Final Curtain. Ngaio Marsh
and said aloud: ‘I’m not much use really, I’m afraid. My husband says I shy away from emotion like a nervous mare. But let off steam if you want to.’
Fenella said soberly: ‘This’ll do for a bit, I expect. You’re an angel. Dinner’s at half-past eight. You’ll hear a warning gong.’ She turned at the door. ‘All the same,’ she said, ‘there’s something pretty ghastly going on at Ancreton just now. You’ll see.’
With an inherited instinct for a good exit line, Fenella stepped backwards and gracefully closed the door.
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,’