'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 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?'