The Queen's Square

 

 

“YOU JACK O’ DI’MONDS, YOU Jack o’ Di’monds,” said Mark Sambourne,

shaking a reproachful head, “I know you of old.” He rummaged beneath the

white satin of his costume, panelled with gigantic oblongs and spotted to

represent a set of dominoes. “Hang this fancy rig! Where the blazes has the

fellow put my pockets? You rob my pocket, yes, you rob-a my pocket, you

rob my pocket of silver and go-ho-hold. How much do you make it?” He

extracted a fountain-pen and a cheque-book.

“Five-seventeen-six,” said Lord Peter Wimsey. “That’s right, isn’t it,

partner?” His huge blue-and-scarlet sleeves rustled as he turned to Lady

Hermione Creethorpe, who, in her Queen of Clubs costume, looked a very

redoubtable virgin, as, indeed, she was.

“Quite right,” said the old lady, “and I consider that very cheap.”

“We haven’t been playing long,” said Wimsey apologetically.

“It would have been more, Auntie,” observed Mrs. Wrayburn, “if you

hadn’t been greedy. You shouldn’t have doubled those four spades of

mine.”

Lady Hermione snorted, and Wimsey hastily cut in:

 

PLAN OF THE BALL-ROOM

A—Stair to Dressing-Room and Gallery; B—Stair to Gallery; C—Stair to

Musicians’ Gallery only; D—Settee where Joan Carstairs sat; E—Settee

where Jim Playfair sat; F—Where Waits stood; G—Where Ephraim Dodd

sat; H—Guests’ “Sir Roger”; J—Servants’ “Sir Roger”; XX—Hanging

Lanterns; O O O O—Arcading.

“It’s a pity we’ve got to stop, but Deverill will never forgive us if we’re

not there to dance Sir Roger. He feels strongly about it. What’s the time?

Twenty past one. Sir Roger is timed to start sharp at half-past. I suppose

we’d better tootle back to the ballroom.”

“I suppose we had,” agreed Mrs. Wrayburn. She stood up, displaying

her dress, boldly patterned with the red and black points of a backgammon

board. “It’s very good of you,” she added, as Lady Hermione’s voluminous

skirts swept through the hall ahead of them, “to chuck your dancing to give

Auntie her bridge. She does so hate to miss it.”

“Not at all,” replied Wimsey. “It’s a pleasure. And in any case I was

jolly glad of a rest. These costumes are dashed hot for dancing in.”

“You make a splendid Jack of Diamonds, though. Such a good idea of

Lady Deverill’s, to make everybody come as a game. It cuts out all those

wearisome pierrots and columbines.” They skirted the south-west angle of

the ballroom and emerged into the south corridor, lit by a great hanging

lantern in four lurid colours. Under the arcading they paused and stood watching the floor, where Sir Charles Deverill’s guests were fox-trotting to

a lively tune discoursed by the band in the musicians’ gallery at the far end.

“Hullo, Giles!” added Mrs. Wrayburn, “you look hot.”

“I am hot,” said Giles Pomfret. “I wish to goodness I hadn’t been so

clever about this infernal costume. It’s a beautiful billiard-table, but I can’t

sit down in it.” He mopped his heated brow, crowned with an elegant green

lamp-shade. “The only rest I can get is to hitch my behind on a radiator, and

as they’re all in full blast, it’s not very cooling. Thank goodness, I can

always make these damned sandwich boards an excuse to get out of

dancing.” He propped himself against the nearest column, looking

martyred.

“Nina Hartford comes off best,” said Mrs. Wrayburn. “Water-polo—so

sensible—just a bathing-dress and a ball; though I must say it would look

better on a less Restoration figure. You playing-cards are much the prettiest,

and I think the chess-pieces run you close. There goes Gerda Bellingham,

dancing with her husband—isn’t she too marvellous in that red wig? And

the bustle and everything—my dear, so attractive. I’m glad they didn’t

make themselves too Lewis Carroll; Charmian Grayle is the sweetest White

Queen—where is she, by the way?”

“I don’t like that young woman,” said Lady Hermione; “she’s fast.”

“Dear lady!”

“I’ve no doubt you think me old-fashioned. Well, I’m glad I am. I say

she’s fast, and, what’s more, heartless. I was watching her before supper,

and I’m sorry for Tony Lee. She’s been flirting as hard as she can go with

Harry Vibart—not to give it a worse name—and she’s got Jim Playfair on a

string, too. She can’t even leave Frank Bellingham alone, though she’s

staying in his house.”

“Oh, I say, Lady H!” protested Sambourne, “you’re a bit hard on Miss

Grayle. I mean, she’s an awfully sporting kid and all that.”

“I detest that word ‘sporting’,” snapped Lady Hermione. “Nowadays it

merely means drunk and disorderly. And she’s not such a kid, either, young

man. In three years’ time she’ll be a hag, if she goes on at this rate.”

“Dear Lady Hermione,” said Wimsey, “we can’t all be untouched by

time, like you.”

“You could,” retorted the old lady, “if you looked after your stomachs

and your morals. Here comes Frank Bellingham—looking for a drink, no

doubt. Young people to-day seem to be positively pickled in gin.”

The fox-trot had come to an end, and the Red King was threading his

way towards them through a group of applauding couples.

“Hullo, Bellingham!” said Wimsey. “Your crown’s crooked. Allow me.”

He set wig and head-dress to rights with skilful fingers. “Not that I blame

you. What crown is safe in these Bolshevik days?”

“Thanks,” said Bellingham. “I say, I want a drink.”

“What did I tell you?” said Lady Hermione.

“Buzz along, then, old man,” said Wimsey. “You’ve got four minutes.

Mind you turn up in time for Sir Roger.”

“Right you are. Oh, I’m dancing it with Gerda, by the way. If you see

her, you might tell her where I’ve gone to.”

“We will. Lady Hermione, you’re honouring me, of course?”

“Nonsense! You’re not expecting me to dance at my age? The Old Maid

ought to be a wallflower.”

“Nothing of the sort. If only I’d had the luck to be born earlier, you and

I should have appeared side by side, as Matrimony. Of course you’re going

to dance it with me—unless you mean to throw me over for one of these

youngsters.”

“I’ve no use for youngsters,” said Lady Hermione. “No guts. Spindle-

shanks.” She darted a swift glance at Wimsey’s scarlet hose. “You at least

have some suggestion of calves. I can stand up with you without blushing

for you.”

Wimsey bowed his scarlet cap and curled wig in deep reverence over

the gnarled knuckles extended to him.

“You make me the happiest of men. We’ll show them all how to do it.

Right hand, left hand, both hands across, back to back, round you go and up

the middle. There’s Deverill going down to tell the band to begin. Punctual

old bird, isn’t he? Just two minutes to go. … What’s the matter, Miss

Carstairs? Lost your partner?”

“Yes—have you seen Tony Lee anywhere?”

“The White King? Not a sign. Nor the White Queen either. I expect

they’re together somewhere.”

“Probably. Poor old Jimmie Playfair is sitting patiently in the north

corridor, looking like Casabianca.”

“You’d better go along and console him,” said Wimsey, laughing.

Joan Carstairs made a face and disappeared in the direction of the

buffet, just as Sir Charles Deverill, giver of the party, bustled up to Wimsey

and his companions, resplendent in a Chinese costume patterned with red

and green dragons, bamboos, circles and characters, and carrying on his

shoulder a stuffed bird with an enormous tail.

“Now, now,” he exclaimed, “come along, come along, come along! All

ready for Sir Roger. Got your partner, Wimsey? Ah, yes, Lady Hermione—

splendid. You must come and stand next to your dear mother and me,

Wimsey. Don’t be late, don’t be late. We want to dance it right through. The

waits will begin at two o’clock—I hope they will arrive in good time. Dear me, dear me! Why aren’t the servants in yet? I told Watson—I must go and

speak to him.”

He darted away, and Wimsey, laughing, led his partner up to the top of

the room, where his mother, the Dowager Duchess of Denver, stood

waiting, magnificent as the Queen of Spades.

“Ah! here you are,” said the Duchess placidly. “Dear Sir Charles—he

was getting quite flustered. Such a man for punctuality—he ought to have

been a Royalty. A delightful party, Hermione, isn’t it? Sir Roger and the

waits—quite mediæval—and a Yule-log in the hall, with the steam-radiators

and everything—so oppressive!”

“Tumty, tumty, tiddledy, tumty, tumty, tiddledy,” sang Lord Peter, as the

band broke into the old tune. “I do adore this music. Foot it featly here and

there—oh! there’s Gerda Bellingham. Just a moment! Mrs. Bellingham—

hi! your royal spouse awaits your Red Majesty’s pleasure in the buffet. Do

hurry him up. He’s only got half a minute.”

The Red Queen smiled at him, her pale face and black eyes startlingly

brilliant beneath her scarlet wig and crown.

“I’ll bring him up to scratch all right,” she said, and passed on,

laughing.

“So she will,” said the Dowager. “You’ll see that young man in the

Cabinet before very long. Such a handsome couple on a public platform,

and very sound, I’m told, about pigs, and that’s so important, the British

breakfast-table being what it is.”

Sir Charles Deverill, looking a trifle heated, came hurrying back and

took his place at the head of the double line of guests, which now extended

three-quarters of the way down the ballroom. At the lower end, just in front

of the Musicians’ Gallery, the staff had filed in, to form a second Sir Roger, at right angles to the main set. The clock chimed the half-hour. Sir Charles,

craning an anxious neck, counted the dancers.

“Eighteen couples. We’re two couples short. How vexatious! Who are

missing?”

“The Bellinghams?” said Wimsey. “No, they’re here. It’s the White

King and Queen, Badminton and Diabolo.”

“There’s Badminton!” cried Mrs. Wrayburn, signalling frantically

across the room. “Jim! Jim! Bother! He’s gone back again. He’s waiting for

Charmian Grayle.”

“Well, we can’t wait any longer,” said Sir Charles peevishly. “Duchess,

will you lead off?”

The Dowager obediently threw her black velvet train over her arm and

skipped away down the centre, displaying an uncommonly neat pair of

scarlet ankles. The two lines of dancers, breaking into the hop-and-skip step

of the country dance, jigged sympathetically. Below them, the cross lines of

black and white and livery coats followed their example with respect. Sir

Charles Deverill, dancing solemnly down after the Duchess, joined hands

with Nina Hartford from the far end of the line. Tumty, tumty, tiddledy,

tumty, tumty, tiddledy … the first couple turned outward and led the

dancers down. Wimsey, catching the hand of Lady Hermione, stooped with

her beneath the arch and came triumphantly up to the top of the room, in a

magnificent rustle of silk and satin. “My love,” sighed Wimsey, “was clad

in the black velvet, and I myself in cramoisie.” The old lady, well pleased,

rapped him over the knuckles with her gilt sceptre. Hands clapped merrily.

“Down we go again,” said Wimsey, and the Queen of Clubs and

Emperor of the great Mahjongg dynasty twirled and capered in the centre.

The Queen of Spades danced up to meet her Jack of Diamonds. “Bézique,”

said Wimsey; “double Bézique,” as he gave both his hands to the Dowager. Tumty, tumty, tiddledy. He again gave his hand to the Queen of Clubs and

led her down. Under their lifted arms the other seventeen couples passed.

Then Lady Deverill and her partner followed them down—then five more

couples.

“We’re working nicely to time,” said Sir Charles, with his eye on the

clock. “I worked it out at two minutes per couple. Ah! here’s one of the

missing pairs.” He waved an agitated arm. “Come into the centre—come

along—in here.”

A man whose head was decorated with a huge shuttlecock, and Joan

Carstairs, dressed as a Diabolo, had emerged from the north corridor. Sir

Charles, like a fussy rooster with two frightened hens, guided and pushed

them into place between two couples who had not yet done their “hands

across,” and heaved a sigh of relief. It would have worried him to see them

miss their turn. The clock chimed a quarter to two.

“I say, Playfair, have you seen Charmian Grayle or Tony Lee anywhere

about?” asked Giles Pomfret of the Badminton costume. “Sir Charles is

quite upset because we aren’t complete.”

“Not a sign of ’em. I was supposed to be dancing this with Charmian,

but she vanished upstairs and hasn’t come down again. Then Joan came

barging along looking for Tony, and we thought we’d better see it through

together.”

“Here are the waits coming in,” broke in Joan Carstairs. “Aren’t they

sweet? Too-too-truly-rural!”

Between the columns on the north side of the ballroom the waits could

be seen filing into place in the corridor, under the command of the Vicar. Sir

Roger jigged on his exhausting way. Hands across. Down the centre and up

again. Giles Pomfret, groaning, scrambled in his sandwich-boards beneath

the lengthening arch of hands for the fifteenth time. Tumty, tiddledy. The nineteenth couple wove their way through the dance. Once again, Sir

Charles and the Dowager Duchess, both as fresh as paint, stood at the top of

the room. The clapping was loudly renewed; the orchestra fell silent; the

guests broke up into groups; the servants arranged themselves in a neat line

at the lower end of the room; the clock struck two; and the Vicar, receiving

a signal from Sir Charles, held his tuning-fork to his ear and gave forth a

sonorous A. The waits burst shrilly into the opening bars of “Good King

Wenceslas.”

It was just as the night was growing darker and the wind blowing

stronger that a figure came thrusting its way through the ranks of the

singers, and hurried across to where Sir Charles stood; Tony Lee, with his

face as white as his costume.

“Charmian … in the tapestry room … dead … strangled.”

Superintendent Johnson sat in the library, taking down the evidence of

the haggard revellers, who were ushered in upon him one by one. First,

Tony Lee, his haunted eyes like dark hollows in a mask of grey paper.

“Miss Grayle had promised to dance with me the last dance before Sir

Roger; it was a fox-trot. I waited for her in the passage under the musicians’

gallery. She never came. I did not search for her. I did not see her dancing

with anyone else. When the dance was nearly over, I went out into the

garden, by way of the service door under the musicians’ stair. I stayed in the

garden till Sir Roger de Coverley was over—”

“Was anybody with you, sir?”

“No, nobody.”

“You stayed alone in the garden from—yes, from 1.20 to past 2 o’clock.

Rather disagreeable, was it not, sir, with the snow on the ground?” The

Superintendent glanced keenly from Tony’s stained and sodden white shoes

to his strained face.

“I didn’t notice. The room was hot—I wanted air. I saw the waits arrive

at about 1.40—I daresay they saw me. I came in a little after 2 o’clock—”

“By the service door again, sir?”

“No; by the garden door on the other side of the house, at the end of the

passage which runs along beside the tapestry room. I heard singing going

on in the ballroom and saw two men sitting in the little recess at the foot of

the staircase on the left-hand side of the passage. I think one of them was

the gardener. I went into the tapestry room—”

“With any particular purpose in mind, sir?”

“No—except that I wasn’t keen on rejoining the party. I wanted to be

quiet.” He paused; the Superintendent said nothing. “Then I went into the

tapestry room. The light was out. I switched it on and saw—Miss Grayle.

She was lying close against the radiator. I thought she had fainted. I went

over to her and found she was—dead. I only waited long enough to be sure,

and then I went into the ballroom and gave the alarm.”

“Thank you, sir. Now, may I ask, what were your relations with Miss

Grayle?”

“I—I admired her very much.”

“Engaged to her, sir?”

“No, not exactly.”

“No quarrel—misunderstanding—anything of that sort?”

“Oh, no!”

Superintendent Johnson looked at him again, and again said nothing,

but his experienced mind informed him:

“He’s lying.”

Aloud he only thanked and dismissed Tony. The White King stumbled

drearily out, and the Red King took his place.

“Miss Grayle,” said Frank Bellingham, “is a friend of my wife and

myself; she was staying at our house. Mr. Lee is also our guest. We all came

in one party. I believe there was some kind of understanding between Miss

Grayle and Mr. Lee—no actual engagement. She was a very bright, lively,

popular girl. I have known her for about six years, and my wife has known

her since our marriage. I know of no one who could have borne a grudge

against Miss Grayle. I danced with her the last dance but two—it was a

waltz. After that came a fox-trot and then Sir Roger. She left me at the end

of the waltz; I think she said she was going upstairs to tidy. I think she went

out by the door at the upper end of the ballroom. I never saw her again. The

ladies’ dressing-room is on the second floor, next door to the picture-

gallery. You reach it by the staircase that goes up from the garden-passage.

You have to pass the door of the tapestry room to get there. The only other

way to the dressing-room is by the stair at the east end of the ballroom,

which goes up to the picture-gallery. You would then have to pass through

the picture-gallery to get to the dressing-room. I know the house well; my

wife and I have often stayed here.”

Next came Lady Hermione, whose evidence, delivered at great length,

amounted to this:

“Charmian Grayle was a minx and no loss to anybody. I am not

surprised that someone has strangled her. Women like that ought to be

strangled. I would cheerfully have strangled her myself. She has been

making Tony Lee’s life a burden to him for the last six weeks. I saw her

flirting with Mr. Vibart to-night on purpose to make Mr. Lee jealous. She

made eyes at Mr. Bellingham and Mr. Playfair. She made eyes at

everybody. I should think at least half a dozen people had very good reason

to wish her dead.”

Mr. Vibart, who arrived dressed in a gaudy Polo costume, and still

ludicrously clutching a hobby-horse, said that he had danced several times

that evening with Miss Grayle. She was a damn sportin’ girl, rattlin’ good

fun. Well, a bit hot, perhaps, but, dash it all, the poor kid was dead. He

might have kissed her once or twice, perhaps, but no harm in that. Well,

perhaps poor old Lee did take it a bit hard. Miss Grayle liked pulling Tony’s

leg. He himself had liked Miss Grayle and was dashed cut-up about the

whole beastly business.

Mrs. Bellingham confirmed her husband’s evidence. Miss Grayle had

been their guest, and they were all on the very best of terms. She felt sure

that Mr. Lee and Miss Grayle had been very fond of one another. She had

not seen Miss Grayle during the last three dances, but had attached no

importance to that. If she had thought about it at all, she would have

supposed Miss Grayle was sitting out with somebody. She herself had not

been up to the dressing-room since about midnight, and had not seen Miss

Grayle go upstairs. She had first missed Miss Grayle when they all stood up

for Sir Roger.

Mrs. Wrayburn mentioned that she had seen Miss Carstairs in the

ballroom looking for Mr. Lee, just as Sir Charles Deverill went down to

speak to the band. Miss Carstairs had then mentioned that Mr. Playfair was

in the north corridor, waiting for Miss Grayle. She could say for certain that

the time was then 1:28. She had seen Mr. Playfair himself at 1:30. He had

looked in from the corridor and gone out again. The whole party had then

been standing up together, except Miss Grayle, Miss Carstairs, Mr. Lee and

Mr. Playfair. She knew that, because Sir Charles had counted the couples.

Then came Jim Playfair, with a most valuable piece of evidence.

“Miss Grayle was engaged to me for Sir Roger de Coverley. I went to

wait for her in the north corridor as soon as the previous dance was over. That was at 1:25. I sat on the settee in the eastern half of the corridor. I saw

Sir Charles go down to speak to the band. Almost immediately afterwards, I

saw Miss Grayle come out of the passage under the musicians’ gallery and

go up the stairs at the end of the corridor. I called out: ‘Hurry up! they’re

just going to begin.’ I do not think she heard me; she did not reply. I am

quite sure I saw her. The staircase has open banisters. There is no light in

that corner except from the swinging lantern in the corridor, but that is very

powerful. I could not be mistaken in the costume. I waited for Miss Grayle

till the dance was half over; then I gave it up and joined forces with Miss

Carstairs, who had also mislaid her partner.”

The maid in attendance on the dressing-room was next examined. She

and the gardener were the only two servants who had not danced Sir Roger.

She had not quitted the dressing-room at any time since supper, except that

she might have gone as far as the door. Miss Grayle had certainly not

entered the dressing-room during the last hour of the dance.

The Vicar, much worried and distressed, said that his party had arrived

by the garden door at 1:40. He had noticed a man in a white costume

smoking a cigarette in the garden. The waits had removed their outer

clothing in the garden passage and then gone out to take up their position in

the north corridor. Nobody had passed them till Mr. Lee had come in with

his sad news.

Mr. Ephraim Dodd, the sexton, made an important addition to this

evidence. This aged gentleman was, as he confessed, no singer, but was

accustomed to go round with the waits to carry the lantern and collecting

box. He had taken a seat in the garden passage “to rest me pore feet.” He

had seen the gentleman come in from the garden “all in white with a crown

on ’is ’ead.” The choir were then singing “Bring me flesh and bring me

wine.” The gentleman had looked about a bit, “made a face, like,” and gone into the room at the foot of the stairs. He hadn’t been absent “more nor a

minute,” when he “come out faster than he gone in,” and had rushed

immediately into the ballroom.

In addition to all this, there was, of course, the evidence of Dr. Pattison.

He was a guest at the dance, and had hastened to view the body of Miss

Grayle as soon as the alarm was given. He was of opinion that she had been

brutally strangled by someone standing in front of her. She was a tall, strong

girl, and he thought it would have needed a man’s strength to overpower

her. When he saw her at five minutes past two he concluded that she must

have been killed within the last hour, but not within the last five minutes or

so. The body was still quite warm, but, since it had fallen close to the hot

radiator, they could not rely very much upon that indication.

Superintendent Johnson rubbed a thoughtful ear and turned to Lord

Peter Wimsey, who had been able to confirm much of the previous evidence

and, in particular, the exact times at which various incidents had occurred.

The Superintendent knew Wimsey well, and made no bones about taking

him into his confidence.

“You see how it stands, my lord. If the poor young lady was killed when

Dr. Pattison says, it narrows it down a good bit. She was last seen dancing

with Mr. Bellingham at—call it 1:20. At 2 o’clock she was dead. That gives

us forty minutes. But if we’re to believe Mr. Playfair, it narrows it down

still further. He says he saw her alive just after Sir Charles went down to

speak to the band, which you put at 1:28. That means that there’s only five

people who could possibly have done it, because all the rest were in the

ballroom after that, dancing Sir Roger. There’s the maid in the dressing-

room; between you and me, sir, I think we can leave her out. She’s a little

slip of a thing, and it’s not clear what motive she could have had. Besides,

I’ve known her from a child, and she isn’t the sort to do it. Then there’s the gardener; I haven’t seen him yet, but there again, he’s a man I know well,

and I’d as soon suspect myself. Well now, there’s this Mr. Tony Lee, Miss

Carstairs, and Mr. Playfair himself. The girl’s the least probable, for

physical reasons, and besides, strangling isn’t a woman’s crime—not as a

rule. But Mr. Lee—that’s a queer story, if you like. What was he doing all

that time out in the garden by himself?”

“It sounds to me,” said Wimsey, “as if Miss Grayle had given him the

push and he had gone into the garden to eat worms.”

“Exactly, my lord; and that’s where his motive might come in.”

“So it might,” said Wimsey, “but look here. There’s a couple of inches

of snow on the ground. If you can confirm the time at which he went out,

you ought to be able to see, from his tracks, whether he came in again

before Ephraim Dodd saw him. Also, where he went in the interval and

whether he was alone.”

“That’s a good idea, my lord. I’ll send my sergeant to make inquiries.”

“Then there’s Mr. Bellingham. Suppose he killed her after the end of his

waltz with her. Did anyone see him in the interval between that and the fox-

trot?”

“Quite, my lord. I’ve thought of that. But you see where that leads. It

means that Mr. Playfair must have been in a conspiracy with him to do it.

And from all we hear, that doesn’t seem likely.”

“No more it does. In fact, I happen to know that Mr. Bellingham and

Mr. Playfair were not on the best of terms. You can wash that out.”

“I think so, my lord. And that brings us to Mr. Playfair. It’s him we’re

relying on for the time. We haven’t found anyone who saw Miss Grayle

during the dance before his—that was the fox-trot. What was to prevent him

doing it then? Wait a bit. What does he say himself? Says he danced the

fox-trot with the Duchess of Denver.” The Superintendent’s face fell, and he hunted through his notes again. “She confirms that. Says she was with him

during the interval and danced the whole dance with him. Well, my lord, I

suppose we can take Her Grace’s word for it.”

“I think you can,” said Wimsey, smiling. “I’ve known my mother

practically since my birth, and have always found her very reliable.”

“Yes, my lord. Well, that brings us to the end of the fox-trot. After that,

Miss Carstairs saw Mr. Playfair waiting in the north corridor. She says she

noticed him several times during the interval and spoke to him. And Mrs.

Wrayburn saw him there at 1.30 or thereabouts. Then at 1.45 he and Miss

Carstairs came and joined the company. Now, is there anyone who can

check all these points? That’s the next thing we’ve got to see to.”

Within a very few minutes, abundant confirmation was forthcoming.

Mervyn Bunter, Lord Peter’s personal man, said that he had been helping to

take refreshments along to the buffet. Throughout the interval between the

waltz and the fox-trot, Mr. Lee had been standing by the service door

beneath the musicians’ stair, and half-way through the fox-trot he had been

seen to go out into the garden by way of the servants’ hall. The police-

sergeant had examined the tracks in the snow and found that Mr. Lee had

not been joined by any other person, and that there was only the one set of

his footprints, leaving the house by the servants’ hall and returning by the

garden door near the tapestry room. Several persons were also found who

had seen Mr. Bellingham in the interval between the waltz and the fox-trot,

and who were able to say that he had danced the fox-trot through with Mrs.

Bellingham. Joan Carstairs had also been seen continuously throughout the

waltz and the fox-trot, and during the following interval and the beginning

of Sir Roger. Moreover, the servants who had danced at the lower end of the

room were positive that from 1.29 to 1.45 Mr. Playfair had sat continuously

on the settee in the north corridor, except for the few seconds during which he had glanced into the ballroom. They were also certain that during that

time no one had gone up the staircase at the lower end of the corridor, while

Mr. Dodd was equally positive that, after 1.40, nobody except Mr. Lee had

entered the garden passage or the tapestry room.

Finally, the circle was closed by William Hoggarty, the gardener. He

asserted with the most obvious sincerity that from 1.30 to 1.40 he had been

stationed in the garden passage to receive the waits and marshal them to

their places. During that time, no one had come down the stair from the

picture-gallery or entered the tapestry room. From 1.40 onwards, he had sat

beside Mr. Dodd in the passage and nobody had passed him except Mr. Lee.

These points being settled, there was no further reason to doubt Jim

Playfair’s evidence, since his partners were able to prove his whereabouts

during the waltz, the fox-trot and the intervening interval. At 1:28 or just

after, he had seen Charmian Grayle alive. At 2:20 she had been found dead

in the tapestry room. During that interval, no one had been seen to enter the

room, and every person had been accounted for.

At 6 o’clock, the exhausted guests had been allowed to go to their

rooms, accommodation being provided in the house for those who, like the

Bellinghams, had come from a distance, since the Superintendent had

announced his intention of interrogating them all afresh later in the day.

This new inquiry produced no result. Lord Peter Wimsey did not take

part in it. He and Bunter (who was an expert photographer) occupied

themselves in photographing the ballroom and adjacent rooms and corridors

from every imaginable point of view, for, as Lord Peter said, “You never

know what may turn out to be relevant.” Late in the afternoon they retired

together to the cellar, where with dishes, chemicals and safe-light hastily

procured from the local chemist, they proceeded to develop the plates.

“That’s the lot, my lord,” observed Bunter at length, sloshing the final

plate in the water and tipping it into the hypo. “You can switch the light on

now, my lord.”

Wimsey did so, blinking in the sudden white glare.

“A very hefty bit of work,” said he. “Hullo! What’s that plateful of

blood you’ve got there?”

“That’s the red backing they put on these plates, my lord, to obviate

halation. You may have observed me washing it off before inserting the

plate in the developing-dish. Halation, my lord, is a phenomenon—”

Wimsey was not attending.

“But why didn’t I notice it before?” he demanded. “That stuff looked to

me exactly like clear water.”

“So it would, my lord, in the red safe-light. The appearance of

whiteness is produced,” added Bunter sententiously, “by the reflection of all

the available light. When all the available light is red, red and white are,

naturally, indistinguishable. Similarly, in a green light—”

“Good God!” said Wimsey. “Wait a moment, Bunter, I must think this

out. … Here! damn those plates—let them be. I want you upstairs.”

He led the way at a canter to the ballroom, dark now, with the windows

in the south corridor already curtained and only the dimness of the

December evening filtering through the high windows of the clerestory

above the arcading. He first turned on the great chandeliers in the ballroom

itself. Owing to the heavy oak panelling that rose to the roof at both ends

and all four angles of the room, these threw no light at all upon the staircase

at the lower end of the north corridor. Next, he turned on the light in the

four-sided hanging lantern, which hung in the north corridor above and

between the two settees. A vivid shaft of green light immediately flooded

the lower half of the corridor and the staircase; the upper half was bathed in strong amber, while the remaining sides of the lantern showed red towards

the ballroom and blue towards the corridor wall.

Wimsey shook his head.

“Not much room for error there. Unless—I know! Run, Bunter, and ask

Miss Carstairs and Mr. Playfair to come here a moment.”

While Bunter was gone, Wimsey borrowed a stepladder from the

kitchen and carefully examined the fixing of the lantern. It was a temporary

affair, the lantern being supported by a hook screwed into a beam and lit by

means of a flex run from the socket of a permanent fixture at a little

distance.

“Now, you two,” said Wimsey, when the two guests arrived, “I want to

make a little experiment. Will you sit down on this settee, Playfair, as you

did last night. And you, Miss Carstairs—I picked you out to help because

you’re wearing a white dress. Will you go up the stairs at the end of the

corridor as Miss Grayle did last night. I want to know whether it looks the

same to Playfair as it did then—bar all the other people, of course.”

He watched them as they carried out this manœuvre. Jim Playfair

looked puzzled.

“It doesn’t seem quite the same, somehow. I don’t know what the

difference is, but there is a difference.”

Joan, returning, agreed with him.

“I was sitting on that other settee part of the time,” she said, “and it

looks different to me. I think it’s darker.”

“Lighter,” said Jim.

“Good!” said Wimsey. “That’s what I wanted you to say. Now, Bunter,

swing that lantern through a quarter-turn to the left.”

The moment this was done, Joan gave a little cry.

“That’s it! That’s it! The blue light! I remember thinking how frosty-

faced those poor waits looked as they came in.”

“And you, Playfair?”

“That’s right,” said Jim, satisfied. “The light was red last night. I

remember thinking how warm and cosy it looked.”

Wimsey laughed.

“We’re on to it, Bunter. What’s the chessboard rule? The Queen stands

on a square of her own colour. Find the maid who looked after the dressing-

room, and ask her whether Mrs. Bellingham was there last night between

the fox-trot and Sir Roger.”

In five minutes Bunter was back with his report.

“The maid says, my lord, that Mrs. Bellingham did not come into the

dressing-room at that time. But she saw her come out of the picture-gallery

and run downstairs towards the tapestry room just as the band struck up Sir

Roger.”

“And that,” said Wimsey, “was at 1:29.”

“Mrs. Bellingham?” said Jim. “But you said you saw her yourself in the

ballroom before 1:30. She couldn’t have had time to commit the murder.”

“No, she couldn’t,” said Wimsey. “But Charmian Grayle was dead long

before that. It was the Red Queen, not the White, you saw upon the

staircase. Find out why Mrs. Bellingham lied about her movements, and

then we shall know the truth.”

“A very sad affair, my lord,” said Superintendent Johnson, some hours

later. “Mr. Bellingham came across with it like a gentleman as soon as we

told him we had evidence against his wife. It appears that Miss Grayle

knew certain facts about him which would have been very damaging to his

political career. She’d been getting money out of him for years. Earlier in

the evening she surprised him by making fresh demands. During the last waltz they had together, they went into the tapestry room and a quarrel took

place. He lost his temper and laid hands on her. He says he never meant to

hurt her seriously, but she started to scream and he took hold of her throat to

silence her and—sort of accidentally—throttled her. When he found what

he’d done, he left her there and came away, feeling, as he says, all of a daze.

He had the next dance with his wife. He told her what had happened, and

then discovered that he’d left the little sceptre affair he was carrying in the

room with the body. Mrs. Bellingham—she’s a brave woman—undertook to

fetch it back. She slipped through the dark passage under the musicians’

gallery—which was empty—and up the stair to the picture-gallery. She did

not hear Mr. Playfair speak to her. She ran through the gallery and down the

other stair, secured the sceptre and hid it under her own dress. Later, she

heard from Mr. Playfair about what he saw, and realised that in the red light

he had mistaken her for the White Queen. In the early hours of this

morning, she slipped downstairs and managed to get the lantern shifted

around. Of course, she’s an accessory after the fact, but she’s the kind of

wife a man would like to have. I hope they let her off light.”

“Amen!” said Lord Peter Wimsey.

 

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