Читать книгу Dancers in Mourning - Margery Allingham - Страница 5

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Chloe Pye tied a long red silk skirt and a kerchief over her bathing dress in honour of lunch, which was served with obstinate ceremony on the part of the servants at a quarter to four.

The two visiting stars had departed with apologies, already two hours late for other appointments, and Ned Dieudonne, Sutane’s invaluable accompanist, had been given a drink and a sandwich and bundled off to return the borrowed score to Prettyman, in Hampstead, who was doing the orchestrations.

The rest of the party ate hungrily. Apart from those he had already met, Campion noticed only two newcomers at the table: the young man with the golden curls whom he had last seen fighting with the doorkeeper over a silver-plated bicycle, and the incomparable Slippers Bellew.

Slippers was a nice girl. As soon as he saw her Campion understood Uncle William’s regret. In her short white practice dress, her warm-yellow hair knotted high on the top of her head, she was about as alluring as any nice healthy child of twelve. She, Sutane and the golden-haired boy, who turned out to be Benny Konrad, Sutane’s understudy and the young man in the “Little White Petticoats” number in The Buffer, ate rather different food from the rest of the gathering and drank a great deal of milk.

Sock Petrie did most of the talking, skilfully keeping Chloe Pye occupied so that her attention was diverted from Mercer, whom she was inclined to tease.

Campion sat next to Sutane, who talked to him eagerly, his thin mobile face reflecting every change of mood and lending every phrase an emphasis quite out of keeping with its importance.

“We’ll snatch half an hour after this,” he said. “I’ve got Dick coming down at half past four with a fellow I’ve got to meet. The chap wants to put some money into Swing Over, so we mustn’t discourage him, bless his heart. Has Linda told you about the trouble down here?”

He used his hands as he talked and Campion was reminded again of the dynamo simile. The nervous force the man exuded was overpowering.

“I heard about the people in the garden at night, but that might be just inquisitive villagers, don’t you think? You’re an exciting household, you know, to a quiet country community.”

“It might be so.” Sutane glanced out of the window, his eyes, which seemed to be nearly all pupil, dark and resentful. “We’re too near London,” he declared suddenly. “It’s convenient, but there’s a suburban note about the place. No one seems to realise we have work to do.”

He paused.

“I hate that,” he said vehemently. “You’d think they’d use their heads.”

Mr. Campion was silent. He thought he understood this part of the situation. He knew something of country life and the social obligations which certain houses seem to carry as though they had a personality quite apart from their owners. He imagined a bored community, in which every member had at least a nodding acquaintance with every other, thrown into a state of chattering excitement by the knowledge that a national hero was coming to join it, only to be disappointed and irritated to find that the celebrity retained his inaccessibility and merely deprived them of one of their woefully few houses of call.

He glanced down the table to where Linda sat, flanked by Uncle William and Mercer. She looked up and caught his eye and smiled. Campion turned back to his host.

“I thought I’d go ...” he began, but Sutane interrupted him.

“You stay here a day or so. I shall feel happier if you do. What I want to know is this: how much of it is my nerves and how much real mischief? ... Good God, what’s that?”

The final words escaped him with a violence which silenced all other conversation.

Campion, who was sitting with his back to the window, glanced over his shoulder and saw the phenomenon. Coming slowly down the drive, with a dignity befitting its age, was a large Daimler, circa 1912. It was driven by an elderly chauffeur in green and carried a very youthful footman in similar uniform. Behind it came a Buick, also chauffeur-driven, and behind that again a taxicab. In the far distance yet another car was discernible.

Sutane glanced at his wife questioningly. She shook her head. She looked positively frightened, Campion thought.

Meanwhile, the Daimler was depositing its passengers: a resplendent old lady and a willowy girl.

The peal of the front-door bell echoed through the house and the Dane, who had been asleep under the table, got up and began to bay. Slippers quietened him after some little time, and an ominous silence fell over the room, while from outside in the hall the murmur of voices and the patter of feet upon the polished floor came in to them.

Presently, just as other cars appeared in the drive outside, another sound, an undignified lumbering noise, was added to the chatter. Slippers giggled.

“That’s the piano,” she said. “We moved it across the drawing-room door. There wasn’t time to get it back. Jimmy, you told Hughes not to bother.”

Sutane pushed back his chair. He was suddenly and theatrically furious.

“Who the devil are all these damned people?” he demanded. “What the hell are they doing calling in here? God! There’s millions of them!”

Benny Konrad laughed nervously.

“Doesn’t anybody know them? How marvellous! Let’s all go out and fraternise.”

“Shut up!” Sock Petrie was frowning, his deep-set eyes fixed anxiously on Sutane.

The star was trembling and his long fingers gripped the back of his chair.

The door behind him opened softly and the elderly manservant who had conducted the meal came in. He was red and flustered.

“A great many people have called, sir,” he began in an undertone. “I’ve put them in the drawing room, and one of the maids is opening the double doors into the living room. Would you wish me to serve tea?”

“I don’t know.” Sutane glanced at his wife helplessly.

Linda rose. “It’s cups, I suppose. Cups and cake, and milk of course. How many people have come?”

“About thirty at the moment, madam, but ...” The old man glanced down the drive expressively. Another car pulled up and a group of excited young people got out.

“Oh, well, do what you can.” Linda sounded resigned. “There’s a case of sherry in the pantry; that may help. Hughes, is there anybody you know?”

“Oh, yes, madam. There’s old Mrs. Corsair from the Towers, Lady Gerry from Melton, Mr. and Mrs. Beak, Miss Earle—they all called on you, madam.” He managed to convey a gentle reproach. “I’ll go and attend to them. Will you come?”

The girl glanced down at her brown cotton dress.

“Yes,” she said at last. “Very well.”

She hurried out after the butler, looking, Mr. Campion thought, like a very small ship going into battle.

Chloe rose. “We ought all to go and help her,” she said, not without a certain relish. “Who are all these people, Jimmy? Your local audience?”

Sutane ignored her. “The cheek of it!” he exploded. “To come to one’s house in hordes when one’s got work to do!”

Mr. Campion coughed. “They’ve been asked, you know,” he said gently. “People don’t turn up by the hundred at four o’clock precisely without an invitation.”

“God bless my soul!” said Uncle William.

Benny Konrad squeaked. “It’s a dirty practical joke,” he ejaculated. “I say, someone’s got their knife into you, Sutane. What are you going to do?”

“Disappear,” said Jimmy promptly. “It’s hard on Linda, but I’ve got a business conference in twenty minutes.”

“I say, old boy, I shouldn’t do that.” Sock’s voice was quiet but very firm. “Bad publicity, you know. It’s a swine’s trick but you’ll have to make the best of it. Both you and Slippers must appear. Go out and say pretty things. Explain you’ve been practising and that’s why you’re in these clothes. It’s absolutely the only thing to do. We’ll all back you up.”

Sutane stood irresolute.

“It’s a damned imposition.”

“I know it is, but what can you do?” Sock was appealing. “Once someone realises that the whole thing is a hoax the story will get out and it’ll make good reading. Do go along, there’s a good chap.”

Slippers, who had a kindly feeling for Sock, linked her arm through Jimmy’s.

“Come on, loov,” she said. “We’ll make our entrance.”

“Will they applaud?” murmured Benny and giggled.

Sock kicked him gently and he grew red and, ridiculously, raised a hand to hit back.

Mercer came over to Campion and Uncle William.

“I suppose they’ve got all three pianos?” he said. “Do you know?”

They looked at him in surprise and he frowned.

“They’re bound to use all the rooms. I’ll go home. It’s only across the park.”

He opened a window and swung himself out into the drive, much to the astonishment of some new arrivals who all but ran him down. He stepped aside and scowled at them ferociously and the last Campion saw of him was his short top-heavy figure striding off across the park.

Chloe Pye peered at herself in a compact mirror.

“Will I do?” she said to Uncle William, and, on receiving his startled nod, plunged out into the hall.

The party, as a party, was the fiasco its perpetrator had evidently planned. Any house is uncomfortable when strained to the uttermost limits of its capacity, and thirteen bottles of amontillado and forty cups of tea, including six kitchen mugs, will not, in these degenerate days, satisfy the five thousand. The furniture was in the way and the empty beer bottles, the relics of Sock’s morning refreshment, did not grace the living room piano where a thoughtful guest who had stepped amongst them placed them for safety.

All these were minor disasters, however, compared with the real misfortune of the afternoon. As he was jostled to and fro among the crowd Mr. Campion made an interesting discovery. The company was mixed by a hand that pure ignorance could scarcely have directed. The snobbish distinctions which are the whole structure of any country society in England had been deliberately flouted. Campion was inclined to suspect a telephone directory as the source of the selection. The upper stratum had come because it had called and been called upon in return and was therefore technically acquainted with the Sutanes; the others were simply those who had been gratified to receive an invitation from a celebrity. Since the one fraternity waited on the other, for the most part, in the way of trade and were therefore well acquainted, it was a particularly unfortunate mixture.

Altogether it was a disastrous gathering.

A man called Baynes, who appeared to be a councillor from some borough unstated, since the two excited young women who accompanied him persistently addressed him by that title, was inclined to be noisily friendly, but the remainder of the gathering was stiff and mulishly uncomfortable.

Chloe’s bathing dress was not a success, in spite of her crimson skirt, and her brush with the old lady who had been the first to arrive provided an unhappy five minutes for all within earshot.

Sutane did his best, but his entrance with Slippers instead of his wife, which was the purest accident, was not forgiven him.

Campion saw him standing at one corner of the room, slender and excitable, talking gracefully to people he did not know, with Sock at his elbow lending moral if not sartorial support.

Linda was even less fortunate. A great many of the visitors were her own country kind and they believed that she had deliberately embarrassed them. Campion saw unwonted colour in the small face with the wide mouth and the eyes with gold flecks in them, and was profoundly sorry for her.

Uncle William strode about manfully and made conversation of a somewhat sporadic and explosive kind, addressing his remarks to anyone who did not actually scowl at him, and Eve did her sulky best.

It was a harrowing experience for all concerned. The cars began to leave. The called-upon departed in a measured rout; the others followed, taking their cue from their leaders.

Finally only the councillor remained and even his friendliness vanished when Sutane, his brittle nerves breaking beneath the strain of an hour’s acute embarrassment, told him brusquely not to call him “old pal.”

As the last car vanished down the drive with its cargo of nettled guests Linda sat down abruptly in an armchair and blew her nose. Sutane stared at her.

“We’ll sell the damned place,” he said.

She shook her head. “They’ll get over it in time.”

“So I should hope.” Sutane was contemptuous. “Good heavens, they must have seen we were taken by surprise. Surely they don’t imagine anyone in his right mind would ask two hundred people to tea one Sunday afternoon and provide them with forty cups between them?”

Linda looked up.

“They think we might,” she said. “They’ve always suspected we were a little queer and now I’m afraid they’re convinced of it. The trouble is they think we’re rude as well. They’ve gone home thinking it was just slackness.”

Sutane remained looking down at her, his face growing dark. In common with many members of his profession, he had a strong streak of the snob in him, and her suggestion was both distasteful and convincing. He turned to Campion.

“Now am I imagining things?” he demanded, his voice rising. “It’s got to stop, I tell you! It’s driving me off my head. It’s got to stop.”

“Jimmy old man, I told you four-thirty.”

An injured voice from the doorway interrupted the outburst and Campion, glancing up, saw a little man with a tragic, ugly face hesitating on the threshold. Everything about him was tiny but very masculine. His hands were coarse but minute and his chin was as blue as Mercer’s own.

He came quickly across the room and spoke in a low and confidential tone, which Campion afterwards discovered was habitual with him.

“I didn’t know you were having a tea fight. We arrived in the middle of it and I took Bowser straight up to the den. He’s a busy man, Jimmy. Come along.”

Sutane sighed with exaggerated weariness and grimaced at Campion with a flicker of his old charm.

“I’m coming,” he said and they went out together.

“That’s Poyser, Jimmy’s manager,” murmured Sock, lounging across the room to Campion. “This is a bit of bad luck, isn’t it? He was nervy enough already. It’s got to be stopped somehow.”

Campion nodded. He was standing by the chair in which Linda sat and his long angular form shadowed her. He looked down and spoke apologetically.

“I seem to have been here a long time and done nothing of the faintest use to anybody,” he said. “D’you know anyone who came this afternoon well enough to take into your confidence? If we had one of the invitation cards which were presumably sent round we might be able to locate the printer, or at least find out when they were sent and where from.”

“No, there was no one,” she said stiffly. “I recognised two or three people who called on us when we first came, but the rest were complete strangers.”

Sock grinned. “They knew each other all right, didn’t they?” he said. “There were some pretty sizzling remarks floating around.”

“I heard them.” The girl looked up at them and they were embarrassed to see tears in her eyes. “I’ll go and talk to the kitchen,” she murmured. “I’m afraid there may be a minor crisis down there.”

As the door closed behind her Sock thrust his hands in his pockets and smiled wryly.

“Poor old girl, she’s rattled,” he said. “But we can’t do anything. That idea of yours would be perfectly sound in the ordinary way, but you see the difficulty in the present case. These good people, whoever they are, can chatter among themselves about the funny actors, but they can only say the place was in a bit of a mess and there wasn’t enough food to go round. But once the hoax story gets out it makes a little news par, doesn’t it? See what I mean?”

“It seems a bit hard on Mrs. Sutane.”

The other man looked at Campion curiously.

“Quite a lot of things are hard on Mrs. Sutane,” he observed. “You’ll notice that if you stick around.”

A cold meal was served at half past eight, at which no mention of the incident of the afternoon was made, out of deference to a solid, frightened-looking person called Bowser who sat between Sutane and his manager and kept his eye on his plate.

Mercer, who had appeared again as soon as the coast was clear, made several attempts to bring up the matter, in which he was assisted by Chloe, who was in mischievous mood, but they were both restrained by the able Mr. Petrie.

Dick Poyser carried Sutane and his guest off again after the meal. Like most people directly concerned with the management of money, he had a curious preoccupied mannerlessness, as though he and his mission in life were somehow sacrosanct and privileged. He did not speak to anyone outside his two charges and ignored his hostess completely, yet there was no deliberate rudeness in the man.

After the meal Campion cornered Uncle William.

“Leave, my dear fellow?” The old man was aghast. “Of course you haven’t made any progress yet. Haven’t had a moment. No, no, wait a little while. Must see Sutane before you go, anyway.”

He stumped off, anxious to avoid further conversation.

Campion sat down in a corner of the living room. There was a restlessness in the big house which had nothing to do with noise. Outside, the garden was warm and scented, a light wind playing in the lime trees.

On the lawn below the terrace he could see Chloe walking between Petrie and Benny Konrad, and her high thin laugh came up to him every now and again.

The others had disappeared.

He sat there quietly for a long time until the yellow light died on the treetops and the colder shadows of the approaching night swept over the garden.

Once he heard voices in the hall and the closing of doors, but then all was quiet again. He lit a cigarette and smoked it thoughtfully, his long thin hands loosely clasped across his knees. He was angry and dissatisfied with himself.

The hand on his sleeve and the voice so passionate in its enquiry startled him considerably.

“What’s your name?”

It was a child in a big old-fashioned overall. She was not pretty but her plump face was eager and flushed with excitement, and she had round eyes with startlingly familiar gold flecks in them.

Mr. Campion, who was a little afraid of children, regarded her with something akin to superstition.

“What’s your name? Tell me your name!”

Her demand was vehement and she clambered over the chair towards him.

“Albert,” he said helplessly. “Who are you?”

“Albert,” she repeated with satisfaction. Having attained her objective she was now inclined to shyness as violent as her first overture had been. She wriggled away from him and stood hesitating. “Albert’s a dog’s name,” she said.

“Who are you?” he repeated and wondered at his dislike of her.

She stared at him as if she guessed his antagonism.

“I’m Sarah Sutane. I live here. I’m not allowed to talk to you or anybody, but I want to. I want to. I want to.”

She flung herself sobbing into his arms and rubbed a wet unhappy face against his tie. He sat her up on his knee, doing his best to look as if he were not pushing her away from him, and felt for a handkerchief, which seemed the moment’s most pressing need.

“How old are you?”

“Six.”

“Sarah.” Miss Finbrough and a woman in nurse’s uniform appeared at the french windows. “I’m sorry, Mr. Campion. She ought to be in bed. Come along, child, do. She ran away just before bedtime. Where have you been hiding? In the garden?”

Sarah shrieked and clung to her link with the outside world, who rose, embarrassed and dishevelled. In the end the nurse took her and carried her off, kicking. Her angry screams echoed faintly and more faintly as a succeeding procession of doors closed after her. Miss Finbrough raised her eyebrows.

“She’s a nervy child,” she said. “Still, what can you expect? She wants other children to play with. She’s lonely, but you can’t have the place overrun with kids. It’s not like an ordinary house. D’you know I haven’t been able to get hold of Mr. Sutane all day?”

“Doesn’t Sarah see anyone?”

“Oh, well, she sees her mother and her nurse, and me. Her mother spoils her, but she agrees with Mr. Sutane that she can’t run loose among the guests. She’d get spoilt and precocious and pick up I don’t know what words. Mr. Sutane has a horror of her becoming what they call a stage child. I keep telling them she ought to go to boarding school.”

“At six?”

“That’s what her mother says.” Miss Finbrough showed her impatience. “Still, if a child’s got an overworked genius for a father it’s got to take the consequences.”

Mr. Campion felt his usual urbanity deserting him.

“You’re a little hard, aren’t you?”

“Hard? Have you seen him dance?” The plain woman’s face was flushed and her eyes were bright. “You can’t expect him to upset his health, filling the place with children.” She checked herself. “Mrs. Sutane’s out in the garden looking for the child,” she said. “It would run away just when we were so upset already. I wonder if you’d mind telling her?”

Campion went out into the dusk. On the lower lawn he encountered Chloe and Sock Petrie, who was carrying a portable gramophone and a case of records. The woman was excited, he noticed. The twilight softened her face and her eyes were brilliant.

“I’m going to dance by the lake,” she said. “This warm, passionate, exulting night!”

She threw out her arms to the opal sky.

Petrie scowled. “I’ll put on a couple of records for you and then I’ve got to have a look at my bus,” he said ungallantly. “She’s got to get me to town tonight, poor old trumpet.”

Chloe laughed at him.

“So you think,” she murmured.

“So I damn well know, my dear,” he retorted. “Hullo, what’s Donald Duck want?”

Benny Konrad sprinted across the lawn towards them rather too consciously like a young faun.

“I say, Sock, Sutane’s gone,” he began with a hint of relish. “Yes, he took a fancy to one of the guests who came today and he’s gone tearing off in the Bentley to see him. After his invitation card, I expect.”

Sock put down the gramophone and swore.

“He would,” he said finally. “Oh, my God, he would. Here, Benny, take these blasted things and go and put on records for Chloe. I’m going round to the garage to see if Joe knows where the lunatic’s gone.”

“I think you’re insufferable,” said Miss Pye to his retreating figure and spoilt the dignity of her reproach immediately afterwards by shouting: “Come back when you’ve finished!”

Sock did not reply and Benny picked up the gramophone.

“I’ll dance too,” he said. “I say, what was the matter with Eve?”

Chloe turned on him with unexpected interest.

“When?”

“Just now. After food. She was crying divinely, all alone under a little rosebush. When she saw me she ran away.”

“Where to?”

“I don’t know. Up to her room, I suppose.”

He giggled and for an instant Chloe Pye stood irresolute. Then she shrugged her shoulders.

“Be careful with the records,” she said.

Albert Campion went on his way to find Linda. She was in the park. He came on her as she stood shouting for Sarah in a small, appealing voice.

“Please, darling, come out! Sarah pet, come out. Please come out for Mummy.”

He dropped into step beside her.

“Sarah’s in bed,” he said.

She turned to him with relief and he was gratified to see welcome in her eyes. They strolled back through the garden to the house and sat on the terrace talking until it grew dusk, when they returned to the morning room, too engrossed in each other to notice the continued absence of the others.

Campion was not conscious of the time. His carefully trained powers of observation were temporarily in abeyance. He had ceased to be an onlooker and was taking part. He was extraordinarily happy. His good conceit of himself grew. He felt capable and intelligent and he talked with all the old animation of his early youth. All trace of vacuity vanished from his face and his eyes became alive and amused.

Linda was sparkling at him.

As they talked of the disastrous party of the afternoon the affair began to present its purely humorous side and a frankly hilarious note crept into their consideration of the entire problem.

They were each aware of a new sense of freedom and discovered together, as they paid each other the irresistible compliment of complete comprehension, the most delightful and the most dangerous quality of mutual stimulation.

The rest of the household and their weary, worried and excitable personalities were forgotten. It was a long and supremely satisfying evening.

The inevitable ending of such a spring dance came when neither of them expected it. He looked across at her and grinned.

“This is very good,” he said.

She laughed and sighed and stretched herself like a small yellow cat.

“I’m very happy.”

“I believe you are,” he murmured and got up lazily with every intention of kissing her. It was a completely casual, unpremeditated movement, arising naturally out of the unself-conscious exuberance of his mood, and he was halfway across the rug towards her when the world returned to him with a rush and he became acutely aware of himself and who and what and where he was.

For the second time that day he was seized by a sudden terror that he had gone completely out of his mind.

He shot the girl a startled glance. She was looking at him gravely. The gaiety had died out of her face and a faint bewilderment had taken its place. It occurred to him that she had shared his experience. She rose and shivered a little.

“I’ll go down and see if I can cajole some coffee out of the baleful company in the kitchen,” she said lightly. “They’re very much on their dignity after the fiasco this afternoon. I’ve done all I can. They’ve had their wireless on all night, which is against the rules on Sunday when Jimmy’s at home—you can hear it, can’t you? They’ve got a passion for military bands and they’ve been bribed with port and sweet words. Yet Hughes gave me notice this evening. He’s outraged, poor dear. I’m doing my best to woo him back. I can’t lose him. He was with my uncle.”

She went out quickly, closing the door softly behind her.

Left to himself, Campion stubbed out his cigarette and passed his hand through his sleek fair hair. Resentment not untinged with amusement at the utter unreasonableness of his own hitherto decently controlled emotions consumed him.

“It doesn’t happen,” he said aloud and looked round guiltily, terrified lest he had been overheard.

The cry across the park came so faintly at first that only a part of his mind was aware of it, but as it was repeated, growing steadily in volume and insistence, it burst into his thoughts with the force of an explosion.

“Come, damn you! Somebody come! Come at once! Where is everyone? Somebody come!”

At the moment that Linda stepped back into the room the thudding feet came pounding onto the terrace and Sutane, his face livid, appeared at the open windows. Even then his sense of the theatre did not quite desert him. He paused and stared at them.

“I’ve killed her,” he shouted. “Oh, my God, Linda, I’ve killed her! I’ve killed Chloe Pye.”