Final Curtain. Ngaio Marsh

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СКАЧАТЬ Pallor of Death.’

      ‘But what sort of mind,’ Troy wondered, ‘could picture with equanimity, even with pleasure, these manipulations upon the body from which it must some day, perhaps soon, be parted?’ And she wondered if Sir Henry Ancred had read this book and if he had no imagination or too much. ‘And why,’ she thought, ‘do I go on reading this horrid little book?’

      She heard a voice in the hall, and with an illogical feeling of guilt hurriedly closed the book and the glass lid. Millamant came in, wearing a tidy but nondescript evening dress.

      ‘I’ve been exploring,’ Troy said.

      ‘Exploring?’ Millamant repeated with her vague laugh.

      ‘That grisly little book in the case. I can’t resist a book and I’m afraid I opened the case. I do hope it’s allowed.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Millamant. ‘Yes, of course.’ She glanced at the case. ‘What book is it?’

      ‘It’s about embalming, of all things. It’s very old. I should think it might be rather valuable.’

      ‘Perhaps,’ said Millamant, ‘that’s why Miss Orrincourt was so interested in it.’

      She moved to the fireplace, looking smugly resentful.

      ‘Miss Orrincourt?’ Troy repeated.

      ‘I found her reading a small book when I came in the other day. She put it in the case and dropped the lid. Such a bang! It’s a wonder it didn’t break, really. I suppose it must have been that book, mustn’t it?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Troy, hurriedly rearranging her already chaotic ideas of Miss Sonia Orrincourt. ‘I suppose it must.’

      ‘Papa,’ said Millamant, ‘is not quite at his best this evening but he’s coming down. On his bad days he dines in his own rooms.’

      ‘I hope,’ said Troy, ‘that the sittings won’t tire him too much.’

      ‘Well, he’s so looking forward to them that I’m sure he’ll try to keep them up. He’s really been much better lately, only sometimes,’ said Millamant ambiguously, ‘he gets a little upset. He’s very highly strung and sensitive, you know. I always think that all the Ancreds are like that. Except Thomas. My poor Cedric, unfortunately, has inherited their temperament.’

      Troy had nothing to say to this, and was relieved when Paul Kentish and his mother came in, followed in a moment by Fenella. Barker brought a tray with sherry. Presently an extraordinarily ominous gong sounded in the hall.

      ‘Did anyone see Cedric?’ asked his mother. ‘I do hope he’s not going to be late.’

      ‘He was still in his bath when I tried to get in ten minutes ago,’ said Paul.

      ‘Oh, dear,’ said Millamant.

      Miss Orrincourt, amazingly dressed, and looking at once sulky, triumphant and defiant, drifted into the room. Troy heard a stifled exclamation behind her, and turned to see the assembled Ancreds with their gaze riveted to Miss Orrincourt’s bosom.

      It was adorned with a large diamond star.

      ‘Milly,’ Pauline muttered.

      ‘Do you see what I see?’ Millamant replied with a faint hiss.

      Miss Orrincourt moved to the fire and laid one arm along the mantelpiece. ‘I hope Noddy’s not going to be late,’ she said. ‘I’m starving.’ She looked critically at her crimson nails and touched the diamond star. ‘I’d like a drink,’ she said.

      Nobody made any response to this statement, though Paul uncomfortably cleared his throat. The tap of a stick sounded in the hall.

      ‘Here is Papa,’ said Pauline nervously, and they all moved slightly. Really, thought Troy, they might be waiting to dine with some minor royalty. There was precisely the same air of wary expectation.

      Barker opened the door, and the original of all the photographs walked slowly into the room, followed by the white cat.

      III

      The first thing to be said about Sir Henry Ancred was that he filled his rôle with almost embarrassing virtuosity. He was unbelievably handsome. His hair was silver, his eyes, under heavy brows, were fiercely blue. His nose was ducal in its prominence. Beneath it sprouted a fine snowy moustache, brushed up to lend accent to his actor’s mouth. His chin jutted out squarely and was adorned with an ambassadorial tuft. He looked as if he had been specially designed for exhibition. He wore a velvet dinner-jacket, an old-fashioned collar, a wide cravat and a monocle on a broad ribbon. You could hardly believe, Troy thought, that he was true. He came in slowly, using a black and silver stick, but not leaning on it overmuch. It was, Troy felt, more of an adjunct than an aid. He was exceeding tall and still upright.

      ‘Mrs Alleyn, Papa,’ said Pauline.

      ‘Ah,’ said Sir Henry.

      Troy went to meet him. ‘Restraining myself,’ as she afterwards told Alleyn, ‘from curtsying, but with difficulty.’

      ‘So this is our distinguished painter?’ said Sir Henry, taking her hand. ‘I am delighted.’

      He kept her hand in his and looked down at her. Behind him, Troy saw in fancy a young Henry Ancred bending his gaze upon the women in his heyday and imagined how pleasurably they must have melted before it. ‘Delighted,’ he repeated, and his voice underlined adroitly his pleasure not only in her arrival but in her looks. ‘Hold your horses, chaps,’ thought Troy and removed her hand. ‘I hope you continue of that mind,’ she said politely.

      Sir Henry bowed. ‘I believe I shall,’ he said. ‘I believe I shall.’ She was to learn that he had a habit of repeating himself.

      Paul had moved a chair forward. Sir Henry sat in it facing the fire, with the guest and family disposed in arcs on either side of him.

      He crossed his knees and rested his left forearm along the arm of his chair, letting his beautifully kept hand dangle elegantly. It was a sort of Charles II pose, and, in lieu of the traditional spaniel, the white cat leapt gracefully on his lap, kneaded it briefly and reclined there.

      ‘Ah, Carabbas!’ said Sir Henry, and stroked it, looking graciously awhile upon his family and guest. ‘This is pleasant,’ he said, including them in a beautiful gesture. For a moment his gaze rested on Miss Orrincourt’s bosom. ‘Charming,’ he said. ‘A conversation piece. Ah! A glass of sherry.’

      Paul and Fenella dispensed the sherry, which was extremely good. Rather elaborate conversation was made, Sir Henry conducting it with the air of giving an audition. ‘But I thought,’ he said, ‘that Cedric was to join us. Didn’t you tell me, Millamant –’

      ‘I’m so sorry he’s late, Papa,’ said Millamant. ‘He had an important letter to write, I know. I think perhaps he didn’t hear the gong.’

      ‘Indeed? Where have you put him?’

      ‘In Garrick, Papa.’

      ‘Then he certainly must have heard the gong.’

      Barker СКАЧАТЬ