“Bicycling? You are an all-rounder.”
The poet had no more to contribute. Casting about for deliverance, I caught the eye of Jerry Gribble, the Duke of Bournemouth, still in close proximity to his companion in velvet. “Jerry, you old bore,” I shouted across the room. “The lady and I have been winking at each other for the past ten minutes and I still don’t know her name.”
She was brought to meet me, and I saw at once that this was no shrinking violet. The walk, the shining eyes, the knowing smile, the curtsey—all sang out “actress.” Now I’m not one of those who regard treading the boards as the next thing to streetwalking. I pride myself on my encouragement of the dramatic arts.
“May I present Miss Queenie Chimes, sir?”
“Miss what?”
The lady giggled. “Queenie, sir. Queenie Chimes.”
I said, “Queenie? Queenie? What sort of name is that? I didn’t see it on the guest list.”
Jerry coughed nervously. “My mistake, sir. I should have said Victoria.”
I frowned.
Miss Chimes explained. “Girls who are called Victoria are nicknamed Queenie, sir, after her Majesty.”
“Thank you,” I told her formally. “The connection is clear to me.”
She said, “Do you think it common?”
I stared at her. I am not used to people addressing me so directly. I said, “As a matter of fact, I have a daughter of my own called Victoria”—I paused—“but we don’t call her Queenie.” And then I smiled.
Everyone smiled.
I resumed, “You’re quite right, my dear. Victoria is a common name. I also have a sister Vicky and a niece Vicky. Very common. Very confusing. I shall be happy to call you Queenie. Altogether more distinguished.”
Quick to sense my approval of the lady, Jerry Gribble took care to say, “Queenie and I are well acquainted. I would go so far as to describe myself as one of her patrons. She’s with Irving at the Lyceum, you know. The great man personally thought of her stage name, didn’t he, my dear? She was born Victoria Bell.”
The lady gave me an endearing smile. “Bell . . . Chimes.”
I chuckled. “I like it! Clever man, Irving. He obviously sees a fine future for you in his company.”
“Oh, I don’t know if I shall be good enough, Your Royal Highness,” Queenie spoke up. She had an alluring, husky voice, as if she spent her mornings drilling the Irish Guards.
“I’m all for modesty,” said I. “Are you currently in a production, Miss Chimes?”
“I am preparing a part, sir.” Her eyelashes fluttered,
I glanced behind me to make sure Alix was still busy with the poet and said, “Would you care to read it to me?”
At which Jerry said, “It’s a nonspeaking role, sir. Have you met Miss Dundas yet?”
“Miss Dundas?”
“The Amazon explorer, Isabella Dundas, a most remarkable person.”
At that point the announcement was made that dinner was served. Hastily the remaining guests, including Miss Dundas, the Amazon explorer, were presented to me without time to discuss their remarkable attributes. We formed the procession, Alix, the lady of highest rank, on the right arm of young Pelham, leading us in, the rest following, and Lady Amelia and I last.
The banqueting hall is one of the notable features of Desborough, having somehow escaped three centuries of so-called improvements to the rest of the house. The only embellishments to the original oak and plaster are the escutcheons displayed high on the walls, the heraldic bearings of the Drummonds and their ancestors. Amelia (we agreed to be informal) pointed out her own. As a Pelham, she had a most exotic coat of arms with griffins and birds that I didn’t recognize. Alix tried to convince me later that they were harpies.
The hall was such a barn of a place that Amelia had thoughtfully located the dinner table at the far end, where a grand fire was blazing and screens were strategically placed to keep out drafts. A small string orchestra played zestfully as we stepped between the ranks of liveried servants to take our places at the oval table.
The Chaplain said the grace and we were seated. Amelia was to my left, Alix to my right and Queenie the actress directly opposite me, too far off, I estimated, for our feet to make contact unless we sank down in our chairs with our chins resting on the table.
Queenie was flanked by Jerry Gribble and Claude Bullivant, and it was Bullivant, a delightful, black-haired rogue with a moustache as curly as a candelabra, who opened the conversation. “If I were a padre, I think I should object to saying grace on a Monday.”
“Why is that?” someone asked.
“Monday, surely, is a padre’s day off He’s busy all weekend, marrying people on Saturday and taking services on the Sabbath. He’s entitled to a rest.”
The Reverend Paget gave a half smile and said nothing, so Jerry Gribble took up the running. “The Church is a calling, not a profession. A churchman can never have a day off like the rest of us.”
“Oh, he needs a day to himself,” piped up Lady Holdfast from one end of the table. She was desperately dull, poor old thing.
“I’m sure our friend the Chaplain isn’t deprived of recreation,” said I, mindful of the trout fishing.
“Perhaps he would care to enlighten us as to how he amuses himself when he is not at his devotions,” suggested Bullivant, and all eyes turned on the Reverend Paget.
“I, em, fit in a few private pastimes when time permits,” he said. He seemed not to want to own up to the angling.
“Yes, but do you ever get a day off?” persisted Bullivant, wicked fellow, unwilling to let the Chaplain off the hook, so to speak. “How did you pass your time today, for example?”
“Today?” The Chaplain wiped his mouth with the edge of his table napkin. “I was, em, outdoors this morning.”
“Fishing for trout?” said Alexandra.
He went extremely pink and twisted the napkin as if he were wringing out washing.
“Out with it, Padre,” said Bullivant. “A man of God has a perfect right to fish. St. Peter was a fisherman. Is that what you do?”
“I may have given that impression. Inadvertently.” The Chaplain now had his fist wound up in the napkin. “To be truthful, I was officiating at a funeral.”
“A funeral?” said I.
“And this afternoon?” Alix asked the Chaplain after a pause.
“A baptism.”
Mud on his heels and drops of water on his toe caps. I was forced to conclude that I hadn’t altogether mastered the science of deduction. To avoid one of Alix’s looks, I turned to our hostess and congratulated her on the soup.
This markedly relaxed the atmosphere. The diners turned as one to their neighbors and struck up conversations. I learned from our dear little hostess that she expected a record bag from the week’s shooting. The woods were said to be better stocked than the head gamekeeper could remember for years, and it appeared that most of Buckinghamshire would be beating for us.
“Curiously enough, I have never shot here in October,” I told Amelia. “I once had a day’s cock shooting after Christmas. That must have been when your father-in-law was alive. So you see, most of these guns around the table have the advantage of me. Your brother Marcus, Jerry Gribble, Claude Bullivant, they’re all regulars. I don’t know about the poet.”
“Wilfred? He was at last year’s shoot,” she said. “He’s quick and accurate. But you’re wrong about my brother. Marcus was never welcomed here while Freddie was alive.”
“They fell out?”
She hesitated. “There was some jealousy between them.”
“Over you?”
“Marcus and I were very close as children, sir. Don’t misunderstand me, but I think he felt that Freddie broke up the family when he married me.”
I glanced at the others along the table. Co
uldn’t see much family resemblance when I studied Marcus Pelham. He had straight, straw-colored hair and one of those pink faces that turn bright red in the sun, or under scrutiny from the Prince of Wales. “And now that you’re alone in the world, he’s supporting you on occasions such as this. Good man,” I said, privately thinking he ought to be tarred and feathered.
I refused to let it spoil my appetite. After the consommé came Dover sole poached in Chablis, followed by the dish that never fails to please me: ptarmigan pie. Presently something was said across the table about sleeping in strange houses. It’s curious, isn’t it, how even when half a dozen conversations are in progress around the table one intriguing remark secures everybody’s attention? We all stopped talking except Jerry Gribble.
“Personally,” he said, “I never have any trouble. I’m used to sleeping in strange beds.”
“Ladies, take note,” murmured Bullivant.
“That isn’t what I meant. I’ve slept under canvas, on a train, aboard a steamship, under the stars—”
“In a haunted house?” put in Queenie the actress.
“Not to my knowledge—until tonight,” said Jerry.
“Good God—this house doesn’t have a ghost, does it?” said Sir George Holdfast in some alarm. His wife gave a horrified squeak.
“Oh, it must have,” said Jerry, straight-faced. “In three hundred years it must have acquired one.”
“A resident spook!” said Bullivant with relish.
Around me the unease was palpable. It was all very well joking about ghosties over dinner, but before long we’d be shown to our bedrooms by candlelight along dark corridors.
Osgot-Edge the poet spoke up. “I don’t believe in gho- gho-”
“Going to bed in haunted houses?” said Bullivant. “Nor I, old man. I shall sleep in an armchair by the fire. You’re welcome to join me.”
Beside me, Lady Amelia drew herself up to speak. “I know you only say it to amuse, gentlemen, but there’s something I would like to say in all seriousness. There is no ghost of Desborough Hall. If there was, I should have heard of it—and I wouldn’t have remained here, least of all invited my dearest friends to stay.”
“Well said, my dear,” I told her and clapped my hands. Everyone did likewise—even Bullivant, looking sheepish—and the congenial atmosphere was quite restored.
Over the roast lamb I surveyed the party and amused myself pairing them off. Queenie of the Lyceum had, regrettably, to be linked with Jerry Gribble; it was perfectly obvious that she had been invited at his request. The Holdfasts looked likely to live up to their name, and they were such a dreary pair that none of us would object. Claude Bullivant was resolutely hacking a path to Miss Dundas, the Amazon explorer, though it was far from clear how she would receive him. The set of her mouth was daunting and her eyes glittered ominously. It crossed my mind that she might be stalking bigger game than Bullivant; once or twice she had looked my way and smiled.
As for the rest, I absolved the Chaplain and Osgot-Edge the nervous poet from any amorous intent, and I could see that Marcus Pelham had eyes only for his sister.
What of the winsome Amelia herself, then? Up to now, she’d been scrupulously charming to everyone, as a hostess should. If you want to know whether I bedded her before the end of the week you had better read on. But one thing you must have gathered: noctambulations would be infernally difficult under Alix’s nose and with a jealous brother roaming the house.
I was inquiring from Miss Chimes about Irving’s latest production when there was an alarming cry from Lady Holdfast: “A bomb!”
Fortunately, Inspector Sweeney, my bodyguard, wasn’t in the room looking for anarchists, or the cook’s pièce de résistance might have been grabbed and flung out of the nearest window. It was a bombe glacée Dame Blanche, a veritable monument of ice cream and fruit carried high on a silver charger by the cook himself in his tall hat to the strains of “See the Conquering Hero Comes.”
I am at pains to describe faithfully what happened. The mood around the table, as I recall it, was high-spirited. We shouted “Bravo!” and the cook warmed his knife over a flame before making the first cut. Then the portions were served. Jerry Gribble joked that this was obviously the ghost of Desborough Hall, the Dame Blanche herself. Alix asked for a portion with a cherry. Osgot-Edge knocked over his wine in the excitement.
Then Queenie Chimes pitched forward and collapsed—without a murmur—face down in the bombe.
CHAPTER 3
Such was the shock around the table that several of us cried out, “Good Lord!” in chorus.
Jerry was the first to come to the aid of Miss Chimes. He placed his hand under her forehead and raised her head.
I had the front view from across the table. The lady’s face was thickly coated with white ice cream. Chunks were dropping grotesquely onto the black velvet of her dress. I may say that I’ve seen the fair sex in disarray of one sort and another on a number of occasions. A lady marked with mud or worse is a not uncommon sight in the hunting field. But one doesn’t expect such mishaps at the dinner table. The effect upon me—and I am sure upon us all—was profoundly disturbing.
Jerry’s levelheadedness in the emergency was admirable, if unexpected. He was putting his napkin to good use. As he wiped away the ice cream he disturbed one of Miss Chimes’s eyelids, and I was alarmed to see almost nothing but white, the eye having rolled upwards. Most of us were on our feet, wanting to assist in some way. “Dead to the world,” Jerry said. “Does anyone have smelling salts?”
Lady Holdfast produced a bottle of sal volatile from her handbag and Jerry removed the stopper and waved it under Queenie Chimes’s nose. Without result.
There was no shortage of suggestions.
“Her nostrils must be blocked.”
“We can’t stand on ceremony—loosen her stays.”
“See if her pulse is beating.”
“She ought to lie flat.”
“Better s-send for a d-d-”
“There’s a sofa through there.”
Claude Bullivant scooped the insensible young lady up in his arms and carried her into the anteroom where the sofa was. Amelia unbuttoned the dress at the back, and Miss Dundas the explorer showed how resourceful her Amazon experience had made her. She had fetched the chef’s knife from the banqueting hall and she now proceeded to cut the laces of Miss Chimes’s stays.
However, there was still no apparent response from the patient. It seemed to me that her skin was too rosy for this to be a simple case of swooning, but the almost pure white of the ice cream still remaining on her hair and clothes may have overemphasized her color.
Then Jerry announced, “Her pulse is beating quite fast.”
Everyone voiced their relief.
“Fast—is that a good sign?” I put in as a caution, and no one seemed to know the answer.
“Better send for a d-d-”
“He’s right,” said Bullivant, “she doesn’t seem to be coming round. Suppose it’s her heart!”
“God no!” said Jerry, “she’s far too young for that.”
“You can’t be certain,” Bullivant pointed out. “I knew a fellow who rowed at stroke for Oxford and collapsed on Paddington Station six months later. Twenty-two years old. His heart gave out.”
Holdfast said, “But she hasn’t rowed the boat race. All she did was sit down to dinner.”
“I was simply making the point that youth is no proof against a dicky heart.”
Jerry looked up in alarm. “Do you really think so?”
Amelia said, “I’m going to send for the doctor.”
“No.” Jerry got up from his kneeling position beside the sofa. “There’s a quicker way. I’ll take her there myself. We can make her comfortable in the carriage.”
Servants were sent to alert the grooms and the coachman and fetch blankets a
nd pillows.
Amelia turned to her brother. “Marcus, you’d better go with His Grace.”
“He’s got the coachman to help him,” Marcus pointed out, rudely, I thought.
“Absolutely right,” insisted Jerry, a gentleman through and through. “Don’t break up the party. I’ll manage perfectly well.”
In commendably short time, Jerry’s landau was brought to the front of the building. A footman carried Miss Chimes down the steps and lifted her inside and Jerry climbed in. We all watched in tight-lipped concern until the coach lamp had disappeared from sight.
“Wretched luck!” said Holdfast.
“Dr. Perkins will know exactly what to do,” Amelia endeavored to reassure us. “He’s terribly nice.”
“Whatever it is, I hope it isn’t contagious like the cholera,” said Lady Holdfast.
Her husband said, “Moira, you’ve never seen a case of cholera in your life.”
Distinctly subdued, we trooped back to the banqueting hall, where the servants had cleaned up the mess and rearranged the table, removing the places occupied by Miss Chimes and Jerry, and also our plates. Our portions of the bombe, of course, had long since melted. However, the chef, stout fellow, sent up a delicious-looking chocolate balthazar in its place.
“I’m in such a state of nerves,” Lady Holdfast ungratefully declared, “that I couldn’t possibly face food.”
“Well, I can,” I informed her. There are times when a firm declaration from me has a good effect on people, and this was one. We all cleared our plates, including Moira Holdfast, and some of us had second helpings.
It was during that polite interval between the finish of dessert and the withdrawal of the ladies that the house steward stepped forward and spoke confidentially to Amelia. I assumed at the time that it had something to do with the serving of coffee.
Thinking of my cigar, I eased back in my chair to afford Amelia a sight of Alix. The nod was given and the four ladies rose, drew on their gloves and removed to the drawing room.
Once we men had closed ranks and lit up, I remarked, “Pity this happened. I thought the young lady looked perfectly bonny when we were introduced. Has anyone met her before?”
Bertie and the Seven Bodies Page 2