Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 130, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 793 & 794, September/October 2007

by Donna Andrews

  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.