Dance to Your Daddy mb-42 Page 2

  '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 voice 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 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 Montague 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 mildly 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 subedited.

  '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, and 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.'

  CHAPTER TWO

  RITUAL DANCE-LAMB TO THE SLAUGHTER

  'Or, like a nymph, with long, dishevelled hair,

  Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen.'

  Venus and Adonis.

  Romilly's behaviour on the drive to Swanage and back added nothing to George's conviction that there was 'something funny going on.' He spoke of the girl with affection and concern, and, at Dame Beatrice's invitation, agreed to give a detailed account of what he referred to as 'poor little Trilby's aberration.'

  'Although whether you or anybody else can rid her of the obsession is more than I can hope for,' he concluded. 'It seems to be very deep-seated.'

  'I should wish to have as complete an account of her behaviour as you can give me,' said Dame Beatrice. 'It will help me to make my diagnosis. Confine yourself, if you please, to those matters which have come to your own personal notice. I may be able to fill in the details from other sources.'

  'Very well. I married Trilby nearly three years ago-my second marriage and, as I soon discovered, a mistake. Did you ever read a poem by Charlotte Mew...'

  'The Farmer's Bride? Yes, indeed. As I have interrupted you, may I ask whether Trilby is your wife's real name?'

  'No, it is not. She was married to me in the name of Rosamund. She chooses to call herself Trilby.'

  Dame Beatrice had heard the girl's own version of this, but she made no comment except to say:

  'Well, it is quite a pretty name, I suppose, if one dissociates it nowadays from men's hats.'

  'It makes no odds what she calls herself, so far as I am concerned,' said Romilly. 'If you have read the poem, you will realise my difficulties. Here was I married to this girl who was more like a pixie than a creature of human kind. I soon found that she was terrified of the physical side of marriage, so I took her to a psychiatrist who uncovered the history of an unpleasant episode in her early life for which she was in no way to blame and which she had forgotten. After that, she seemed much improved, and consented to co-habit with me. A child was conceived, but, as I think I told you in my letter, it was stillborn.'

  'No, you did not mention it. How disconcerting for you both! And this threw her off balance again?'

  'Well, as a matter of fact, she behaved rather strangely while she was still carrying it. She took to wandering off alone, and if I attempted to accompany her, or went after her in the car, or even went to the length of locking her in her room (as I did on one occasion), she flew into such violent fits of rage that I was afraid she would do the child or herself, or both of them, some serious injury. I believe, in fact, that this is what must have happened. The doctor told me that she was perfectly healthy. There was no obvious reason why she should lose the baby.'

  'But, until she lost the baby, she did not have this obsession about drowning things?'

  'I did not recognise it at first as an obsession. When she flung gramophone records and a transister radio set into the sea, I regarded it as the slightly unbalanced reaction of a woman under emotional stress, and took little notice of it. It happened before she lost the child.'

  'You mentioned in your letter a toy trumpet.'

  'That was used at the séance.'

  'Dear me! I had no idea that you and she dabbled in spiritualism.'

  'My dear Beatrice!' Romilly's tone blended amusement and polite protestation. 'You surely don't think that, with the baby almost due, I would have assisted Trilby to play such a dangerous game as taking part in a séance? Of course I knew nothing about it, nothing whatever. For some three or four weeks previously, Trilby had been less than well, so I engaged a private nurse. It seems that this woman asked what we were going to call the baby, and when Trilby said she did not know, and did not want a baby anyway, the nurse said she knew of a medium and that it would be fun-fun, mark you!-to hold a séance and ask "those who had passed over" for suggestions, and for an assurance that both Trilby and the child would come through safely at the time of delivery.'

  'How did you come to hear of this nurse?'


  'My doctor recommended her to me, but, of course, when I dismissed her and explained to him why I had done so, he was appalled that she should have encouraged her patient (who was in a highly nervous state) to indulge in such a pastime.'

  'You yourself were not in the house, I take it, when the séance was held?'

  'No, of course I was not. The nurse must have known quite well that I should disapprove. I had to go to London for a couple of days, and it was while I was out of the house that this pernicious nonsense took place.

  'What appeared to be the effect on Rosamund?'

  'She was in a state of semi-collapse when I reached home. The trumpet, as I said, had been used at the séance, and, after this was over, she seems to have taken the trumpet down to the coast near Dancing Ledge and hurled it into the sea.'

  'How did you know?'

  'When I found that she had gone out alone-she developed a streak of animal cunning just at that time, and evaded me whenever she could-I went to look for her, but I had no idea which way she had gone, and I did not catch up with her until she had thrown the thing over the cliffs. I am glad I did not know sooner where she had gone. I should have been mortally afraid that she would lose her balance and go over with it, but, thank goodness, she did not.'

  'And this happened before she lost the baby, but her drowning of the cat and the monkey came later. Is that so?'

  'And, of course, she also drowned the baby doll. That was the latest of all. I thought the baby doll was highly significant. It proved to me that, not only did she not want her baby, but that she might have murdered it if it had lived.'

  Dame Beatrice offered no comment on this opinion. She said, 'And that was when you decided to consult me.'

  'Just so. I thought things had gone far enough.'

  'I shall be interested to hear her own explanation of these actions.'

  'I doubt whether she will remember anything at all about them. Besides, do you think that total recall is necessarily a good thing?'