‘How do you know I worked for Cerberus?’ asked Arabella softly.
Boswell looked at her sheepishly.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘We had to do a bit of background checking on the genuine guests. Just to make sure they were genuine, you understand. There are fortunes to be made by those who know the right answers at the right time. And some concerns are not much concerned about the way they get their information.’
‘And the spy-holes?’
‘Purely an easy means of checking from time to time that no one is in a room where they shouldn’t be. They were certainly not intended as a source of pleasure for Peeping Toms. I’ll see that Joe is severely disciplined.’
‘What are you going to do? Cut off his jam-butties?’ said Arabella, unsmiling. ‘There is just one other thing. The dead man. What about him?’
‘An accident, a terrible accident,’ said Boswell. ‘You were right, of course, it was a shotgun that did it. One of our ’keepers. With a 410, not a twelve-bore as you so keenly observed. But something like that is bad enough at the best of times—police swarming about, asking questions. In view of what’s going on here at the moment, it could be disastrous. The police are trained observers. But, alas, they are not above temptation themselves, and there’s a great deal of that around at Dingley Dell at the moment. So two days, that’s all. Two days and it’ll be reported. That’s reasonable enough, isn’t it?’
‘That’s not for me to say,’ said Arabella, rising. ‘Thank you for your explanation. Now I think I’d like to go and get dressed for the ball.’
Boswell remained in his seat and looked at her steadily.
‘I hope we can rely on your complete discretion in this matter, Miss Allen.’
She returned his gaze unblinkingly.
‘You’ll just have to hope, Mr. Boswell. You’ve no alternative other than locking me up somewhere. In which case, I assure you, I’d scream, shout, fight, break windows, set things alight, anything till somebody took notice. As you said, some of the guests here are real holidaymakers, not financial wizards trying to conjure up a fast buck. They’d be interested in what happened to me. And on my release I’d sue you and those you represent for so much in damages that it would make the whole mysterious bloody enterprise financially nonviable to start with. Now, how do I get out of here? Via the attic and linen cupboard?’
Boswell rose, his arms held high in mock surrender.
‘Peace, peace,’ he said. ‘No, I think you will find it less trying to keep to the flat this time. Joe!’
The door opened instantly and Joe appeared from the corridor.
‘Unlock the door and let Miss Allen through, will you, And Joe. I’d like a word with you afterwards. Goodbye, Miss Allen. I look forward to seeing you at the ball.’
He watched her down the corridor till the big door had been locked and bolted behind her. Then he turned back to the bar, poured two drinks and went through into the conference room.
‘Two questions,’ said Wardle from his seat at the head of the conference table. He sipped the drink Boswell gave him and pulled a face. ‘Irish. I drink Irish. Not this muck.’
‘Two questions?’ said Boswell.
‘One. Is she what she seems, an innocent rich girl on holiday? And two. If she is, did she swallow your story?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Boswell.
‘Which?’
‘Either. But there’s a third question, isn’t there? What do we do if she’s not just an innocent rich girl and she didn’t swallow my story?’
Wardle finished his drink with a grimace and moved to the door where he paused and looked back at Boswell.
‘That’s not a question,’ he said. ‘You don’t need to make it a question when we both know there’s only one answer.’
He went through into the other room and shortly there was a rattle of bottles.
‘Now where’s the Irish?’ he called. ‘That’s a real question.’
But Boswell, his face clouded with thought, was no longer listening.
7
The ball nights in Ba-ath are moments snatched from Paradise; rendered bewitching by music, beauty, elegance, fashion, etiquette and—and—above all, by the absence of tradespeople …
MR. ANGELO CYRUS BANTAM
By the time Arabella had returned to her room, sat in deep contemplation for a while, stood on a chair precariously placed on the bed to stick a piece of Elastoplast over the knot-cum-peephole, got dressed and descended to the hall below, the ball was under way.
There was to be dancing in the modern as well as the Victorian idiom, but the ‘group’ booked for the evening had been delayed and the resident ‘peasantry’ were keeping things going with three fiddles and a harp. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the set-dances tremendously and Wardle was sweating and laughing in equal proportions as he hopped round giving instructions and advice. The inevitable punch was being dispensed at one end of the hall, though more sophisticated drinks were available on request, and in an adjoining room a buffet supper of immense proportions, from oysters to superbly glazed beef-steak pies, was available.
Everyone wore period costume, with varying degrees of success. It was a question of style. It had doubtless been half-humorously intended that Himmelstor had been given a general’s uniform of the time of Waterloo, but his huge frame filled it so powerfully and convincingly that the effect was anything but comic. Likewise, the feathered turban which bowed and fluttered on Suzie Leclerc’s head would have rendered a lesser woman absurd. Suzie made it look superb.
‘Dance?’ said Boswell, who must have come in behind her.
‘No thanks. I’ll just watch till I pick up the rules.’
He walked slowly round her, critically eyeing her dress. It was a high-waisted white satin gown, low cut at the front.
‘Well?’ she said.
‘It’s very beautiful,’ he said, ‘but I do need to get my own back. This very high waist had gone out by 1825 and I think you’ve probably got a couple of inches excess exposure at the top.’
She shrugged.
‘You’re talking of Lunnun fashion. Us poor country mice are always half a decade behind the metropolitans.’
‘A good answer. It deserves some punch.’
His good intention was prevented by a noise outside in the entrance hall.
‘Excuse me,’ he said.
Through the open door Arabella saw. five young men, carrying guitar cases and drums. Obviously the ‘group’ had arrived. What surprised her were the flakes of snow on their hair and shoulders.
‘Sorry we’re late, friend,’ she heard one say to Boswell. ‘Lucky to get here at all. It’s bad to the north. You’re just beginning to catch it.’
‘Well, get your gear set up, then have a warm through and a drink before you start. We’re doing nicely.’
‘Thanks, mate.’
They removed their chunky fur coats and began lugging their equipment into the ballroom.
‘Excuse me, lady,’ said their spokesman, a dark serious-looking young man, to Arabella as he pushed by with a guitar-case. ‘Thanks. Peace.’
‘Peace to you too,’ replied Arabella.
‘I hope it gells,’ said Boswell. ‘This and this.’
He indicated the group and the three fiddles and the harpist.
‘Why not? What’s that they call themselves?’
She was looking at the bass drum which bore the letters T.T. and T.T.H.M.
‘You’ll never believe this,’ said Boswell. ‘It stands for Thomas Traherne and The Temple-Haunting Martlet.’
‘I don’t believe it. I’ve heard of them, but I still don’t believe it.’
They laughed together. Boswell was encouraged.
‘I’m sorry about before. I hope you’ll be able to enjoy your holiday in peace now. I talked to Joe and I’ve had your peep-hole sealed off.’
‘Me too,’ she answered. ‘As a matter of interest, just which of your guests are here for the consortium meeting?’
/> ‘I really mustn’t say,’ he murmured. ‘Business ethics.’
‘All right. Then what about this—how does it come about that a Victorian scholar is mixed up with big business?’
He spread his hands and shrugged grotesquely.
‘A man’s gotta live. And if you understand the Victorians you understand big business. But that’s work. Tonight even big business rests. It’s Christmas Eve. What about some goodwill towards men in general and me in particular?’
She contemplated him calmly. The fiddles screeched to an ambitious finale. The dancers clapped. Then, almost without interval, another noise took over, cacophonous, violent, yet strangely familiar.
T.T. and T.T.H.M. hadn’t bothered to wait for their warming drink but had launched straight into their first number.
‘What is it?’ cried Boswell.
‘Don’t you recognise it?’ laughed Arabella, her feet tapping. ‘It’s God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, seventies style. Come on; these rules I already know.’
So saying, she pulled him on to the dance floor and began shaking herself at him in what he regarded as a most provocative fashion. After a moment he began shaking himself back and within seconds everyone in the room had taken to the floor and, in styles ranging from the apologetically self-conscious to the totally abandoned, the dance was on.
By midnight the international make-up of the party had clearly established itself. Songs and carols in most European languages could be heard from various corners of the ballroom. The wassail-bowl had been frequently replenished with brews of ever-increasing strength. Wardle, Boswell thought, must have decided that the danger of tongues been loosened by intemperance could best be countered by accelerating insensibility. The thought made him chuckle and the chuckle made him realise just how deeply he himself had dipped into the bowl.
He looked around the room. After their first dance Arabella had made it quite plain she had no intention of letting him monopolise her all evening. It might have been this which had set him off so energetically in search of his own good time. Pique was not an emotion becoming a scholar and a gentleman, he admonished himself. Where the hell was she? As long as she wasn’t dancing with Robert E. Lee Sawyer again … No. There she was, chatting seriously to Mrs. Hislop. Good. Though why so serious? Mrs. Hislop had nothing to be serious about. Old man Bloodworth had evidently taken to his bed once more; he claimed he wasn’t well enough to face this kind of activity.
Sawyer was at the far end of the room, his arm round Herr Bear, singing with him something which at this distance might have been Heitige Nacht or the Horst-Wessel Lied. The look of rapt devotion on Himmelstor’s face gave nothing away. Leclerc leaned on the mantelshelf behind them, the shadow of a sneer on his finely featured face. It was odd that he should have taken up a position so near the band, which incidentally now deserved the title numerically at least, as T.T. and T.T.H.M. had been joined by the three fiddlers and the harpist. Thomas Traherne and his men were living up to their reputations as excellent musicians. Boswell, who had once had pretensions in that field himself, particularly admired the bass guitarist. Wardle had been responsible for the choice of the group, who were firm favourites in the London top-party and reception set. He must remember to congratulate the fat man.
The fiddlers and the harpist did little but add extra decibels to the music’s volume. Suzie Leclerc and Stephen Swinburne seemed to thrive on it. They had been dancing uninterruptedly in front of the musicians for the past hour. Boswell wondered what she was up to. She wasn’t old enough, surely, to need the reassurance of the interest of youth? He tried to cut in once, but was firmly repulsed by the Frenchwoman whose body seemed to be straining to burst out of her dress.
Boswell realised he was letting his imagination show and turned toward the door, bumping into Wardle, who was standing on the threshold. He was wearing a magnificent ankle-length overcoat, dark purple, with three fur-trimmed shoulder-capes. Boswell reckoned it owed more to Carnaby Street than Dickens, but coveted it greatly all the same.
‘Everything all right?’ said Wardle.
‘Fine. A bit warm though. I thought I’d take a turn outside.’
‘I just looked. There’s a full blizzard blowing up. There’s a good foot of snow already in places and it looks set for ever. So.I popped back in to grab my coat and I’m off to do my rounds, though it hardly seems worth it. Perhaps you’d like to go?’
‘You’ve just put me off,’ laughed Boswell. ‘Have a drink before you go to keep the cold out.’
‘I’ll get them,’ said Wardle, turning to the refreshment table. ‘You have one to cool you down. Marvellous stuff drink; good for anything. Cheers.’
They drank in silence for a moment. Boswell had a strange feeling there was something final about it.
‘Well, I’m off,’ said Wardle. ‘Keep your eyes skinned, eh? Everything’s been covered, I think, but we can’t afford any slip-ups. It’s our reputation in the eyes of Europe that’s at stake.’
Boswell grinned as he recognised the precise, upper-class tone Wardle was taking off. With a genial beam at the nearest guests, the fat man left the room. As he passed through the doorway into the dimmer light outside, he seemed to lose some of his substance, to shrink visibly. Suddenly uneasy, Boswell opened his mouth to call him back.
But he was already gone.
Boswell shook his head impatiently. It’s that damned drink, he told himself in annoyance. No more tonight. He had to keep his wits about him.
He turned back to the dancing.
Something was going on. The dancers scattered, the women shrieking, as out among them advanced a hesitant figure with his arms outstretched and his face swathed with a white scarf. It was Sawyer.
‘Blind-man’s-buff!’ cried someone.
‘Super!’
T.T. and T.T.H.M. with minimal cacophony switched from Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer to Three Blind Mice. Suzie and Stephen were the last to finish dancing. They stood still, watching as Sawyer approached, until with suspicious accuracy, his outstretched fingers brushed her magnificent bosom. She turned unhurriedly away and Sawyer too turned and probed his way towards the middle of the room.
Good clean fun, thought Boswell. He’d have a report on Sawyer by the morning. Till then he was as harmless playing the goat in a blindfold as he was anywhere.
Sawyer was close now. Boswell stepped back.
‘Ouch!’ said Arabella.
‘I am sorry,’ he began as she danced on one foot before him.
‘You clumsy oaf!’ she said, and pushed him so hard he staggered and almost fell. But a pair of arms gripped and held him—to help, he thought at first, but immediately they grappled tight about his waist and a great roar of laughter went up.
‘What the hell!’ said Boswell.
‘I got me a grizzly bear!’ yelled Sawyer, tearing off his blindfold. ‘Aw, hell! I wanted a female! Still, you’ll have to do. Turn around!’
Protest was useless. The scarf was bound rapidly, tightly, round his eyes. Something was pressed into his hand. A glass.
‘Come on,’ said Sawyer. ‘Drink up. It’s in the rules.’
The glass was forced up to his lips and he swallowed a large mouthful, half choking. Someone hit him hard between the shoulder-blades.
‘OK?’ asked Sawyer. ‘That’s my boy. Now round you go. Round and round. And round. And round.’
His shoulders were gripped and he was spun forcibly round. Round and round, faster and faster. He tried to stop, but the hands kept on spinning him. Despite the blindfold, he seemed to see a streak of light, contracting and expanding as he span. Voices sounded in his ear. Shouting, laughing. The music beat louder, more insistently.
Stop! he opened his mouth to shout. Stop! But before he could get it out, the spinning stopped. And the music stopped. And the light died.
And everything was still.
When he opened his eyes he wished he hadn’t. He was lying on his back and looming over him, not more than a foot away, was a
grotesquely bloated face. He closed his eyes again and pressed his head back into what felt like a pillow. This was reassuring or not, depending on what the thing above him proposed to do.
He opened his eyes once more. The face had moved back and as he became used to the light, he realised he had been right about the lack of beauty, but wrong (he hoped) about the menace.
It was Joe, standing at the bedside, a malicious grin on his face. He was in his own room, Boswell realised. His cravat had been loosened, his jacket and shoes removed, otherwise he was fully clothed. He glanced at his watch, swore and swung his feet off the bed. The shafts of pain this sent jagging through his head took him by surprise and he slumped forward, covering his eyes with his hands.
‘Like an Alka-Seltzer?’ asked Joe.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ snarled Boswell.
‘Offering you an Alka-Seltzer,’ said Joe pertly. ‘You must have got stuck into that punch!’
‘Who brought me here?’
‘Oh, you had quite a little following!’ laughed Joe. ‘Sawyer. The Allen girl. Young Swinburne. And the French bit,to name but a pair. Christ! you looked bad. I hope it won’t spoil your Christmas dinner!’
‘Where are they now?’ asked Boswell, trying to speak quietly.
‘Who?’
‘All of them. Any of them. Anybody at all!’
He wasn’t succeeding in speaking quietly. He gave up altogether.
‘Where the hell are they?’ he bellowed. ‘It’s half an hour since I passed out, since someone slipped me a quietener. Who’s been watching the stairs since then?’
The pain his words caused him was matched only by the consternation they gave birth to in the Fat Boy.
‘Me. I mean … I’m sorry. I thought … a quietener? I thought you were drunk! So…’
‘So you thought if he’s getting in on the party, why should you bother to do your job? You’re supposed to be keeping a check on who goes where. You know what’s at stake. Bloody hell!’
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