Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 130, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 793 & 794, September/October 2007

Parson Pennywick and the Whirligig by Amy Myers

© 2007 by Amy Myers

Art by Ron Bucalo

Some Amy Myers fans may be unaware that she also writes as Harriet Hudson, a pseudonym she reserves for sagas and historical fiction. Of course, many of her Amy Myers mysteries — like this one — also have historical settings. Ms. Myers has two new books coming out in the U.S. this year: Murder and the Golden Goblet (Severn House) and Tom Wasp and the Murdered Stunner (Tekno Books).

“Music, Mr. Primrose, if you please,” roared Squire Holby, and our village fiddler seized his instrument. “Parson Pennywick, lead the way.”

I obeyed all too eagerly and hastened out of the house to the lawns of Diplock Hall. It was a pretty sight that summer evening, with lamps already flickering even though it was not yet dark. The lawns were to be our dancing floor, and the scythes and rollers had clearly been busy that day to make them so smooth.

Our squire has regular Evenings of Conviviality, as he calls them, but tonight’s was of greater importance than usual. His generosity is well known in our Kentish village of Cuckoo Lees. His jovial figure brings cheer where there was gloom, he has a heart for the misfortunes of others, and his tables groan with splendid food... no wonder, for his cook is sister to my own housekeeper, my dear Dorcas.

Nevertheless, I feared that conviviality had now vanished from the evening. Despite the squire’s valiant attempt to mend fences, they were already smashed beyond hope of recovery, and I worried about what the evening might still bring.

“I’ll send a gig for you, Caleb,” the squire had said to me after matins on Sunday last, when I had hesitated over the invitation. Riding home over our uneven country paths after one of Squire’s gatherings holds little pleasure for elderly parsons of fifty years and more, especially one whose horse has grown old with him. “What?” he continued, as he saw my doubt, “Not have the parson present to hear my Evelina betrothed to young Mr. Dacres of Ten Trees? Zounds, man, unthinkable.”

For the said parson, it had also been unthinkable that the lovely Evelina might be leaving Diplock Hall and Cuckoo Lees. I had known her all her life, and the sight of her in the spring of life cheered any day. As the years pass and one’s own spring is far behind, one needs such reminders of youth. Then I had reproached myself for selfishness. Ten Trees lies but in the next parish, although it is not one of my own five benefices.

But Thomas Dacres? I had heard nothing against the young man, nor his father William, a solid enough gentleman of great wealth. But Thomas’s mother, a lady known for her kind heart, died some years ago, and when William remarried it was not wisely. It was said that riches alone had been Constance Dacres’s reason for marrying the ageing widower.

I had reluctantly agreed to attend this evening, but asked doubtfully: “Do you think the marriage will take place, Squire?”

Squire Holby came straight to the point. “That witch interferes over my dead body. William Dacres has sanctioned the match, and even she cannot gainsay that.”

“That Constance Dacres is a witch, I do not doubt,” I replied, “but only through her power over men’s baser desires.”

The squire grew purple — with rage, I then thought. “She’s an evil wanton, and there’s plenty in Cuckoo Lees who’d agree with me. But as for this marriage, it should suit her well. Her power over William will be complete when Thomas leaves Ten Trees for Weldon House.” This was a delightful but small house, he explained, on the Ten Trees estate.

“And that is Thomas’s property?”

The squire looked uneasy. “It will be on his marriage, as will a large settlement from his mother. I’ll not be able to do the same by Evelina, more’s the pity. Of course, Weldon House...”

“Yes, Squire?” I urged him when he paused. I feared there was worse to come.

There was. “My Evelina said the witch — I crave your pardon, Caleb — Mrs. Dacres would have the Widow Paxton live there to rid her from Ten Trees. The house is small, however, and would not house three.”

I was aghast. The Widow Paxton was the first Mrs. Dacres’s mother, of whom William Dacres was very fond. She is an old lady, not long for this world, and needed the comfort of Ten Trees. “But you have William’s blessing for the marriage?” I said firmly.

“I do, and—” the squire regained his usual optimistic joviality — “never fear over Constance Dacres. Who could not love my Evelina?”

Tonight, I fear, the answer had become all too clear.

Before leaving for Diplock Hall, I had dined lightly at four on a stew of carp, a veal pie, and a lemon syllabub, as the invitation had been for seven o’clock. Wine and ramequins of cheese were served as we arrived, for supper would not be for some two hours. We were thus a merry group of some twenty to thirty souls at this informal gathering of friends, although I noticed that Mr. and Mrs. William Dacres were not yet present. Dogs ran to sniff each new arrival, Mrs. Holby’s pet cat watched the proceedings from the safety of a cabinet top, and even a parrot was heard to squawk his approval at the jollity. I had begun to relax, convincing myself that the Dacreses were absent through some trivial happening. The squire had had the happy notion of sending for the village fiddler to play for dancing; his son came too, trundling a music box so that we should not lack for rhythm if Mr. Primose momentarily ceased for a glass of the squire’s brandy. Of which there was plenty!

“Miss Evelina,” I had remarked in admiration, “you are tonic enough for us all.”

“Even better than rhubarb, Parson?” she teased me, since my faith in this curative is well known. She was clad in a silk gown of the palest pink, with matching petticoat. A blushing Thomas was at her side, as pink as her robe, with his hair drawn back, quite in the mode. No wigs for the young of today, not even a peruke. For all that, he was a fine-looking lad, and I wished her well, assuming then that Constance, as well as William, had given them her blessing, even if a reluctant one on her part.

How could I have been so naive? William and Constance Dacres had just arrived. It was William I saw first, as the doors to the dining room opened. A quiet, solemn man, tonight he looked unhappy and strained. Then I saw the tall, slender figure of his wife at his side, who smiled as graciously as if she, and not Evelina, were the centre of today’s rejoicing. Her dress proclaimed it, too. None of our country styles here. No quilted padded skirts for Mrs. Dacres. That striped brocade gown and jacket seized the eye with their apparent simplicity, but like their wearer they were, as Dorcas would no doubt have told me, most artfully conceived.

Thomas had turned white, and so I swear did half of the gentlemen in the room, and not with admiration for Constance Dacres’s undoubted beauty. William Dacres must surely already have been well aware of his wife’s flouting of the requirement for fidelity in marriage. Dorcas told me that her current paramour was rumoured to be Mr. Christopher Collett, a learned and most serious young lawyer, and present this evening. He is married to a lady somewhat older than himself who has brought riches to the union. His predecessor in Mrs. Dacres’s “favours” was also present, Mr. Gerald Farrow, of prosperous estate and recently married to a young and pretty wife, Emily. I feared what might lie ahead. At court in London, such matters are managed — or dismissed — with more aplomb than in our little community in Cuckoo Lees.

It is difficult even now to explain what made Constance’s beauty seem as hard as the ice of winter. When I thought of the first Mrs. Dacres, I wept for what was gone and for the foolishness of men such as William who seek too quickly to replace what can never be replaced and thus fall victim to the outward show.

“So I am to have a stepdaughter.” She spoke seductively and I thought all was well as she inspected Evelina from head to toe. The unlucky girl gracefully sank to the floor in a curtsey. As she rose, however, Mrs. Dacres rapped out:

“I think not.”

“Mrs. Dacres!” her husband pleaded. “I pray you, not here.”

“And why not? It cannot be. Thomas is underage, and that is that. I am sure you would agree, Squire Holby.” The gentleness in the voice gave way to iron.

The squire grew purple in the face. “My daughter, ma’am, is worthy of the Prince of Wales himself.”

“Then let him have her.”

At this breach of courtesy, let alone justice, I waited for her husband to step forward to stop such outrageousness, and declare that Thomas had his permission to wed. To my distress and alarm, neither he nor anyone else spoke; not Thomas, not the squire. It was up to me, their parson, to speak out. I approached the witch myself, fervently wishing I had thought to pack bell, book, and candle in the gig.

“Madam, if you have just cause to speak out against this marriage, then tell us now, or let your husband speak for you.”

“Against this marriage?” Her laughter rippled out. “Parson, he is but twenty years old. To come into his inheritance from his mother, he requires his father’s permission to wed. And that he does not have.”

“Egad, is this true, sir?” the squire thundered at William Dacres. I saw him flush, I saw him step forward as though he would speak, then I saw him stare as if bewitched by his wife, as no doubt he was.

“Perhaps it is best...” He could not finish or even look at his son.

Constance laughed. “Five years, Thomas, until you are twenty-five. It will pass quickly enough.”

Thomas looked at her, and I saw hatred in his eyes. I am ashamed to say it occurred to me that perhaps the witch had flaunted herself at him, only for Thomas to reject her.

“And in the meanwhile,” she continued, not laughing now, “take care, all of you. Many gentlemen who are here tonight shall rue the day they met me, and some, Parson, will look to their livelihood.”

I was in no doubt that this was a direct threat against myself, as well as others. There was much at stake, and not only for myself. To keep its secrets, in which the squire and I are heavily involved, Cuckoo Lees depends on trust between one and another and seldom is there a cuckoo in the nest. Whatever the risk, however, this cuckoo had to be ousted. I could hear uneasy murmurings of “witch,” I could see fear on many faces. I am not a brave man, but I stood there to represent a far greater being than myself, and He will not be browbeaten.

Without ado, I stepped in front of Mrs. Dacres and took Miss Evelina’s silk-gloved hand gently in mine. Then I took Thomas’s in my other hand and joined them together with mine clasped over them.

There was total hush. “Whom God wishes to join together,” I declared quietly, “let no man put asunder.”

A tense silence, and then a roar of approval and relief from the assembled guests. Squire Holby took his cue from me.

“Music, Mr. Primrose, if you please,” he had roared, and our Evening of Conviviality staggered into life again as we hurried towards the lawns.

The rowdiness and exuberance of the dancers was unexpectedly all the greater in the face of the threat to it. We danced most energetically, we laughed, we joked, we swung our partners with enthusiasm, the squire’s dogs ran amongst us, barking with excitement as though they would join in, serving men dexterously wove their way through to bring drinks, and the fiddler played as though Rome itself burned. The minuet, even a quadrille, we attacked all the familiar dances with gusto, if not grace, for lawns are more suited to the old country dances, from The Chirping of the Lark to The Parson’s Farewell — often demanded by the squire as a jest against me.

Only Mrs. Dacres did not join in, but watched from the doorway to the house. I saw no one approach her, perhaps because no one wished to dance with her; not even her husband had requested that dubious pleasure. I thought little of it. We would dance, at nine we would take supper, and in my delight at dancing with Miss Evelina herself, I half forgot Mrs. Dacres, assuming in my foolish arrogance that I had saved the evening and the marriage.

“And now the finishing dance,” roared Squire Holby, as nine o’clock struck and the smell of hot dishes of supper began to waft out to us. He was well in his cups by now and who could blame him? “What shall it be?” he demanded.

There was only one answer. At Diplock Hall, there was only one finishing dance permitted. With one voice we all cried out: “Sir Roger de Coverley.”

What other country dance could be better to seal an evening of bonhomie? Who could not but remain in good humour with his neighbours after dizzily whirling round with nimble feet and swinging his partner with joyous zest? Who could not but be merry as coats and skirts flew and ankles peeped?

It is thought by some that the dance is named after the jovial and eccentric “Sir Roger de Coverley” who, over sixty years ago, was created in Joseph Addison’s essays for The Spectator magazine. History prefers to complicate matters, however. In the essays, “Sir Roger” claimed it was his grandfather invented the dance, but the “Roger of Coverley” existed in the dance manuals long before “Sir Roger” willy-nilly became confused with the story, although its figures and steps continually change over the years.

To my mind, it is still the finest country dance of them all, and it is said even the court of King George enjoys it. When my dear wife Bertha was alive I loved to swing her round, then pass round each lady in the whirligig (as Bertha used to call it to my amusement), as she did the same down the gentlemen’s line. How I enjoyed taking her hand to turn in the centre each time, until the last couple in the set was reached and we paused to lead the promenade back to our new positions.

I had thought Bertha would be my partner for life until she was gently taken from me, and now I live on without her, working in my parish, in my garden, and on my glebe land, which my man Barnabas manages, and cared for by Dorcas, my housekeeper, who comforts me by day, and often also when darkness falls.

Our sets were six couples in length, and to my horror I saw the squire, no doubt even further in his cups, escorting Constance Dacres to join the head of one set. To my amazement, William Dacres was next to the squire in the gentlemen’s line, opposite his partner Mrs. Meek, our doctor’s wife. Next to his father was Thomas Dacres, not to be parted from his Evelina. Thus the family seemed reunited. Then came Christopher Collett, no doubt bitterly regretting having been drawn into Constance’s spider’s web, opposite his wife; then came Gerald Farrow, no doubt shivering in his shoes at the prospect of revelations about his past indiscretion. His wife Emily faced him, but next to her at the end of the set on the ladies’ side, I saw to my consternation that the Widow Paxton stood awaiting a partner. Much against my will, since I had no wish to meet Constance Dacres in a merry dance, I realised I should in courtesy take my place as the widow’s partner.

At least the music would, I trusted, concentrate the dancers’ minds on their feet and not on Mrs. Dacres’s threats, since it is a fast-moving dance in which wits and limbs must move quickly together. Then I remembered that only some of the dancers at any one time would be moving quickly, and that for the other couples there would be time to brood on Mrs. Dacres, while waiting for her and the squire to perform the whirligig down the line towards them.

There would be no trouble, I tried to comfort myself. The squire would have his position as our magistrate to consider, as I had my parson’s office. Mr. Primrose began the well-known tune, which set all our feet a-tapping, and for a while I forgot my worries.

“Tallyho,” roared Squire Holby as he honoured his partner — which must have been hard for him today — at the top of our set. As the unfortunate gentleman at the bottom of the set, I advanced to take the hand of Constance Dacres in the middle of the set; it felt for a moment like a snake curling in my palm as we circled round. Then I was back in my place, only to have to advance thus thrice more, until I was released by the advent of the whirligig figure. As she laughed and twinkled in merriment at me, she seemed a different woman from the one who had opposed me in the dining room, and yet each time I escaped the witch to retreat to my own position a great relief flooded over me.

I watched her with her partner the squire, turning with their right hands in the middle of the set, then she passed to the gentlemen’s side for the whirligig and he to the ladies’. First in line was her husband:

“Come, my dear,” I heard her say. “Is this not a splendid dance?”

William Dacres did not reply, but stolidly turned with her in her wake after she passed on his left and then danced to the centre to meet the squire again. Then to young Thomas: I saw him shrink away as she quietly spoke into his ear while circling round him. Back to the centre again to take the squire’s right hand. Impossible now to look at that innocent-looking face and believe she had wickedness in her heart.

“Christopher,” she cried gaily as she circled round him, “how long a while since I have seen thee last.”

His terrified expression, as he turned and for a moment was facing me, told me all I wished to know. Back to the centre for Constance Dacres. Then the next gentleman in the whirligig:

“Gerald,” she said loudly, “have you not missed me?”

I did not see his face as he turned, close as he was to me, but I could imagine it. Back to the centre and the squire’s right hand. She would be with me in less time than it takes to think these words, let alone record them. I drew on all my resolve. I was a man of God, His cross would protect me against the deeds of the devil. And here she was, those eyes staring expressionless into mine.

“Parson Pennywick,” she began, but did not continue, to my relief. She seemed still as we circled together, a ghost in flight as she went to take the squire’s hand for the last spin of the whirligig. They half-turned, leaving her to dance on past the Widow Paxton to take her place in the line next to her, as the squire came to stand by me. It was time for them to begin the promenade.

It did not happen. Instead:

“Oh,” the Widow Paxton screamed, as Mrs. Dacres staggered, clutching at the widow’s skirts; but then her hands fell away, as she collapsed on the grass.

“She swoons,” I cried, but there was no movement, no sound from anyone, and the fiddler played on.

Then Dr. Meek came hurrying from the other set, and the music came to a screeching halt, as it was observed that we had all stopped dancing. I was already at Mrs. Dacres’s side when Dr. Meek arrived. Why? I think I knew even then that this was no mere swoon.

“She has no need of your services, Caleb,” Dr. Meek said, after a quick examination, but even so I knelt by the body for a few words with the One who alone knows the secrets of the most evil of our hearts.

The doctor had spoken quietly, but even so William Dacres heard. He was pale with shock, but I heard no outburst of lamentations either from him or those now gathered around.

I was aware that Squire Holby was staring at me enigmatically. “Get her inside, Caleb,” he said. “We must send our guests away.”

“Not for the moment, sir,” Dr. Meek said.

Squire Holby is our magistrate, but poaching and charge-orders on men unwilling to wed the mothers of the children they have sired are the worst of the crimes usually tried before him. Even so, he grasped the doctor’s meaning, and quickly ushered the guests into supper.

“An apoplexy,” he cried dismissively. I longed to believe it.

Warm food provides a licence to believe that nothing can be amiss with life, and I had a brief wistful desire to join the diners. Then I apologised to our Lord for such sinful thoughts while a woman lay dead for an unknown reason, awaiting His and my attention. As I looked down at that still-lovely face, now pale in death, I lamented the abuse she had heaped upon God’s gifts. We carried her inside to the powder room, and left Dr. Meek for a while to decide how she had died. The coroner must be informed if there were no clear reason for it.

The squire, William Dacres, and I went not to the dining room, dearly though I would have liked to. I thought longingly of the happy winter evenings I had spent here at the squire’s fireside eating his good victuals and basking in his good cheer, but now I entered dark territory at Diplock Hall. We went instead to his breakfast room, where the servants obligingly brought us some sustenance. Much as I welcomed it, it tasted of little while we waited for news. At last Dr. Meek rejoined us, but it was to ask only me to accompany him, not the squire or William.

“Deuced odd,” I heard the squire say to William as we left.

I thought so too, and foreboding returned as I followed the doctor back to the powder room.

“I had thought it heart disease,” Dr. Meek said gravely.

He is a youngish man, but I have great faith in him, albeit he is not such a believer in the old country cures as I am. Young men bring new ways with them.

“Until I saw this,” the doctor continued.

The clothing had been loosened now, but was still in place. All I saw at first was a spot of blood underneath the left breast. Then I realised that what I had taken for a design on the dress was in fact a round object sticking out from it. As Dr. Meek pulled it clear, out came darkened blood upon it. The instrument was something I recognised with shock.

“A stiletto,” Dr. Meek confirmed.

This was not in its usual sense of a dagger, but the so-named instrument women use in their needlework to create such holes as eyelets; it is long, strong — and, I presumed, lethal, if it struck the heart. I have seen my housekeeper stab at coarse cloths with hers often enough.

“She was unfortunate,” he continued. “It went between the bone struts of her stays and found its target.”

A silence, as I wrestled with my conscience. “So she was murdered, Doctor,” I said at last.

“This is a woman’s tool. Could a woman have killed her?”

Rapidly, I thought of the Sir Roger de Coverley, and those who had met her in the whirligig while she progressed down the set. It would take no great force to drive the stiletto in, but I saw no chance of a woman having had the opportunity to kill Mrs. Dacres, nor indeed any of the men without great risk. And yet, Constance Dacres had been moving from enemy to enemy on the men’s side. The womenfolk opposite might have had little love for Constance Dacres, but would lack the opportunity.

“Any man could have brought such an object if he had decided to kill Mrs. Dacres in advance. He could wait for an opportunity to arise in the crowds where many might be suspect,” I said unhappily. “What easier weapon to obtain and conceal unnoticed in hand or clothing. Nevertheless,” I felt obliged to point out, “she fell at the end of the whirligig.” I could have added, “where I stood,” but it was obvious enough.

“She might not have died instantly,” Dr. Meek said. “I have heard of several cases of delayed death where the victim kept moving without difficulty for some little while.”

“She would have made some sign, cried out, even if all she felt was the pain of entry.”

Dr. Meek considered this. “The dance is fast, and hardly quiet.”

He was right. The Sir Roger de Coverley is usually a cheerful dance. The cries of “Hey!” were many as the dancers twirled and spun, and there was much laughter, too. A murderer could easily have covered any cry from Mrs. Dacres with one of his own.

“She could not have been stabbed before she joined the set,” I said. “There would have been too great a risk while she stood alone at the doorway, and yet surely I would have seen if she had been stabbed in the line.”

Or would that be so? I then wondered. As the squire and Mrs. Dacres made their way down the set through and around the other couples, those gentlemen who had not yet “met” the lady would be watching the one in front, whose back (since he and the lady would pass on each other’s left) might mask movements from those watching behind. Those who had already “met” the lady would not be watching her progress down the rest of the line of gentlemen, but the ladies’ side, as the squire made his way down the set. Yes, it might have been possible, I conceded.

“We must inform the coroner,” Dr. Meek declared.

“First the squire and the lady’s husband,” I reminded him.

We decided in this awkward situation that, having done so, I should remain with the squire, and Dr. Meek return to the dining room with William Dacres to inform the company of what was going on. I needed to talk to the squire in private.

Once the news was imparted to Squire Holby, there was, as I expected, an appalled silence. Then: “What,” he enquired, “the devil do we do, Caleb?”

Crime in Cuckoo Lees is a matter for careful consideration, as the village runs on well-oiled and accepted lines. Our unpaid parish constable, Samuel Byward, is hardly equipped to judge a murder, only to deliver the presumed guilty party to prison through the magistrate in order to await trial at the Assizes. Alternatively, a Bow Street Runner may be sent for to discover the miscreant. There is a drawback to this apparently simple solution: He would be an outsider, and as a result, other secrets in Cuckoo Lees could face the unwelcome light of day.

Such as the smuggling arrangements for our tea, brandy, tobacco, and other such essential comforts of life.

Cuckoo Lees lies near the smuggling route from the coast at Hythe to London, and, as has every other village, possesses its own organisation to deal with the goods. This organisation must therefore have its leaders. Obviously I cannot reveal the identity of our captain, but there is a stalwart lieutenant and his second in command.

These are respectively myself and the squire.

Somehow Mrs. Constance Dacres had discovered this, as had been evident from her threat to me. Our position was therefore very delicate, particularly since the squire is also our magistrate. We have our own enemies in Cuckoo Lees, but even they draw the line at bringing in the law from outside. But what should we do now?

“We have no choice,” Squire Holby said gruffly. “We must solve this affair ourselves, send for Samuel and notify the coroner; then put the villain behind bars.”

I agreed, with only one reservation, but this time it was I who had no choice. “You’ll forgive me, Squire, but we’re in too fine a pickle here.”

Rather to my surprise, he glared at me, but took my point. Not only might he be prejudiced in the matter, but I might myself, so we sent for the doctor and William Dacres again and candidly explained our dilemma. Since most people, poor and rich, benefit from our activities, we had a sympathetic audience. Nevertheless, I was aware that William Dacres would appear to have every reason to wish his wife dead, as would his son.

“What about me?” William asked. He stared down at the body of his wife, and still I saw no emotion there, though this was a woman he had held in his arms and loved enough to marry. “She cuckolded me, made me a laughing stock, and would have ruined my son’s happiness too. You’ll think it strange the power she held over me, but you didn’t know her as I did. It was as if she sucked the life blood from me, everything that made me a man. I’d say that makes me prejudiced, too.”

“I’m not prejudiced,” Dr. Meek pointed out.

“How do we know?” William growled. “No, there’s only one person I’d trust. The parson can find out who did this.”

Three pairs of eyes rested on me thankfully when I reluctantly nodded. “But with your assistance, Squire,” said I. The stakes were high. If I failed, the parsonage, Dorcas, Barnabas, and my whole peaceful life would be forfeit.

The body of Constance Dacres was a grim reminder that time was short. Once the guests dispersed, there would be no solving of the crime amongst ourselves. Early in the evening we had been merry with wine and brandy, but now our minds were sobered with the responsibility before us. I allowed myself one brief image of my quiet study at the parsonage and Dorcas sitting there with her sewing. That brought unwelcome thoughts of the stiletto, so I hastily changed it to her baking a tench pie.

The squire and I had a brief word alone in order to agree our way forward. I began the task with a final plea: “Squire, you’re a magistrate. Are you sure—”

“No, Caleb. This is your game of chess, and you must win it.”

And so I began. “You were her partner, Squire Holby. Tell me how that came about.”

“That devil woman,” he grunted, “came up to me and told me it was my duty to dance with her. I thought she’d be less trouble there than left on her own.”

“It seems unlikely that she could have been harmed during the early stages of the dance,” I began.

He avoided my eye, naturally enough. I had been the person dancing with her. “I agree,” he said, fortunately.

“Did you notice anything strange as you turned her at the end of the whirligig?”

“The what?”

Somewhat sheepishly, I explained Bertha’s quaint term.

“Can’t say I did,” the squire replied to my question. “She wasn’t speaking, but I took that as natural in the circumstances.”

I was no further forward. The answer to who killed her must lie in the Sir Roger de Coverley, and the old dance was laughing at me. “Very well, Squire. We must dance it again.”

He gaped at me and I explained my reasoning. “Dr. Meek can play the part of Mrs. Dacres.”

The squire made no objection to this eccentricity of mine. The rest of the guests could be jurors if they chose, but the greatest Judge of all would be on my side, and I trusted in Him that together we might reach the answer.

It was with some difficulty that I managed to reassemble the set, but I had my way. There are advantages in being considered an eccentric elderly parson. Owing to the squire’s excellent stock of brandy, Mr. Primrose was beyond accompanying us on the fiddle but his son nobly wound the music box and its raucous sound sufficed to convey the speed at which we had danced, despite the toll it took on my nerves and ears.

I watched carefully as Dr. Meek (“Mrs. Dacres”) took his place. In other less desperate circumstances I would have chuckled to see our serious young doctor honouring the squire with a curtsey. I carried out with straight face the early figures of the dance, feeling somewhat foolish stepping out with the doctor. However, when, as Mrs. Dacres, Dr. Meek approached the line of gentlemen in the whirligig, I asked another gentleman to stand in for me while I took an outsider’s view.

As I watched “Mrs. Dacres” approach I realised to my dismay that I had been mistaken. A strong lunge with a stiletto as she passed her enemy could hardly have escaped notice were it delivered by William or Thomas Dacres, Mr. Collett or Mr. Farrow — or even myself. Nor could it have been achieved when she approached the squire for the turns by the right hand. I was relieved that the squire was formally ruled out. He could in no way have delivered that blow to her far side without being seen.

“Do you have the truth of it yet, Parson?” the squire called out hopefully.

“No.”

“But it couldn’t have been me. You agree?”

“I do.”

The squire looked mightily relieved. The same went for William, Thomas, Christopher Collett, and Gerald Farrow. “None of them could use a right hand to inflict a blow on the far side of her body,” I declared.

“Now, see here,” the squire began grandly, addressing the company at large, “you all heard Parson say I couldn’t have done it, even though Mrs. Dacres threatened my Evelina. There’s more, though. She threatened me tonight. Said she had others here, too.” He coughed in a meaningful way. “She held us in the palm of her hand, she said. That’s you, Mr. Collett, and you, Mr. Farrow, and I, all in the same whirligig, as Parson would say. All lies,” he said firmly, as Mrs. Collett and Mrs. Farrow showed signs of swooning, and their husbands looked as scared as smugglers caught by the Preventive. I almost clapped, so sensible was the squire’s move.

“That woman,” the squire informed the company, “threatened to tell Mrs. Holby I’d been tumbling her in the hay. Mrs. Dacres, that is. I can tumble Mrs. Holby all I like.”

“And had you — er — tumbled her?” Mr. Collett asked faintly.

“Zounds, sir, no.” The squire glared. “No more than you or Mr. Farrow had. But who’d believe us if she’d sworn to it?”

A silence while Messrs. Collett and Farrow obviously realised with relief that they were neatly absolved from their sins, past and current. Except perhaps, I reminded myself, of murder.

“What’s more,” the squire continued, “she said she’d tell Mrs. Holby this, unless I refused to sanction the marriage between these two young people. I don’t mind admitting it would have thrown the fox among the chickens, all right, if she’d poisoned Mrs. Holby’s thoughts against me. But now the parson’s showed I couldn’t have killed her.”

I sighed. “You couldn’t, Squire. Nor could a right-handed man in the line during the whirligig. But for a left-handed man it would be different, because the action would be masked from the rear by the gentleman’s body, and from those ahead or opposite by Mrs. Dacres as she continued her turn to the left around the gentleman.” I paused. “Are any of you left-handed?”

There was, not unexpectedly, an instant chorus of denials. “It can easily be ascertained,” I pointed out.

“Do so,” barked the squire. Pen and paper was instantly brought, and each wrote with his left hand. There was no doubt. They were all right-handed.

So, wearily now, we performed the dance yet again, myself included. I was too old for more than one such dance in an evening, and I grew heartily sick of Sir Roger’s music. I was beginning to think I must have done the murder myself in a fit of absentmindedness, but then at last I saw how Mrs. Dacres had died.

I took my colleagues aside, explained, and with sadness in our hearts we summoned the murderer into an adjoining room.

“Widow Paxton,” I said, much grieved, “it was you, was it not, who slid that stiletto into Constance Dacres?”

“It was.” She did not flinch. “And mighty grateful you all should be to me. Someone had to do it. She was ruining William’s life, and Thomas’s, not to mention those of others. Such as mine. She wanted to throw me out of Ten Trees. So I thought, I’m not long for this world. I have a canker that grows the size of an apple. I took the stiletto in case I saw a chance this evening to take her with me after one last great dance.”

“It was murder,” I told her gravely.

“Killing a mad cat. How did you know it was me?”

“We ruled out all the women because Mrs. Dacres wasn’t close enough to them. I forgot that after the last turn with the squire in the centre she would have to pass the last lady in line closely on the left side to get into the correct position to face her partner in the gentlemen’s line again. No one would have seen you turn towards her as she did so. No one would have seen you stab her.”

She cackled. “I’m left-handed, as it happens. Even easier.”

“But,” I continued, still puzzled, “you were already in place when you saw her coming to join the set. Suppose she had not danced?”

“I arranged that,” she answered with dignity. “I told her the squire was lusting after her and wanted to dance with her. He wouldn’t make so much ado about Thomas and Evelina then. I knew Squire always had Sir Roger to end with.”

I was thankful I was but a lawyer in this matter, and that our Lord would be judging her sooner than any assize. This dance of life brings strange whirligigs, and as I returned to the parsonage that evening, my heart leapt to see the light still burning. Dorcas awaited me.

“How was the Sir Roger de Coverley?” she asked me eagerly.

She would know the terrible truth soon enough, but I would not spoil our dreams this evening. Dorcas could not perceive the ambiguity of my words. “As usual,” I said. “The best of all finishing dances.”