Final Curtain. Ngaio Marsh

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      ‘My dear, how terrifying,’ Cedric interposed.

      ‘Paul’s the only one of us,’ Fenella explained, ‘who really doesn’t want to have anything to do with the theatre.’

      ‘I would have liked to go on in the army,’ Paul added, ‘only now I’m no good for that. Perhaps, I don’t know, but perhaps I’d be no good for the police either.’

      ‘You’d better talk to my husband when he comes back,’ Troy said, wondering if Alleyn would mind very much if he did.

      ‘I say!’ said Paul. ‘That would be perfectly marvellous if you really mean it.’

      ‘Well, I mean he could just tell you whether your limp would make any difference.’

      ‘How glad I am,’ Cedric remarked, ‘about my duodenal ulcer! I mean I needn’t even pretend I want to be brave or strenuous. No doubt I’ve inherited the Old Person’s guts.’

      ‘Are you going on the stage?’ Troy asked Fenella.

      ‘I expect so now the war’s over. I’ve been a chauffeur for the duration.’

      ‘You will play exotic rôles, Fenella, and I shall design wonderful clothes for you. It would be rather fun,’ Cedric went on, ‘when and if I inherit Ancreton, to turn it into a frightfully exclusive theatre. The only catch in that is that Sonia might be there as the dowager baronetess, in which case she would insist on playing all the leading rôles. Oh, dear, I do want some money so badly. What do you suppose is the best technique, Fenella? Shall I woo the Old Person or suck up to Sonia? Paul, you know all about the strategy of indirect approach. Advise me, my dear.’

      ‘Considering you’re supposed to earn about twice as much as any of the rest of us!’

      ‘Pure legend. A pittance, I assure you.’

      The white pony had sauntered into a lane that ran directly up to the gates of Ancreton, which was now displayed to its greatest advantage. A broad walk ran straight from the gates across a series of terraces, and by way of flights of steps up to a platform before the house. The carriage-drive swept away to the left and was hidden by woods. They must be an extremely rich family, Troy decided, to have kept all this going, and as if in answer to her thoughts, Fenella said: ‘You wouldn’t guess from here how much the flower gardens have gone back, would you?’

      ‘Are the problem children still digging for a Freudian victory?’ asked Cedric.

      ‘They’re doing a jolly good job of work,’ Paul rejoined. ‘All the second terrace was down in potatoes this year. You can see them up there now.’ Troy had already noticed a swarm of minute figures on the second terrace.

      ‘The potato!’ Cedric murmured. ‘A pregnant sublimation, I feel sure.’

      ‘You enjoy eating them, anyway,’ Fenella said bluntly.

      ‘Here we are, Mrs. Alleyn. Do you honestly feel like walking? If so, we’ll go up the Middle Walk and Cedric can drive.’

      They climbed out. Paul opened the elaborate and becrested iron gates, explaining that the lodge was now used as a storehouse for vegetables. Cedric, holding the reins with a great show of distaste, was borne slowly off to the left. The other three began the ascent of the terraces.

      The curiously metallic sound of children’s singing quavered threadily in the autumn air.

      ‘Then sing a yeo-heave ho,

      Across the seas we’ll go;

      There’s many a girl that I know well

      On the banks of the Sacramento.’

      As they climbed the second flight of steps a woman’s crisp voice could be heard, dominating the rest.

      ‘And Down, and Kick, and Hee-ee-eeve. Back.

      And Down, and Kick and Hee-ee-ve.’

      On the second terrace some thirty little girls and boys were digging in time to their own singing. A red-haired young woman, clad in breeches and sweater, shouted the rhythmic orders. Troy was just in time to see a little boy in the back row deliberately heave a spadeful of soil down the neck of a near-by little girl. Singing shrilly, she retaliated by catching him a swinging smack across the rump with the flat of her spade.

      ‘And Down and Kick and Heave. Back,’ shouted the young woman, waving cheerfully to Paul and Fenella.

      ‘Come over here!’ Fenella screamed. The young woman left her charges and strode towards them. The singing continued, but with less vigour. She was extremely pretty. Fenella introduced her: Miss Caroline Able. She shook hands firmly with Troy, who noticed that the little girl, having downed the little boy, now sat on his face and had begun methodically to plaster his head with soil. In order to do this she had been obliged first to remove a curious white cap. Several of the other children, Troy noticed, wore similar caps.

      ‘You’re keeping them hard at it, aren’t you, Carol?’ said Fenella.

      ‘We stop in five minutes. It’s extraordinarily helpful, you know. They feel they’re doing something constructive. Something socially worth while,’ said Miss Able glowingly. ‘And once you can get these children, especially the introverted types, to do that, you’ve gone quite a bit of the way.’

      Fenella and Paul, who had their backs to the children, nodded gravely. The little boy, having unseated the little girl, was making a brave attempt to bite the calf of her left leg.

      ‘How are their heads?’ Paul asked solemnly. Miss Able shrugged her shoulders. ‘Taking its course,’ she said. ‘The doctor’s coming again tomorrow.’

      Troy gave an involuntary exclamation, and at the same moment the little girl screamed so piercingly that her voice rang out above the singing, which instantly stopped.

      ‘It’s – perhaps you ought to look,’ said Troy, and Miss Able turned in time to see the little girl attempting strenuously to kick her opponent, who nevertheless maintained his hold on her leg. ‘Let go, you cow,’ screamed the little girl.

      ‘Patricia! David!’ cried Miss Able firmly and strode towards them. The other children stopped work and listened in silence. The two principals, maintaining their hold on each other, broke into mutual accusations.

      ‘Now, I wonder,’ said Miss Able brightly, and with an air of interest, ‘just what made you two feel you’d like to have a fight.’ Confused recriminations followed immediately. Miss Able seemed to understand them, and, to Troy’s astonishment, actually jotted down one or two notes in a little book, glancing at her watch as she did so.

      ‘And now,’ she said, still more brightly, ‘you feel ever so much better. You were just angry, and you had to work it off, didn’t you? But you know I can think of something that would be much better fun than fighting.’

      ‘No, you can’t,’ said the little girl instantly, and turned savagely on her opponent. ‘I’ll kill you,’ she said, and fell upon him.

      ‘Suppose,’ shouted Miss Able with determined gaiety above the СКАЧАТЬ