Dance to Your Daddy (Mrs Bradley) Page 2

  ‘You will like to go straight to your room,’ said the host. ‘Amabel will show you the way.’ The older of the two girls took Dame Beatrice up a splendid, broad, oak staircase, which had finely-carved and pierced panels in place of the usual balusters, and three flights of nine treads each. These, with right-angle turns, led to the gallery which Dame Beatrice had seen from below. From this she was shown to her room, which opened off it.

  Heavy plasterwork covered the ceiling with scrolls, cupids and flowers. The bed was a magnificent four-poster and the walls were hung with tapestries depicting young men and maidens of the eighteenth-century for ever (or until the tapestry fell to pieces) at dalliance in summer woodlands. Dame Beatrice murmured a line or two from Keats and received from the maid the information that there would be tea in the drawing-room as soon as she was ready for it, and that the bathroom was two doors along to the left.

  ‘Would that be poertry loike, as ee was sayen, m’lady?’ she concluded respectfully.fn1

  ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn,’ Dame Beatrice replied.

  “‘Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed

  Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu.’”

  ‘Oi loikes poertry. Tes a koind o’ wetchcraft, Oi rackon.’

  ‘How right you are, Amabel. It is Amabel, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, m’lady. Oi’ve put ee a can of hot water in the barthroom. There eddn’t nothen laid on. You tells me what toime you warnts your barth and Oi sees to getten et for ee. Tes best in the marnen, ef that suit ee.’

  ‘Excellent. How do I find the drawing-room, where I believe I am to have tea?’

  ‘Down the stairs, through the hall, turn left into the doinen room and left again through the arch.’

  In the drawing-room Dame Beatrice found a young woman of striking appearance, black-haired, red-cheeked and bold-eyed, in charge of two tea-pots. Of her elderly host there was no sign. The young woman gave her a brilliant smile and said, ‘Hullo! In case you think I’m Trilby, well, I’m not. Do you prefer Ceylon or Indian tea?’

  ‘Ceylon, thank you,’ said Dame Beatrice, seating herself. ‘I have to confess that, except as the title of a book which I have not read for many years, the name Trilby means nothing to me.’

  ‘Uncle Romilly’s wife. Isn’t that the girl you’ve come to see?’

  ‘I believe it is, but I was not told her Christian name.’

  ‘Christian indeed! – Bread and butter or a toasted tea-cake? – A limb of Satan, if you ask me! The dance she’s led poor Uncle Romilly these last few months!’

  ‘Suitably so, perhaps, in a house named Galliard Hall.’

  ‘It isn’t any joke, believe you me! Poor Uncle Romilly is nearly off his head with worry. There’s no piece of wickedness that Trilby can’t think up when she’s in the mood.’

  ‘I understand that she has a habit of drowning things.’

  ‘That’s the least part of it. I suppose I shouldn’t say such a thing, but the pity is that she hasn’t, so far, poor idiot, drowned herself. And now she’s invited all these mixed relations to the house, and, of course, as they are relations, Uncle Romilly can’t exactly say he doesn’t want them.’

  ‘I wonder what you mean by “mixed” relations?’

  ‘Oh, well, some are hers, you see, and some are his, and I can’t think what will happen when they all get together.’

  ‘May I ask why you say that?’

  ‘Well, it would seem about as sensible to put the Montagues and the Capulets together in one house as the Lestrange family and the Provosts.’

  ‘I seem to remember that the Montagues and Capulets were reconciled by virtue of the deaths of Romeo and Juliet.’

  The young woman gave her a very sharp glance and continued:

  ‘I wanted Uncle Romilly to let them know what is happening, and plan to have them at different times, but Trilby wants them all to come together, and, since she’s been so difficult, Uncle Romilly gives in to her over everything. Well, if I’m not very much mistaken, this time there’ll be murder done. They’ll be at one another’s throats from the word Go.’

  ‘You do not, of course, speak literally, when you talk of murder being done?’

  ‘Oh, don’t I, just! You don’t know them as well as I do.’

  ‘I have relatives (of a sort) called Marshall-Provost, but the name Provost, of itself, is strange to me. However, as you probably know, I am a Lestrange myself by my first marriage.’

  ‘Are you? Uncle Romilly didn’t tell me that. He said your name was Bradley, but, if you are connected with the Lestrange family, I expect you know some of those who are coming. There are Hubert – he’s a parson – Willoughby – he’s a private secretary, I believe – the twins Corin and Corinna …’

  ‘My late husband, of course, has been dead for many years, and these people would be of a younger generation. I doubt whether I have met any of them.’

  ‘You might know Corin and Corinna. They changed their names when they became pop singers, I believe. As for the Provosts, well, there are Giles and Tancred – he’s a poet – and, lastly, Humphrey and a girl named Binnie, Humphrey’s wife, so she’s only a Provost by marriage. I don’t know what her maiden name was.’

  ‘At all events, if it comes to a battle, the sides would appear to be well-matched,’ suggested Dame Beatrice lightly.

  ‘There is no “if” about it. It will come to a battle, if the Provosts run true to form. As it will also come to a matter of no holds barred, I’m not clear where to place my bets. Tancred, as you’d expect, is a minor poet – very minor – one slim volume published at his own expense – but he can be a menace, from what Uncle Romilly tells me. I don’t know much about Giles, except that he’s keen on horses. Humphrey is a master at a third-rate private day-school and Binnie is the original dumb blonde. Quite a nice child, if you don’t worry about her having a vacuum where her brain ought to be, but completely moronic, poor dear. The Lestrange twins – you know, those I told you are in show business – take off her and Humphrey in their act. It’s terribly funny – not that Humphrey cares much about it, of course. He hates Tancred, too.’

  ‘All you tell me is most interesting. You refer to Romilly Lestrange as your uncle. Are you a Montague or a Capulet?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve no connection with either the Lestranges or the Provosts. My name is Judith Dean, and I’m Romilly’s housekeeper. He likes me to call him my uncle, but, between ourselves, my sugar-daddy would be more like it. After all, Trilby, in her present state, is hardly a wife, so Romilly brought me along to sort of fill the bill. You’re not shocked, I hope?’

  ‘Irregular unions are solely the business of the parties concerned, and are now too numerous to be interesting,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘When am I to see Mrs. Romilly Lestrange, I wonder? You know, I gather, that she is to be my patient.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about being in a hurry to see her, if I were you. You’ll have had a bucketful by the time you’ve finished with her,’ said the black-haired siren coarsely. ‘We’ve given you Romilly’s old room; I hope you like it. Of course, he only rents the house, you know. I don’t know how long he’ll stay.’

  (3)

  Dame Beatrice did not see her nominal hostess that afternoon and did not mention her again. Dinner was a ménage à trois, with Romilly at the head of the table, Judith (barbarically regal in a flame-coloured dress with a neckline which plunged recklessly to her waist and barely contrived to cover her breasts), seated opposite him at the foot, and Dame Beatrice next to her host on his right-hand side. They were waited upon by the elderly manservant. He had exchanged the green-baize apron, and the trousers and shirt which went with it, for the black and white livery of a butler. The meal was simple and good and the talk was of local affairs, in which, it appeared, Romilly took a landowner’s interest, however recent this was.

  When dinner was over, the three retired to the drawing room to drink coffee, and then Judith played the piano and sang. She had a beautiful contralto voi
ce and it had been well trained. It was dark by the time she began to sing, and candles had been brought in. They filled the room with shadows which flickered and moved, and more than once Dame Beatrice thought that a darker, more substantial shadow, had joined them. She wondered whether the nominal mistress of the house had crept in to enjoy the music.

  At ten o’clock Dame Beatrice went to her room and by the light of her candle examined the only picture, apart from the tapestry, which was on the walls. It showed two young men, hardly out of their boyhood, dressed in mid-eighteenth century costume. They were evidently brothers, for they were much alike. She was about to turn from the picture and prepare for bed when there came a tap at the door. ‘Come in!’ she called. The door opened, and for a moment Dame Beatrice thought she was confronted by Joan of Arc. The figure which entered was clad in a suit of armour from the top of which emerged a flaxen head with page-boy haircut, wide-set eyes and a strangely gentle, expressive, beautifully-shaped mouth. ‘You will be Mrs. Romilly Lestrange, no doubt. How do you do?’ went on Dame Beatrice, recovering her self-possession.

  The girl closed the door quietly and came forward.

  ‘Don’t tell them you’ve seen me,’ she said. ‘That’s a treat they’re keeping for tomorrow. I don’t know who you are, but but they’re up to something. Shine the candle on to your face. I want to see whether you’re friend or foe.’

  Dame Beatrice complied with this request. The mellow candlelight shone on her yellow skin, her sharp, black eyes, her scrawny, old-woman’s throat and turned her diamond necklace into a thousand tiny pools of almost unbearable brilliance.

  ‘Does it matter so much whether I am a Montagu or a Capulet, a Macdonald or a Campbell, a Guelph or a Ghibelline, a Roundhead or a Cavalier?’ she asked. The girl said solemnly and with conviction:

  ‘It matters whether you’re on my side or on theirs, that’s all I know. They’re as wicked as hell, and, although I try to show fight, I’m pretty helpless here. I don’t know how they’re going to kill me, but they will.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Dame Beatrice studied the speaker. The girl returned her gaze, and said:

  ‘If you decide to help me, you do so at your own risk. It’s only right that I should warn you. Who are you, anyway? I saw the car drive up, and Amabel told me which was your room, so I’ve come while they’re still downstairs. You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Dame Beatrice replied. ‘Why do you commit your lares et penates to the sea?’

  The visitor looked perturbed.

  ‘I know they say I drown things,’ she said, ‘but I don’t, you know. I don’t get much chance while they make me dress like this, do I? I mean, I can’t leave the house. It would look so odd. People would think I was mad.’

  ‘That is a point,’ Dame Beatrice admitted. ‘Why, though, should anybody want to kill you, or, for the matter of that, keep you confined to the house?’

  ‘Oh, money. Always money. But I’m not going to give in, whatever they do or say. The money is mine when I’m twenty-five, and I’m not going to give it away.’

  ‘Certainly not. One should never give in to bullying.’

  ‘I know, but it takes a lot of courage to stand one’s ground. They’re having lots of people to come and stay, you know. They hope, that way, to frighten me. But I shall face them, all of them. Some of them might even help me. What do you think? They can’t all be wicked, can they?’ Her voice had risen to a note of panic. Her hearer wondered whether she was play-acting.

  ‘I think I would go to bed, if I were you. We shall meet again in the morning,’ said Dame Beatrice.

  ‘Do you think we shall? I am not so sure. They don’t like me to meet people from outside. Why did they ask you to come?’

  ‘They thought I might be able to help you.’

  ‘I don’t think they meant it. You are in great danger, you know, if you help me in the way I need help.’

  ‘I am accustomed to take care of myself.’

  ‘Are you a relative of this family?’

  ‘Mr Romilly tells me that I am. Let me see you back to your room.’

  ‘Oh, no. I like to keep it to myself. Good night. I hope you will sleep well.’

  ‘Thank you. Good night.’

  The visitor did not depart immediately. There were two candles on the dressing-table. She walked across the room, picked up one of them and held it up to light the picture of the two young men.

  ‘How do you like it?’ Dame Beatrice asked.

  ‘I’m wondering why they put it there, that’s all. It wasn’t there before you came. That makes me suspicious, you know.’

  ‘Is your name really Trilby?’ Dame Beatrice asked.

  ‘Is that what they told you? You don’t need to believe them. It’s not a bad name to give me, all the same. Romilly is rather like Svengali, don’t you think? Have you heard that song called Puppet on a String? Well, that’s how I think of myself. Watch out for them. Good night.’

  (4)

  The maid who had shown Dame Beatrice to her room brought early tea and asked whether she would breakfast in bed.

  ‘What is the household custom? Do visitors usually breakfast in bed?’ Dame Beatrice enquired.

  ‘Us don’t have visitors, m’lady. Not they as stop the noight. Messus Judeth have hern in bed, but Master, he have hisn downstairs. Only ever had one house-party all the toime Oi been here.’

  Thinking that an opportunity for a tête-à-tête with her host might be advisable after last night’s visit from his wife, Dame Beatrice said that she would breakfast downstairs.

  ‘In the small doinen-room, m’lady. Oi’ll get your barth ready.’

  ‘You should address me as Dame Beatrice. I am not the daughter of a hundred earls, you know, Amabel.’

  ‘Yes, mum. Thank ee, Dame Beatrice. Oi’ll tell our Voilert.’

  Dame Beatrice found her host already at breakfast. He apologised for having no morning newspaper to offer her.

  ‘I generally drive into one of the villages, or to Wareham or Swanage, to get one,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’d care to come with me. There are things I ought to tell you about your patient which can be better said away from the house. Trilby is cunning and sly. It is part of her disability, poor creature, and cannot be helped, but it can be very disconcerting to find her listening to matters not intended for her ears, and watching happenings which do not concern her.’

  ‘I should have thought that some of them did concern her,’ Dame Beatrice midly remarked.

  ‘Ah, you have been in conversation with Judith,’ said Romilly, in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Trilby knows nothing of that relationship, I hope. To her, Judith is the housekeeper, nothing more.’

  ‘Yesterday at tea-time your housekeeper mentioned that you are expecting a houseful of guests. I need not explain that I could hardly hope to do much for my patient in the midst of an exciting house-party.’

  ‘Oh, the house-party won’t be exciting and will have nothing to do with Trilby.’

  ‘She can scarcely fail to be aware that the number of people here has been considerably increased.’

  ‘Judith talks too much,’ said Romilly. ‘Well, while you are finishing your breakfast, I will go and get my car out of the garage and bring it round to the front of the house.’

  ‘If you are going to tell me about your wife, it will be better if my man takes us in my own car. In that way you and I can give one another our undivided attention, and I am anxious to learn all I can about my patient.’

  ‘Very well, then. Shall we say in half an hour from now? I have just remembered a letter I have to write. We can post it on our way.’ He did not sound particularly pleased. Apparently he was not accustomed to having his plans sub-edited.

  ‘Which way will that be?’ asked Dame Beatrice.

  ‘I suggest we go to Swanage. That will give me time to tell you everything about Trilby that I think you ought to know.’ He left her and went out, humming a little tune. Dame Beatrice poured herself some coffee, an
d five minutes later she returned to her room. While she was there she wrote a short letter to Laura saying only that her surroundings were pleasant and her room comfortable and that she was hoping to begin the treatment of her patient later on that morning, and then she descended to the great hall and stepped out into the February sunshine to find that word had been conveyed to George and that he had the car at the foot of the steps.

  ‘Good morning, George,’ she said. ‘Are they making you quite comfortable?’

  ‘Oh, yes, madam, thank you, perfectly comfortable. One of the maids brought word you wanted the car this morning to go to Swanage, so I brought it round.’

  ‘George,’ said his employer, ‘are you psychic?’

  ‘I trust not, madam. It must make for fear and discomfort. All the same,’ the stolid chauffeur added, opening the door of the car for her, ‘I would not be surprised if I can guess why you asked the question. Something funny going on around these parts.’

  ‘I wonder what makes you think that, George?’

  ‘Talk in the servants’ hall, madam, and talk which only takes place when the old man Luke isn’t with us. Would you wish me to repeat what I have heard, madam?’

  ‘I think it might help. We appear to have discovered a household which, in some respects, is out of the ordinary.’

  ‘Sinister, madam, one might call it. It seems there is a lady living here who never goes outside the house at all, no further than an enclosed and overgrown bit of garden. Nobody acts unkind to her, but she always wears a suit of armour or other fancy dress, and, according to the maids, can’t get at any ordinary clothes. The girls don’t much like the set-up, but they get good wages and the work, they say, is easy, and the lady doesn’t complain.’

  ‘I have met the lady in question. She seems to be Mrs. Romilly Lestrange. She came to see me in my room last night. She appears to believe that her life is in danger. The whole atmosphere would tend to suggest that we find ourselves in the midst of Victorian melodrama, for me a unique experience. While I should not wish to betray too much interest in the gossip of the servants’ hall, I feel that, for once, I am justified in asking you to keep your ears open and to report to me anything which you can learn concerning this somewhat extraordinary household. In short, George, I have been brought here to serve, I think, an infamous purpose, although what infamous purpose I have not yet worked out.’