So Bad a Death by June Wright Page A

together.
    â€œIt only remains for there to be thirteen guests and we go home.”
    Even as I spoke flippantly in the endeavour to capture my first mood, something else happened. The light in the tower of the Hall began again to flash on and off. I pulled John along hurriedly. If we got near to the house there would be a good chance of seeing who was in the tower. We came into the open sweep of gravel below the terrace. The light had ceased to flicker. It shone steadily down, illuminating the marble pond in the centre of the oval. I scanned the windows of the tower keenly, but there was no one to be seen.
    John followed my gaze. “A form of red carpet, I presume,” he suggested.
    â€œQuite likely,” I replied.
    The house was now brilliant with light. The front door stood wide open in spite of the inclement night. Music sounded—a sweet, hackneyed Strauss waltz, hard to give title to on account of the underlying similarity of many three-four time compositions, but nevertheless nostalgic and poignant. Somehow Strauss sounded quite at home in this strange house; as though the Hall belongedto the same era. The music conveyed the impression of corruption and tragedy beneath its gay polished exterior that must have existed in the Vienna of the Archduke Rudolph and his little Marie. That lilting melody was the leitmotif of the Holland case.
    Ames, a picture of sartorial adaptability as usual, appeared as soon as we put foot on the top step. His role on this particular occasion, however, was rather confused. He seemed more a master of ceremonies than a butler. He took John’s coat, suggesting I retain my fur.
    â€œSome ladies find the house a trifle draughty.”
    His manner was perfect, but just the same I let slip my cape into his hands. He went on to say, without even blinking at my childish behaviour, “I regret that Mr Holland has not yet come in. He is expected at any moment. Will you come this way, please?”
    He ushered us into the drawing-room, an apartment heavy with crimson and massive with mahogany. The Strauss waltz came from a Panatrope situated on the far side of the room. Daisy Potts-Power, dressed in shapeless draperies of flowered voile, was standing beside it. One hand hovered over the needle as the record neared completion, the other held back the loose sleeve which threatened to become entwined in the mechanism. Before I had time to greet her, a very deep voice spoke from behind the door.
    â€œAnd again. Play it again, girl.” I swung round. An elderly woman of immense, almost revolting girth was seated in a wheelchair half hidden by the door. She was attired in a garment which might have been a remnant from the hangings at the windows, and flashed a quantity of diamonds in dirty settings on her balloon-like fingers. These lay loosely on her lap. The grotesque immobile body was rendered all the more conspicuous because of the eyes that darted to and fro in their yellowing balls.
    She spoke in her deep voice without hesitation. “I always choose this position. You can catch people without their party faces on.”
    Ames coughed. It was that deprecatory sound which is always associated with fictional butlers.
    â€œBe quiet, Ames,” said the crimson-velvet woman as he began to make introductions. She surveyed John with a basilisk eye. “Sothis is our detective! Well, young man, show me how good you are. What is my name and who am I?”
    I had disliked the old woman on sight. Now I loathed her. I stepped in front of John and said coolly: “I also consider myself a detective. I’ll show you I can be quite good too. Your name is Mrs Potts-Power and you are the unofficial first lady of Middleburn.”
    She was immensely pleased and a spasm indicative of delight spread throughout the heavy body.
    â€œSplendid! Give me some more. Come here and sit by me.”
    I felt I could afford to punish the old woman. I shook my head. “Presently. I want to