of the telephone call from his office.
‘Jamison suggested that perhaps you could give me some personal experiences of these societies—please don’t if it’s a nuisance—but apparently the murder of this Pole is attributed to some sort of feud in a similar organization in London.’
‘I suppose it is a possibility,’ said Handesley cautiously. ‘But I should like to know a great deal more about the circumstances. I have written a short monograph on the Russian “brotherhoods”, or rather on certain aspects of them. I’ll let you have it when we go in.’
Nigel thanked him, but tentatively made the journalist’s monotonous appeal for ‘something a little more personal’.
‘Well,’ said Handesley, ‘give me time, and I’ll try. Why not attack Doctor Tokareff? He seems to be full of information on the subject.’
‘Wouldn’t he be furious? He is so very…is it remote?’
‘And therefore beyond annoyance. He will either oblige with a sententious dissertation or refuse with a wealth of symbolism. You never know, with the Russian, whether he is really talking about the things he seems to be talking about, or whether they merely represent an abstract procession of ideas. Try him.’
‘I will,’ said Nigel, and they finished their walk in companionable silence.
Looking back on the Frantock affair after it was all over, Nigel always thought of that walk as the one perfect and peaceful episode during his visit. At luncheon he was aware once more of the secondary theme of dissonance between Rankin, Rosamund, and Mrs Wilde. He suspected, too, an antagonism between Tokareff and Rankin and, being particularly sensitive to the timbre of emotional relationships, was mentally on tenterhooks.
After luncheon they all went their ways—Handesley and Tokareff to the library, Mrs Wilde and Rankin for a stroll, Nigel and Angela to explore the house (with a view to the former learning his way about it for the Murder Game), and then to play badminton in the barn. Rosamund Grant and Wilde had disappeared, whether severally or together Nigel had no idea. He and Angela got extremely hot, laughed a great deal and, each delighted with the other’s company, arrived back in the hall in time for tea.
‘Now,’ said Handesley, when Angela had poured out the last cup, ‘it’s twenty-five minutes past five. At half-past the Murder Game is on. By eleven it must be an accomplished fact. You all know the rules. Last night Vassily gave the scarlet plaque to whichever one of us he selected as murderer. I remind you that the “murderer” is to turn out the lights and sound the gong, that you are not by word or look to suggest that you have been discarded or selected by Vassily as actor for the part of assassin. The “murderer” has had a day in which to formulate his plans. There—that’s all.’
‘Okay, chief,’ drawled Rankin.
‘Meet me behind the arras, be your purpose bloody,’ said Wilde sweetly.
‘Any questions?’ asked Handesley.
‘Sush admirable terse discourse makes no jot of confusion. Already I am, as you say, on tendercooks,’ murmured Doctor Tokareff.
‘Well,’ concluded Handesley cheerfully, ‘let us wish the murderer at any rate an interesting amount of success.’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Mrs Wilde, ‘that this game isn’t going to be rather terrifying.’
‘I call it a definite thrill,’ remarked Angela.
Sir Hubert walked over to the gong and took the leather-padded hammer in his hand. They all watched the grandfather clock that stood in the farthest corner of the hall. The long hand jerked across the last division, and the clock, deep voiced, told the half-hour. At the same moment Handesley struck the gong.
‘Murder is afoot,’ he said theatrically; ‘the gong shall not sound again until it is accomplished…Shall we move into the drawing-room?’
Nigel, thankful that Vassily’s choice had not fallen upon himself, speculated on the possible identity of the ‘murderer’, determined to make a mental note of everybody’s movements, and equally to be left alone with no single member of the house-party, since he felt that the role of ‘corpse’ would be less amusing than that of witness or Prosecuting Attorney.
In the drawing-room Mrs Wilde started a rag by suddenly hurling a cushion at—of all people—Doctor Tokareff. To the astonishment and discomfiture of everybody, the Russian, after a brief moment of blank bewilderment, suddenly developed a species of mad playfulness. Always, to English people, there is something rather embarrassing about a foreigner playing the fool. Doctor Tokareff, however, was quite unaware of this racial self-consciousness.
‘Is not this,’ he exclaimed joyously, ‘indication of British tatter or scrap? I am reading that when English lady propels cush at head of gentleman, she connotes sporting desire.’ And with that he hurled the cushion at Mrs Wilde with such accuracy and force that she completely lost her balance and fell into Rankin’s arms. With one hand he held her closely against him and with the other whirled the cushion about his head, striking the Russian full in the face.
For a second Nigel saw that Doctor Tokareff’s face was capable of expressing something divorced from tranquil amiability.
‘Look out!’ he shouted involuntarily.
But the doctor had stepped back with a little bow and was smiling holding up his hands. There was an uncomfortable silence.
‘I’m on Doctor Tokareff’s side,’ said Angela suddenly, and collared Rankin about the knees.
‘So am I,’ said Rosamund. ‘Charles, do you like your face rubbed up or down?’
‘Let’s de-bag old Arthur,’ suggested Rankin, emerging breathless from the hurly-burly. ‘Come on, Nigel…come on, Hubert.’
‘There’s always something wrong with old Charles when he rags,’ thought Nigel. But he held the protesting Wilde while his trousers were dragged off, and joined in the laugh when he stood pale and uncomfortable, clutching a hearthrug to his recreant limbs and blinking short-sightedly.
‘You’ve smashed my spectacles,’ he said.
‘Darling!’ screamed Mrs Wilde, ‘you look too stupid to be believed. Charles, what a horror you are to make such nonsense of my husband!’
‘I feel I look rather magnificent,’ declared Wilde. ‘Who’s got my trousers? You, Angela! My Edwardian blood congeals at the sight. Give them up, child, or I grow churlish.’
‘Here you are, Adonis,’ said Rankin, snatching the trousers from Angela and tying them round Wilde’s neck. ‘Gosh, what a lovely sight! Perfect picture of a gentleman who has stroked his eight to victory.’
‘Run and put them on, my pet,’ said Mrs Wilde, ‘or you’ll get growing pains.’
Wilde obediently disappeared.
‘Last time I de-bagged Arthur was at Eton,’ said Rankin. ‘God, what ages ago it seems!’
He turned to the wireless and began tuning in to a concert of dance music.
‘Come on, Rosamund,’ he said, ‘let’s dance.’
‘I’m
