Hangman's Holiday: A Collection of Short Mysteries

  ‘Oh, God!’

  ‘As you say. Of course, after a time, a few months, she would cease to know what was happening to her. He would still have the satisfaction of watching her – seeing her skin thicken, her body coarsen, her hair fall out, her eyes grow vacant, her speech die away into mere animal noises, her brain go to mush, her habits—’

  ‘Stop it, Wimsey.’

  ‘Well, you saw it all yourself. But that wouldn’t be enough for him. So, every so often, he would feed her the thyroid again and bring her back sufficiently to realise her own degradation—’

  ‘If only I had the brute here!’

  ‘Just as well you haven’t. Well then, one day – by a stroke of luck – Mr Langley, the amorous Mr Langley, actually turns up. What a triumph to let him see—’

  Langley stopped him again.

  ‘Right-ho! but it was ingenious, wasn’t it? So simple. The more I think of it, the more it fascinates me. But it was just that extra refinement of cruelty that defeated him. Because, when you told me the story, I couldn’t help recognising the symptoms of thyroid deficiency, and I thought, “Just supposing” – so I hunted up the chemist whose name you saw on the parcel, and, after unwinding a lot of red tape, got him to admit that he had several times sent Wetherall consignments of thyroid extract. So then I was almost sure, don’t you see.

  ‘I got a doctor’s advice and a supply of gland extract, hired a tame Spanish conjurer and some performing cats and things, and barged off complete with disguise and a trick cabinet devised by the ingenious Mr Devant. I’m a bit of a conjurer myself, and between us we didn’t do so badly. The local superstitions helped, of course, and so did the gramophone records. Schubert’s “Unfinished” is first class for producing an atmosphere of gloom and mystery, so are luminous paint and the remnants of a classical education.’

  ‘Look here, Wimsey, will she get all right again?’

  ‘Right as ninepence, and I imagine that any American court would give her a divorce on the grounds of persistent cruelty. After that – it’s up to you!’

  Lord Peter’s friends greeted his reappearance in London with mild surprise.

  ‘And what have you been doing with yourself?’ demanded the Hon. Freddy Arbuthnot.

  ‘Eloping with another man’s wife,’ replied his lordship. ‘But only,’ he hastened to add, ‘in a purely Pickwickian sense. Nothing in it for yours truly. Oh, well! Let’s toddle round to the Holborn Empire, and see what George Robey can do for us.’

  THE QUEEN’S SQUARE

  A Lord Peter Wimsey Story

  ...........

  PLAN OF THE BALL-ROOM

  A, Stair to Dressing-room and Gallery; B, Stair to Gallery; C, Stair to Musicians’ Gallery only; D, Settee where Joan Carstairs sat; E, Settee where Jim Playfair sat; F, Where Waits stood; G, Where Ephraim Dodd sat; H, Guests’ ‘Sir Roger’; J, Servants’ ‘Sir Roger’; X X, Hanging Lanterns; O O O O, Arcading.

  ‘You Jack o’ Di’monds, you Jack o’ Di’monds,’ said Mark Sambourne, shaking a reproachful head, ‘I know you of old.’ He rummaged beneath the white satin of his costume, panelled with gigantic oblongs and spotted to represent a set of dominoes. ‘Hang this fancy rig! Where the blazes has the fellow put my pockets? You rob my pocket, yes, you rob-a my pocket, you rob my pocket of silver and go-ho-hold. How much do you make it?’ He extracted a fountain-pen and a cheque-book.

  ‘Five-seventeen-six,’ said Lord Peter Wimsey. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, partner?’ His huge blue-and-scarlet sleeves rustled as he turned to Lady Hermione Creethorpe, who, in her Queen of Clubs costume, looked a very redoubtable virgin, as, indeed, she was.

  ‘Quite right,’ said the old lady, ‘and I consider that very cheap.’

  ‘We haven’t been playing long,’ said Wimsey apologetically.

  ‘It would have been more, Auntie,’ observed Mrs Wrayburn, ‘if you hadn’t been greedy. You shouldn’t have doubled those four spades of mine.’

  Lady Hermione snorted, and Wimsey hastily cut in:

  ‘It’s a pity we’ve got to stop, but Deverill will never forgive us if we’re not there to dance Sir Roger. He feels strongly about it. What’s the time? Twenty past one. Sir Roger is timed to start sharp at half-past. I suppose we’d better tootle back to the ballroom.’

  ‘I suppose we had,’ agreed Mrs Wrayburn. She stood up, displaying her dress, boldly patterned with red and black points of a backgammon board. ‘It’s very good of you,’ she added, as Lady Hermione’s voluminous skirts swept through the hall ahead of them, ‘to chuck your dancing to give Auntie her bridge. She does so hate to miss it.’

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Wimsey. ‘It’s a pleasure. And in any case I was jolly glad of a rest. These costumes are dashed hot for dancing in.’

  ‘You make a splendid Jack of Diamonds, though. Such a good idea of Lady Deverill’s, to make everybody come as a game. It cuts out all those wearisome pierrots and columbines.’ They skirted the south-west angle of the ballroom and emerged into the south corridor, lit by a great hanging lantern in four lurid colours. Under the arcading they paused and stood watching the floor, where Sir Charles Deverill’s guests were fox-trotting to a lively tune discoursed by the band in the musicians’ gallery at the far end. ‘Hullo, Giles!’ added Mrs Wrayburn, ‘you look hot.’

  ‘I am hot,’ said Giles Pomfret. ‘I wish to goodness I hadn’t been so clever about this infernal costume. It’s a beautiful billiard-table, but I can’t sit down in it.’ He mopped his heated brow, crowned with an elegant green lamp-shade. ‘The only rest I can get is to hitch my behind on a radiator, and as they’re all in full blast, it’s not very cooling. Thank goodness, I can always make these damned sandwich boards an excuse to get out of dancing.’ He propped himself against the nearest column, looking martyred.

  ‘Nina Hartford comes off best,’ said Mrs Wrayburn. ‘Waterpolo – so sensible – just a bathing-dress and a ball; though I must say it would look better on a less Restoration figure. You playing-cards are much the prettiest, and I think the chess-pieces run you close. There goes Gerda Bellingham, dancing with her husband – isn’t she too marvellous in that red wig? And the bustle and everything – my dear, so attractive. I’m glad they didn’t make themselves too Lewis Carroll; Charmian Grayle is the sweetest White Queen – where is she, by the way?’

  ‘I don’t like that young woman,’ said Lady Hermione; ‘she’s fast.’

  ‘Dear lady!’

  ‘I’ve no doubt you think me old-fashioned. Well, I’m glad I am. I say she’s fast, and, what’s more, heartless. I was watching her before supper, and I’m sorry for Tony Lee. She’s been flirting as hard as she can go with Harry Vibart – not to give it a worse name – and she’s got Jim Playfair on a string, too. She can’t even leave Frank Bellingham alone, though she’s staying in his house.’

  ‘Oh, I say, Lady H!’ protested Sambourne, ‘you’re a bit hard on Miss Grayle. I mean, she’s an awfully sporting kid and all that.’

  ‘I detest that word “sporting”,’ snapped Lady Hermione. ‘Nowadays it merely means drunk and disorderly. And she’s not such a kid either, young man. In three years’ time she’ll be a hag, if she goes on at this rate.’

  ‘Dear Lady Hermione,’ said Wimsey, ‘we can’t all be untouched by time, like you.’

  ‘You could,’ retorted the old lady, ‘if you looked after your stomachs and your morals. Here comes Frank Bellingham – looking for a drink, no doubt. Young people today seem to be positively pickled in gin.’

  The fox-trot had come to an end, and the Red King was threading his way towards them through a group of applauding couples.

  ‘Hullo, Bellingham!’ said Wimsey. ‘Your crown’s crooked. Allow me.’ He set wig and head-dress to rights with skilful fingers. ‘Not that I blame you. What crown is safe in these Bolshevik days?’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Bellingham. ‘I say, I want a drink.’

  ‘What did I tell you?’ said Lady Hermione.

  ‘Buzz along, then, old
man,’ said Wimsey. ‘You’ve got four minutes. Mind you turn up in time for Sir Roger.’

  ‘Right you are. Oh, I’m dancing it with Gerda, by the way. If you see her, you might tell her where I’ve gone to.’

  ‘We will. Lady Hermione, you’re honouring me, of course?’

  ‘Nonsense! You’re not expecting me to dance at my age? The Old Maid ought to be a wallflower.’

  ‘Nothing of the sort. If only I’d had the luck to be born earlier, you and I should have appeared side by side, as Matrimony. Of course you’re going to dance it with me – unless you mean to throw me over for one of these youngsters.’

  ‘I’ve no use for youngsters,’ said Lady Hermione. ‘No guts. Spindle-shanks.’ She darted a swift glance at Wimsey’s scarlet hose. ‘You at least have some suggestion of calves. I can stand up with you without blushing for you.’

  Wimsey bowled his scarlet cap and curled wig in deep reverence over the gnarled knuckles extended to him.

  ‘You make me the happiest of men. We’ll show them all how to do it. Right hand, left hand, both hands across, back to back, round you go and up the middle. There’s Deverill going down to tell the band to begin. Punctual old bird, isn’t he? Just two minutes to go. . . . What’s the matter, Miss Carstairs? Lost your partner?’

  ‘Yes – have you seen Tony Lee anywhere?’

  ‘The White King? Not a sign. Nor the White Queen either, I expect they’re together somewhere.’

  ‘Probably. Poor old Jimmie Playfair is sitting patiently in the north corridor, looking like Casabianca.’

  ‘You’d better go along and console him,’ said Wimsey, laughing.

  Joan Carstairs made a face and disappeared in the direction of the buffet, just as Sir Charles Deverill, giver of the party, bustled up to Wimsey and his companions, resplendent in a Chinese costume patterned with red and green dragons, bamboos, circles and characters, and carrying on his shoulder a stuffed bird with an enormous tail.

  ‘Now, now,’ he exclaimed, ‘come along, come along, come along! All ready for Sir Roger. Got your partner, Wimsey? Ah, yes, Lady Hermione – splendid. You must come and stand next to your dear mother and me, Wimsey. Don’t be late, don’t be late. We want to dance it right through. The waits will begin at two o’clock – I hope they will arrive in good time. Dear me, dear me! Why aren’t the servants in yet? I told Watson – I must go and speak to him.’

  He darted away, and Wimsey, laughing, led his partner up to the top of the room, where his mother, the Dowage Duchess of Denver, stood waiting, magnificent as the Queen of Spades.

  ‘Ah! here you are,’ said the Duchess placidly. ‘Dear Sir Charles – he was getting quite flustered. Such a man for punctuality – he ought to have been a Royalty. A delightful party, Hermoine, isn’t it? Sir Roger and the waits – quite medieval – and a Yule-log in the hall, with the steam-radiators and everything – so oppressive!’

  ‘Tumty, tumty, tiddledy, tumty, tumty, tiddledy,’ sang Lord Peter, as the band broke into the old tune. ‘I do adore this music. Foot it featly here and these – oh! there’s Gerda Bellingham. Just a moment! Mrs Bellingham – hi! your royal spouse awaits your Red Majesty’s pleasure in the buffet. Do hurry him up. He’s only got half a minute.’

  The Red Queen smiled at him, her pale face and black eyes startlingly brilliant beneath her scarlet wig and gown.

  ‘I’ll bring him up to scratch all right,’ she said, and passed on, laughing.

  ‘So she will,’ said the Dowager. ‘You’ll see that young man in the Cabinet before very long. Such a handsome couple on a public platform, and very sound, I’m told, about pigs, and that’s so important, the British breakfast-table being what it is.’

  Sir Charles Deverill, looking a trifle heated, came hurrying back and took his place at the head of the double line of guests, which now extended three-quarters of the way down the ballroom. At the lower end, just in front of the Musicians’ Gallery, the staff had filed in, to form a second Sir Roger, at right angles to the main set. The clock chimed the half-hour. Sir Charles, craning an anxious neck, counted the dancers.

  ‘Eighteen couples. We’re two couples short. How vexatious! Who are missing?’

  ‘The Bellinghams?’ said Wimsey. ‘No, they’re here. It’s the White King and Queen, Badminton and Diabolo.’

  ‘There’s Badminton!’ cried Mrs Wrayburn, signally frantically across the room. ‘Jim! Jim! Bother! He’s gone back again. He’s waiting for Charmian Grayle.’

  ‘Well, we can’t wait any longer,’ said Sir Charles peevishly. ‘Duchess, will you lead off?’

  The Dowager obediently threw her black velvet train over her arm and skipped away down the centre, displaying an uncommonly neat pair of scarlet ankles. The two lines of dancers, breaking into the hop-and-skip step of the country dance, jigged sympathetically. Below them, the cross lines of black and white and livery coats followed their example with respect. Sir Charles Deverill, dancing solemnly down after the Duchess, joined hands with Nina Hartford from the far end of the line. Tumty, tumty, tiddledy, tumty, tumty, tiddledy . . . the first couple turned outward and led the dancers down. Wimsey, catching the hand of Lady Hermione, stooped with her beneath the arch and came triumphantly up to the top of the room, in a magnificent rustle of silk and satin. ‘My love,’ sighed Wimsey, ‘was clad in the black velvet, and I myself in cramoisie.’ The old lady, well pleased, rapped him over the knuckles with her gilt sceptre. Hands clapped merrily.

  ‘Down we go again,’ said Wimsey, and the Queen of Clubs and Emperor of the great Mahjongg dynasty twirled and capered in the centre. The Queen of Spades danced up to meet her Jack of Diamonds. ‘Bézique,’ said Wimsey; ‘double Bézique,’ as he gave both his hands to the Dowager. Tumty, tumty, tiddledy. He again gave his hand to the Queen of Clubs and led her down. Under their lifted arms the other seventeen couples passed. Then Lady Deverill and her partner followed them down – then five more couples.

  ‘We’re working nicely to time,’ said Sir Charles, with his eye on the clock. ‘I worked it out at two minutes per couple. Ah! here’s one of the missing pairs.’ He waved an agitated arm. ‘Come into the centre – come along – in here.’

  A man whose head was decorated with a huge shuttlecock, and Joan Carstairs, dressed as a Diabolo, had emerged from the north corridor. Sir Charles, like a fussy rooster with two frightened hens, guided and pushed them into place between two couples who had not yet done their ‘hands across’, and heaved a sigh of relief. It would have worried him to see them miss their turn. The clock chimed a quarter to two.

  ‘I say, Playfair, have you seen Charmian Grayle or Tony Lee anywhere about?’ asked Giles Pomfret of the Badminton costume. ‘Sir Charles is quite upset because we aren’t complete.’

  ‘Not a sign of ’em. I was supposed to be dancing this with Charmian, but she vanished upstairs and hasn’t come down again. Then Joan came barging along looking for Tony, and we thought we’d better see it through together.’

  ‘Here are the waits coming in,’ broke in Joan Carstairs. ‘Aren’t they sweet? Too-too-truly-rural!’

  Between the columns on the north side of the ballroom the waits could be seen filing into place in the corridor, under the command of the Vicar. Sir Roger jigged on his exhausting way. Hands across. Down the centre and up again. Giles Pomfret, groaning, scrambled in his sandwich-boards beneath the lengthening arch of hands for the fifteenth time. Tumty, tiddledy. The nineteenth couple wove their way through the dance. Once again, Sir Charles and the Dowager Duchess, both as fresh as paint, stood at the top of the room. The clapping was loudly renewed; the orchestra fell silent; the guests broke up into groups; the servants arranged themselves in a neat line at the lower end of the room; the clock struck two; and the Vicar, receiving a signal from Sir Charles, held his tuning-fork to his ear and gave forth a sonorous A. The waits burst shrilly into the opening bars of ‘Good King Wenceslas’.

  It was just as the night was growing darker and the wind blowing stronger that a figure
came thrusting its way through the ranks of the singers, and hurried across to where Sir Charles stood; Tony Lee, with his face as white as his costume.

  ‘Charmian . . . in the tapestry room . . . dead . . . strangled.’

  Superintendent Johnson sat in the library, taking down the evidence of the haggard revellers, who were ushered in upon him one by one. First, Tony Lee, his haunted eyes like dark hollows in a mask of grey paper.

  ‘Miss Grayle had promised to dance with me the last dance before Sir Roger; it was a fox-trot. I waited for her in the passage under the musicians’ gallery. She never came. I did not search for her. I did not see her dancing with anyone else. When the dance was nearly over, I went out into the garden, by way of the service door under the musicians’ stair. I stayed in the garden till Sir Roger de Coverley was over—’

  ‘Was anybody with you, sir?’

  ‘No, nobody.’

  ‘You stayed alone in the garden from – yes, from 1.20 to past 2 o’clock. Rather disagreeable, was it not, sir, with the snow on the ground?’ The Superintendent glanced keenly from Tony’s stained and sodden white shoes to his stained face.

  ‘I didn’t notice. The room was hot – I wanted air. I saw the waits arrive at about 1.40 – I daresay they saw me. I came in a little after 2 o’clock—’

  ‘By the service door again, sir?’

  ‘No; by the garden door on the other side of the house, at the end of the passage which runs along beside the tapestry room. I heard singing going on in the ballroom and saw two men sitting in the little recess at the foot of the staircase on the left-hand side of the passage. I think one of them was the gardener. I went into the Tapestry Room—’