Dead Mrs Stratton (Jumping Jenny)

CHAPTER II NOT A NICE LADY

IT WAS Ronald Stratton's custom to enliven his parties with charades. As he candidly explained, this was solely because he happened to like charades, and as the party was his he did not see why he should not play them. Unfortunately for Roger, Ronald had decided upon charades at just that moment, and before the introduction could be effected Celia Stratton had been called in to search the sitting - out places for unwilling players. Meanwhile sides were chosen out of those who were present; and since Mrs. David Stratton and Roger were on opposite sides, the acquaintanceship had again to be postponed. Roger was interested, however, to find that the lady's husband was on his side.

Although he had known Ronald Stratton slightly for some years, Roger had never before met David. As with so many brothers, the two were utterly unlike. Ronald was not particularly tall, David was quite six feet; Ronald was broad, David was slight; Ronald was dark, David fair; Ronald had a snub nose, David an aquiline one; Ronald was enthusiastic and, sometimes, rather childish in his amusements, David had a wearily disillusioned air, and his wit (for he was witty) had a cynical trend; one would have said that Ronald was the younger and David the elder, instead of the other way about.

Celia Stratton, who had been appointed captain of the side, took her duties seriously. It was their turn to perform first, and, shepherding her flock out of the ballroom, she called firmly upon Roger for an actable word of two syllables. Roger instantly found his mind an utter and complete blank and could only eye the bar with distant longing. In the end it was David Stratton who produced the word, and a neat little three - act drama to fit it, which, as an impromptu, impressed Roger considerably.

"Your brother's very much on the spot tonight," he remarked casually to Celia as they looked out props suitable to the inhabitants of Nineveh prior to the engulfment of Jonah by the whale.

"Oh, David can usually be relied on for something like that," said Miss Stratton.

"Can he? I wonder he doesn't try his hand at writing."

"David? He used to do a little before he married. Punch, you know, and some of the weeklies. We thought at one time that he might do something quite good. He began a book which promised very well."

"Why didn't he finish it?"

Celia Stratton bent a little lower over the drawer into which she was delving. "Oh, he got married," she said; and once again Roger felt that she was hiding something under the apparent indifference of her tone.

He looked at her curiously but did not pursue the topic. Of two things, however, he felt quite sure: that somehow David Stratton's marriage had spoilt what might have been a successful career, and that Celia Stratton was not nearly so indifferent about it as she pretended.

More mystery, he thought.

Under cover of the general badinage he observed David Stratton more closely. At a first glance the latter looked animated enough, as he laughingly tried to persuade a pretty, plump woman, whom everyone called Margot, to impersonate the whale; but it needed little more than a casual look to see that underneath the temporary excitement was an immense weariness. Indeed the man looked tired to death, and not only tired but positively ill; and yet Roger knew that his job of acting as his brother's estate agent was not at all an exacting one. Why then did he look as if he had hardly slept for a month?

Roger wondered if he were making mountains out of molehills.

The charades pursued their usual and hilarious course, and Roger found himself enjoying them absurdly. The Williamsons were on his side, and so was Dr. Mitchell and his pretty young bride, to whom her groom was as patently and as unselfconsciously devoted as any wife could have hoped. Roger found himself becoming quite sentimental in contemplation of the two of them. Jean Mitchell was dressed as Madeleine Smith, in crinoline and poke bonnet, and looked quite charming enough to deserve all the attentions that were being poured out on her.

It was not until their own turn of activity was ended and they were sitting on a row of chairs at one end of the ballroom, waiting to deride the efforts of the other side, that a hint of drama underneath the froth began to show itself.

Roger found himself rather marooned.

On his left sat Celia Stratton, with Dr. Mitchell and his wife beyond her; on his right the plump lady called Margot, whom Roger had now discovered to be Ronald Stratton's late wife, with David Stratton separating her from her fiance, a large and somewhat silent young man whose name Roger had gathered to be Mike Armstrong. And almost immediately Celia Stratton had begun to engage in a low - toned and extremely earnest conversation with Dr. Mitchell, while ex - Mrs. Mar - got Stratton at the same time embarked on an exactly similar one with David Stratton. Roger hid his yawns and wished that the other side would be a little quicker.

Then, willy - nilly, scraps of the two conversations began to reach him.

"But are you sure it was Ena who was responsible for it?" he heard Celia Stratton ask, in a worried voice.

"Positive," Dr. Mitchell replied grimly. "I went straight round to Mrs. Farebrother as soon as Jean told me, and she said that Ena had told her. In the strictest confidence, of course. Confidence! I told Mrs. Farebrother it was an infernal lie, of course, and I think I've stopped it going any further in that direction, but how many other . . ." Dr. Mitchell lowered his voice.

Ena, observed Roger pensively to himself, is Mrs. David Stratton.

He became aware of David Stratton's voice, unguardedly loud, on his other side.

"I tell you, Margot, I can't stand it much longer. I'm about at the end of my tether."

"It's a damned shame, David," his late sister - in - law replied warmly. "You know what I thought about her. Ronald used to say I made things very awkward for him, but I couldn't help that. After that Eaves business I swore I'd never have her in any house of mine again, and I never did."

"I know," David Stratton rejoined gloomily. "It was a bit awkward, for me as well as Ronald, but I couldn't blame you. After all, as I pointed out to her, you might have done a good deal more than refuse to receive her here if you'd been really vindictive."

"That's what I told Ronald."

Roger shifted in his chair.

"I wouldn't mind if there was an atom of truth in any of it," said Dr. Mitchell, with sudden violence. "But these damnable lies ..."

"I know. It's the way it takes her."

"Personally," broke in Jean Mitchell's small, clear voice, "I don't see that it matters. Everyone must know they're lies. What I can't understand is why she wants to do it."

"Oh, she's a pathological case, darling. There's no doubt about that. But really, Celia, something ought to be done about her. She's a danger to the community."

"Yes. But what? That's the trouble."

"I don't know, yet." Dr. Mitchell folded his arms and looked, for a pleasant man, quite formidable. "But I can promise you, she's going to be sorry she started monkeying with Jean. That's a little bit too much."

Roger took a notebook out of his pocket and began jotting down names. Among so many strangers, with so many different relationships, he found it difficult to keep his head clear.

Still the other side did not appear. Only suppressed gigglings, and an occasional hoot of laughter outside the door, testified to their continued existence.

"But why don't you leave her, David?"

"Money, of course. If only I could afford to keep her apart from me, I'd do it like a shot."

"Can't Ronald help at all?"

"No," David Stratton was firm enough about that.

"It's damnable." Margot Stratton stared ahead as if racking her brains for something that would help.

Celia Stratton turned to Roger.

"I quite forgot to ask you, Mr. Sheringham. Did you find everything in your room that you wanted?"

"Everything, thank you," said Roger politely.

Roger's list of his fellow guests and hosts ran as follows:

Ronald Stratton ........ (Prince in Tower}

David Stratton ........( - ditto - )

Ena (Mrs. David) Stratton . (Mrs. Pearcey)

Celia Stratton ............ (Mary Blandy)

Margot (ex - Mrs. Ronald) Stratton

Mike Armstrong

Dr. Chalmers ... (Undiscovered Murderer)

Mrs. Chalmers ......... (Mrs. Maybrick)

Dr. Mitchell ........... (Jack the Ripper)

Mrs. Mitchell ........ (Madeleine Smith)

Mr. Williamson ........... (Dr. Crippen)

Mrs. Williamson ......... (Miss Le Neve)

Mrs. Lefroy .... (Marquise de Brinvilliers)

Colin Nicolson ........ (William Palmer)

These, Roger considered, comprised all Ronald Stratton's intimates, and seemed to fall into a group of their own. There were a dozen or so more people present, all from the neighbourhood, but they kept more or less to themselves, and Stratton did not try to mingle the two groups. The doctors of course were local men, and they formed something in the nature of a connecting link between the two lots. Roger had been told by Stratton that the local group would probably leave early, and the house party would then keep it up.

There were about half a dozen of the latter. The Williamsons, who lived in London, were staying the night, and so was Colin Nicolson, who was the assistant editor of a weekly paper for which Stratton did a good deal of work, and whom Roger had known and liked for some years. Mrs. Lefroy was staying too, and Celia Stratton had come down to act as hostess for her brother. Roger himself had also been asked for the night.

When the charades were over at last, Roger once more tried to effect contact between himself and Ena Stratton, and once again he was foiled. Ronald himself had swung his sister - in - law onto the floor, to set the dancing in train again. Glancing round in a baffled way, Roger saw that Agatha Lefroy was sitting alone on a couch at one end of the room, and he joined her.

"Do you mind if we don't dance?" he said. "I used to be considered rather good before the war, but somehow the old zest seems to have gone."

"Of course not," Mrs. Lefroy smiled. "Let's stop here. Anyhow, I'd much rather talk than dance. What shall we talk about?"

"Ena Stratton," Roger said promptly.

He was hardly surprised when even Mrs. Lefroy reacted in the usual way to that name. Her smile did not waver, she did not start or turn pale, but precisely the same guarded air showed itself to Roger's observation as she replied, brightly enough:

"She interests you?"

"She does. Decidedly. And I haven't even met her yet. Tell me about her."

"I don't know that there's much to tell you, is there? In what way, particularly?"

"Any way. I won't ask about her marriage, because you said that was a secret. Just tell me why you're afraid of her."

"Afraid of her?" Mrs. Lefroy echoed indignantly. "I'm not in the least afraid of her."

"Yes, you are," Roger said calmly. "Why? - or shall I ask Ronald?"

"No, don't ask Ronald," Mrs. Lefroy said quickly and added, rather inconsequently: "Anyhow, he wouldn't tell you."

"Nor will you?" said Roger, half lightly and half seriously.

"You're really rather inquisitive, Mr. Sheringham, aren't you?"

"Intolerably. I can't help it. You see, I scent a mystery and I can't bear mysteries."

"Oh," said Mrs. Lefroy slowly, "there's no mystery about Ena."

"And yet," Roger hazarded, "quite a number of people in this room cordially detest her."

"I can quite believe it," Mrs. Lefroy smiled. "She's really rather a dangerous woman."

"How can such a totally unimportant person be dangerous?" Roger asked, following the young woman in question round the room with his eyes. "And yet you're the second person within the last half - hour whom I've heard call her that. I suppose I ought not to ask you what she's been doing to Dr. Mitchell, and yet I wish I could."

"Oh, I'll tell you that. She's been spreading a ridiculous lie about his wife."

"Why?"

Mrs. Lefroy shrugged her shoulders. "She seems to enjoy doing that sort of thing."

"Which sort of thing? Lying for lying's sake, or doing an inoffensive person a bad turn?"

"Neither, exactly. I think it's really an opportunity to make herself appear important. That's her idee fixe. She must be the centre of things, the wonder of all beholders. Philip Chalmers - Ronald's great friend, you know - says she's a pronounced ego - maniac. No doubt that's as good a term for her as any."

"Williamson has a better one. He just says simply that she's mad."

Mrs. Lefroy laughed. "In a way, I suppose, she is. Anyhow, is that all you wanted to know?"

"Not quite. What's your own private trouble with her? Don't tell me, of course," Roger added kindly, "if you don't want to."

"I shouldn't dream of it. But I really don't mind, as it seems to worry you so much. I don't trust her, that's all."

"Don't trust her?"

"Ronald's been rather indiscreet in calling us engaged," Mrs. Lefroy explained. "It's all right, of course, in the family and so on, or should be, but as I told you, I haven't got my absolute yet. Well, David warned Ronald this afternoon that Ena's been hinting that she could make trouble with the King's Proctor if she wanted to."

Roger whistled. "Why should she want to?"

Mrs. Lefroy looked a little uncomfortable. "Oh, there are reasons, no doubt, from her point of view."

"Reasons for making trouble?"

"Reasons why she might be sorry to see Ronald marry again."

"Oh! Yes, I see."

It did not need very much perspicacity on Roger's part to guess something of what those reasons might be. Ronald and Margot Stratton had had no children. David and Ena had a small boy. As Roger knew, the boy was Ronald's godson. Ronald, who had a flair for business as well as for writing detective stories, had made his money, not inherited it. It seemed likely that, as things had been, he might have made his godson his heir, with perhaps a life interest for David. If he married again, another heir might present itself. It was decidedly in Ena Stratton's interests that her brother - in - law should not marry again.

"Yes, I see," Roger repeated. "Quite like a plot for one of Ronald's own detective stories, isn't it?"

By Mrs. Lefroy's smile he knew that his guess had been right. "So Ronald says himself. He looks on it as a joke," she added, "but it might be quite serious. An unscrupulous woman would do things that an equally unscrupulous man might boggle at."

"Yes, that's quite true. Is she unscrupulous?"

"Perfectly, I should think," said Mrs. Lefroy with resignation.

There was a short silence. Then Roger looked puzzled. "I don't know much about these things, but would it really worry the King's Proctor to know that you were going to marry Ronald when you're free? I know the King's Proctor is very easily worried, but that does seem almost hypersensitive."

Mrs. Lefroy looked at the tip of her neat slipper. "Once he begins making special inquiries, who knows what might happen to him?" she said cryptically.

"Collusion, like a worm i' the bud, might feed on his damask cheek, as my friend Lord Peter Wimsey might say," Roger nodded, with sympathetic understanding. "Shall I strangle the woman for you?"

"I wish to heaven someone would," said Mrs. Lefroy, with sudden bitterness. "We all do."

Roger examined his fingernails. 'If I were Mistress Ena Stratton,' he thought to himself, 'I'd watch my step.'

In the end the introduction was effected with complete ease. "Oh, Ena," said Ronald Stratton, "I don't think you've met Roger Sheringham yet, have you? Mr. Sheringham, my sister - in - law."

Ena Stratton looked at Roger with large eyes swimming with discipleship, Weltschmerz, humble pride, and all the other things with which a high - souled young woman's eyes should swim when confronted with a successful author. Roger saw that these proper emotions were being registered for him almost automatically.

"How do you do?" he said, without any Weltschmerz at all.

Ena Stratton was a young woman of about twenty - seven. She was moderately tall, of good, athletic - looking figure, with dark, almost black hair, which she wore cut in a straight fringe across her already rather low forehead; her hands and feet were on the large side. Her face was neither exactly ugly nor exactly pretty. It was a hagridden face, Roger thought, with big grey eyes whose promise was counteracted by the wide, thin - lipped cruelty of her mouth. When she smiled, the corners of her mouth seemed in some curious way to be drawn downwards rather than up. There were innumerable wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, and two deeply graven lines running down from her nostrils. Her complexion was sallow.

Judging by appearances, Roger thought, not a nice person. He wondered why David Stratton had married her. Presumably she had looked nicer then. That neurotic type stamps its own face very early.

"Shall we dance?" said Roger.

"I'd rather have a drink. I haven't had one for at least half an hour." She spoke slowly, and her voice was not unpleasant, rather deep and with a particularly clear enunciation. She managed to convey that for a woman of her sophistication not to have had a drink for at least half an hour was quite too ridiculous.

Roger piloted her to the bar and asked what she would have.

"A whiskey, please. And don't drown it." Roger gave her a stiff whiskey - and - soda, and she tasted it. "I think I'll have a little more whiskey in this, please. I like it almost neat, you know."

'Ass of a woman!' thought Roger. 'Why does she imagine it's clever to like her whiskey neat, and a good deal too much of it at that?' He handed her the amended drink.

"Thanks. Yes, that's better. I feel like getting drunk tonight."

"Do you?" said Roger lamely.

"Yes. I don't often feel like that, but I do tonight. Really, sometimes getting drunk seems the only thing worth while in life. Don't you ever feel like that?"

"Only in private," said Roger, rather prudishly. He noticed that she was repeating a set of remarks which he had overheard earlier, almost word for word. Evidently Mrs. Stratton was extremely proud of her own appreciation of intemperance.

"Oh," she expostulated, "there's no point in getting drunk in private."

'In other words,' thought Roger, 'she admits to being an exhibitionist.' Well, that was probably exactly what she was: an exhibitionist. And rather a crude one at that. Aloud he said: "By the way, I really must congratulate you on your dress, Mrs. Stratton. It's extremely good. Just like Mrs. Pearcey's in Madame Tussaud's. I recognized her at once. How very brave of you to come as a charwoman, hat and all, against such competition."

"Competition? Oh, you mean Celia and Mrs. Lefroy. But you see, I'm a character actress. Costume parts don't interest me at all. Anyone can do a costume part, don't you think?"

"Can they?"

"Oh, yes, I think so. Of course one of my best parts actually was a costume one. Did you see Sweet Nell of Old Drury? No? It was a wonderful part; but of course it was character, not just being able to wear the dresses, that I got it on."

"I didn't know you'd been on the stage."

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Stratton sighed dramatically. "I was on the stage for a time."

"Before you were married, of course?"

"No, since. But I'd studied for it before. I didn't find," said Mrs. Stratton earnestly, "that marriage gave me the fulfilment I expected from it."

"And the stage did?"

"For a time. But even that didn't satisfy me altogether. But I managed to find fulfilment in the end. Can you imagine what it was that brought it? I expect you can, Mr. Sheringham."

"I can't think."

"Oh, and I did think you'd understand. The women in your books are always so very true. Why, having a baby. It's the only possible way really to fulfil oneself, Mr. Sheringham," said Mrs. Stratton with much intensity.

"Then I look like remaining unfulfilled," said Roger ribaldly.

Mrs. Stratton smiled tolerantly. "For a woman, of course, I meant. A man can fulfil himself in so many ways, of course; can't he?"

"Oh, yes," Roger agreed. He was wondering what people like Mrs. Stratton really meant by that cant word, if indeed they meant anything at all. In any case, he had felt as yet no urge to be fulfilled in any of the many ways.

"Your writing, for instance," Mrs. Stratton added, rather helpfully.

"Yes, yes, of course. That fulfils me all right. Shall I put your glass down?"

"That would be rather wasting an opportunity, wouldn't it?" said Mrs. Stratton, with ponderous kittenishness.

As Roger poured out the drink he pondered on the determination with which Mrs. Stratton had dragged into the conversation, within three minutes, what were evidently the two most important achievements of her life: that she had been on the stage, and that she had had a baby. It was plain, too, that in Ena Stratton's opinion these two events reflected the greatest possible credit on Ena Stratton.

What Roger himself thought reflected credit on Ena Stratton was that in spite of the amount of whiskey she had apparently absorbed during the evening, she showed no sign at all of approaching the only thing really worth while in life.

"Thank you," she said, as he gave her the replenished glass. "Let's go up on the roof, shall we? I feel stifled here, in this crowd. I want to look at the stars. Would you mind frightfully?"

"I should love to look at the stars," said Roger.

Carrying their glasses, they went up the little staircase that led to the big flat roof. In the middle of it the three straw figures still dangled from their heavy gallows. Mrs. Stratton gave them a tolerant smile - "Ronald is really rather childish sometimes, isn't he, Mr. Sheringham?"

"It's a great thing to be able to be childish sometimes," Roger maintained.

"Oh, yes, I know. I can be absurdly childish when the fit takes me, of course.'"

The edge of the roof was bounded by a stout railing. The two leaned their elbows on it and gazed down into the blackness that shrouded the back kitchens below. Mrs. Stratton had apparently forgotten that she wanted to gaze upwards, at the stars.

The April night was mild and fine.

"Oh, dear," sighed Mrs. Stratton, "I'm an awful fool, I expect."

Roger deliberated between a polite "Oh, no," a blunt "Why?" or a not very tactful but encouraging "Yes?"

"I feel so terribly introspective tonight," pursued his companion, before he could decide on any of these choices.

"Do you?" he said feebly.

"Yes. Do you often feel introspective, Mr. Sheringham?"

"Not very often. At least, I try not to encourage it."

"It's terrible," said Mrs. Stratton, with gloomy relish.

"It must be."

There was a pause, for contemplation of the terribleness of Mrs. Stratton's introspection.

"One can't help asking oneself, is there really any use in life?"

"A dreadful question," said Roger, keeping his end up as well as he could.

"I've had a baby, I suppose I could say I've had some success on the stage, I've got a husband and a home - but is it worth while?"

"Ah." said Roger sadly.

Mrs. Stratton moved a little nearer to him, so that their elbows touched. "Sometimes I think," she said sombrely, "that the best thing to do would be to put an end to it all."

Roger did not reply that Mrs. Stratton would apparently find a number of persons in hearty agreement with this sentiment. He merely remarked, in a suitably hushed voice: "Oh, come."

"I do really. If only one could find an easy way out . . ."

"Ah!" said Roger, repeating himself.

"You don't think it would be cowardly?"

"Come, come, Mrs. Stratton. You mustn't talk like this, you know. Of course you don't mean it."

"But I do! I assure you, Mr. Sheringham, I lie awake for hours sometimes, just wondering whether a gas oven isn't after all the easiest solution."

"Solution of what?"

"Life!" exclaimed Mrs. Stratton with drama.

"Well, it certainly is a solution. One can't deny that."

"You don't mind me talking to you like this, do you?"

"Not in the least. On the contrary, I take it as a great compliment."

Mrs. Stratton moved an inch nearer. "I've been so much looking forward to meeting you, all the evening. I thought those silly charades would never come to an end. I knew I should be able to talk to you, and I've been feeling so introspective tonight. It's such a relief to talk it out."

"It must be," said Roger heartily.

"Do you believe in the soul?" asked Mrs. Stratton.

'Now she's really off,' thought Roger. "The soul," he repeated in a meditative voice, as if weighing its value as an object of belief.

"I do. For some people. But I don't believe all of us have souls." Her voice throbbed on.

As the discourse proceeded, Roger began to perceive that the lady might be talking about souls, but she was undoubtedly preoccupied with bodies. She was pressing hard against him, her hand was on his sleeve, her whole attitude was one invitation to the waltz.

Very odd, thought Roger, and edged away. Mrs. Stratton immediately pursued him.

As a rule Roger had no need to be pursued. If a lady happened to attract him, and herself was not averse, he saw no reason for wasting useful time. But Mrs. Stratton did not attract him. More, she definitely repelled him. Roger could at that moment imagine no woman in this world with whom he less wanted to dally.

He therefore decided to end the interview. He had no wish to hear more about Mrs. Stratton's soul, its presence or absence, or about her singular powers of self - analysis, or about her considered tendency towards self - immolation. Nor, on this last head, had he any good news to take down to such as would have welcomed an impending self - immolation. It is a truism that those who talk about suicide shrink from committing it, while those who do commit it never chatter about it in advance. There was no chance of Mrs. Stratton ever gratifying her relations - in - law with good news about a gas oven.

For the rest, the lady bored him quite intolerably. She had not proved nearly so interesting as he had hoped; she was just a ridiculous mass of blind self - conceit - an ego - maniac, no doubt, as Dr. Chalmers had said. Any more time spent on her was time wasted, for even as a type she was too exaggerated to be of the least use to a writer of fiction who had to preserve the probabilities.

Roger waited until a sentence came to an end and then asked abruptly if that was not the music. Mrs. Stratton agreed perfunctorily that it might be the music. "We must be getting down," said Roger and led the way.

At the entrance to the ballroom he got rid of her and sought the bar. He felt he needed a drink.

Chatting together there he found Williamson and Colin Nicolson who with a paper frill stuck into his dress waistcoat was calling himself William Palmer. Roger knew Nicolson tolerably well, a hefty young Scotsman who was a better rugger forward than an assistant editor, and a better fisherman than either.

"Ah, Sheringham, been taking the air?"

"Hullo, Colin, is that beer you're drinking? Can you find me a tankard?"

"Certainly I can. It's grand stuff too. Here's all the best. You know Williamson, don't you? Did you ever see anything more magnificent than his disguise? It's Crippen to the life. Upon my word, it is."

Williamson bestowed on Roger his slightly guilty ruminative grin. "You were a long time on the roof, weren't you, Sheringham?"

"It seemed a long time," said Roger frankly.

"Did she tell you she was feeling terribly introspective tonight?"

"She did."

"Did she say that marriage hadn't given her enough fulfilment, or whatever it was?"

"She did."

"Did she tell you that she sometimes thought the best thing to do would be to put an end to it all, if only one could find an easy way out?"

"She did."

"Did she talk like hell about her infernal soul?"

"Like hell she did."

"She's mad," said Mr. Williamson simply.

"She is," said Roger.

"What's all this?" asked Nicolson, bewildered.

"Who's been talking about her infernal soul?"

"I name no names," said Mr. Williamson solemnly, "but it'll be your turn next."

"But what's it all about, man? Here, Ronald, ask these two what the deuce they're talking about, will you?"

Ronald Stratton was coming towards them, his face decorated with a large grin. "Here, Sheringham," he said happily. "What have you been doing to my poor sister - in - law?"

Really, I'm surprised at you."

"What do you mean?"

"She's just told me that you lured her up on the roof and tried to flirt with her there, quite drastically. I gather it was all she could do to hold you off. She confided to me that you're the most disgusting man she's ever met."

"The devil she did!" said Roger, really annoyed.

"RONALD, dance an Apache dance with me. Oh, Ronald, do dance an Apache dance with me. David, Ronald won't dance an Apache dance with me."

"Won't he, dear? Well, never mind."

"But I do mind. I want to dance an Apache dance. Ronald, you are a pig."

Everybody pretended not to notice Ena Stratton in the middle of the ballroom floor.

It was close on one o'clock. The local contingent, with the exception of the two doctors and their wives, had left nearly an hour ago. The party was warming up.

"Well, if you won't dance an Apache dance with me, Ronald, I'm going to climb up on the beam. David, give me a start."

Across the ballroom ran a big oak beam, about seven feet from the floor, part of the structure of the heavily timbered roof. It was Ronald's custom, when he felt so disposed, to take a flying leap at it, swing himself up, and then taunt his male guests into trying to join him there. This time his sister - in - law was bent on forestalling him.

"Aren't you going to applaud the athletic introvert?" Roger drily asked Margot Stratton.

"No, I'm not. Ena's only making an exhibition of herself, as usual. Don't take any notice of her, Mr. Sheringham."

Mike Armstrong said nothing.

"There seems a conspiracy not to take any notice of her."

"I can't think why Ronald asked her. I never would. She's made an exhibition of herself at every single party here that I remember. I suppose he wanted David and couldn't get him without her. Poor David!"

"He's very patient with her."

"Too patient. That's the trouble. Philip Chalmers says that what Ena needs is to be married to a great big he - man who'd give her a sound thrashing every now and then. That's the only way to keep her in order. David's far too civilized for her."

Mike Armstrong said nothing.

"I hardly need to ask whether you like her," said Roger with a smile. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the lady in question struggling ungracefully to get abreast of the beam. Everywhere in the room people were talking in little knots, carefully not watching. Only her long - suffering husband stood by, to catch her if she fell.

Margot Stratton laughed. "I can't stand the sight of her. Luckily we're not on speaking terms, which saves a lot of trouble."

Mike Armstrong said nothing.

"It must have been very awkward for you to refuse to have your own sister - in - law in the house?"

"She wasn't my sister - in - law; she was Ronald's. No, I don't think it was awkward. And in any case, she brought it on herself. She did her best once to do me a very bad turn, when I was perfectly friendly with her, and it was the sort of thing one just couldn't forgive."

Mike Armstrong broke his silence. "What was it?" he asked gruffly.

"Oh, far too bad to tell you, Mike," Margot said. She spoke lightly, but Roger had an idea that she was telling the truth.

Mike Armstrong bent a frowning glance on the clambering creature who had dared to do his ladylove a bad turn.

With a final spasm the creature succeeded in getting right way up on the beam. "Hullo, everyone!" she called.

From the other end of the room Ronald alone looked round. "Very clever, Ena," he said, perfunctorily. "Now see if you can get down again."

Somebody put a record on the gramophone, and people began to dance again. As Margot Stratton and Mike Armstrong moved off, Roger strolled across the room to join Colin Nicolson who, like himself, did not find much pleasure in dancing.

"Well, Colin, going to accept the lady's challenge and have a try at the beam?"

Nicolson made a Scotch noise of disgust. "It's a sad thing to see a woman making such a fool of herself. Well, Sheringham, how's the criminology?"

"Ah!" said Roger, and they plunged happily into a discussion of the murder case of the moment. Among his other accomplishments Nicolson numbered a deep interest in criminology, with a minute knowledge of every murder of importance during the last hundred years. Roger had often been able to obtain from him details of almost forgotten crimes, which had been of considerable help to him in his work.

It was not long, however, before their attention was distracted by a repetition of Mrs. Stratton's importunities. "Ronald, I insist on your dancing an Apache dance with me. I've an urge for it. Do dance an Apache dance with me, Ronald."

"I'm not your husband, Ena. Ask David."

"Oh, David couldn't do an Apache dance to save his life. Come on, Ronald. I shall probably run amok if you won't, and you wouldn't like that."

Roger and Nicolson exchanged looks.

"That's a very irritating woman," said Nicolson mildly. "What's the matter with her?"

"Exhibitionism," Roger explained. "The ordinary dancing doesn't give her a chance to show herself off. She must be the centre of the picture all the time. You notice she won't perform with her husband."

"Why not?"

"Too mild for her. She knows he wouldn't throw her about enough. And Ronald might. Besides Ronald doesn't want to, and that in itself is enough for her."

"I've no patience with that sort. Hullo, Ronald's going to take her on."

Roger's prophecy was fulfilled. It appeared that Ronald knew quite well what was wanted of him, and he proceeded to give it in full measure.

"All right, Ena. I'll dance an Apache dance with you."

He caught his sister - in - law's hand, swung her round with all his strength, and let go. She shot across the wide floor, ended up on her hands and knees, and darted back for more. For a full three minutes Ronald threw her about, in and out of the other dancers, who refused to clear the floor for the pair. To Roger and Nicolson, looking on, it seemed that Ena Stratton must have suffered considerably in the process; but from the wailing outcry she raised when Ronald refused to maltreat her any more, it was clear that she had prodigiously enjoyed this singular amusement.

"And she the mother of a fine wee son," said Nicolson disgustedly.

Roger, the only person in the room who had watched the performance with any real interest, nodded gently. "It's typical, of course, and significant too."

"Significant of what?"

"Of everything that has happened to that young woman so far - and of anything that might happen to her in the future."

"Well, well," said Dr. Chalmers. "Time we were going home, I suppose."

"You always want to go home as soon as I'm beginning to enjoy myself," said his wife bitterly.

"I've got to do a day's work tomorrow, my dear. It's nearly half - past one."

"Not just yet," Mrs. Chalmers pleaded. "Frank and Jean aren't going yet, are you, Frank?"

"Would you like to stay on a bit, darling?" Dr. Mitchell asked his wife.

"Yes, rather. I'm enjoying it."

"Sure you're not tired?" Dr. Mitchell asked anxiously.

"Not a bit."

"Well, we shall stay on for a bit, Lucy."

"There you are, Philip. Frank and Jean aren't going yet, and he's got to do a day's work tomorrow. We can stop for a bit too. You know Ronald's parties go on till about four."

"Sorry, dear," said Dr. Chalmers with the utmost heartiness. "Frank may be able to stand late hours, I can't. Run and get your cloak on, there's a good girl."

Roger turned away, marvelling. He did not know much about marriage, but he did know that such firmness in husbands is rare. Ena Stratton ought to have married Dr. Chalmers. He might have been able to keep her in order.

Ronald came running up the stairs. "Phil, you're wanted on the telephone."

"Hurray!" exclaimed Mrs. Chalmers callously, arresting her reluctant progress downstairs. "I hope it's a call, and I hope it keeps him out for hours."

"Loathsome woman," laughed Dr. Chalmers, unperturbed, and went downstairs. As things turned out, it was a call. "I shall be about an hour," said Dr. Chalmers.

"Good," said Mrs. Chalmers.

The party then resumed its course. A little group was sitting at one end of the ballroom in amicable converse, Mrs. Lefroy, Ronald and David Stratton, Roger, and Nicolson. To them came Ena Stratton.

"David, I'm bored. Let's go home." The David Strattons lived in a small house not five hundred yards away from the gates of Ronald's drive.

"Nonsense, Ena. You don't want to go home yet," said Ronald. "You'll spoil the party."

"I can't help that. I'm bored."

"Sit down, my dear, and don't be rude to your kind brother - in - law," said David.

"I won't sit down. And he isn't kind: he wouldn't do an Apache dance with me till I made him. Come on, David. Let's go."

"But I don't want to go yet."

"But I do. Well, give me the key, if you won't come. I tell you, I'm bored."

Roger wondered if everyone else were feeling as uncomfortable as this exchange was making him. He caught Mrs. Lefroy's eye and they smiled, surreptitiously and ruefully.

David Stratton could not recognize an opportunity when he saw one. Instead of handing the key over, thankfully, he attempted to persuade his wife to stay.

"Don't be an ass, David," said Ronald. "Give her the key if she really wants to go."

"I do," said Ena.

"All right, then, if you really want to. Here it is."

Ena took the key and balanced it on the palm of her hand.

"I don't think I will go after all. Let's do something amusing."

"Ena!" shouted Ronald.

"What?"

"Good - night."

"But I'm not going."

"Yes, you are. You wanted to, and you shall. Besides, you're bored."

"Only because I'm tired of dancing. I shouldn't be if only we could do something amusing."

"Well, we're not going to do anything amusing, so off you go. I can't stand the sight of bored guests about the place. Good - night."

Ena plumped herself down in a vacant chair, laughing triumphantly.

"Now she's got our attention, she's happy again," Roger confided to Mrs. Lefroy.

Ronald was happy, too, at the prospect of getting rid of Ena.

"Good - night, Ena," he repeated.

"No, no, I'm not going. I've changed my mind. It's a woman's privilege to change her mind, you know."

"I don't care about that. You said you were going, and you are." Ronald spat ostentatiously on his hands. "Come on, David. You take her head, and I'll take her heels."

"Ronald doing the he - man stuff," said Roger to Mrs. Lefroy. "Take warning."

"They're only joking."

"Not altogether. Ronald's pretending to joke, but he's extremely annoyed; and I'm not surprised. What's the betting on him getting rid of her?"

"About a hundred to one against, I should think," said Mrs. Lefroy, not very hopefully.

With merry laughter the trio set about their tussle. Ronald caught his sister - in - law by the heels, David took her shoulders. On the surface it was just meaningless horseplay. At any rate, Ena herself seemed to be thoroughly enjoying it as such, while she pretended to struggle and resist.

The two men carried her, kicking and shrieking with laughter, across the floor. Then, all of a sudden, by the door, Ena precipitated a change. She aimed a really vicious kick at Ronald, she struck up with her fists at her husband's face, and she screamed out:

"Let me go, you swine! Damn you, let me go!"

They let her go, with a thud on the parquet floor. Ena scrambled to her feet, rushed out of the room, and banged the door behind her with a crash that shook the house.

"Well, well, well," said Roger to Mrs. Lefroy.

David Stratton stood looking uncertainly at the closed door. "Oh, let her be," said Ronald.

David shrugged his shoulders. Then he walked back to the group where he had been sitting. "Sorry, everyone," he said briefly, a flush on his usually rather pale face.

Everyone began to be as nice to him as possible, with the result that a perfectly unnatural atmosphere was created, and it was all rather embarrassing. Roger made what was probably a popular movement when he rose to his feet with the remark that a drink he must and would have and carried David Stratton off with him to the bar, where he gave him a stiff whiskey - and - soda and talked firmly to him about the exploits of the M.C.C. cricket team in Australia the previous winter, a topic which, somewhat to his surprise, he discovered Stratton to be passionately interested.

In the meantime the party, relieved of Ena Stratton's blighting presence, went on with renewed vigour; dancing was resumed, those who wanted to do so stood in little groups and discussed, with the academic ferocity appropriate to two a.m., such questions as interested them, and everything in the ballroom was harmony.

At a quarter past two David Stratton joined his brother and Roger, who happened to be together at the bar, and announced that he thought he must be pushing off.

"Don't go yet, David. Everyone will think they ought to go too, if they see you slinking away."

"I think I'd better."

"If you're thinking of Ena, much better leave her alone for a bit longer. She'll take it out on you as usual if you get back before she's safely asleep."

"Still," said David, with a rueful smile, "I think I'd better, if you don't mind."

"All right, if you really mean it. Anyhow, good luck."

"Thanks. I'll probably need it. Good - night, Sheringham."

When he had gone, Ronald sighed.

"I'm afraid the poor lad's in for a nasty quarter of an hour."

"But he didn't do anything."

"Oh, that doesn't matter. He's always the scapegoat when that maniac of a woman doesn't think she's had enough admiration. David's such a good chap, and she leads him an absolute dog's life. Oh, well, thank heaven I'm a bachelor."

"Very temporarily, though?"

"Oh, very," said Ronald with a laugh.

"Once a married man, always a married man, I'm afraid," Roger said compassionately. "Both you and your brother are marrying types, aren't you?"

"Yes, I suppose so," Ronald agreed and swallowed a sip of his whiskey - and - soda. "Poor David, though. A first marriage should never be binding."

Roger, who had heard something like this already during the evening, knew what line to take. "One develops," he said tactfully.

"Yes, of course. But apart from that one hasn't the knowledge of the other sex. An experienced man might have seen through Ena during the engagement and been able to save his soul; David was far too green. And now that he has . . ."

"Seen through her?"

"No, met the girl who would be exactly right for him. Yes, it's very tough luck."

"There's no chance of a friendly divorce?"

"None. Ena would certainly never agree. She's got her bird in its cage, and it wouldn't be she who'd ever open the door. So David hasn't approached her on the topic at all. She'd only be more impossible than ever if she knew he was in love with someone else. I don't know why I'm telling you all this, Sheringham."

"You should drink beer instead of whiskey," Roger suggested.

"Perhaps that's it. Anyhow, I apologize for inflicting all this family history on you. It can't possibly interest you."

"On the contrary, all human relationships interest me, especially tangles. But I really am very sorry for your brother. Isn't it possible for anything to be done?"

"Nothing short of murder," said Ronald gloomily.

"And that," said Roger, "always does seem to me a little drastic. Well, here's luck to you, Ronald, at any rate."

"Thanks," said Ronald, brightening. "Yes, my goodness, Sheringham, I've struck it lucky. Agatha really is . . ." His conversation threatened to become maudlin. Ronald should have stuck to beer.

"Yes, rather," said Roger hastily. "Look here, hadn't we better be getting back to the ballroom?"