Dead Mrs Stratton (Jumping Jenny)

CHAPTER I THE GALLOWS TREE

FROM the triple gallows three figures swung lazily, one woman and two men.

Only a gentle creaking of their ropes sounded in the quiet night. A horn lantern, perched above the triangle of the crosspieces, swayed in the slight wind, causing the three shadows to leap and prance on the ground in a grotesque dance of death, like some macabre travesty of a slow - motion film in silhouette.

"Very nice," said Roger Sheringham.

"It is rather charming, isn't it?" agreed his host.

"Two jumping jacks, I see, and one jumping jenny."

"Jumping jenny?"

"Doesn't Stevenson in Catriona call them jumping jacks? And I suppose the feminine would be jumping jenny."

"I suppose it would."

"Morbid devil, Ronald," Roger said curiously, "aren't you?"

Ronald Stratton laughed. "Well, I thought at a murderer - and - victim party the least one could have was a gallows. It took me quite a long time to stuff those chaps with straw. Two of my suits, and an old dress dug up from goodness knows where. I may be morbid, but I am conscientious."

"It's extremely effective," Roger said politely.

"It is, rather, isn't it? You know, I should hate to be hanged. So very ignominious, to say the least. Really, Roger, I don't think murder's worth it. Well, let's go down and have a drink."

The two men went towards the door, in a little gable of its own, which led from the big flat roof on which the gallows had been erected into the house. The little gable carrying the door projected at right angles from a larger one, and almost in the angle was a short flight of iron steps leading over the tiles and ending apparently in nothing. The glint of the bright moonlight on the metal caught Roger's eye, and he jerked his head towards it. "What's up there? Not another flat roof?"

"Yes, a small one. I ran a flat across the top of those two parallel gables. They used to be an awful nuisance when there was any snow or stormy weather. I thought the flat would be rather pleasant as an observation point; one gets a big view from it. But I don't suppose I go up there once a year."

Roger nodded, and the two passed through the doorway and down the flight of stairs which led from the roof. They crossed the top landing of an ancient well staircase, passed the open door of a very large room full of oak beams and dim corners in the gabled ceiling, where a dozen murderers and murderesses were dancing on a parquet floor to a very modern radio - gramophone, and walked into another room, scarcely less large, at the end of the landing.

As they stepped into the lighted area, it could be seen that Roger's companion was picturesquely dressed in a black velvet suit and knee breeches; he and his younger brother, David Stratton, represented the Princes in the Tower. Roger himself, clinging, like most of the men present, to the conventional dinner jacket and black tie, had announced that he was Gentleman George Joseph Smith, of Brides - in - the - Bath fame, who did not know that he ought to have come in a white tie and tails.

Stratton looked hospitable with bottles. "What will you have?"

"What have you got?" asked his guest cautiously.

Roger having been furnished with a tankard of old ale, and his host with a whiskey - and - soda, the two men leaned their backs against the heavy oak crossbeam of the wide open fireplace and, warming themselves pleasantly in the traditional masculine regions, continued to chat lightly upon sudden death.

Roger did not know Ronald Stratton particularly well. Stratton was something of a dilettante: a man in young middle age, comparatively wealthy, who wrote detective stories because it amused him to do so. His detective stories were efficient, imaginative, and full of a rather gruesome humour. The idea of this party exactly carried out the light - handed treatment of death in his books. There were about a couple of dozen guests, certainly not more, and each one was supposed to represent a well - known murderer or his victim. The idea was not strictly original, but the embellishment of a gallows on the flat roof was, typically so.

The party was nominally in honour of Roger, who, with half a dozen others, was staying in the house for the week - end; but Roger himself was not at all sure that he was not an excuse rather than a cause.

Still he was not disposed to worry about that. He liked Stratton, who amused him; and the party, not yet an hour old, promised to be a good one. His eye wandered across the room to a far corner, where an exquisitely polished sofa table, loaded with decanters and glasses, was doing somewhat vulgar duty as a bar. Most of the other guests were dancing to the wireless in the adjoining ballroom, but by the bar Mrs. Pearcey was telling Dr. Crippen the story of her life.

It was not the first time that Roger's eye had lingered on Mrs. Pearcey. Mrs. Pearcey seemed to invite the eyes of others to linger upon her: not indeed through her good looks, for she had few, nor through anything so coarse as ogling, but simply because she appeared determined that wherever she might be, she should be noticed.

Roger, always on the lookout for types, was interested. He felt too that it was probably significant that the lady should have chosen the dowdy but undoubtedly striking role of Mrs. Pearcey rather than the showier costume part of Mary Blandy. There was a Mary Blandy, and undoubtedly Mrs. Pearcey was the more effective.

He turned to Stratton. "Mrs. Pearcey over there ... I don't believe I've met her yet ... it is your sister - in - law, isn't it?"

"It is." Ronald Stratton's voice had lost - its usual humorous tone and become flat and expressionless.

"I thought so," Roger said carelessly and wondered why Stratton's voice should have changed like that. It was plain that he did not very much like his sister - in - law, but Roger thought that was hardly sufficient reason for such a very blank tone. However, it was obviously impossible to probe further.

Stratton began to ask questions about the cases with which his guest had been connected. Roger replied without his customary enthusiasm. His ears were directed towards the low conversation on the other side of the room, which was not so much a conversation as a monologue. It was impossible to hear the words through the music which came from the ballroom, but the tone was eloquent; it meandered on and on, and Roger thought he could detect in it a note of noble endeavour thwarted, mingled with a deeper undercurrent of Christian resignation. He wondered what on earth the woman was talking about so interminably. Whatever it was, Dr. Crippen was plainly bored by it. Roger wished unblushingly that he could hear what it was all about.

The dance came to an end, and some of the dancers drifted in to the bar. A large man, with one of those pleasant, nobbly faces, strolled up to Stratton and Roger. "Well, Ronald, my man . . ."

"Hullo, Philip. Been doing your duty?"

"No, yours. I've been dancing with your young woman. Perfectly charming, my dear fellow," said the newcomer, with an air of naive sincerity which was in itself charming.

"That's rather what I think," Ronald grinned. "By the way, have you met Sheringham? This is Dr. Chalmers, Sheringham."

"How do you do?" said the doctor, shaking hands with obvious pleasure. "Your name's very familiar to me."

"Is it?" said Roger. "Good. It all helps sales."

"Oh, I didn't say I'd gone so far as to buy one of your books. But I have read them."

"Better and better," Roger grinned. Dr. Chalmers stayed for a few moments and then moved off to the bar to get his late partner a drink.

Roger turned to Stratton. "That's a particularly nice man, isn't it?"

"Yes," Stratton agreed. "His family and mine, and his wife's family, were all more or less brought up together; so the Chalmers are really about my oldest friends. Philip's elder brother was my contemporary, and Philip is really a closer friend of my brother's than mine, but I like him immensely. He's absolutely genuine, nearly always says just what he thinks, and is the only man I've ever met called Philip who isn't a prig. And more I can't say for any man."

"Hear, hear," Roger agreed. "Hullo, is that the music? I suppose I'd better go and do a bit of duty. Introduce me to somebody I'd like to dance with, will you?"

"I'll introduce you to my young woman," Stratton said, finishing off his drink.

"Odd," Roger remarked idly. "I always used to think you were married."

"I always used to be. Then we had a divorce. Now I'm going to do it again. You must meet my ex - wife some time. She's quite a nice person. She's here tonight, with her fiance. We're the best friends in the world."

"Very sensible," Roger approved. "If I ever got married so that I could be divorced, I'm sure I should be so grateful to my wife that I'd want to be the best friends in the world with her."

They walked together towards the ballroom. Roger noticed with interest that Mrs. Pearcey was just in front of them, with an unknown man. Evidently she had torn herself away from Dr. Crippen.

"I say, Ronald!" A low, guarded voice had assailed them from behind. Turning about, they beheld Dr. Crippen, clinging, as it were desperately, to a large whiskey - and - soda. No one else remained at the bar.

"Hullo, Osbert," said Stratton.

"I say . . ." Dr. Crippen sidled towards them with a surreptitious air, as one not quite sure whether he is standing on solid ground again or not. "I say ..."

"Yes?"

"I say," said Dr. Crippen, with a confidential, guilty grin, "is your sister - in - law quite mad, Ronald? Eh? Is she?"

"Quite," said Stratton equably. "Come on, Sheringham."

Ronald Stratton's young woman proved to be a charming lady of about his own age, with very fair hair and a delightful smile, who admitted to two children of her own and the name of Mrs. Lefroy. She wore a seventeenth - century dress of white satin brocade, with a hooped skirt, which admirably set off her fair colouring.

"You've been married before, then?" Roger asked conversationally, as they began to dance.

"I still am," replied Mrs. Lefroy surprisingly. "At least, I think I am."

Roger made an apologetic noise. "I somehow thought you were engaged to Ronald," he said lamely.

"Oh, yes, I am," said Mrs. Lefroy brightly.

Roger gave it up.

"I've got my nisi" Mrs. Lefroy explained, "but not my absolute."

"This seems to be quite a modern party," Roger observed mildly, swerving somewhat violently to avoid another couple who did not seem to know what they were doing. As they passed, he saw that the couple was composed, as to its feminine half, of Mrs. Pearcey, who was talking so earnestly to her partner that he was able to devote little attention to the steering of her.

"Modern?" echoed Mrs. Lefroy. "Is it? Only as regards the Strattons and me, I think - if by 'modern' you mean not only readiness to recognize that you've made a mistake in your marriage, which is what most married couples always have done, but readiness to rectify it, which is what most of them still haven't the courage to do."

"And yet you're ready to try again?"

"Oh, yes. One mistake doesn't make a series. Besides, I never think a first marriage ought to count, do you? One's so busy learning how to be married at all that one can hardly help acquiring a kind of resentment against one's partner in error, And once resentment has crept in, the thing's finished. Anyhow, there one is, all nice and trained to the house, the complete article for the next comer. After all, one's got to cut one's teeth on something, but one doesn't cherish the dummy for the rest of one's life, does one?"

She laughed, and Roger laughed too. "But nature provides a second set of teeth. Haven't they to be cut on another dummy?"

"Oh, no, they just come, all ready cut. But I'm quite serious, Mr. Sheringham. One isn't the same person at thirty - four as one was at twenty - four, so why should one be expected to be suitable to the human being who fitted ten years earlier? Probably both of you have developed, on completely different lines. I think one should change partners when one's development is complete, except of course in the rare cases where the two do happen to have developed together."

"You needn't apologize for your divorce, you know," Roger murmured.

Mrs. Lefroy laughed again. "I wouldn't dream of doing any such thing. It just happens to be a subject I feel rather strongly about. What I think is that our marriage laws are all on the wrong lines. Marriage oughtn't to be easy and divorce difficult; it ought to be just the other way about. A couple ought to have to go up before a judge and say: 'Please, we've lived together for two years now and we're quite certain we're suited to each other. We've got our witnesses here to swear that ] we're terribly fond of each other and hardly ever quarrel, and we like the same things; and we're both quite healthy. We're certain we know our own minds, so please, can't we get married now?' And then they'd get their marriage nisi. And if by the end of six months the King's Proctor couldn't prove that they were unsuited after all, or didn't really love each other, or would be better apart, their marriage could be made absolute. Don't you think that's a very good idea?"

"It's the best idea I've ever heard about marriage yet," said Roger with conviction, "and I've produced a few myself."

"Oh, yes, I know. Your idea is that the best thing to do is not to get married at all. Well, there's something to be said for that. At least, I'm sure my poor brother - in - law - to - be would agree with you."

"Ronald's brother, you mean?"

"Yes. You know him, I suppose? That tall, good - looking fair young man over there, dancing with the woman in the leg - of - mutton sleeves - Mrs. Maybrick."

"No, I don't know him. Why would he agree with me?"

"Oh!" Mrs. Lefroy looked a little guilty. "Perhaps I oughtn't to have said anything. After all, I only know what Ronald's told me."

"Is it a secret?" Roger pleaded, with unabashed curiosity.

"Well, I suppose so, in a way. Anyhow, I don't think I'd better say anything. But I shouldn't think," added Mrs. Lefroy with a smile, "that it will be a secret for long. You've only got to watch her."

"I'll watch her," said Roger. "In the meantime, do you mind telling me who you're supposed to be?"

"Haven't you guessed? I thought you were a criminologist." Mrs. Lefroy looked down not without pride at her billowing white skirts.

"So I am, not a costumier."

"Well, the Marquise de Brinvilliers, then. Didn't you recognize the arsenic green of my necklace? I thought that was rather a subtle touch." She picked up her bag and white velvet gloves from the top of the grand piano and glanced round the room.

"I can see that Ronald's infecting you," Roger regretted.

He was sorry when Ronald came up, as if in response to the glance, and claimed his young woman. Mrs. Lefroy seemed to him a woman of ideas, and women of ideas are rare. So, for that matter, are men.

Roger drifted, as a man will, to the bar. His feeling that the party was going to be an interesting one was confirmed. It pleased him that ex - Mrs. Stratton should be present as well as future Mrs. Stratton, both of them all smiles and friendliness and completely unembarrassed. That is how things should be done in an enlightened age.

At the bar were Dr. Chalmers and another local doctor, who had once played rugger for England and was broad in proportion; he wore a red - and - white bandana handkerchief round his neck and a black mask pushed up on his forehead, and his hands were splashed with red. The two were discussing, in the way of doctors, some obscene innard belonging to one of their less fortunate patients, which Dr. Mitchell had been engaged that afternoon in yanking out. Beside them stood, angrily, a thin, dark lady. Roger recognized her as the Mrs. Maybrick with the leg - of - mutton sleeves who had been dancing with David Stratton.

"Ah, Sheringham," Dr. Chalmers greeted him. "We're talking shop, I'm afraid."

"Do you ever talk anything else?" observed the thin, dark lady acidly.

"Mr. Sheringham, my wife," said Dr. Chalmers, with the greatest cheerfulness. "And this is Frank Mitchell; another of our local medicos."

Roger professed himself enchanted to meet Mrs. Chalmers and Dr. Mitchell.

"But whom," he added, scrutinizing the latter's bandana and mask, "are you supposed to represent? I thought I had them all at my fingertips, but I can't place you. Are the two of you Brown and Kennedy?"

"No, Jack the Ripper," said Dr. Mitchell proudly. He displayed his red - splotched hands. "This is blood."

"Disgusting," said Mrs. Chalmers - Maybrick.

"I quite agree," Roger said politely. "I much preferred your methods. You used arsenic, didn't you? Or never used it, according to another school of thought."

"If I did, it's a pity I used it all," said Mrs. Chalmers, with a short laugh. "I might have saved some up for a better purpose."

A little mystified, Roger produced a polite smile. The smile died away as he observed a significant glance pass between the two doctors: a glance which he could not quite interpret, but which seemed to convey a kind of mutual warning. In any case both doctors immediately began to speak at once.

"I suppose you don't know many - Sorry, Frank."

"Talking of arsenic, I wonder if - Sorry, Phil."

There was an awkward pause.

This is odd, thought Roger. What the devil is going on in this place?

To fill up the pause he said: "And you still baffle me completely, Chalmers. You don't seem to be made up as anyone at all."

"Phil never will dress up," remarked Mrs. Chalmers resentfully.

Dr. Chalmers, who appeared to have remarkable powers of blandly ignoring the observations of his wife, replied heartily: "I'm an undiscovered murderer. That's out of compliment to you. I know it's a theory of yours that the world's full of them."

Roger laughed. "I don't call that quite fair."

"And anyhow," put in Mrs. Chalmers, "Philip couldn't murder anyone to save his life." She spoke as if this were an old grievance of hers.

"Well, I'll be an undiscovered doctor - murderer if you like," said Dr. Chalmers, with complete equanimity. "I expect there are plenty of them about. Eh, Frank, my man?"

"Sure to be," agreed Dr. Mitchell with candour. "Hullo, is that the music stopping? I think I'll . . ." He finished off his drink and strolled towards the ballroom.

"He's only been married four months," remarked Mrs. Chalmers tolerantly.

"Ah," said Roger. The three exchanged smiles, and Roger wondered why it should be amusing when a man has only been married four months. He could not quite see why, but undoubtedly it was. Roger decided that almost anything to do with marriage was either comedy or tragedy. It depended whether one was looking at it from the outside or the in.

"Good gracious," exclaimed Dr. Chalmers, "you haven't got a drink, Sheringham. Ronald will never forgive me. What can I get you?"

"Thanks," Roger said, "I've been drinking beer."

He stood hopefully by, as one does when someone else is manipulating a bottle for one's benefit. Watching, he could not help noticing the unhandy way in which Dr. Chalmers carried out that same manipulation. Instead of holding both bottle and tankard on a level with his chest in the usual way, he held them much lower; and after he had filled the latter, Roger noticed that he put down the tankard, which he had been holding in his right hand, and gave his left arm a jerk upwards with that hand before he could lift the bottle over the edge of the table. The disability was so obvious that Roger remarked on it.

"Thank you," he said, taking the tankard. "Got a bad arm?"

"Yes. A bit of trouble from the war, you know."

"Philip had the whole of his left shoulder shot away," said Philip's wife, in an annoyed way.

"Did you? That must be rather a nuisance to you, isn't it? I suppose you can't operate?"

"Oh, yes," Dr. Chalmers said cheerfully. "It doesn't bother me much, really. I can drive a car, and sail a yacht, and do a bit of flying when I can get off; and operate, of course. It's only the shoulder that's gone, you see. I can't raise my upper arm from the shoulder, but I can lift my forearm from the elbow. It might have been a lot worse." He spoke quite naturally, and without any of the false embarrassment which seems to overtake most men when forced to speak of their war wounds.

"Rotten luck," said Roger sincerely. "Well, here's the best. Mrs. Chalmers, aren't you drinking anything?"

"Not Just yet, thank you. I don't want to make an exhibition of myself."

"I'm sure you wouldn't do that," said Roger, a little taken aback. The remark had seemed so pointed that it could only have been directed at himself, but he could not understand why Mrs. Chalmers should have thought it necessary to be so rude.

"No, and I don't intend to," said Mrs. Chalmers grimly and looked fixedly in his direction.

The next moment Roger saw that she was not looking at him at all, but over his right shoulder. He turned round and followed her eyes. Several people had drifted in from the ballroom, and among them was Ronald Stratton's sister - in - law, the woman dressed as Mrs. Pearcey. It was on her that Mrs. Chalmers's gaze was fixed.

She was standing by the bar, in company with a youngish, tall man whom Roger had not yet met, and he was evidently asking her what she would like. "I'll have a whiskey - and - soda, thanks," she said, in a voice which was just loud enough to be a shade ostentatious. "A large one. I feel like getting drunk tonight. After all, it's the only thing worth doing, really, isn't it?"

This time Roger joined in the significant glance which passed between Dr. and Mrs. Chalmers. He finished up his beer, made his excuses to the Chalmers, and went off to look for Ronald Stratton.

"I must meet that woman," he said to himself, "drunk or sober."

Ronald was in the ballroom, twiddling with the wireless. The music to which they had been dancing had been provided by Konigswusterhausen, and Ronald had decided it was too heavy; something French was indicated.

Three persons were remonstrating with him, for no particular reason beyond the strange prejudice most people have against seeing the owner of a large wireless set twiddling its knobs. One of them Roger knew to be Ronald's sister, Celia Stratton, a tall girl, picturesquely dressed as eighteenth - century Mary Blandy; the other two were Crippen and a small woman dressed as a boy who was not difficult to recognize as Miss Le Neve.

A piercing soprano voice shot out from the wireless in one momentary shriek, instantly cut off, but not quickly enough for the manipulator's critics.

"Leave it alone, Ronald," begged Miss Stratton.

"It was perfectly all right as it was," reinforced Miss Le Neve.

"It's a funny thing," pronounced Dr. Crippen with some weight, as one who has given considerable thought to the point, "that people who have a wireless can't leave it alone for more than two seconds at a time."

"Blah," said Ronald and continued to twiddle the knob. A burst of jazz music rewarded him. "There!" he said with pride. "That's a great deal better."

"It isn't a bit better," his sister contradicted.

"It's worse," opined Miss Le Neve.

"It's rotten," Dr. Crippen supported her. "Where is it?"

"Konigswusterhausen," replied Ronald blandly, and with a wink at Roger walked quickly away.

Before the latter could follow him, a question from Celia Stratton took his opportunity away. Did he know Mr. and Mrs. Williamson? Roger had to admit that he did not know Mr. and Mrs. Williamson. Dr. Crippen and Miss Le Neve were made acquainted with him under that title. Roger politely expressed admiration of their disguises.

"Osbert only had to put on a pair of gold - rimmed glasses," volunteered Mrs. Williamson. "He's just like Crippen, isn't he, Mr. Sheringham?"

"How unsafe you must feel, Lilian," said Celia Stratton.

"Can you wonder I want to leave the studio and get a place with a few more rooms? If the fit came on him there, I could never get away in time."

"You know perfectly well, Lilian," remonstrated her husband, "that you only wanted me to be Crippen so that you could be Miss Le Neve. Lilian never loses a chance of getting into trousers," explained Mr. Williamson with candour to the group in general.

"Why shouldn't I get into trousers if I want to?" demanded Mrs. Williamson and sniffed.

"I hope you've got them fastened with a safety pin at the back," said Roger fatuously.

Everyone looked at him inquiringly, and he wished he had not spoken.

"Miss Le Neve's trousers were too large for her," he had to explain, "and she took a tuck in them at the back with a safety pin. The captain of the liner noticed it and thought it rather odd."

"Lilian's certainly aren't too large for her," said Mr. Williamson, with a rude husbandly laugh, "though they may be quite as odd. Eh, Lilian? What?"

"I like my trousers tight," said Mrs. Williamson and sniffed again.

Roger, who was not so interested in these garments as the others appeared to be, turned the conversation with a jerk.

"I haven't met your sister - in - law yet, Miss Stratton," he said, in a blandly conversational tone. "I wonder if you'd introduce me?"

"David's wife? Yes, of course. Where is she?"

"She was at the bar a minute ago."

"She's mad," observed Mr. Williamson, with some interest.

"Really, Osbert!" expostulated his wife, with a glance at Celia Stratton.

"Oh, don't mind me," said Miss Stratton kindly.

Roger could not let this promising opening pass. "Mad? Is she? I like mad people. What particular form does your sister - in - law's madness take, Miss Stratton?"

"Oh, I don't know," Celia Stratton said lightly. "She's just generally mad, I expect, if Osbert says so." Roger noticed that in spite of the lightness of her tone there was an undercurrent of caution in Miss Stratton's voice. It was almost as if she had been glad to accept the idea of her sister - in - law's madness, in order to hide something worse.

"She wants to talk about her soul," explained Osbert Williamson with some gloom.

"Osbert isn't interested in souls," Mrs. Williamson explained. "Not having one of his own, he can't very well be."

"I'm not interested in her soul," pronounced Mr. Williamson. "But I'd keep an eye on her, Celia, if I were you. When I was with her she was swigging down double whiskies nineteen to the dozen and saying she wanted to get tight because it was the only thing worth while, or some nonsense."

"Oh, dear," sighed Miss Stratton, "is she in that mood? Perhaps I'd better go and look after her then."

"Why does she want to get tight?" Mr. Williamson asked her as she moved away.

"She thinks it clever. Mr. Sheringham, you'd better come with me if you want to meet her."

Roger went with alacrity.