‘Do you think it was a suicide pact?’
‘Naw, never! Why would they do that? Look, they were fighting just a little while ago. More likely they tried to kill each other. And succeeded.’
‘Maybe they died by accident. Maybe the whole bottle was poisoned, not just the glasses. Maybe it was left over from Sir Cedric’s murder.’
‘Different people brought them the drinks. Reggie gave Lady Hermione hers and Lettie served Miss Holloway.’
‘That Lettie—she’s been getting the drinks mixed up all evening. Maybe she took the wrong glass to Miss Holloway—it had been intended for Lady Hermione, then Reggie saw what she’d done and poured another dose of poison and brought it to Lady Hermione himself—to make sure there’d be no mistake.’
‘But then wouldn’t he have tried to stop Miss Holloway from drinking the poison?’
‘Naw, he’d give himself away if he did. He wasn’t supposed to know there was poison in the glass.’
‘But it can’t be Reggie—he’s the Scotland Yard man!’
‘Is he? Maybe he’s Brutus, too.’
‘Maybe Eric is. If Lady Hermione was an old friend of his, then he’d have known her brother, too. Another old friend.’
While the arguments raged around them, Eric and Colonel Heather solemnly advanced to fore and aft of Hermione, grasped her shoulders and feet firmly, heaved her aloft and bore her off swiftly.
Reggie signalled to Algie to come and help him with Miss Holloway, but Dix forestalled him.
‘Allow me,’ he said, taking her ankles. Reggie had no option but to let him assist, particularly as Algie seemed reluctant to move from Lauren-Brigid’s side.
They negotiated the turn at the doorway a little more clumsily than might have been hoped. Dix was observing the conventions, however, and Miss Holloway’s involuntary grimace was allowed to pass unremarked.
‘This is terrible,’ Dix said seriously. ‘Terrible.’
‘You’re so right.’ Reggie spoke a trifle grimly. It wasn’t actually Miss Holloway’s fault—she had meant well. It wasn’t exactly Hermione’s fault, either, she could not be blamed for her bout of stage fright. It was just highly unfortunate that they had both decided to take action at the same time.
‘In here,’ Midge said, opening the office door. It had been prearranged that the ‘body’ would be deposited in there. However, Eric and Colonel Heather had got there first and Lady Hermione was stretched out on the couch.
‘Oh—perhaps not.’ Reggie looked around desperately.
‘The chair,’ Midge suggested, tilting the reclining chair to its most horizontal position.
‘Yes, fine.’ Reggie and Dix arranged Miss Holloway on the chair. ‘It will have to do,’ Reggie said. Eric and Colonel Heather watched with interest. Hermione’s eyelids twitched.
‘I would like to extend my deepest sympathy—’ Dix spoke in the formal tones of one addressing the next of kin. Eric jumped, then realized it wasn’t meant for him.
‘This is a terrible, terrible tragedy—’ Dix looked directly at Colonel Heather—‘after all the years it took you to get her to yourself at last.’
‘Eh?’ Colonel Heather said.
‘You needn’t pretend with me.’ Dix patted him on the shoulder. ‘I saw through your little ruse from the start. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell the others.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You don’t?’ Dix gave a short, sharp laugh. ‘I suppose the name Primrose means nothing to you?’
‘Primrose? Primrose?’ Colonel Heather looked at him wildly. ‘Never knew a Primrose in my life. Knew a Poppy once—’
‘Oh, you can play it that way if you like, but I know.’
‘More than I do. Primrose path—?’
‘Very clever. Not quite clever enough, though. You really shouldn’t have let her keep the name Grace. I suppose Holloway was her maiden name?’
‘Grace? Primrose?’ Colonel Heather was lost.
‘Did you make an honest woman of her? Or was this just a little fling? Not that your fans would think any the less of either of you in this day and age. We were always rooting for you two to get it together.’
‘How dare you, sir!’
‘Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. I’m just sorry it had to end this way.’
‘Secret!’ the Colonel spluttered. ‘Damn it, man, there is no secret!’
‘Aha, but there must be one.’ Dix winked and nodded. ‘What did you do with Sergeant Buck?’
‘Buck? Buck?’
‘It was over his dead body, wasn’t it? Don’t worry—’ Dix winked again—‘I’ll never tell. We always thought he had it coming to him.’ He patted Colonel Heather’s shoulder again and left.
‘Bonkers!’ Colonel Heather stared after him incredulously. ‘The man’s stark staring bonkers!’
Midge returned to the drawing-room to make sure that all the guests were still safely assembled there. She signalled to Reggie that it was clear for Hermione and Grace to slip away to their own rooms, then stood guard in the doorway until they had had time to get away. Not that anyone appeared anxious to leave, the would-be sleuths were all too occupied with the new murders.
Lettie was at bay in a corner, Bertha Stout leading the pack that had converged on her. There were so many questions being shot at her that she couldn’t even sort them out. She stood there, back pressed against the wall, shaking her head.
‘I don’t know.’ There was genuine desperation in her voice. ‘Honestly, I don’t know anything about it.’
‘You were serving drinks all evening.’ Bertha was relentless. ‘Surely you must remember who ordered what.’
‘Why should she? She couldn’t remember for five minutes, even then. She kept mixing up the orders all night.’ Asey Wentworth slanted his eyes at her craftily. ‘Were you really that dumb all of a sudden, Lettie? Or were you setting up an alibi?’
‘I don’t know why you’re picking on me,’ Lettie said. ‘Everyone knows Miss Holloway had a weak heart. This weekend has been a tremendous strain on her. She must have had a heart attack and keeled over. It was natural causes.’
‘And how about Lady Hermione?’ Bertha sneered. ‘I suppose she had a weak heart, too?’
‘I—I d-don’t know a-about that—’ Lettie stammered, managing to look inexpressibly guilty. ‘Lady Hermione d-did not confide in me.’
‘I’ll bet she didn’t! She hated you, didn’t she? And you hated her!’
‘No!’ Lettie spotted a break in their ranks and charged through it. ‘It’s no business of yours. Leave me alone!’
Midge stepped aside, nodding that the coast was clear, and Lettie ran through the lobby and up the main staircase. Several keen sleuths pursued her, but Bertha Stout bowed to her own weight and that of gravity and turned her attention elsewhere.
The Honourable Petronella, badgered and beleaguered by her own set of questioners, had dragged Algie away from his proposed conquest and grappled him firmly to her side. They now faced the music together.
‘Who is Lady Hermione’s heir—or heiress?” Haila Bond asked suspiciously.
‘How should I know? It wouldn’t be me. I didn’t know her all that well. She was just doing Daddy a favour by seeing me through the Season.’
‘Oh yes, your Daddy. A friend of hers. A very old friend, I believe. How much does he stand to inherit?’
‘Probably nothing.’ Petronella tightened her grip on Algie’s arm as he tried to slide away. ‘They weren’t that close—not for a long time. Why don’t you ask him?’
‘Where is he? He helped carry the body off—and he hasn’t come back.’
‘I don’t know any more than you do. I’ve been right here all the time.’
‘Why hasn’t he come back?’ A couple on the fringe of the group moved away. ‘Let’s go find him.’
‘The party’s breaking up—’ Ned, momentarily devalued as a top suspect, came over to stand beside Midge uneasily. ‘Some of them are going off by themselves. Do you think it’s safe?’
‘I wish I knew.’ The actors were now more suspicious of their audience, Midge realized, than the audience of the actors. And with far better reason. Someone in the audience was playing for keeps.
Perhaps it was not so surprising that Ned was having second thoughts and had moved away from Lauren-Brigid. Or had Amaryllis driven him away? She had taken his place beside Lauren-Brigid, bringing Bramwell with her. He was obviously unhappy about it, but he was there. It was equally obvious that his mother had no intention of letting him get away again.
Small groups around the room discussed theories amongst themselves, looking from one suspect to another, trying to decide which to approach and what leading questions to ask them.
Dix stood alone, still nodding in apparent self-congratulation at what he considered his discovery of Colonel Heather’s secret life.
Evelina T. Carterslee sat in a corner in earnest discussion with Roberta Rinehart.
‘Bit stuffy in here, isn’t it?’ Ned dabbed at his forehead with an initialled handkerchief.
‘I could do with a breath of air,’ Midge admitted. They slipped away unobtrusively, almost tiptoeing through the lobby to the front door.
The air was clear and arctic. They looked out at a glittering white world, sculptured by blue-black shadows, dotted with skeletal trees.
Midge strained her ears for the comforting sound of snow ploughs in the distance, but they were suspended in a silent world.
‘Brr—’ Ned stepped back. ‘That’s enough, I think. We don’t want to catch pneumonia.’
‘No,’ Midge agreed, closing the door reluctantly. ‘We have problems enough.’
They paused in the doorway of the drawing-room and looked around. Bramwell Barbour now appeared to be in a state of advanced distress, still pinioned firmly by his mother to Lauren-Brigid’s side.
‘Mmm,’ Ned said. ‘Looks as though we ought to mount a rescue mission, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I suppose so,’ Midge agreed unwillingly. Lauren or Brigid, whichever she might be, seemed calm and complacent at the moment, happy in her own little dream world with Bramwell Barbour dancing attendance—however reluctant—on her. It might disturb her precarious balance if strangers intruded on them.
Before they could move, Algie broke away from Petronella and her questioners and advanced on the Barbour group with a determined look on his face.
‘Oh, good,’ Midge said. ‘Algie’s going over. We won’t need to.’
‘All the more reason.’ Ned moved forward, his own face grimly determined. ‘I hate to sound bitchy, but I’m afraid it was type-casting when they sent Old Algie down here, to play the bounder. He’s fastening on that poor girl like a leech.’
Admiring Ned’s selfless disinterest, Midge followed him out of sheer curiosity. Bramwell greeted their approach with relief. Amaryllis glared at them.
‘There now, Brigid, here comes your beau,’ Lauren said, with a flirtatious toss of her head towards Ned.
‘Why not?’ she promptly answered herself. ‘You’ve got your’s here—’ Another flirtatious toss of the head, this time towards Algie.
‘Girls, girls—’ Amaryllis said indulgently. ‘Don’t tease poor Bramwell. You’ll break his heart.’
They—she—giggled, bridling.
For the first time, Midge saw Bramwell give his mother a look of intense dislike—almost hatred.
‘About time he had some competition, isn’t it, Brigid?’
‘Sure is, Lauren. He’s had things his own way far too long.’
‘Girls, you’re being very naughty.’ Amaryllis regarded the giggling woman complacently. The thought that she might acquire two daughters-in-law rolled into one obviously didn’t disturb her a bit. There would also be two fortunes rolled into one. ‘Tell poor Bramwell you didn’t mean it.’
‘Maybe we did mean it!’ Another toss of the head. ‘Maybe we’re getting tired of the way Bramwell takes us for granted.’
Bramwell clearly did not wish to take them—or her—at all. He had lost colour and begun backing away. Algie leaped forward to take his place by her side. She smiled coyly at Algie as he took her hand and raised it to his lips.
‘Oh, you Englishmen—’ She darted a sly sideways glance at Bramwell. ‘You’re so sophisticated.’
Ned had been moving in to take up a position on her other side, now he halted suddenly. Midge followed his gaze and discovered that Algie had unwittingly claimed the attention of a large segment of the audience.
‘Look at that,’ Alice Dain said indignantly. ‘The minute poor Petronella is in trouble, he runs off and leaves her and goes chasing another woman.’
‘That’s men for you every time,’ Bertha Stout snorted.
‘Are you going to let him get away with that?’ Alice demanded of Petronella. ‘He’s your boyfriend.’
‘He was,’ someone snickered.
Unnoticed, except perhaps by Amaryllis, Bramwell slipped still farther into the background and disappeared in the direction of the lobby.
Petronella had gone an unattractive shade of red, almost as though she were actually in the process of being jilted. All eyes were on her, waiting for her reaction to Alice’s challenge.
‘Algie—’ Her voice rose in an uneven pitch. Algie!’
Algie was bending closer to Lauren-Brigid, patting the hand that could write large cheques, alert to her slightest word. Petronella’s call went unheeded.
Ned might be right about him, Midge decided. Although he was neglecting the script, he was still in character. The fortune-hunting cad was simply on the trail of a larger fortune.
‘Don’t trouble your pretty little head about that rat, Cousin Pet.’ Ned, either more aware of the exigencies of the situation, or bowing to the realization that he had momentarily lost place to Algie with the Chandler twin, crossed to Petronella’s side. ‘You’re well rid of him. Isn’t she—?’ he appealed to the audience.
‘She sure is!’
‘Forget him, honey, that kind’s no good to anybody.’
‘Come back to the States with us and take your rightful place as head of Van Dine Industries.’
‘Don’t let it get you down—there’s plenty more fish in the sea.’
Advice showered on the Hon. Pet from all sides. She appeared oblivious of them all, her attention focused on the defecting Algie. And Lauren-Brigid.
‘Boy! If looks could kill! I wouldn’t take any bets on the other one being around much longer.’
‘That’s a rotten thing to say!’ Reminded of unpleasant reality, public opinion swung to censure the offending speaker. ‘You’re not suggesting Petronella could have had anything to do with that?’
‘Why not? Somebody did. You’ve been suspecting her of killing Sir Cedric, Lady Hermione and Miss Holloway, so why not Brigid Chandler, too?’
‘Because—because—’ Because that was real and the others were make-believe, but the complaint stuck in Alice’s craw. Everyone knew what she meant.
‘Shh!’ After a quick guilty glance towards Lauren. ‘She’s listening.’
‘Ladies and gentlemen—’ Reggie had returned and was making an announcement from the bar. ‘We’re sorry that your holiday has been disrupted by this shocking series of events. Until the highways are cleared and the police get through to us, we’ll try to do our best to make it up to you. As a start, all drinks are on the house for the rest of the evening.’
The distraction worked. Despite the jeers and catcalls, there was a rush to the bar.
‘Do you think we ought to? Those drinks aren’t safe.’
‘I just hope we aren’t heading for Death At The Bar.’
‘Talk about living dangerously!’
Midge went beyond the bar, pulled back the drape concealing the French window, and gazed out over the terrace, heaped with drifted snow. The stone urns on the corners of the stone railing overflowed with glittering crystals. Momentarily forgetting everything but the beauty of the scene, Midge began to plan an expedition with her camera in the morning. A shot of the snow-encrusted terrace from the garden below ought to make a perfect Christmas card to send to guests who had stayed at the Manor throughout the year.
Then she remembered what morning was likely to bring in reality. She closed her eyes against the knowledge.
‘Where every prospect pleases—’ Dix had come up behind her—‘And only man is vile …’
‘Yes.’ Midge let the drape fall back into place and turned away. ‘I was just thinking something of the sort myself.’
