Mrs. Stratton moved an inch nearer. “I’ve been so much looking forward to meeting you, all the evening. I thought those silly charades would never come to an end. I knew I should be able to talk to you, and I’ve been feeling so introspective to-night. It’s such a relief to talk it out.”
“It must be,” said Roger heartily.
“Do you believe in the soul?” asked Mrs. Stratton.
“Now she’s really off,” thought Roger. “The soul,” he repeated in a meditative voice, as if weighing its value as an object of belief.
“I do. For some people. But I don’t believe all of us have souls.” Her voice throbbed on.
As the discourse proceeded, Roger began to perceive that the lady might be talking about souls, but she was undoubtedly preoccupied with bodies. She was pressing hard against him, her hand was on his sleeve, her whole attitude was one invitation to the waltz.
Very odd, thought Roger, and edged away.
Mrs. Stratton immediately pursued him.
As a rule Roger had no need to be pursued. If a lady happened to attract him, and herself was not averse, he saw no reason for wasting useful time. But Mrs. Stratton did not attract him. More, she definitely repelled him. Roger could at that moment imagine no woman in this world with whom he less wanted to dally.
He therefore decided to end the interview. He had no wish to hear more about Mrs. Stratton’s soul, its presence or absence, or about her singular powers of self-analysis, or about her considered tendency towards self-immolation. Nor, on this last head, had he any good news to take down to such as would have welcomed an impending self-immolation. It is a truism that those who talk about suicide shrink from committing it, while those who do commit it never chatter about it in advance. There was no chance of Mrs. Stratton ever gratifying her relations-in-law with good news about a gas-oven.
For the rest, the lady bored him quite intolerably. She had not proved nearly so interesting as he had hoped; she was just a ridiculous mass of blind self-conceit—an egomaniac, no doubt, as Dr. Chalmers had said. Any more time spent on her was time wasted, for even as a type she was too exaggerated to be of the least use to a writer of fiction who had to preserve the probabilities.
Roger waited until a sentence came to an end, and then asked abruptly if that were not the music?
Mrs. Stratton agreed perfunctorily that it might be the music.
“We must be getting down,” said Roger, and led the way.
At the entrance to the ballroom he got rid of her, and sought the bar. He felt he needed a drink.
Chatting together there he found Williamson and Colin Nicolson, who with a paper frill stuck into his dress-waistcoat was calling himself William Palmer. Roger knew Nicolson tolerably well, a hefty young Scotchman who was a better rugger forward than an assistant editor, and a better fisherman than either.
“Ah, Sheringham, been taking the air?”
“Hullo, Colin, is that beer you’re drinking? Can you find me a tankard?”
“Certainly I can. It’s grand stuff too. Here’s all the best. You know Williamson, don’t you? Did you ever see anything more magnificent than his disguise? It’s Crippen to the life. Upon my word, it is.”
Williamson bestowed on Roger his slightly guilty, ruminative grin. “You were a long time on the roof, weren’t you, Sheringham?”
“It seemed a long time,” said Roger frankly.
“Did she tell you she was feeling terribly introspective tonight?”
“She did.”
“Did she say that marriage hadn’t given her enough fulfilment, or whatever it was?”
“She did.”
“Did she tell you that she sometimes thought the best thing to do would be to put an end to it all, if only one could find an easy way out?”
“She did.”
“Did she talk like hell about her infernal soul?”
“Like hell she did.”
“She’s mad,” said Mr. Williamson simply.
“She is,” said Roger.
“What’s all this?” asked Nicolson, bewildered. “Who’s been talking about her infernal soul?”
“I name no names,” said Mr. Williamson solemnly, “but it’ll be your turn next.”
“But what’s it all about, man? Here, Ronald, ask these two what the deuce they’re talking about, will you?”
Ronald Stratton was coming towards them, his face decorated with a large grin.
“Here, Sheringham,” he said happily, “what have you been doing to my poor sister-in-law? Really, I’m surprised at you.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s just told me that you lured her up on the roof and tried to flirt with her there, quite drastically. I gather it was all she could do to hold you off. She confided to me that you’re the most disgusting man she’s ever met.”
“The devil she did!” said Roger, really annoyed.
SOMEONE OUGHT TO BE MURDERED
“Ronald, dance an Apache dance with me. Oh, Ronald, do dance an Apache dance with me. David, Ronald won’t dance an Apache dance with me.”
“Won’t he, dear? Well, never mind.”
“But I do mind. I want to dance an Apache dance. Ronald, you are a pig.”
Everybody pretended not to notice Ena Stratton in the middle of the ballroom floor.
It was close on one o’clock. The local contingent, with the exception of the two doctors and their wives, had left nearly an hour ago. The party was warming up.
“Well, if you won’t dance an Apache dance with me, Ronald, I’m going to climb up on the beam. David, give me a start.”
Across the ballroom ran a big oak beam, about seven feet from the ground, part of the structure of the heavily timbered roof. It was Ronald’s custom, when he felt so disposed, to take a flying leap at it, swing himself up, and then taunt his male guests into trying to join him there. This time his sister-in-law was bent on forestalling him.
“Aren’t you going to applaud the athletic introvert?” Roger dryly asked Margot Stratton.
“No, I’m not. Ena’s only making an exhibition of herself, as usual. Don’t take any notice of her, Mr. Sheringham.”
Mike Armstrong said nothing.
“There seems a conspiracy not to take any notice of her.”
“I can’t think why Ronald asked her. I never would. She’s made an exhibition of herself at every single party here that I remember. I suppose he wanted David, and couldn’t get him without her. Poor David!”
“He’s very patient with her.”
“Too patient. That’s the trouble. Philip Chalmers says that what Ena needs is to be married to a great big he-man, who’d give her a sound thrashing every now and then. That’s the only way to keep her in order. David’s far too civilised for her.”
Mike Armstrong said nothing.
“I hardly need to ask whether you like her,” said Roger with a smile. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the lady in question struggling ungracefully to get abreast of the beam. Everywhere in the room people were talking in little knots, carefully not watching. Only her long-suffering husband stood by, to catch her if she fell.
Margot Stratton laughed. “I can’t stand the sight of her. Luckily we’re not on speaking terms, which saves a lot of trouble.”
Mike Armstrong said nothing.
“It must have been very awkward for you, to refuse to have your own sister-in-law in the house?”
“She wasn’t my sister-in-law; she was Ronald’s. No, I don’t think it was awkward. And in any case, she brought it on herself. She did her best once to do me a very bad turn, when I was perfectly friendly with her, and it was the sort of thing one just couldn’t forgive.”
Mike Armstrong broke his silence. “What was it?” he asked gruffly.
“Oh, far too bad to tell you, Mike,” Margot said. She spoke lightly, but Roger had an idea that she was telling the truth.
Mike Armstrong bent a frowning glance on the clambering creature who had dared to do his lady-love a bad turn.
With a final spasm the creature succeeded in getting right way up on the beam. “Hullo, everyone!” she called.
From the other end of the room Ronald alone looked round. “Very clever, Ena,” he said perfunctorily. “Now see if you can get down again.”
Somebody put a record on the gramophone, and people began to dance again. As Margot Stratton and Mike Armstrong moved off, Roger strolled across the room to join Colin Nicolson who, like himself, did not find much pleasure in dancing.
“Well, Colin, going to accept the lady’s challenge and have a try at the beam?”
Nicolson made a Scotch noise of disgust. “It’s a sad thing to see a woman making such a fool of herself. Well Sheringham, how’s the criminology?”
“Ah!” said Roger, and they plunged happily into a discussion of the murder case of the moment. Among his other accomplishments Nicolson numbered a deep interest in criminology, with a minute knowledge of every murder of importance during the last hundred years. Roger had often been able to obtain from him details of almost forgotten crimes, which had been of considerable help to him in his work.
It was not long, however, before their attention was distracted by a repetition of Mrs. Stratton’s importunities.
“Ronald, I insist on your dancing an Apache dance with me. I’ve an urge for it. Do dance an Apache dance with me, Ronald.”
“I’m not your husband, Ena. Ask David.”
“Oh, David couldn’t do an Apache dance to save his life. Come on, Ronald. I shall probably run amok if you won’t, and you wouldn’t like that.”
Roger and Nicolson exchanged looks.
“That’s a very irritating woman,” said Nicolson mildly. “What’s the matter with her?”
“Exhibitionism,” Roger explained. “The ordinary dancing doesn’t give her a chance to show herself off. She must be the centre of the picture all the time. You notice she won’t perform with her husband.”
“Why not?”
“Too mild for her. She knows he wouldn’t throw her about enough. And Ronald might. Besides, Ronald doesn’t want to, and that in itself is enough for her.”
“I’ve no patience with that sort. Hullo, Ronald’s going to take her on.”
Roger’s prophecy was fulfilled. If appeared that Ronald knew quite well what was wanted of him, and he proceeded to give it in full measure.
“All right, Ena. I’ll dance an Apache dance with you.”
He caught his sister-in-law’s hand, swung her round with all his strength, and let go. She shot across the wide floor, ended up on her hands and knees, and darted back for more. For a full three minutes Ronald threw her about, in and out of the other dancers, who refused to clear the floor for the pair. To Roger and Nicolson, looking on, it seemed that Ena Stratum must have suffered considerably in the process; but from the wailing outcry she raised when Ronald refused to maltreat her any more, it was clear that she had prodigiously enjoyed this singular amusement.
“And she the mother of a fine wee son,” said Nicolson disgustedly.
Roger, the only person in the room who had watched the performance with any real interest, nodded gently. “It’s typical, of course, and significant too.”
“Significant of what?”
“Of everything that has happened to that young woman so far—and of anything that might happen to her in the future.”
“Well, well,” said Dr. Chalmers. “Time we were going home, I suppose?”
“You always want to go home as soon as I’m beginning to enjoy myself,” said his wife bitterly.
“I’ve got to do a day’s work tomorrow, my dear. It’s nearly half-past one.”
“Not just yet,” Mrs. Chalmers pleaded. “Frank and Jean aren’t going yet, are you Frank?”
“Would you like to stay on a bit, darling?” Dr. Mitchell asked his wife.
“Yes, rather. I’m enjoying it.”
“Sure you’re not tired?” Dr. Mitchell asked anxiously.
“Not a bit.”
“Well, we shall stay on for a bit, Lucy.”
“There you are, Philip. Frank and Jean aren’t going yet, and he’s got to do a day’s work tomorrow. We can stop for a bit too. You know Ronald’s parties go on till about four.”
“Sorry, dear,” said Dr. Chalmers with the utmost heartiness. “Frank may be able to stand late hours, I can’t. Run and get your cloak on, there’s a good girl.”
Roger turned away, marvelling. He did not know much about marriage, but he did know that such firmness in husbands is rare. Ena Stratton ought to have married Dr. Chalmers. He might have been able to keep her in order.
Ronald came running up the stairs. “Phil, you’re wanted on the telephone.”
“Hurray!” exclaimed Mrs. Chalmers callously, arresting her reluctant progress downstairs. “I hope it’s a call, and I hope it keeps him out for
hours
.”
“Loathsome woman,” laughed Dr. Chalmers, unperturbed, and went downstairs.
As things turned out, it was a call. “I shall be about an hour,” said Dr. Chalmers. “Good,” said Mrs. Chalmers. The party then resumed its course. A little group was sitting at one end of the ballroom in amicable converse—Mrs. Lefroy, Ronald and David Stratton, Roger, and Nicolson. To them entered Ena Stratton.
“David, I’m bored. Let’s go home.” The David Strattons lived in a small house not five hundred yards away from the gates of Ronald’s drive.
“Nonsense, Ena. You don’t want to go home yet,” said Ronald. “You’ll spoil the party.”
“I can’t help that. I’m bored.”
“Sit down, my dear, and don’t be rude to your kind brother-in-law,” said David.
“I won’t sit down. And he isn’t kind: he wouldn’t do an Apache dance with me till I made him. Come on, David. Let’s go.”
“But I don’t want to go yet.”
“But I do. Well, give me the key, if you won’t come. I tell you, I’m bored.”
Roger wondered if everyone else was feeling as uncomfortable as this exchange was making him. He caught Mrs. Lefroy’s eye and they smiled, surreptitiously and ruefully.
David Stratton could not recognise an opportunity when he saw one. Instead of handing the key over, thankfully, he attempted to persuade his wife to stay.
“Don’t be an ass, David,” said Ronald. “Give her the key if she really wants to go.”
“I do,” said Ena.
“All right, then, if you really want to. Here it is.”
Ena took the key and balanced it on the palm of her hand.
“I don’t think I will go after all. Let’s do something amusing.”