Читать книгу Final Curtain - Ngaio Marsh, Stella Duffy - Страница 9

I

In her agitation Fenella had neglected to give Troy the usual hostesses’ tips on internal topography. Troy wondered if the nearest bathroom was at the top of another tower or at the end of some interminable corridor. Impossible to tug the embroidered bell-pull and cause one of those aged maids to climb the stairs! She decided to give up her bath in favour of Mrs. Siddons, the wash-stand and a Victorian can of warm water which had been left beside it.

She had an hour before dinner. It was pleasant, after the severely rationed fires of Tatler’s End, to dress leisurely before this sumptuous blaze. She made the most of it, turning over in her mind the events of the day and sorting out her impressions of the Ancreds. Queer Thomas, she decided, was, so far, the best of the bunch, though the two young things were pleasant enough. Was there an understanding between them and had Sir Henry objected? Was that the reason for Fenella’s outburst? For the rest: Pauline appeared to be suffering from a general sense of personal affront, Millamant was an unknown quantity, while her Cedric was frankly awful. And then, Sonia! Troy giggled. Sonia really was a bit thick.

Somewhere outside in the cold, a deep-toned clock struck eight. The fire had died down. She might as well begin her journey to the hall. Down the winding stair she went, wondering whose room lay beyond a door on the landing. Troy had no sense of direction. When she reached the first long corridor she couldn’t for the life of her remember whether she should turn left or right. A perspective of dark crimson carpet stretched away on each hand, and at intervals the corridor was lit by pseudo-antique candelabra. ‘Oh, well,’ thought Troy and turned to the right. She passed four doors and read their legends: ‘Duse’ (that was Fenella’s room), ‘Bernhardt’ (Pauline’s), ‘Terry,’ ‘Lady Bancroft,’ and, near the end of the passage, the despised ‘Bracegirdle’. Troy did not remember seeing any of these names on her way up to her tower. ‘Blast!’ she thought, ‘I’ve gone wrong.’ But she went on uncertainly. The corridor led at right-angles into another, at the far end of which she saw the foot of a flight of stairs like those of her own tower. Poor Troy was certain that she had looked down just such a vista on her way up. ‘But I suppose,’ she thought, ‘it must have been its opposite number. From outside, the damn place looked as if it was built round a sort of quadrangle, with a tower at the middle and ends of each wing. In that case, if I keep on turning left, oughtn’t I to come back to the picture gallery?’

As she hesitated, a door near the foot of the stairs opened slightly, and a magnificent cat walked out into the passage.

He was white, with a tabby saddle on his back, long haired and amber eyed. He paused and stared at Troy. Then, wafting his tail slightly, he paced slowly towards her. She stooped and waited for him. After some deliberation he approached, examined her hand, bestowed upon it a brief cold thrust of his nose, and continued on his way, walking in the centre of the crimson carpet and still elegantly wafting his tail.

‘And one other thing,’ said a shrill voice beyond the open door, ‘if you think I’m going to hang round here like a bloody extra with the family handing me out the bird in fourteen different positions you’ve got another think coming.’

A deep voice rumbled unintelligibly.

‘I know all about that, and it makes no difference. Nobody’s going to tell me I lack refinement and get away with it. They treat me as if I had one of those things in the strip ads. I kept my temper down there because I wasn’t going to let them see I minded. What do they think they are? My God, do they think it’s any catch living in a mausoleum with a couple of old tats and a kid that ought to be labelled ‘Crazy Gang’?’

Again the expostulatory rumble.

‘I know, I know, I know. It’s so merry and bright in this dump it’s a wonder we don’t all die of laughing. If you’re as crazy as all that about me, you ought to put me in a position where I’d keep my self-respect … You owe it to me … After all I’ve done for you. I’m just miserable … And when I get like this, I’m warning you, Noddy, look out.’ The door opened a little further.

Troy, who had stood transfixed, picked up her skirts, turned back on her tracks, and fairly ran away down the long corridor.

II

This time she reached the gallery and went downstairs. In the hall she encountered Barker, who showed her into an enormous drawing-room which looked, she thought, as if it was the setting for a scene in ‘Victoria Regina’. Crimson, white, and gold were the predominant colours, damask and velvet the prevailing textures. Vast canvases by Leader and MacWhirter occupied the walls. On each occasional table or cabinet stood a silver-framed photograph of Royalty or Drama. There were three of Sir Henry at different stages of his career, and there was one of Sir Henry in Court dress. In this last portrait, the customary air of a man who can’t help feeling he looks a bit of an ass was completely absent, and for a moment Troy thought Sir Henry had been taken in yet another of his professional rôles. The unmistakable authenticity of his Windsor coat undeceived her. ‘Golly,’ she thought, staring at the photograph, ‘it’s a good head and no mistake.’

She began a tour of the room and found much to entertain her. Under the glass lid of a curio table were set out a number of orders, miniatures and decorations, several objets d’art, a signed programme from a command performance, and, surprisingly, a small book of antique style, bound in half-calf and heavily tooled. Troy was one of those people who, when they see a book lying apart, must handle it. The lid was unlocked. She raised it and opened the little book. The tide was much faded, and Troy stooped to make it out.

‘The Antient Arte of the Embalming of Corpfes,’ she read. ‘To which is added a Difcourfe on the Concoction of Fluids for the Purpofe of Preferving Dead Bodies.

By William Hurfte, Profeffor of Phyfic, London.

Printed by Robert White for John Crampe at the Sign of the Three Bibles in St Paul’s Churchyard. 1678.’

It was horribly explicit. Here, in the first chapter, were various recipes ‘For the Confumation of the Arte of Preferving the Dead in perfect Verifimilitude of Life. It will be remarked,’ the author continued, ‘that in fpite of their diverfity the chimical of Arfenic is Common to All.’ There was a particularly macabre passage on ‘The ufe of Cofmetics to Difguife the ghaftly Pallor of Death.’

‘But what sort of mind,’ Troy wondered, ‘could picture with equanimity, even with pleasure, these manipulations upon the body from which it must some day, perhaps soon, be parted?’ And she wondered if Sir Henry Ancred had read this book and if he had no imagination or too much. ‘And why,’ she thought, ‘do I go on reading this horrid little book?’

She heard a voice in the hall, and with an illogical feeling of guilt hurriedly closed the book and the glass lid. Millamant came in, wearing a tidy but nondescript evening dress.

‘I’ve been exploring,’ Troy said.

‘Exploring?’ Millamant repeated with her vague laugh.

‘That grisly little book in the case. I can’t resist a book and I’m afraid I opened the case. I do hope it’s allowed.’

‘Oh,’ said Millamant. ‘Yes, of course.’ She glanced at the case. ‘What book is it?’

‘It’s about embalming, of all things. It’s very old. I should think it might be rather valuable.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Millamant, ‘that’s why Miss Orrincourt was so interested in it.’

She moved to the fireplace, looking smugly resentful.

‘Miss Orrincourt?’ Troy repeated.

‘I found her reading a small book when I came in the other day. She put it in the case and dropped the lid. Such a bang! It’s a wonder it didn’t break, really. I suppose it must have been that book, mustn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Troy, hurriedly rearranging her already chaotic ideas of Miss Sonia Orrincourt. ‘I suppose it must.’

‘Papa,’ said Millamant, ‘is not quite at his best this evening but he’s coming down. On his bad days he dines in his own rooms.’

‘I hope,’ said Troy, ‘that the sittings won’t tire him too much.’

‘Well, he’s so looking forward to them that I’m sure he’ll try to keep them up. He’s really been much better lately, only sometimes,’ said Millamant ambiguously, ‘he gets a little upset. He’s very highly strung and sensitive, you know. I always think that all the Ancreds are like that. Except Thomas. My poor Cedric, unfortunately, has inherited their temperament.’

Troy had nothing to say to this, and was relieved when Paul Kentish and his mother came in, followed in a moment by Fenella. Barker brought a tray with sherry. Presently an extraordinarily ominous gong sounded in the hall.

‘Did anyone see Cedric?’ asked his mother. ‘I do hope he’s not going to be late.’

‘He was still in his bath when I tried to get in ten minutes ago,’ said Paul.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Millamant.

Miss Orrincourt, amazingly dressed, and looking at once sulky, triumphant and defiant, drifted into the room. Troy heard a stifled exclamation behind her, and turned to see the assembled Ancreds with their gaze riveted to Miss Orrincourt’s bosom.

It was adorned with a large diamond star.

‘Milly,’ Pauline muttered.

‘Do you see what I see?’ Millamant replied with a faint hiss.

Miss Orrincourt moved to the fire and laid one arm along the mantelpiece. ‘I hope Noddy’s not going to be late,’ she said. ‘I’m starving.’ She looked critically at her crimson nails and touched the diamond star. ‘I’d like a drink,’ she said.

Nobody made any response to this statement, though Paul uncomfortably cleared his throat. The tap of a stick sounded in the hall.

‘Here is Papa,’ said Pauline nervously, and they all moved slightly. Really, thought Troy, they might be waiting to dine with some minor royalty. There was precisely the same air of wary expectation.

Barker opened the door, and the original of all the photographs walked slowly into the room, followed by the white cat.

III

The first thing to be said about Sir Henry Ancred was that he filled his rôle with almost embarrassing virtuosity. He was unbelievably handsome. His hair was silver, his eyes, under heavy brows, were fiercely blue. His nose was ducal in its prominence. Beneath it sprouted a fine snowy moustache, brushed up to lend accent to his actor’s mouth. His chin jutted out squarely and was adorned with an ambassadorial tuft. He looked as if he had been specially designed for exhibition. He wore a velvet dinner-jacket, an old-fashioned collar, a wide cravat and a monocle on a broad ribbon. You could hardly believe, Troy thought, that he was true. He came in slowly, using a black and silver stick, but not leaning on it overmuch. It was, Troy felt, more of an adjunct than an aid. He was exceeding tall and still upright.

‘Mrs Alleyn, Papa,’ said Pauline.

‘Ah,’ said Sir Henry.

Troy went to meet him. ‘Restraining myself,’ as she afterwards told Alleyn, ‘from curtsying, but with difficulty.’

‘So this is our distinguished painter?’ said Sir Henry, taking her hand. ‘I am delighted.’

He kept her hand in his and looked down at her. Behind him, Troy saw in fancy a young Henry Ancred bending his gaze upon the women in his heyday and imagined how pleasurably they must have melted before it. ‘Delighted,’ he repeated, and his voice underlined adroitly his pleasure not only in her arrival but in her looks. ‘Hold your horses, chaps,’ thought Troy and removed her hand. ‘I hope you continue of that mind,’ she said politely.

Sir Henry bowed. ‘I believe I shall,’ he said. ‘I believe I shall.’ She was to learn that he had a habit of repeating himself.

Paul had moved a chair forward. Sir Henry sat in it facing the fire, with the guest and family disposed in arcs on either side of him.

He crossed his knees and rested his left forearm along the arm of his chair, letting his beautifully kept hand dangle elegantly. It was a sort of Charles II pose, and, in lieu of the traditional spaniel, the white cat leapt gracefully on his lap, kneaded it briefly and reclined there.

‘Ah, Carabbas!’ said Sir Henry, and stroked it, looking graciously awhile upon his family and guest. ‘This is pleasant,’ he said, including them in a beautiful gesture. For a moment his gaze rested on Miss Orrincourt’s bosom. ‘Charming,’ he said. ‘A conversation piece. Ah! A glass of sherry.’

Paul and Fenella dispensed the sherry, which was extremely good. Rather elaborate conversation was made, Sir Henry conducting it with the air of giving an audition. ‘But I thought,’ he said, ‘that Cedric was to join us. Didn’t you tell me, Millamant –’

‘I’m so sorry he’s late, Papa,’ said Millamant. ‘He had an important letter to write, I know. I think perhaps he didn’t hear the gong.’

‘Indeed? Where have you put him?’

‘In Garrick, Papa.’

‘Then he certainly must have heard the gong.’

Barker came in and announced dinner.

‘We shall not, I think, wait for Cedric,’ Sir Henry continued. He removed the cat, Carabbas, from his knees and rose. His family rose with him. ‘Mrs. Alleyn, may I have the pleasure of taking you in?’ he said.

‘It’s a pity,’ Troy thought as she took the arm he curved for her, ‘that there isn’t an orchestra.’ And as if she had recaptured the lines from some drawing-room comedy of her childhood, she made processional conversation as they moved towards the door. Before they reached it, however, there was a sound of running footsteps in the hall. Cedric, flushed with exertion and wearing a white flower in his dinner-jacket, darted into the room.

‘Dearest Grandpapa,’ he cried, waving his hands, ‘I creep, I grovel. So sorry, truly. Couldn’t be more contrite. Find me some sackcloth and ashes somebody, quickly.’

‘Good evening, Cedric,’ said Sir Henry icily. ‘You must make your apologies to Mrs. Alleyn, who will perhaps be very kind and forgive you.’

Troy smiled like a duchess at Cedric and inwardly grinned like a Cheshire cat at herself.

‘Too heavenly of you,’ said Cedric quickly. He slipped in behind them. The procession had splayed out a little on his entrance. He came face to face with Miss Orrincourt. Troy heard him give a curious, half-articulate exclamation. It sounded involuntary and unaffected. This was so unusual from Cedric that Troy turned to look at him. His small mouth was open. His pale eyes stared blankly at the diamond star on Miss Orrincourt’s bosom, and then turned incredulously from one member of his family to another.

‘But’ – he stammered – ‘but, I say – I say.’

‘Cedric,’ whispered his mother.

‘Cedric,’ said his grandfather imperatively.

But Cedric, still speaking in that strangely natural voice, pointed a white finger at the diamond star and said loudly: ‘But, my God, it’s Great-Great-Grandmama Ancred’s sunburst!’

‘Nice, isn’t it?’ said Miss Orrincourt equally loudly. ‘I’m ever so thrilled.’

‘In these unhappy times, alas,’ said Sir Henry blandly, arming Troy through the door, ‘one may not make those gestures with which one would wish to honour a distinguished visitor! “A poor small banquet,” as old Capulet had it. Shall we go in?’

IV

The poor small banquet was, if nothing else, a tribute to the zeal of Sir Henry’s admirers in the Dominions and the United States of America. Troy had not seen its like for years. He himself, she noticed, ate a mess of something that had been put through a sieve. Conversation was general, innocuous, and sounded a little as if it had been carefully memorised beforehand. It was difficult not to look at Miss Orrincourt’s diamonds. They were a sort of visual faux pas which no amount of blameless small-talk could shout down. Troy observed that the Ancreds themselves constantly darted furtive glances at them. Sir Henry continued bland, urbane, and, to Troy, excessively gracious. She found his compliments, which were adroit, rather hard to counter. He spoke of her work and asked if she had done a self-portrait. ‘Only in my student days when I couldn’t afford a model,’ said Troy. ‘But that’s very naughty of you,’ he said. ‘It is now that you should give us the perfect painting of the perfect subject.’

‘Crikey!’ thought Troy.

They drank Rudesheimer. When Barker hovered beside him, Sir Henry, announcing that it was a special occasion, said he would take half a glass. Millamant and Pauline looked anxiously at him.

‘Papa, darling,’ said Pauline. ‘Do you think –?’ And Millamant murmured: ‘Yes, Papa. Do you think –?’

‘Do I think what?’ he replied, glaring at them.

‘Wine,’ they murmured disjointedly. ‘Dr. Withers … not really advisable … however.’

‘Fill it up, Barker,’ Sir Henry commanded loudly, ‘fill it up.’

Troy heard Pauline and Millamant sigh windily.

Dinner proceeded with circumspection but uneasily. Paul and Fenella were silent. Cedric, on Troy’s right hand, conversed in feverish spasms with anybody who would listen to him. Sir Henry’s flow of compliments continued unabated through three courses, and to Troy’s dismay, Miss Orrincourt began to show signs of marked hostility. She was on Sir Henry’s left, with Paul on her other side. She began an extremely grand conversation with Paul, and though he responded with every sign of discomfort she lowered her voice, cast significant glances at him, and laughed immoderately at his monosyllabic replies. Troy, who was beginning to find her host very heavy weather indeed, seized an opportunity to speak to Cedric.

‘Noddy,’ said Miss Orrincourt at once, ‘what are we going to do tomorrow?’

‘Do?’ he repeated, and after a moment’s hesitation became playful. ‘What does a little girl want to do?’

Miss Orrincourt stretched her arms above her head. ‘She wants things to happen!’ she cried ecstatically. ‘Lovely things.’

‘Well, if she’s very, very good perhaps we’ll let her have a tiny peep at a great big picture.’

Troy heard this with dismay.

‘What else?’ Miss Orrincourt persisted babyishly but with an extremely unenthusiastic glance at Troy.

‘We’ll see,’ said Sir Henry uneasily.

‘But Noddy –’

‘Mrs. Alleyn,’ said Millamant from the foot of the table, ‘shall we –?’

And she marshalled her ladies out of the dining-room.

The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. Sir Henry led Troy through the pages of three albums of theatrical photographs. This she rather enjoyed. It was strange, she thought, to see how the fashion in Elizabethan garments changed in the world of theatre. Here was a young Victorian Henry Ancred very much be-pointed, be-ruffed, encased and furbished, in a perfect welter of velvet, ribbon and leather; here a modern elderly Henry Ancred in a stylised and simplified costume that had apparently been made of painted scenic canvas. Yet both were the Duke of Buckingham.

Miss Orrincourt joined a little fretfully in this pastime. Perched on the arm of Sir Henry’s chair and disseminating an aura of black market scent, she giggled tactlessly over the earlier photographs and yawned over the later ones. ‘My dear,’ she ejaculated, ‘look at you! You’ve got everything on but the kitchen sink!’ This was in reference to a picture of Sir Henry as Richard II. Cedric tittered and immediately looked frightened. Pauline said: ‘I must say, Papa, I don’t think anyone else has ever approached your flair for exactly the right costume.’

‘My dear,’ her father rejoined, ‘it’s the way you wear ’em.’ He patted Miss Orrincourt’s hand. ‘You do very well, my child,’ he said, ‘in your easy modern dresses. How would you manage if, like Ellen Terry, you had two feet of heavy velvet in front of you on the stage and were asked to move like a queen down a flight of stairs? You’d fall on your nice little nose.’

He was obviously a vain man. It was extraordinary, Troy thought, that he remained unmoved by Miss Orrincourt’s lack of reverence, and remembering Thomas’s remark about David and Abishag the Shunammite, Troy was forced to the disagreeable conclusion that Sir Henry was in his dotage about Miss Orrincourt.

At ten o’clock a grog-tray was brought in. Sir Henry drank barley water, suffered the women of his family to kiss him goodnight, nodded to Paul and Cedric, and, to her intense embarrassment, kissed Troy’s hand. ‘A demain,’ he said in his deepest voice. ‘We meet at eleven. I am fortunate.’

He made a magnificent exit, and ten minutes later, Miss Orrincourt, yawning extensively, also retired.

Her disappearance was the signal for an outbreak among the Ancreds.

‘Honestly, Milly! Honestly, Aunt Pauline. Can we believe our eyes!’ cried Cedric. ‘The Sunburst! I mean actually!’

‘Well, Millamant,’ said Pauline, ‘I now see for myself how things stand at Ancreton.’

‘You wouldn’t believe me when I told you, Pauline,’ Millamant rejoined. ‘You’ve been here a month, but you wouldn’t –’

‘Has he given it to her, will somebody tell me?’ Cedric demanded.

‘He can’t,’ said Pauline. ‘He can’t. And what’s more, I don’t believe he would. Unless –’ She stopped short and turned to Paul. ‘If he’s given it to her,’ she said, ‘he’s going to marry her. That’s all.’

Poor Troy, who had been making completely ineffectual efforts to go, seized upon the silence that followed Pauline’s announcement to murmur: ‘If I may, I think I shall –’

‘Dear Mrs. Alleyn,’ said Cedric, ‘I implore you not to be tactful. Do stay and listen.’

‘I don’t see,’ Paul began, ‘why poor Mrs. Alleyn should be inflicted –’

‘She knows,’ said Fenella. ‘I’m afraid I’ve already told her, Paul.’

Pauline suddenly made a gracious dive at Troy. ‘Isn’t it disturbing?’ she said with an air of drawing Troy into her confidence. ‘You see how things are? Really, it’s too naughty of Papa. We’re all so dreadfully worried. It’s not what’s happening so much as what might happen that terrifies one. And now the Sunburst. A little too much. In its way it’s a historic jewel.’

‘It was a little cadeau d’estime from the Regent to Great-Great-Grandmama Honoria Ancred,’ Cedric cut in. ‘Not only historical, but history repeating itself. And may I point out, Aunt Pauline, that I personally am rocked to the foundations. I’ve always understood that the Sunburst was to come to me.’

‘To your daughter,’ said Paul. ‘The point is academic.’

‘I’m sure I don’t know why you think so,’ said Cedric, bridling. ‘Anything might happen.’

Paul raised his eyebrows.

‘Really, Pauline,’ said Millamant. ‘Really, Paul!’

‘Paul, darling,’ said Pauline offensively, ‘don’t tease poor Cedric.’

‘Anyway,’ said Fenella, ‘I think Aunt Pauline’s right. I think he means to marry, and if he does, I’m never coming to Ancreton again. Never!’

‘What shall you call her, Aunt Pauline?’ Cedric asked impertinently. ‘Mummy, or a pet name?’

‘There’s only one thing to be done,’ said Pauline. ‘We must tackle him. I’ve told Jenetta and I’ve told Dessy. They’re both coming. Thomas will have to come too. In Claude’s absence he should take the lead. It’s his duty.’

‘Do you mean, dearest Aunt Pauline, that we are to lie in ambush for the Old Person and make an altogether-boys bounce at him?’

‘I propose, Cedric, that we ask him to meet us all and that we simply – we simply –’

‘And a fat lot of good, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, Pauline, that is likely to do,’ said Millamant, with a chuckle.

‘Not being an Ancred, Millamant, you can’t be expected to feel this terrible thing as painfully as we do. How Papa, with his deep sense of pride in an old name – we go back to the Conquest, Mrs. Alleyn – how Papa can have allowed himself to be entangled! It’s too humiliating.’

‘Not being an Ancred, as you point out, Pauline, I realise Papa, as well as being blue-blooded, is extremely hot-blooded. Moreover, he’s as obstinate and vain as a peacock. He likes the idea of himself with a dashing young wife.’

‘Comparatively young,’ said Cedric.

Pauline clasped her hands, and turning from one member of her family to another, said, ‘I’ve thought of something! Now listen all of you. I’m going to be perfectly frank and impersonal about this. I know I’m the child’s mother, but that needn’t prevent me. Panty!’

‘What about Panty, Mother?’ asked Paul nervously.

‘Your grandfather adores the child. Now, suppose Panty were just to drop a childish hint.’

‘If you suggest,’ said Cedric, ‘that Panty should wind her little arms round his neck and whisper: “Grandpapa, when will the howwid lady wun away?” I can only say I don’t think she’d get into the skin of the part.’

‘He adores her,’ Pauline repeated angrily. ‘He’s like a great big boy with her. It brings the tears into my eyes to see them together. You can’t deny it, Millamant.’

‘I dare say it does, Pauline.’

‘Well, but Mother, Panty plays up to Grandpapa,’ said Paul bluntly.

‘And in any case,’ Cedric pointed out, ‘isn’t Panty as thick as thieves with Sonia?’

‘I happen to know,’ said Millamant, ‘that Miss Orrincourt encouraged Panty to play a very silly trick on me last Sunday.’

‘What did she do?’ asked Cedric.

Fenella giggled.

‘She pinned a very silly notice on the back of my coat when I was going to church,’ said Millamant stuffily.

‘What did it say, Milly, darling?’ Cedric asked greedily.

‘Roll out the Barrel,’ said Fenella.

‘This is getting us nowhere,’ said Millamant.

‘And now,’ said Troy hurriedly, ‘I really think if you’ll excuse me –’

This time she was able to get away. The Ancreds distractedly bade her goodnight. She refused an escort to her room, and left them barely waiting, she felt, for her to shut the door before they fell to again.

Only a solitary lamp burned in the hall, which was completely silent, and since the fire had died out, very cold. While Troy climbed the stairs she felt as she had not felt before in this enormous house, that it had its own individuality. It stretched out on all sides of her, an undiscovered territory. It housed, as well as the eccentricities of the Ancreds, their deeper thoughts and the thoughts of their predecessors. When she reached the gallery, which was also dim, she felt that the drawing-room was now profoundly distant, a subterranean island. The rows of mediocre portraits and murky landscapes that she now passed had a life of their own in this half-light and seemed to be indifferently aware of her progress. Here, at last, was her own passage with the tower steps at the end. She halted for a moment before climbing them. Was it imagination, or had the door, out of sight on the half-landing above her, been softly closed? ‘Perhaps,’ she thought, ‘somebody lives in the room below me,’ and for some reason the notion affected her unpleasantly. ‘Ridiculous!’ thought Troy, and turned on a switch at the foot of the stairs. A lamp, out of sight beyond the first spiral, brought the curved wall rather stealthily to life.

Troy mounted briskly, hoping there would still be a fire in her white room. As she turned the spiral, she gathered up her long dress with her right hand and with her left reached out for the narrow rail.

The rail was sticky.

She snatched her hand away with some violence and looked at it. The palm and the under-surface were dark. Troy stood in the shadow of the inner wall, but she now moved up into light. By the single lamps she saw that the stain on her hand was red.

Five seconds must have gone by before she realised that the stuff on her hand was paint.