted turf, he saw Dame Beatrice. 'So you've tracked me down, have you? Trust the blasted police to give me away!'

'I am the police,' said Kirkby. 'I am conducting an investigation into the death of the Reverend Hubert Lestrange, whose body was found below the cliff's on Dancing Ledge.'

'So that's who it was,' said Tancred.

'Sir?'

'Oh, I spotted it, you know, last-when would that have been?-last Tuesday. Yes, that's right. Day after I'd accepted my invitation to old Romilly's place, Galliard Hall. I wrote a ballad about it. You know-four-line stanzas with a b c b rhymes. Martha set a tune to it, and we have it as one of our fireside songs. Would you care to hear it?'

'You saw the body last Tuesday? What time would that have been, sir?'

'Let's see, now. We'd come up here from London the day before. Martha drove me to Blandford for her weekly shopping, and we got there at ten and had loaded up the boot of her car by about eleven, I suppose. We'd planned to get lunch out, but it was much too early to have it then, so I said, 'Why don't we stick old Romilly up? Save our money, and give me a chance to find out what sort of ideas he's got, because he's holding a family pow-wow and I wouldn't mind having a shot at finding out why.' Well, Martha wouldn't wear it, so I said, 'Well, it wouldn't hurt for you to have a look at the outside of it. It's crumbling a bit, but it's a fine old place. We'll have lunch in Wareham and go on from there.'

'And did you lunch in Wareham, sir?'

'Well, no-at least, not table d'hôte. More à la carte, if you know what I mean. We bought rolls and ham and cheese and apples and beer, and had an al fresco in the car.'

'Whereabouts, sir?'

'There's a rather jolly little parking-place on the quay. All right this time of year, but the hell of a place to get out of in the holiday season because of the two-way traffic on the Swanage road.'

'And then, sir?'

'Well, then we came out and drove over the bridge, and we were all right until we got to Langton Matravers, but it appeared we'd missed some sort of turning and had come too far south or east or something. The post-office people directed us, but it sounded so horribly complicated that, after we'd looked at the map, when we got back into the car, Martha said, "Let's pack it in, and go and have a look at the sea. The cliffs are marvellous this side of Swanage." So, of course, that's how I came to spot the body, but I hadn't a clue who it was.'

'You did not examine it, sir?'

'Good Lord, no! I'm a poet, not a blasted bloodhound! It gave me the idea for this ballad, though. That's the main thing.'

'It did not occur to you that the gentleman might not be dead, and that maybe you could help him?'

'He was dead enough! The waves were gently rolling him about.'

'And you did not report what you had seen?'

'Why should I? It never occurred to me. Martha was a bit chastened, so I piloted her to the car and comforted her, and then we drove back to Wareham and had tea in that jolly bow-window place where they have lashings of cream and always do you so well.'

'May I have the young lady's address, sir?'

'Well, for the present, she's living here. You're not going to bully her, I hope? She can't tell you any more than I can, and, anyway, at present, she's out.'

'When do you expect her back, sir?'

'God knows! She's gone in to Shaftesbury to have her hair done.'

'We'll wait, sir. Have you anywhere for Dame Beatrice to sit down?'

'Why, yes, of course. Come in, both of you. Martha cleared up before she went, so there's plenty of room. By the way, just as a matter of interest, who says the body was Hubert's?'

'Mr Romilly Lestrange, of course, sir,' replied Kirkby, giving him a long stare.

(3)

Martha was a very pretty girl, small-boned, well-groomed, supremely mistress of herself and, in both senses, mistress of Tancred.

'Go and sit in the car,' she said to him, when Kirkby had stated his business, 'and don't come back until I tell you. If you want something to do, you can peel the potatoes. We're having Irish stew tonight.'

Having got rid of him, she turned to Kirkby and asked:

'Have you come about the court-case? Is it worse than he told me? I hope he hasn't done anything really silly. He never does behave himself in pubs. Thank goodness I wasn't with him.'

'But you were with him on the day he went to Dancing Ledge.'

'Oh, dear! Don't remind me of that! There was nothing we could do, you know. The poor man was hideously dead.'

'You could have reported finding the body.'

'I told Tancred that, but he wouldn't, and he begged me not to. He's such a baby, you know. He always runs away from anything awkward. To stifle my curiosity, do tell me whether he seduced all the women at Galliard Hall-or only one of them. There were three possibles, he told me. He always runs into trouble when I can't keep him under my eye. I suppose he takes after that naughty old great-uncle of his, don't you? You know-the one with all that lovely money. Tancred hoped the Provosts would come in for something, but it's all been left to one of the Lestrange girls. It seems he took a fancy to her and adopted her. Disappointing, don't you think?'

'I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Old Felix Napoleon, the old horror who's caused all this mix-up.'

'Do you refer to the death of the Reverend Hubert Lestrange, miss?'

'Not that, so much. I really meant the old Bluebeard's Will. Tancred went to bed with the heiress while he was staying at Galliard Hall, and she seems to have told him her troubles.'

'I wonder whether his version was the same as mine?' asked Dame Beatrice. 'Did he confide it to you?'

'Yes. He's quite a tender-hearted idiot where girls are concerned-a lot too tender-hearted for me to dream of going steady with him-and this girl seems to have given him quite a story. Seems she's out of the frying-pan into the fire. She'd been adopted by this old rip...'

'Felix Napoleon Lestrange,' interpolated Dame Beatrice.

'...and all went merrily until the old boy introduced a chorus girl, or some such, into the menage, and went such a bust on this female that for a long time-a couple of years, at least-the poor girl thought her inheritance was in danger, and that Felix the tomcat would marry this buskined beauty and she would cop the kitty when he died.

'Fortunately, this didn't happen. He gave the floosie the air when he found himself sinking, and the Will, so far as it goes, is as it should be, except for one small but all-important proviso. If the heiress goes cuckoo, or if she dies, Romilly Lestrange cops the lot. Well, of course, she's bound to die sooner or later-we all are-but, naturally, she doesn't want it to be sooner and she doesn't want it to be assisted.'

'You mean she doesn't want to be murdered by Mr Romilly,' said Kirkby unemotionally. 'Anything more, miss?'

'Well, it's all a lot of boloney, I think,' said Martha, 'but I don't suppose this murder business is going to make her feel any better about things, and she told Tancred she isn't only afraid of this Romilly, but also of the dispossessed chorus lady, who must also be gunning for her, and was expecting a baby by old Felix Napoleon and might show up at any minute, complete with child, and create hell and demand her rights and all that kind of what-have-you.'

'The baby would be illegitimate, miss.'

'Yes, but don't they have rights or something, these days? Heirs of the body, and so forth? Anyhow, be that as it may, this Trilby, according to Tancred, is in a real old spider's-web of intrigue and is talking of cutting her throat as the best way out of it.'

'This is all very interesting, no doubt, miss, but it doesn't help me.'

'Are you going to find out about this baby?'

'The question does not come within the scope of my enquiry, miss. Will you give me your account of the way in which you spent last Tuesday?'

Martha's account tallied almost word for word with Tancred's. Kirkby wondered whether they had rehearsed it.

'I'll have to get confirmation of their story,' he said. 'If the Reverend Mr Lestrange was already dead on the Tuesday, there's no point in finding out what the house-party did after that.'

'The coastguard stations, according to the Ordnance Survey,' said Dame Beatrice, 'are at Peveril Point and just south of the secondary road which leaves Worth Matravers for Ranscombe Farm. From neither spot would Dancing Ledge be visible, I imagine.'

'Probably not, ma'am. Well, if you'll drop me off in Shaftesbury, I'll have another word about Mr Tancred Provost with our chaps at the station. They'll take me to Wareham, and I'll work Provost's story back from there. He's a sufficiently striking-looking lad for the people in the tea-shop to remember. I don't suppose they get crowds of people on a Tuesday at this time of year. Then I'll tackle the post-office people at Langton Matravers.'

'Is there anything I can do in the meantime?'

'I hardly think so. When I've checked Provost's story (if I'm able to), I'll go along to Galliard Hall again and have another word with Mr Romilly.'

'Mr Giles Provost was there when you called, I suppose? He'd got back from the New Forest?'

'Oh, yes, but he'd nothing to tell me. He had been out with the New Forest Hunt all right, but that (if Tancred Provost's story is true) can't do anything to help us. I'll have to tackle him from the other end-his home-and find out what he was doing before he went to Galliard Hall. According to the housekeeper-although I think she's a lot more than that-there was bad blood between the Lestrange family and the Provosts, so the murder might tie up with a sort of vendetta. It seems a bit peculiar, if such was the case, that they had all been invited to Galliard Hall at the same time.'

'Yes, Mrs Judith told me that she had advised against having members of the two families in the house together, but that Mr Romilly had overruled her. He appears to have been amusing himself in an unkind manner at their expense. It seems that he had promised them, falsely, certain benefits, as an inducement to them to come and visit him.' 'What kind of benefits, ma'am?-monetary ones?'

'Well, not exactly. It seems that he promised Mr Tancred a publisher who would pay for printing his poems, and the schoolmaster, Mr Humphrey, a much better post. I have never met the Reverend Mr Hubert, of course, but Romilly spoke of getting him preferment of some kind.'

'That sort of thing? I see. Been less surprising, then, if Mr Romilly had been bumped off, instead of the Reverend Hubert, wouldn't it?'

'I have a theory that one of those who suffered disappointment may have gone so far as to attempt to murder him.' She told Kirkby of the mysterious but abortive shot in the night.

'There are two other people at the Hall I want to interview,' he said, when he had listened to the story. 'They were in Bournemouth when I visited the Hall.'

'Oh, the twin brother and sister, Corin and Corinna Lestrange. Yes, they are appearing on stage in Bournemouth this week. I expect they were rehearsing when you called. They, and Mr Giles, were the persons who really did benefit, although only in a very small way, from their visit.'

'Oh? How was that, then, ma'am?'

'The twins were offered free board and lodging for the period of their theatrical engagement, and Mr Giles obtained the loan of a horse for the hunting-field. I do not think Romilly mentioned to you that not only the Reverend Hubert but the eighth member of the party did not turn up?'

'Who would that be?'

'Mr Willoughby, whom Rosamund mentioned to you. He is the Reverend Hubert's brother, and appears to be missing.'

'Yes, I've heard of it. It might be very important. I'll ask Mr Romilly about him.'

'I certainly think you should do that.'

'One thing I've proved. The married couple, Mr and Mrs Humphrey Provost, are in the clear. There's no doubt their alibis are unshakeable.'

'I'm glad of that,' said Dame Beatrice. Kirkby said thoughtfully:

'One Lestrange dead-either suicide or murder-and another missing? I'll certainly look into that. Well, ma'am, I'm most grateful for your help. If I may, I'll call on you again and let you know how things are going. It will need to be soon, because of the inquest.'

(4)

'So, according to his light-of-love, Tancred runs away from anything unpleasant,' said Laura. 'By the way, Celestine tells me we had a visitor. Pity there was nobody at home. You were off on a toot with the detective-inspector and I, in accordance with your instructions, had whisked Rosamund off to Bournemouth to get her fitted out with clothes.'

'Who was the visitor?'

'He didn't leave his name or a card.'

'Romilly, I venture to suppose. Did Celestine describe him?'

'A tall, smooth-faced, dark-eyed, grey-haired gentleman of late middle-age, wearing a very good grey overcoat and a black hat. He asked to be allowed to come in and wait, but she explained that we were both out for the day and she had no idea when to expect us. He then asked to see Rosamund, whom he called "the young Mrs Lestrange, who is staying here," and was informed that she had gone out with me, but that I had not said where I was going.'

'At what time was this?'

'At about eleven this morning, Celestine said. By the way, did you have any lunch?'

'Yes, in Shaftesbury.'

'We had ours in Bournemouth. How do you like the suit Rosamund is wearing?'

'I'm most concerned about having to owe you so much money, Dame Beatrice,' said the girl, 'but I hope that, by the end of May, I shall be able to pay everything back-everything but your kindness, of course. That I can never repay.'

'Well,' said Dame Beatrice, 'we have plans for you, to keep you safely out of the way until all the problems are solved. You are going to stay with Laura's parents in Scotland. It is all arranged.'

'In Scotland? I shall feel safer there, now Romilly has been to this house. Suppose I had been alone here when he came!'

'Well, you weren't,' said Laura, 'so don't panic. I'm taking you to London tomorrow, and one of the nurses at Dame Beatrice's clinic will take you on to Glasgow, where my brother and his wife will meet you and take you to my home. There's nothing for you to worry about. It's all taken care of. There's the dressing-bell. Push off upstairs and put on that dinner-gown you chose. It's a smash-hit-in any language.'

'I like your brisk and business-like tone when you speak to Rosamund,' said Dame Beatrice.

'Ah,' said Laura, squinting down her nose, 'a talented nursery-governess was lost in me. Well, we'd better go up, too, I suppose. One of these days I shall come down in jeans and a windcheater, just to see the effect it has on Celestine. It's because of her I dress for dinner, you know, not really because I want to.'

'You have been with Rosamund all day. What do you make of the child?'

'Not too sure I like her. Bit of a rabbit, I think, to let herself be given the run-around by the despicable old Romilly. After all, this is the third quarter of the twentieth century and she is twenty-four years old, although I'll admit she doesn't look it.'

'Romilly is a cunning and unscrupulous man, I fear. I will accompany you to London tomorrow and see Rosamund handed over to the care of Nurse Merrow. After that, while you suborn your husband to neglect his duties and take you to Scotland with Rosamund and Nurse Merrow, I shall lunch by myself in Soho and then visit my sister-in-law. There is nothing Selina does not know about the ramifications of the Lestrange family tree, and if I ask her to place these new relatives of mine upon the appropriate branches she will feel that, at last, I am showing a proper interest. George will pick me up at her house and take me back to the clinic, and I will wait for you and Rosamund there. Keep dear Robert with you as long as you can. You see far too little of one another for the parents of an eight-months-old baby.'

'If we'd seen less of one another, there might not be an eight-months-old baby, and that wouldn't break my heart,' said Laura, grinning. 'But what's all this about the family tree?'

'I am hoping that Selina can hang Felix Napoleon on it, that is all, and Romilly, too.'

CHAPTER NINE

BOLERO-MOTHER AND SON

'Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear,

Or, like a fairy, trip upon the green.'

Venus and Adonis.

(1)

Lady Selina Lestrange had always regarded her more eccentric relatives with suspicion and disapproval, and it was with false cordiality that she welcomed Dame Beatrice to the ancestral home. She was the relict of Dame Beatrice's first husband's brother, and therefore the relationship between the two elderly ladies was not consanguinous and they had nothing in common except their age and sex.

'Well, Adela,' she said, 'this is a surprise!'

'Yes,' agreed Dame Beatrice, meekly.

'If I had known you were coming...'

'I am not going to stay,' Dame Beatrice assured her. 'My business may take half-an-hour, or very little longer, at the most. I come in search of information.'

'Not another of your odious cases of murder!'

'A by-product of one. Did you know that Hubert has been killed?'

'Hubert? Hubert who?'

'The Reverend Hubert Lestrange.'

'I have never heard of him.'

'That is most interesting. I wonder whether you have heard, then, of Felix Napoleon?'

'Oh, dear! Please don't mention that old reprobate!'

'Who was he?'

'He was some sort of cousin. He was descended from a pirate or a bushranger, I believe-something disgraceful, anyway. We have never recognised the relationship, needless to say.'

'But he had a right to his name?'

'Oh, he was a Lestrange, if that is what you mean. He was also extremely wealthy, as a result, I have always supposed, of his ill-gotten inheritance.'

'Is there any reason why he should have entertained kindly feelings towards me?'

'Towards you? Why, did he?'

'Failing his granddaughter and her next-of-kin, he seems to have left his fortune to me.'

'Oh, well, if there is a granddaughter, you are hardly likely to outlive her.'

'In the midst of life, of course-but you have failed to grasp the purport of my question. Apart from any suggestion of a legacy, why should he have thought of me at all? To my certain knowledge, I have neither met him nor corresponded with him. In fact, I am perfectly certain that I did not know of his existence until very recently.'

'If he mentioned anybody, apart from his nearest relatives, in his Will, it ought to have been Ferdinand.'

'My son Ferdinand? Why, what has Ferdinand done? Successfully defended him against a charge of some kind?'

'Exactly.'

'Then why have I not heard of it?'

'You were in America at the time, and it never became a cause célèbre. The unspeakable Felix Napoleon was thought to have strangled a chorus girl or a member of a corps de ballet or something. She had borne an illegitimate child which she was attempting to foist on him, I believe. Anyway, Ferdinand was mixed up in it somehow.'

'Oh, was there an illegitimate child?'

'Oh, yes. That was not in dispute.'

'You would not, of course, remember the baby's name?'

'Certainly not.'

'You never heard it?'

'I may have done. I should not dream of charging my memory with anything to do with such disgraceful goings-on.'

'Suppose I suggested to you the name Romilly?'

'Is it of any importance?'

'I think it may be of very great importance.'

'You mean that this Romilly may have a claim on us?'

'I think he may well consider himself to have a claim on his natural father's fortune. As it is, a life interest in it is left to Felix Napoleon's granddaughter, provided that she attains her twenty-fifth birthday. At her death the money goes to this Romilly. If she does not live to be twenty-five, I am to benefit.'

'What has the death of a clergyman to do with all this?'

'That is what I have to find out. It is all very mysterious at present. Hubert seems to have been on his way to Romilly's house when he met his death, and yet the spot where his body was found does not suggest that he was on the direct route to Galliard Hall. The police have the matter in hand, but I was hoping that you would be able to give me a pointer or two which might be of help to them.'

'I am sorry, but you can scarcely expect me to interest myself in the affair.'

'You have at least persuaded me that Romilly may have some right to his surname, and that is progress of a kind.'

'You have already said that you think he may be Felix Napoleon's natural son, but that gives him no right to call himself Lestrange.'

'I have never seen why a natural son should have no right to his father's name when that name is known and the claim acknowledged.'

'Opinions differ, and I must say that I think you are unwise to have mixed yourself up in the affair.'

'It is too long a story to tell you, and I doubt whether you would be interested in it, but I had no option.'

'Because of the fortune?'

'No. Because Romilly called me in in my professional capacity as a psychiatrist.'

'You mean that the man is mad?'

'No. He was hoping I would say that the heiress presumptive is incapable of managing her own affairs. If I did so, her expectations, for all practical purposes, would cease to exist.'

'It seems that, as usual, you have got yourself mixed up in villainy.'

'That is what I think. Before I go, I must try your exemplary patience a little further. Do the names Willoughby, Corin and Corinna mean anything to you?'

'Corin and Corinna are Sally's children, and therefore are my grandchildren. Their father thought it better that they did not use his name, as they are on the stage in some dubious kind of way, so, to my great annoyance, they have taken their mother's maiden name of Lestrange.'

'I thought Sally's children were named Montmorency and Clotilda. I was present at their christening, if you remember.'

'Those would scarcely be names which could be used for the kind of act which I believe they perpetrate.'

'No, I see that. Oh, well, that accounts for them. What about Willoughby?'

'I have never heard of him.'