Final Curtain ra-14

by Ngaio Marsh

  “Do they get on together?” Troy asked vaguely. She was watching Cedric and Miss Orrincourt. Evidently he had decided to adopt ingratiating tactics, and a lively but completely synthetic flirtation had developed. They whispered together.

  “Oh, no,” Millamant was saying. “They fight.” And most unexpectedly she added: “Like master like man, they say, don’t they?” Troy looked at her. She was smiling broadly and blankly. It is a characteristic of these people, Troy reflected, that they constantly make remarks to which there is no answer.

  Pauline Ancred came in and joined her son and Fenella. She did this with a certain air of determination, and the smile she gave Fenella was a dismissal. “Darling,” she said to Paul, “I’ve been looking for you.” Fenella at once moved away. Pauline, using a gesture that was Congrevian in its accomplishment, raised a pair of lorgnettes and stared through them at Miss Orrincourt, who now reclined at full length on the sofa. Cedric was perched on the arm at her feet.

  “I’ll get you a chair, Mother,” said Paul hastily.

  “Thank you, dear,” she said, exchanging a glance with her sister-in-law. “I should like to sit down. No, please, Mrs. Alleyn, don’t move. So sweet of you. Thank you, Paul.”

  “Noddy and I,” said Miss Orrincourt brightly, “have been having such fun. We’ve been looking at some of that old jewellery.” She stretched her arms above her head and yawned delicately.

  “Noddy!” Troy wondered. “But who is Noddy?” Miss Orrincourt’s remark was followed by a rather deadly little pause. “He’s all burnt up about having his picture taken,” Miss Orrincourt added. “Isn’t it killing?”

  Pauline Ancred, with a dignified shifting of her torso, brought her sister-in-law into her field of vision. “Have you seen Papa this afternoon, Millamant?” she asked, not quite cordially, but with an air of joining forces against a common enemy.

  “I went up as usual at four o’clock,” Millamant rejoined, “to see if there was anything I could do for him.” She glanced at Miss Orrincourt. “He was engaged, however.”

  “T’uh!” said Pauline lightly, and she began to revolve her thumbs one around the other. Millamant gave the merest sketch of a significant laugh and turned to Troy.

  “We don’t quite know,” she said cheerfully, “if Thomas explained about my father-in-law’s portrait. He wishes to be painted in his own little theatre here. The backcloth has been hung and Paul knows about the lights. Papa would like to begin at eleven tomorrow morning, and if he is feeling up to it he will sit for an hour every morning and afternoon.”

  “I thought,” said Miss Orrincourt, “it would be ever so thrilling if Noddy was on a horse in the picture.”

  “Sir Henry,” said Millamant, without looking at her, “will, of course, have decided on the pose.”

  “But Aunt Milly,” said Paul, very red in the face, “Mrs. Alleyn might like — I mean — don’t you think—”

  “Yes, Aunt Milly,” said Fenella.

  “Yes, indeed, Milly,” said Cedric. “I so agree. Please, please Milly and Aunt Pauline, and please Sonia, angel, do consider that Mrs. Alleyn is the one to — oh, my goodness,” Cedric implored them, “pray do consider.”

  “I shall be very interested,” said Troy, “to hear about Sir Henry’s plans.”

  “That,” said Pauline, “will be very nice. I forgot to tell you, Millamant, that I heard from Dessy. She’s coming for The Birthday.”

  “I’m glad you let me know,” said Millamant, looking rather put out.

  “And so’s Mummy, Aunt Milly,” said Fenella. “I forgot to say.”

  “Well,” said Millamant, with a short laugh, “I am learning about things, aren’t I?”

  “Jenetta coming? Fancy!” said Pauline. “It must be two years since Jenetta was at Ancreton. I hope she’ll be able to put up with our rough and ready ways.”

  “Considering she’s been living in a two-roomed flat,” Fenella began rather hotly and checked herself. “She asked me to say she hoped it wouldn’t be too many.”

  “I’ll move out of Bernhardt into Bracegirdle,” Pauline offered. “Of course.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort, Pauline,” said Millamant. “Bracegirdle is piercingly cold, the ceiling leaks, and there are rats. Desdemona complained bitterly about the rats last time she was here. I asked Barker to lay poison for them, but he’s lost the poison. Until he finds it, Bracegirdle is uninhabitable.”

  “Mummy could share Duse with me,” said Fenella quickly. “We’d love it and it’d save fires.”

  “Oh, we couldn’t dream of that,” said Pauline and Millamant together.

  “Mrs. Alleyn,” said Fenella loudly, “I’m going up to change. Would you like to see your room?”

  “Thank you,” said Troy, trying not to sound too eager. “Thank you, I would.”

  iv

  Having climbed the stairs and walked with a completely silent Fenella down an interminable picture gallery and two long passages, followed by a break-neck ascent up a winding stair, Troy found herself at a door upon which hung a wooden plaque bearing the word “Siddons”. Fenella opened the door, and Troy was pleasantly welcomed by the reflection of leaping flames on white painted walls. White damask curtains with small garlands, a sheepskin rug, a low bed, and there, above a Victorian washstand, sure enough, hung Mrs. Siddons. Troy’s painting gear was stacked in a corner.

  “What a nice room,” said Troy.

  “I’m glad you like it,” said Fenella in a suppressed voice. Troy saw with astonishment that she was in a rage.

  “I apologise,” said Fenella shakily, “for my beastly family.”

  “Hallo,” said Troy, “what’s all this?”

  “As if they weren’t damned lucky to get you! As if they wouldn’t still be damned lucky if you decided to paint Grandpa standing on his head with garlic growing out of the soles of his boots. It’s such cheek. Even that frightful twirp Cedric was ashamed.”

  “Good Lord!” said Troy. “That’s nothing unusual. You’ve no conception how funny people can be about portraits.”

  “I hate them! And you heard how catty they were about Mummy coming. I do think old women are foul. And that bitch Sonia lying there lapping it all up. How they can, in front of her! Paul and I were so ashamed.”

  Fenella stamped, dropped on her knees in front of the fire and burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I’m worse than they are, but I’m so sick of it all. I wish I hadn’t come to Ancreton. I loathe Ancreton. If you only knew what it’s like.”

  “Look here,” Troy said gently, “are you sure you want to talk to me like this?”

  “I know it’s frightful, but I can’t help it. How would you feel if your grandfather brought a loathsome blonde into the house? How would you feel?”

  Troy had a momentary vision of her grandfather, now deceased. He had been an austere and somewhat finicky don.

  “Everybody’s laughing at him,” Fenella sobbed. “And I used to like him so much. Now he’s just silly. A silly amorous old man. He behaves like that himself and then when I — when I went to— it doesn’t matter. I’m terribly sorry. It’s awful, boring you like this.”

  Troy sat on a low chair by the fire and looked thoughtfully at Fenella. The child really is upset, she thought, and realised that already she had begun to question the authenticity of the Ancreds’ emotions. She said: “You needn’t think it’s awful, and you’re not boring me. Only don’t say things you’ll feel inclined to kick yourself for when you’ve got under way again.”

  “All right.” Fenella got to her feet. She had the fortunate knack, Troy noticed, of looking charming when she cried. She now tossed her head, bit her lips, and gained mastery of herself. “She’ll make a good actress,” Troy thought, and instantly checked herself. “Because,” she thought, “the child manages to be so prettily distressed, why should I jump to the conclusion that she’s not as distressed as she seems? I’m not sympathetic enough.” She touched Fenella’s arm, and although it was quit
e foreign to her habit, returned the squeeze Fenella instantly gave to her hand.

  “Come,” said Troy, “I thought you said this afternoon that your generation of Ancreds was as hard as nails.”

  “Well, we try,” Fenella said. “It’s only because you’re so nice that I let go. I won’t again.”

  “Help!” Troy thought, and said aloud: “I’m not much use really, I’m afraid. My husband says I shy away from emotion like a nervous mare. But let off steam if you want to.”

  Fenella said soberly: “This’ll do for a bit, I expect. You’re an angel. Dinner’s at half-past eight. You’ll hear a warning gong.” She turned at the door. “All the same,” she said, “there’s something pretty ghastly going on at Ancreton just now. You’ll see.”

  With an inherited instinct for a good exit line, Fenella stepped backwards and gracefully closed the door.

  CHAPTER IV

  Sir Henry

  i

  In her agitation Fenella had neglected to give Troy the usual hostesses’ tips on internal topography. Troy wondered if the nearest bathroom was at the top of another tower or at the end of some interminable corridor. Impossible to tug the embroidered bell-pull and cause one of those aged maids to climb the stairs! She decided to give up her bath in favour of Mrs. Siddons, the wash-stand and a Victorian can of warm water which had been left beside it.

  She had an hour before dinner. It was pleasant, after the severely rationed fires of Tatler’s End, to dress leisurely before this sumptuous blaze. She made the most of it, turning over in her mind the events of the day and sorting out her impressions of the Ancreds. Queer Thomas, she decided, was, so far, the best of the bunch, though the two young things were pleasant enough. Was there an understanding between them and had Sir Henry objected? Was that the reason for Fenella’s outburst? For the rest: Pauline appeared to be suffering from a general sense of personal affront, Millamant was an unknown quantity, while her Cedric was frankly awful. And then, Sonia! Troy giggled. Sonia really was a bit thick.

  Somewhere outside in the cold, a deep-toned clock struck eight. The fire had died down. She might as well begin her journey to the hall. Down the winding stair she went, wondering whose room lay beyond a door on the landing. Troy had no sense of direction. When she reached the first long corridor she couldn’t for the life of her remember whether she should turn left or right. A perspective of dark crimson carpet stretched away on each hand, and at intervals the corridor was lit by pseudo-antique candelabra. “Oh, well,” thought Troy and turned to the right.

  She passed four doors and read their legends: “Duse” (that was Fenella’s room), “Bernhardt” (Pauline’s), “Terry,” “Lady Bancroft,” and, near the end of the passage, the despised “Bracegirdle”. Troy did not remember seeing any of these names on her way up to her tower. “Blast!” she thought, “I’ve gone wrong.” But she went on uncertainly. The corridor led at right-angles into another, at the far end of which she saw the foot of a flight of stairs like those of her own tower. Poor Troy was certain that she had looked down just such a vista on her way up. “But I suppose,” she thought, “it must have been its opposite number. From outside, the damn place looked as if it was built round a sort of quadrangle, with a tower at the middle and ends of each wing. In that case, if I keep on turning left, oughtn’t I to come back to the picture gallery?”

  As she hesitated, a door near the foot of the stairs opened slightly, and a magnificent cat walked out into the passage.

  He was white, with a tabby saddle on his back, long haired and amber eyed. He paused and stared at Troy. Then, wafting his tail slightly, he paced slowly towards her. She stooped and waited for him. After some deliberation he approached, examined her hand, bestowed upon it a brief cold thrust of his nose, and continued on his way, walking in the centre of the crimson carpet and still elegantly wafting his tail.

  “And one other thing,” said a shrill voice beyond the open door, “if you think I’m going to hang round here like a bloody extra with the family handing me out the bird in fourteen different positions you’ve got another think coming.”

  A deep voice rumbled unintelligibly.

  “I know all about that, and it makes no difference. Nobody’s going to tell me I lack refinement and get away with it. They treat me as if I had one of those things in the strip ads. I kept my temper down there because I wasn’t going to let them see I minded. What do they think they are? My God, do they think it’s any catch living in a mausoleum with a couple of old tats and a kid that ought to be labelled ‘Crazy Gang’?”

  Again the expostulatory rumble.

  “I know, I know, I know. It’s so merry and bright in this dump it’s a wonder we don’t all die of laughing. If you’re as crazy as all that about me, you ought to put me in a position where I’d keep my self-respect… You owe it to me… After all I’ve done for you. I’m just miserable… And when I get like this, I’m warning you, Noddy, look out.” The door opened a little further.

  Troy, who had stood transfixed, picked up her skirts, turned back on her tracks, and fairly ran away down the long corridor.

  ii

  This time she reached the gallery and went downstairs. In the hall she encountered Barker, who showed her into an enormous drawing-room which looked, she thought, as if it was the setting for a scene in “Victoria Regina”. Crimson, white, and gold were the predominant colours, damask and velvet the prevailing textures. Vast canvases by Leader and MacWhirter occupied the walls. On each occasional table or cabinet stood a silver-framed photograph of Royalty or Drama. There were three of Sir Henry at different stages of his career, and there was one of Sir Henry in Court dress. In this last portrait, the customary air of a man who can’t help feeling he looks a bit of an ass was completely absent, and for a moment Troy thought Sir Henry had been taken in yet another of his professional rôles. The unmistakable authenticity of his Windsor coat undeceived her. “Golly,” she thought, staring at the photograph, “it’s a good head and no mistake.”

  She began a tour of the room and found much to entertain her. Under the glass lid of a curio table were set out a number of orders, miniatures and decorations, several objets d’art, a signed programme from a command performance, and, surprisingly, a small book of antique style, bound in half-calf and heavily tooled. Troy was one of those people who, when they see a book lying apart, must handle it. The lid was unlocked. She raised it and opened the little book. The title was much faded, and Troy stooped to make it out.

  “The Antient Arte of the Embalming of Corpfes,” she read. “To which is added a Difcourfe on the Concoction of Fluids for the Purpofe of Preferving Dead Bodies.

  By William Hurfte, Profeffor of Phyfic, London. Printed by Robert White for John Crampe at the Sign of the Three Bibles in St. Paul’s Churchyard. 1678.”

  It was horribly explicit. Here, in the first chapter, were various recipes “For the Confumation of the Arte of Preferving the Dead in perfect Verifimilitude of Life. It will be remarked,” the author continued, “that in fpite of their diverfity the chimical of Arfenic is Common to All.” There was a particularly macabre passage on “The ufe of Cofmeticf to Difguife the ghaftly Pallor of Death.”

  “But what sort of mind,” Troy wondered, “could picture with equanimity, even with pleasure, these manipulations upon the body from which it must some day, perhaps soon, be parted?” And she wondered if Sir Henry Ancred had read this book and if he had no imagination or too much. “And why,” she thought, “do I go on reading this horrid little book?”

  She heard a voice in the hall, and with an illogical feeling of guilt hurriedly closed the book and the glass lid. Millamant came in, wearing a tidy but nondescript evening dress.

  “I’ve been exploring,” Troy said.

  “Exploring?” Millamant repeated with her vague laugh.

  “That grisly little book in the case. I can’t resist a book and I’m afraid I opened the case. I do hope it’s allowed.”

  “Oh,” said Millamant. “Yes, of
course.” She glanced at the case. “What book is it?”

  “It’s about embalming, of all things. It’s very old. I should think it might be rather valuable.”

  “Perhaps,” said Millamant, “that’s why Miss Orrincourt was so interested in it.”

  She moved to the fireplace, looking smugly resentful.

  “Miss Orrincourt?” Troy repeated.

  “I found her reading a small book when I came in the other day. She put it in the case and dropped the lid. Such a bang! It’s a wonder it didn’t break, really. I suppose it must have been that book, mustn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Troy, hurriedly rearranging her already chaotic ideas of Miss Sonia Orrincourt. “I suppose it must.”

  “Papa,” said Millamant, “is not quite at his best this evening but he’s coming down. On his bad days he dines in his own rooms.”

  “I hope,” said Troy, “that the sittings won’t tire him too much.”

  “Well, he’s so looking forward to them that I’m sure he’ll try to keep them up. He’s really been much better lately, only sometimes,” said Millamant ambiguously, “he gets a little upset. He’s very highly strung and sensitive, you know. I always think that all the Ancreds are like that. Except Thomas. My poor Cedric, unfortunately, has inherited their temperament.”

  Troy had nothing to say to this, and was relieved when Paul Kentish and his mother came in, followed in a moment by Fenella. Barker brought a tray with sherry. Presently an extraordinarily ominous gong sounded in the hall.

  “Did anyone see Cedric?” asked his mother. “I do hope he’s not going to be late.”

  “He was still in his bath when I tried to get in ten minutes ago,” said Paul.

  “Oh, dear,” said Millamant.

  Miss Orrincourt, amazingly dressed, and looking at once sulky, triumphant and defiant, drifted into the room. Troy heard a stifled exclamation behind her, and turned to see the assembled Ancreds with their gaze riveted to Miss Orrincourt’s bosom.