The comfort Reggie provided was warm, but too brief. A hug, a quick kiss, then he broke away. ‘I’ll take a look myself. You can’t be sure. Perhaps she’s still alive—there may be something we can do.’
‘There isn’t—’ Midge began, but he was gone. Roberta Rinehart hurried after him, a haunted look on her face.
‘You’ve had a nasty shock—’ Cook rallied round with restoratives. ‘You’d all best have a drop of the cooking brandy.’ She brought out a bottle from the depths of a cupboard.
‘Good God!’ Eric went ashen as he saw the label. ‘You’re not using that for cooking? It’s my rarest cognac—it’s eighty years old.’
‘Time it was used, then.’ Cook poured briskly. ‘Doesn’t do any good lying around in the cellar going stale—and it burns a treat on the plum puddings.’
‘Don’t waste any!’ Eric cried in agony as drops fell to the table-top between glasses. ‘Here, let me do that.’ He took the bottle from her and poured reverently—and not so generously.
Ackroyd, obeying the injunction against waste, quietly leaped on to the table and began lapping up the lost drops.
‘That isn’t very sanitary.’ Bertha stroked him absently. ‘But I don’t blame you. This is very good brandy.’
‘It ought to be,’ Eric said bitterly. ‘How much is left in the cellar?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know.’ Cook tossed her head. ‘I have more important things to think about.’
‘So have we.’ Midge called them back to order. ‘We must—’ She broke off and took another sip of cognac. It didn’t bear thinking about. The police … an undertaker—or did the police take care of that? And didn’t the American Embassy have to be notified of the death of a citizen?
‘Steady on.’ With a faintly martyred air, Eric poured more of his precious cognac into her glass.
‘That’s not a bad idea.’ Stan held out his glass. Bertha did likewise. Eric gritted his teeth and vouchsafed them a few more drops.
‘Jeez, can you spare it?’ Stan stared at the barely perceptible rise in the level of his drink. ‘It’s only booze, you know. You didn’t have to open a vein.’
‘Please!’ Midge shuddered.
‘Ooops, sorry. I wasn’t thinking.’
‘All right, all right.’ Eric tilted the bottle over Stan’s glass again. This time, the result was satisfactory.
‘Don’t be a chauvinist.’ Bertha thrust her glass forward. Eric obliged grudgingly.
‘What I want to know,’ Cook said, ‘is, do we serve tea now? I’ve got to get that out of the way before I can start on the Gala Dinner. I’ve got a Baron of Beef to roast.’
Midge jumped involuntarily as the kitchen door was flung open, but it was only Reggie.
‘You were right,’ he said. ‘She is dead.’
‘Sure she is,’ Stan said. ‘We wouldn’t make a mistake about a thing like that.’
‘No.’ Reggie snatched the brandy from his father and poured with a reckless hand.
‘Be careful,’ Eric pleaded. ‘That’s liquid gold.’
‘I’ll have to ring the police.’ Reggie set down the empty glass.
‘You can ring them,’ Bertha said, ‘but are they going to be able to get here through all that?’ She gestured to the falling snow. ‘It hasn’t let up all day and the radio was saying the roads were impassable hours ago.’
‘That’s their problem.’ Reggie lifted the receiver. ‘Our duty is to report this as soon as possible.’
‘Where’s Roberta?’ Midge suddenly missed her.
‘She’s gone to find Lauren.’ Reggie did not look up from dialling.
A long harrowing scream sounded from somewhere above.
‘I guess she found her,’ Stan said.
‘Damn!’ Reggie broke the connection and began dialling again. ‘I’m not getting through.’
‘Probably the overhead wires are down,’ Bertha said. ‘It always happens in a blizzard.’
‘We don’t have overhead wires,’ Reggie frowned at the unresponsive phone. ‘Our lines are carried by underground cable.’
‘That phone was always quirky,’ Cook said. ‘Sometimes it cuts right out when I’m ordering from the tradesmen. That’s why we get such strange deliveries sometimes.’
‘I’ll try the one in the office.’ Reggie started for the door, the others trailing after him. Everyone but his father, who was heading in the opposite direction, and Cook, who had returned to her saucepans.
‘Aren’t you coming, Eric?’ Midge asked.
‘No, I’m going down to the cellar,’ Eric said with icy bitterness. ‘I want to check the inventory.’
‘He’s awfully nosey about poor Sir Cedric’s wine cellar,’ Stan told Reggie. ‘I’d keep my eye on him, if I were you.’
Eric slammed the door behind him violently.
They walked into hopeful chaos in the lobby.
‘Who screamed?’
‘What’s happened now?’
‘I’ll bet Miss Holloway got it—she knew too much.’
‘Naw, it’ll be somebody you don’t expect—maybe Lettie. She’s got more going than anybody admits.’
Reggie stalked grim-faced through their midst, ignoring all attempts to question him. Bertha and Stan dropped behind to spread the news. As Midge closed the office door, she heard the first gasps of astonishment, even indignation.
‘Brigid? But she’s one of us. She shouldn’t be part of the game. How did she get into it?’
‘It’s not part of the game,’ Bertha said with grim relish. ‘She’s really dead. They’re calling the cops now.’
Midge closed the office door firmly and leaned against it, suddenly weak at the knees again. How were the police going to react when they learned about the game? She had the uneasy feeling that they would not appreciate it.
At the desk, Reggie shook the receiver, clicked the cradle and pawed desperately at the dial. ‘It’s no use,’ he admitted finally. ‘This one’s dead, too. I’m afraid they all are.’
‘But it’s an underground cable.’ Midge clung weakly to the one fact she was sure of. ‘Unless it does go into overhead wires somewhere near the Exchange.’
‘Or else—’ Reggie was following the telephone line around the wainscotting to the point at which it was introduced into the house from outside the window. The level of snow on the window-ledge was uneven, as though it had been disturbed at some point during the storm. Reggie opened the window and leaned out. His face was grim as he moved back and closed the window again.
‘It’s been cut.’
‘Oh no! Can’t you splice it together or something?’
‘It’s not a straight cut. There’s about a two-inch section missing entirely. Someone doesn’t want us in touch with the outside world. We’re marooned here until the snow stops and the roads are open again.’
‘That could be days!’ Midge stared hopelessly at the leaden sky, the relentlessly falling snow. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘We’re going to be very careful—’ Reggie looked towards the closed door and his face changed. ‘The problem now is—’ he began tiptoeing towards the door—‘we can’t leave the body lying in the passageway until the police arrive. God knows when that will be. We’ll have to move it to a cooler place.’
Midge winced. ‘The toolshed?’ she suggested tentatively. Then, as he motioned to her to continue talking, ‘If you can get to it, that is. Otherwise, I suppose we might put her in—’
Reggie’s hand was on the doorknob now, turning it silently. She faltered and continued, ‘Put her in the back—’
‘Come in!’ Reggie pulled open the door and Haila Bond fell into the room. ‘I hope we were talking loudly enough for you,’ he said with dangerous courtesy.
‘Not quite.’ She got to her feet cheerfully and brushed her skirt. ‘But I got most of it.’ She turned and informed the others huddled in the doorway behind her. ‘Someone’s cut the telephone line, so we can’t call the cops.’
‘Aaah …’ There was a murmur of gratification rather than surprise. This was just what they had expected.
‘If were going to move the body,’ Haila informed Reggie briskly, ‘we’d better take some photographs of it in situ. The cops will want to know how it was. I’ll lend you my Polaroid. There’s a new deck of film in it.’
‘Good thinking!’ someone applauded from the doorway.
‘I’ll bring down my Polaroid, too,’ Asey said. ‘We’ll want lots of shots from every angle.’
And mine,’ someone else contributed. ‘You can’t have too many pictures.’
There was something wrong about their attitudes. After a moment, Midge realized what. ‘Reggie,’ she said faintly, ‘Reggie, they don’t believe it. They think it’s part of the performance.’
‘Of course it is.’ Lauren spoke from the doorway. ‘It has to be. It can’t possibly be true.’
Behind her, Roberta spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness and shook her head.
‘I don’t know how you talked Brigid into doing it without letting me know,’ Lauren said. ‘She can’t have thought it through. She’ll have to be left out of everything now. It will ruin the whole weekend for her. But she’s pretty dumb sometimes—she just has to learn the hard way.’
‘I’m sorry—’ Roberta shook her head again, looking dazed. ‘She screamed and I thought she realized—But then she said it was impossible and she won’t be convinced. I just don’t know how to handle this.’
‘It’s all too silly.’ Lauren’s smile was bright and glazed, she looked over their heads. ‘Where’s Bramwell? He’ll make her stop all this nonsense.’
‘This is going to take shock tactics,’ Bertha said. There’s only one way she’s going to believe it. You’ll have to show her the body.’
‘Yes … yes …’ The cry was taken up by the others. ‘Let’s see the body. Where is it?’
‘No,’ Reggie said. ‘Perhaps Lauren will have to view the body—but no one else. It isn’t a peepshow.’
They faced him stubbornly. That was why they were here. They had paid—and far more than a pin—to see the peepshow.
‘You bet I want to view the “body”,’ Lauren said. I’ll shake some sense into her.’
That’s right,’ someone said. ‘She’s throwing the whole game off, pushing herself into the middle like this.’
Midge moved closer to Reggie and exchanged a despairing look with him. It was no use. They weren’t going to believe it until …
‘All right.’ Reggie gave in abruptly. ‘Get your cameras and come along. We’ll have to move her, anyway.’
The actors brought up the rear, looking strangely formless and dispossessed, their roles usurped by actual life—and death. They were not only uneasy, they were frightened. They kept together in a defensive group as they walked behind the guests.
Reggie was leading the way to the secret panel and, catching the mood from the actors, Midge was suddenly afraid for him. His back was so unprotected. She moved closer to him.
‘Oooh! … Aaah! … A secret passage.’
‘Of course, there had to be one.’
‘That’s how come Petronella’s father was popping in and out like a ghost.’
The appreciative chorus rose into a gratified hubbub. This was coming up to their expectations. The trouble was that it compounded the unreality. They still didn’t believe anyone was truly dead. Not even when they viewed the body.
‘Hey, look at that!’
‘I didn’t know she could act.’
‘You’re doing a great job, kid!’
‘Stand back, let me get her in the viewfinder.’
‘Get up, you fool!’ Her twin strode forward and bent to shake her.
‘Hold it—’ Reggie caught her hand. ‘Let them get their picture before you touch her. The police are likely to be upset enough because we’re moving the body, but we can’t leave it here.’
‘I should think not!’ Lauren stepped back and eyed her twin with disfavour. ‘She’ll catch her death of cold lying on that icy linoleum—and serve her right!’
‘Gee, she’s awfully still…’ Those crowded at the front were beginning to feel the first qualms as they stared down at the body. They shuffled aside uneasily while those at the back pushed forward. The sporadic brilliance of flash bulbs set them blinking.
‘I don’t like this any more—’ A normally quiet guest spoke in the tones of one about to ask for her money back. They had paid to step into a fantasy, but now … ‘It’s … it’s too … gruesome. Let’s go get our tea.’
The escapists moved away, still believing that they could put it all behind them. Midge only wished that it were possible.
‘I hate to say this—’ Dixon Carr was the first to voice the growing suspicion—‘but I don’t think they’re kidding. I’m afraid she really is dead.’
‘We told you so,’ Bertha Stout said. ‘You might have believed us.’
Slowly, the cameras were lowered. Foreboding glances were slanted towards Lauren. She had denied the truth already; could she maintain the self-deception with her sister’s body lying at her feet?
‘Let me go!’ Lauren tore herself free of Reggie’s restraining grip. ‘Brigid!’ she screamed. ‘Get up!’
The motionless form remained motionless.
‘Get up! Get up! Get up!’ Lauren hurled herself at her sister. This time, no one moved to stop her. She grabbed the limp shoulders, then froze.
They watched as realization seeped into her consciousness, reaching her through the very inertness of the shoulders beneath her hands.
The blankness of shock blotted all expression from her face. She withdrew her hands and backed away, whimpering.
‘I’m sorry—’ Roberta began.
‘She’s dead …’ Lauren stared incredulously at the blood on her hands. ‘Dead. My sister … my twin … me. The other half of me … murdered.’
Instinctively, everyone moved back as she turned slowly to confront them. The actors had retreated so far they were almost out of sight, although not out of earshot.
‘Who did it?’ Lauren demanded of the tour members, the people who had been in deadly proximity for the past ten days. ‘Who killed us?’
