‘How is Nelly Mole?’ I asked, before we got lost in too much reminiscence. ‘Have you seen her since you’ve been home? She must be very upset by what happened to Jessie.’
Maisie had little sympathy for Jessie and dismissed her with a wave of her gnarled little hand. ‘Bad lot, that’s what Jessie was! Nelly would tell you just the same if you asked her.’
‘The police still have no idea who killed her.’
Maisie gave a snort of disgust. ‘I reckon she must have started on her old nonsense again.’
‘Poison-pen letters?’
She nodded. ‘Anyone’s likely to murder her if they got one of them.’
‘But they’d have to know it was from Jessie,’ I pointed out.
‘Ah, well,’ Maisie sniffed. ‘Mud sticks.’
‘You think someone in Ashburton knew that Jessie had been in trouble before?’
‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ Maisie admitted. ‘But when she had to leave Okehampton, no one knows where she went then or what she got up to … least, no one in her family.’
‘And Nelly won’t talk about why she had to leave?’ I asked.
Maisie glanced around the room and dropped her voice to a whisper as if she suspected the ornaments might be eavesdropping. ‘I think a death was involved … y’know,’ she mouthed the word, ‘suicide.’
‘Because of one of Jessie’s letters?’
‘Well, they couldn’t absolutely prove it was her who wrote it, but that’s when Jessie had to leave town.’
‘And how long ago was this?’
Maisie held up her hands helplessly. ‘I don’t know. I just know it was a long time ago. And wherever she went, who’s to say she didn’t carry on with her mischief?’
Later that night I spent some time on the Internet, trawling through Dartmoor Gazette’s online archive. Unfortunately, I didn’t have much to go on. Apart from the recent ones, I could find no references to Jessie Mole and no references to poison-pen letters or suicides in Okehampton. Not knowing what year I wanted didn’t help. It was possible the online archive just didn’t go back far enough. And what Maisie had said was true: Jessie might have carried on with her mischief somewhere else for years – which meant there could be an awful lot of people out there with a motive to kill her.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
We got a round of applause as we entered the ballroom, but then, our costumes were superior to everyone else’s.
‘Are they originals?’ Sophie had squeaked in delight when we had first tried them on.
‘They’re better than originals,’ Ricky had told her. ‘These were made for Thoroughly Modern Millie. They’re much more glam.’
We couldn’t just walk in discreetly, of course. Ricky and Morris made sure we were noticed. They refused to shed their silk top hats, capes and silver-topped canes until we reached our table, where they helped us out of velvet wraps with wide shawl collars, to reveal the divine dresses beneath. It was like putting on a show, but with Ricky and Morris everything is. From their immaculate white ties and waistcoats to their gleaming patent shoes, they were every inch the gentlemen. Morris had abandoned his little spectacles in favour of a monocle, and Ricky had oiled his hair and given it a central parting, which did give him a slight look of Count Dracula, but as they both in perfectly synchronised motion flipped up their tails, sat down and crossed one leg over the other, I had to admit they had style.
Sophie wore a classic flapper dress in purple, strings of beads in gold, purple and black hanging from the hem; a purple ribbon circled her dark cap of hair, with feathers in black and gold standing up from her head. ‘Very Sally Bowles,’ Ricky had commented.
My dress was a deep, dark forest green and fringed, from the shoulder to the hem, in strings of shimmering bugle beads in emerald, green and turquoise. It sparkled and glistened with every move I made. How anyone ever danced in it I don’t know, because it weighed a ton. Ricky had tormented my hair back into coils at the back of my head, except for one looping spit-curl in the middle of my forehead, which was held firmly in place by a green velvet ribbon, with a cluster of feathered and beaded flowers hanging down over one ear. I’d have felt ridiculous if I hadn’t looked so fab.
Secretly, Sophie and I were more than a little dismayed to see an orchestra playing twenties-style music in the corner of the ballroom. We’d been hoping for a disco. The presence of a live band meant that they were almost certain to be playing a Charleston at some point, and we would have to dance it. Ricky and Morris had spent all afternoon trying to teach us the steps, and there was no way they were going to let us get away with not trying them out. We’d managed the basic forward and back reasonably well, although I was deplorably short on swivel, but when it came to all that knee-weaving I really wasn’t very good. I like to think of my own dancing style as less structured, more primeval.
But before the dancing we had drinks and dinner to get through and this gave us a chance to get a good look at everyone else. Many of the ladies had obviously made their own costumes or had them made, their efforts rated with varying degrees of scathing rudeness from the corner of Ricky’s mouth.
There were one or two ladies whose costumes were outstandingly good. Meredith Swann looked stunning in a heavily beaded evening gown in shades of red. It looked like a modern creation, but suited the period well. Her dark hair was looped back into a simple chignon. Above all, she wore her usual effortless elegance in a manner that made those of us in fancy dress feel silly. Sitting with her was Verbena Clarke. I suspect she’d probably designed her dress herself, a gauzy, floaty number in a colour that wasn’t quite white, wasn’t quite silver and wasn’t quite blue – something to do with the way it was layered, probably. She looked ravishing, although a spiteful observer – Ricky, for example – might have commented that it was really a dress for a slightly younger woman. Sharing their table was Mr Daniel Thorncroft, one of the few gentlemen to have come properly attired in white tie and tails. There didn’t seem to be a fourth member of their party and I could only assume he was acting as squire to them both.
‘Blimey!’ Ricky murmured to me. ‘He’s got his hands full!’
‘Did we tell you,’ Morris asked, tapping me on the arm, ‘they turned up at the house the other day?’
‘Who did?’
‘Verbena and her new friend, Meredith,’ Ricky said slyly.
‘Were they after costumes?’
‘No. They’re putting on an exhibition, the two of them, at Meredith’s gallery – some swanky artist friend of Verbena’s,’ Morris explained. ‘They brought us an invitation to the opening.’
I made a face. ‘They haven’t brought me one.’
‘They’re after our money.’ Ricky grinned.
‘They know you haven’t got any,’ Morris added.
They were right.
I spotted one person amongst the crowd who I wasn’t expecting to see: Detective Sergeant Cruella DeVille. I don’t know where she had got her dress from but she had chosen the perfect colour, an icy violet that matched her astonishing eyes. She wore a matching hairband around her black, bobbed hair and looked the perfect flapper. She was sitting at a table amongst a large group. I’d have loved to have known which man she was with but couldn’t work it out. I pointed her out to Ricky. ‘She looks lovely,’ I said.
He pulled a face. ‘Pity she always looks as if she’s sucking a lemon.’
Sophie choked on her champagne, nearly spraying it over the tablecloth. ‘She can’t help her mouth!’ she protested.
‘She could smile occasionally, that might help.’ His eyes widened at the sight of someone entering the ballroom. ‘Oh my God!’ he murmured. ‘I think it’s Miss Havisham!’ Morris and Sophie dissolved into fits of giggles and I turned to see who he meant.
Amanda Waft, trailing yards of cream chiffon, did give the impression that she might be wearing a wedding dress, an original probably, with a wide lace headdress worn very low over her brow, which added to the suspicion that she migh
t be slightly drunk. She was valiantly supported by Digby as she minced across the ballroom. There was a smattering of applause, from people who presumably recognised them from their old television series, which led Amanda to stop and give a wobbly curtsey before she continued on her way across the ballroom, turning from side to side and waving a gloved hand like visiting royalty. With some determined steering from Digby she eventually alighted like a giant cream butterfly at the table next to ours. Digby sat next to her and I saw him puff out his cheeks in a sigh, like a man who’d just safely landed a dodgy aircraft.
‘How lovely everyone looks!’ Amanda cooed graciously, gazing rather unsteadily around the room. ‘Is there champagne?’
A waiter with a tray was soon at her elbow, furnishing her with a glass. ‘You’d better get a bottle, Digby, darling,’ she told him and Digby darling hurried off to the bar to do her bidding. After reminding Amanda who Sophie and I were – she had a vague recollection of having met us before somewhere − we chatted about how their house-hunting was going. She couldn’t remember much about that either, so the conversation flagged a bit until Digby returned, then came dinner, which filled a couple of hours nicely. But as soon as the last of the coffee and mints had been cleared away, the band struck up a Charleston.
Everyone stayed resolutely in their seats. Sophie and I would have liked to do the same, but Ricky and Morris had other ideas and we were dragged, resisting, into the middle of the dance floor. The initial forward and back steps, performed in hold, Sophie with Morris, Ricky with me, weren’t too bad, but it was the side-by-sides I was dreading. All too soon we opened out. ‘Scarecrow!’ Ricky yelled at me. ‘Elbows out, knees together, elbows out, knees together,’ he shouted above the music as I flailed at his side. Whichever direction I moved in, the weighty strings of beads seemed to swing in the opposite one. Sophie was doing much better than I was: small and compact she had better balance, and she was dancing with Morris who, like a lot of fat men, was light on his feet.
Some of those seated watching us soon caught onto the fact that Ricky and Morris knew what they were doing, and lined up behind us, attempting to mimic our steps. ‘Bees knees!’ Ricky yelled and we all tried knee-weaving. Gradually, the dance floor filled and became one giant dance class with Ricky at the helm. Fortunately, Amanda was either too drunk or not drunk enough to attempt to dance – that or Digby had nailed her to her chair.
‘Scarecrow!’ Ricky yelled again. ‘Goony birds!’ and the whole crowd turned sideways and waved its arms up and down like crazy. I turned the wrong way and found myself chest-to-chest with a wildly flapping Daniel Thorncroft and turned away again. The rhythms got faster and the room grew hotter than the tropics. I swear the blasted band played the tune through twice. Eventually, the music stopped, and the whole crowd erupted in applause and breathless laughter. Most people decided to take a break and staggered back to their seats. Ricky, who was looking grey after all his exertions, went outside for a vape, and I headed off towards the ladies’ loo.
On my way back I passed Cruella’s table. I was still curious to see who she was with. She was chatting with a fair-haired young man whose slightly beefy good looks could have fitted a young farmer or a fellow policeman. My speculating meant I wasn’t looking where I was going and suddenly found myself accosted by Mr Daniel Thorncroft.
‘You really do look quite lovely Miss Browne with an “e”,’ he told me. He was smiling but for once there was no hint of mockery in his voice. ‘Would you care to dance?’
By now the band was playing something slow and intimate. I hesitated.
‘I should warn you,’ he went on, seeing my hesitation, ‘that I can’t dance, really, only shuffle.’
I was about to refuse and then saw Meredith and Verbena watching us from their table.
‘Me too,’ I admitted and let him lead me onto the dance floor. We assumed the same hold as those dancers around us, my hand on his shoulder, his arm around my back, my other hand resting lightly in his. It was too close for casual acquaintance. I could feel his warmth, smell the tang of his aftershave. I felt awkward and didn’t know what to say so I lowered my gaze.
‘My bow tie really is quite fascinating, isn’t it?’ he remarked pleasantly after he’d endured a minute of my mulish silence. ‘I expect you’re wondering how I managed to tie it. It took a bit of doing, I can tell you.’
I couldn’t help laughing and looked up at him.
‘That’s better.’ He smiled. ‘Tell me, who are those gentlemen who are with you? They’re brilliant dancers.’
How do you explain Ricky and Morris? But I was grateful to clutch at any straw of conversation if it would distract attention away from myself, from our awkward proximity, and explained about their theatre hire company, and how they entertained as Sauce and Slander, until we were interrupted by a nudge from a slightly drunken man dancing beside us.
‘You’re a bit greedy, aren’t you?’ he accused my partner. ‘Not content with that beautiful blonde and gorgeous brunette, you’ve grabbed this ravishing redhead as well.’
‘So much beauty in the room,’ Mr Thorncroft responded blandly, ‘so little time!’ and spun me away with a whispered ‘idiot’ in my ear. ‘And the lady in the cream?’ he asked. But by this time the music was coming to an end, and I begged to be released, conscious of the pairs of eyes that were watching us. It was a wonder I didn’t have scorch marks on my spine. ‘You mustn’t abandon your harem.’
He crooked a dark eyebrow. ‘Verbena’s partner let her down at the last minute,’ he explained.
‘Awkward,’ I acknowledged, ‘trying to keep two ladies happy.’
‘Trouble is, Miss B,’ he said, leaning towards me confidentially, ‘Lottie doesn’t like either of ’em.’
I sighed sadly. ‘A dog is such a very good judge of character!’
‘We’re in agreement, Miss Browne,’ he said, relinquishing my hand and letting me drift back to my seat.
Morris and Ricky’s faces were already alight with mischief when I sat down at the table, but I knew in advance that they would be annoying. ‘And just who was that you were dancing with?’ Ricky demanded.
‘That’s Daniel Thorncroft,’ I responded irritably.
Sophie gave me a puzzled frown. ‘I thought you didn’t like him.’
‘I don’t much.’
She insisted on turning round to stare at him. ‘I think he’s rather gorgeous. You looked great dancing together.’
I could have slapped her. ‘We were hardly dancing.’
‘Well, whatever you were doing,’ Ricky grinned, ‘that pair in the corner,’ he nodded in the direction of Meredith and Verbena, ‘weren’t happy about it.’
Morris gave his coy little smile. ‘You should have seen their faces.’
I did.
Ricky gave a low chuckle. ‘They looked like slapped arses.’
Sophie’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘D’you think they’re fighting over him?’
‘I don’t think there’s anything much to fight over,’ I responded. ‘In any case, it makes no difference to me.’
This wasn’t quite true. I was rather pleased at the idea I’d annoyed them, that I might actually have made them jealous.
The dancing didn’t break up until the early hours, the band stopping at midnight to be replaced by a disco. This meant that far more people got up to dance, at least to jig around in the loose fashion that Sophie and I found more comfortable. It also allowed Daniel Thorncroft to dance with both Meredith and Verbena at once. We kept going until the effort made Sophie a bit wheezy and she confessed that she’d forgotten to bring her inhaler and had left it back at Druid Lodge.
‘Time to sit down and take it easy for a bit,’ I told her as we returned to our table. ‘In fact,’ I added to Ricky and Morris, ‘perhaps we should be thinking of going.’
‘I think it’s time I took Amanda home,’ Digby added.
I hadn’t noticed what a state she was in. I don’t know how much champagne she’d got
down her, but she appeared to be asleep, her head down on the table. She resisted all attempts to rouse her with gentle shaking, and beyond a few mutterings, refused being returned to consciousness. I felt sorry for Digby; he must have felt embarrassed but he refused to show it.
‘Shall we ask a waiter to make her some coffee?’ Sophie suggested, but Digby shook his head.
‘Probably best just to get her home,’ he said, catching her arm and trying to drag her to her feet. ‘Come along, darling.’
It was clear the poor man was going to need help. Together, we managed to get her more or less upright and between the two of us, Digby and I walked her out of the ballroom, weaving between dancers as the coloured disco lights swept over us and the music blared. Ricky, Morris and Sophie had gathered up all the hats and capes and were coming on behind. Digby kept explaining to anyone who expressed concern that his wife wasn’t ill, just very tired, which made her drunken state all the more obvious.
‘Did you come by taxi?’ I asked.
‘No, I brought the car,’ he said and went off to fetch it, leaving Sophie and me on a low wall either side of Amanda, holding tightly to stop her falling off it backwards.
‘I’m going to have to go back with Digby,’ I told Ricky. ‘I can’t just abandon the poor man, he’ll never manage her by himself.’
‘Oh, we’ll all come!’ he yawned. ‘The night is yet young, we might as well have a laugh.’
‘Young?’ Sophie repeated. ‘It must be two in the morning.’
Digby arrived back with his car. It took considerable effort to wedge Amanda, moaning softly, into the back seat. I crawled in next to her and Sophie climbed into the front seat next to Digby. Ricky and Morris were to follow in their Saab. Before we drove off, Ricky rapped on the passenger window. ‘Don’t let her vomit on your dress,’ he warned me.
‘Now, there’s a cheery thought,’ I muttered.
We made it back to Digby’s rented cottage without any colourful upsurgings, but getting Amanda out of the back seat was more difficult than getting her in and took a long time, even with Ricky hauling her by the arms and me pushing her from behind. After what seemed an age, she popped out like a cork and for a moment seemed to recover consciousness, tottering about like a newborn giraffe on the pavement before collapsing again into Digby’s sturdy arms.
From Devon With Death Page 16