Dandy Gilver and the Unpleasantness in the Ballroom Read online

  ‘You’ve certainly explained why Sir Percy and Lady Stott are so very worried,’ I said.

  ‘But you say Theresa doesn’t offer lessons,’ said Alec. ‘So presumably she arrived with her slipper bag after the departure of the pupils.’

  ‘She doesn’t,’ said Miss Bonnar. ‘Her father would have a fit. The clubhouse would come down on his head like the walls of Jericho.’

  ‘Doesn’t your own father mind?’ I said.

  ‘It’s mostly ma faither’s freens Bert and me end up teaching,’ said Beryl and I noticed that her Glasgow tongue sprang back into her mouth as she spoke of him.

  ‘Oh, well then,’ I said. ‘That’s all fine. Now, who is this “Bert” you mention?’

  ‘My partner out there,’ said Beryl.

  I frowned and turned back a few pages in my little notebook to where I had jotted down what I could while Alec drove us here from Balmoral. ‘I thought your partner’s name was Beau?’

  ‘Beau Montaigne it says downstairs,’ said Alec.

  ‘Herbert Bunyan just doesn’t have the right ring to it,’ Beryl said. ‘Beryl Bonnar’s bad enough without that! I thought on a fancy name, thought long and hard, but there’s a good side to being yourself. And you can end up sounding a wee bit daft if you’re not careful.’

  No one spoke, but the words ‘Tweetie Bird’ were ringing in all three of our heads.

  ‘So,’ I said, marvelling to myself how difficult it was to keep Miss Bonnar applied to the matter at hand, ‘Miss Stott arrived after the departure of the private pupils. Who was here? You, Miss Bonnar. Mr … Montaigne. Who else?’

  ‘Roly and Tweetie,’ said Beryl. ‘And Jamesie Hodge – he’s a promising young dancer. His partner Alicia – that’s her out there on the floor today, waiting for him to get off his work at the bakery. And that’s it. Well, Mr Lorrison was in his office and he might have had some of the boys in, but they come and go by the back close. They’re never anywhere near the floor or the cloakrooms.’

  ‘And what about this morning?’ said Alec. ‘The same people?’

  ‘Mr Lorrison wasn’t here,’ Miss Bonnar said. ‘He was away at the races at Ayr for the weekend and I think it took him a wee while to get ready to face the day. And Alicia didn’t get here until after Theresa had left. It was a piece of luck that Roly stayed back to work out some choreography and was still here when she arrived. There’s nothing on earth like dancing with a better partner to help you improve. Roly dances with Alicia and she’ll take what she learned back to Jamesie and there’s another couple coming up to Champs standard.’

  ‘So, it was just the four of you competitors this morning?’ I said, rather interrupting her. ‘No private pupils?’

  ‘Not this close to the Champs,’ said Beryl. ‘They’ve opened right up since Cecelia Bristow and Alex Warren retired. We’re hoping—’

  ‘And Jeanne,’ said Alec, like me, sensing that he would have to jump in to stem the flow.

  Miss Bonnar opened her eyes very wide and nodded. ‘That’s awful,’ she said. ‘I completely forgot about Jeanne. Yes, just the five of us. That’s right. Poor Jeannie.’

  ‘And the pianist,’ said Alec.

  Anyone who did not know him would have missed it but I could tell that he was proud of having thought of this when all around, by which I mean me, had forgotten it. I groaned inwardly, nodded outwardly and turned my attention to Miss Bonnar to see what she would say.

  ‘Miss Thwaite,’ she said. ‘Right enough, she was there and now you come to mention it, she’d be best placed to see if anything happened that shouldn’t have. She sits opposite the big doors, facing the cloakrooms and she always looks over the top of her piano so she can tell if she should keep playing or stop. She’d see someone slipping in and out again, even if the dancers missed it.’

  ‘But is that likely,’ I said, ‘since, at any moment, one of you must be facing that way?’

  ‘Well, you spin so fast in the waltz you can’t really see anything.’

  ‘And I dare say you’re looking down at your feet a lot too,’ said Alec.

  Miss Bonnar turned incredulous eyes on him. ‘Never,’ she said. ‘Look at our feet?’

  ‘While you’re learning,’ Alec persisted.

  ‘Never. Never!’ said Miss Bonnar. I tried not to smirk. ‘Is that what you do? Who taught you? Look, come through and I’ll show you the difference it makes.’

  ‘I hardly—’ Alec began.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ I said. ‘I’d like to study the layout of the room and make a little sketch or two. I know how impatient you get with me for sketching, Alec dear.’

  He gobbled and muttered for another minute but Miss Bonnar was standing over him, with her hands on her hips, clearly not going to take no for an answer. When he was on his feet, she put a hand in the small of his back and propelled him back along the short corridor to the ballroom or, as I was beginning to notice the professionals called it, ‘the floor’.

  The pianist – I ground my teeth to think that I had heard piano music and not deduced her existence – was pounding out another waltz when we re-entered and the three dancers were engaged in a most peculiar activity. Roly and Alicia were dancing, but Bert, looking very Beau Montaigne-ish with his head high and an elegant arch to his back, was right beside the other man, like Peter Pan’s mischievous shadow, copying his movements.

  ‘Oh, I see now,’ said Alicia as the curious threesome broke apart. ‘Thanks, Bert. I really do see.’ She turned to face us. ‘Who’s next?’

  ‘No one for a minute,’ said Miss Bonnar. ‘Slow fox, Miss Thwaite. This one thinks he can dance looking at his feet!’ She rubbed her hands together and approached Alec, looking more like a cricketer going to bat than a dancer. ‘Right then.’

  I slid into one of the chaperone’s seats which ringed the dance floor and prepared for great enjoyment.

  ‘Hold me,’ said Miss Bonnar, as sweet strains began to drift softly over the room from the little upright piano. This was far better playing than the rumpity-thump we had heard up to now.

  Alec stepped forward and took Miss Bonnar into a firm but polite grip, the typical attitude of an English gentleman on those occasions when, try as he might, he cannot escape dancing.

  Alicia tittered. The two men cast critical eyes at Alec’s feet, hands and middle.

  ‘I’ve not got nits,’ said Beryl and she pulled Alec into such a close embrace that had she not embarked on a series of sharp commands I might have accused her of flirting.

  ‘Head right,’ she said. ‘More, more, more. And drop your shoulders. Bend that arm. Curl your fingers in. Bend your thumb back. Drop your wrist forward. And close your hand on my back. It’s like a bunch of bananas; I can feel it. And lift it, lift it. Under my shoulder blade. Ready, Miss Thwaite?’

  Without missing a note, the playing turned from sweet music back to the bald rhythmic thumping. I craned to see over the piano top. Miss Thwaite, from this angle, consisted of a felt hat with some tufts of grey hair peeking out from under its brim and a pair of large spectacles.

  ‘And right foot forward. Slow walk,’ said Miss Bonnar. ‘I’ll squeeze your hand to keep you straight.’

  I left them to it and went a-wandering. The cloakrooms were on either side of a short corridor opposite the dais where Miss Thwaite sat at her piano. Inside the ladies’ room were two rows of coat hooks with hat shelves above and low stools underneath for sitting on while changing shoes. There were hand basins with mirrors behind them and two short wooden doors open at top and bottom. I pushed on each one in turn, finding only what Nanny Palmer called ‘necessaries’ and no window large enough for even the slimmest figure to crawl through. The men’s cloakroom was identical, except that there seemed to be rather a lot of light around the wooden doors at the far end. I hesitated. If there was a large window there, someone might have climbed through it to put the bird in Tweetie’s bag. I did not want to check but there was no point in snooping unless one did it thoroughly.

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p; I stepped at a brisk pace along between the two rows of coat pegs and nudged one of the doors open. The window was indeed bigger, but there were bars across it. I turned back to face the room.

  ‘Looking for someone?’ said an amused voice. He had outdoor shoes on, great solid boots, and was at least six feet tall and rather burly with it, yet I had not heard him approaching.

  ‘Mr … Hodge?’ I said, making a guess from his dusty appearance that this was the baker at the end of his shift.

  ‘Looking for me?’ he said. As his eyes opened wide in surprise, I saw that there was even flour in the creases around them. ‘Aye, I’m Jimmy Hodge. Can’t decide between Hawtry and Halliwell, so it’s Hodge for now.’

  ‘Mrs Gilver,’ I said, striding forward and offering my hand. ‘Of Gilver and Osborne, private detectives. You’ve missed some excitement this morning.’

  ‘Is that right?’ said Mr Hodge. He sat down on one of the low stools and untied his laces, then eased off his boots.

  ‘I was just carrying out a “recce”,’ I said.

  He stood, wiggled his stockinged toes, removed his coat and loosened his tie.

  ‘There’s been another prank played upon …’ I began and then, as he started to unbutton his waistcoat, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Stripping to my semmit to get a wash,’ he said. He was in his shirtsleeves and undoing his collar studs now.

  ‘I’ll just …’ I said and ducked out. I leaned against the wall of the corridor and tried to recover my sangfroid. Had he really been about to take off his shirt and start sluicing himself in a basin with me just standing there? It had seemed so.

  I did not regret my foray, I decided as I re-entered the ballroom. I had learned that no one could have got into the cloakrooms without being witnessed. Whoever was threatening Tweetie Bird was here right now, either Hodge or one of those swishing and dipping around the floor like seaweed in a tide pool while Miss Thwaite kept time.

  I blinked. The shock of Mr Hodge and his shirtsleeves had distracted me but I remembered now and my mouth dropped open. One of those fronds of seaweed, tripping around with Miss Bonnar clasped in his arms was Alec. I watched in stupefaction and then jumped for the second time in five minutes. Someone – Mr Hodge – had taken hold of me around the waist and grabbed my hand.

  ‘You’re not cut out for a wallflower, my girl,’ he said and, driving me backwards by some means as subtle as it was unavoidable, he stepped onto the floor and we started dancing.

  7

  Mr Hodge’s broad face was shining from its cold-water wash and his damp hair was combed back in furrows but he still smelled faintly of bread and sugar and the overall effect was rather overwhelming. He held me startlingly close, my front pressed against his front and his legs brushing mine as he moved them.

  ‘I, I,’ I said. He checked himself, then spun around causing me to take a few skippy little steps to keep up. I thought I was about to fall over my feet or at least turn an ankle, but I managed not to, caught up again and then set off in a different direction, flying along so fast that the walls of the room began to blur. I tightened my grip on his shoulder but he shook his head and laughed at me.

  ‘I’ve got you,’ he said. ‘You’ve no need to hang on.’

  ‘I, I,’ I said, although it did feel rather delicious, and surprisingly weightless, considering how solid a young man he was. I obeyed his instruction and we floated away.

  ‘Swaps!’ he shouted after another minute and, as suddenly as it had started, it ended again.

  Alec stood opposite me, swaying gently, while Miss Bonnar and Mr Hodge spun away across the floor.

  ‘Blimey,’ said Alec. ‘I can’t imagine what takes sets of lessons, an hour each, can you? Miss Bonnar has just taught me to dance in ten minutes.’ He stepped forward and grasped me, his grip confident to the point of some discomfort.

  ‘On three,’ he said, squeezing my right hand to indicate which foot to begin with. We waited for the music to catch up with us and set off. I banged my knee, Alec stood on my foot, we knocked heads, and then we stopped again.

  ‘Hmph,’ he said. ‘Oh well.’

  ‘They’re awfully good, aren’t they?’ I offered.

  ‘Let’s go back to what we do best,’ said Alec. ‘Who’s next?’

  ‘Roland,’ I said. ‘He must know Theresa best out of this lot, wouldn’t you say?’

  Mr Roland Wentworth was even more beautiful in the flesh than in his posed and tinted photograph downstairs, and with a style of beauty currently much in vogue. His corn-coloured hair fell in waves from a peak upon his high, smooth forehead, his eyes were hooded, his cheekbones severe, and his mouth sulky and full. Yet, for all that, he was less attractive than the cheerful and ruddy Hodge; anxiety is always rather off-putting.

  He gazed at us as though we were snake-charmers while we dragged every syllable out of him.

  ‘Enemies?’ he said, swallowing. ‘No.’

  ‘Rivals then,’ said Alec. ‘No little jealousies?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Wentworth.

  ‘What about Miss Bonnar?’ I put in. ‘She and Miss Stott would have to be rather remarkable not to feel any friction.’

  Mr Wentworth shook his head so fast it was almost shivering. ‘No,’ he said. Then, after licking his lips, finally he offered a little more. ‘Don’t you go saying I told you things.’

  ‘Saying to whom?’ said Alec.

  He swallowed hard before answering. ‘My work!’ he said at last. ‘I’m begging you. Don’t go blabbing to my work.’

  ‘About Miss Bonnar?’ I said, genuinely mystified.

  ‘About anything. About Tweetie and me dancing. Mr Armour knows nothing about it.’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘We wouldn’t dream of such a thing. I take it you really do believe that Mr Armour hasn’t guessed the secret or found out in some other way?’

  ‘How could he?’ said Wentworth. ‘Who would tell him?’

  ‘Well, there’s a rather large photograph downstairs,’ I said.

  ‘He’s never been here!’ said Mr Wentworth. ‘He’s never seen that! Why are youse going on and on about Mr Armour?’

  ‘My dear Mr Wentworth,’ I said, ‘it was you who brought him up.’

  ‘Taking another tack, then,’ said Alec. ‘Did Miss Stott say anything after any of the discoveries?’

  ‘Not to me,’ said Mr Wentworth.

  ‘And I don’t suppose you noticed anyone going into the cloakroom during the morning.’

  ‘Nobody,’ said Mr Wentworth. ‘No one. Not once.’

  ‘Not even Miss Bonnar?’ I asked, remembering that Theresa had mentioned Beryl wiping her neck with a flannel.

  ‘I never said that,’ said Mr Wentworth. ‘Don’t put words in my mouth. I said nothing of the sort. So don’t you go and tell on me.’

  At that we took pity on him and let him go. He ducked out of the room with one last glance behind him and left a distinct handprint on the dull green paint of the door.

  ‘What’s he so frightened of?’ Alec said. ‘Who does he think we’re going to blab to?’

  ‘Most peculiar,’ I said. ‘Now then: Mr Bunyan? Or shall we call him Montaigne? Then we’ll have the set.’

  Mr Herbert Bunyan swept into the room, Montaigne much to the fore. He offered his cigarette case to us then sank into one of the grubby armchairs and slung one long leg over the other.

  ‘So who called you in?’ he said. ‘Tweetie?’

  ‘I think we already mentioned,’ I replied, ‘that we have been retained by Sir Percy.’

  ‘She’s got him round her pinkie,’ he said. ‘And she’ll not mind having detectives making a fuss of her.’

  ‘Many a young lady has a taste for theatre,’ Alec conceded, although how he would know such a thing was beyond me, ‘but Miss Stott was quite genuinely distressed this morning.’

  ‘Not as if the wee thing could harm her,’ Bunyan said.

  ‘Now then,’ said Alec, ‘we shall ask you what we asked the o
thers: does Miss Stott have any enemies or rivals who might want to upset her?’

  ‘What wee thing?’ I said.

  ‘What?’ said the young man. He looked as cool as ever, but he took the next puff of his cigarette directly after he had breathed out the last one.

  ‘Did Miss Stott tell you what was left in her bag today?’ I said. Mr Montaigne took a third puff. The air around him was growing quite blue with smoke.

  ‘It’s the same do again, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘More wee pictures and poems.’

  ‘Were you in the cloakrooms after she arrived this morning?’ said Alec.

  The young man took his time answering. He looked in a measured way from me to Alec and back again. ‘I can’t remember when Tweetie turned up today,’ he said. ‘I’m nothing to do with her. And you’ll have to ask somebody else if you want my movements.’

  ‘We shall,’ I said. ‘You haven’t told us whether you think Miss Stott has enemies, Mr Bunyan. But I suppose if she’s beneath your notice, you’d hardly know that either, would you?’

  Miss Thwaite gave a surprisingly sharp rap on the door for such a bird-like little woman, but I suppose one’s hands and wrists must be kept strong by pounding out dance tunes on a piano all day.

  ‘You looked good out there, the pair of you,’ she said shyly as she entered and sat. She had brought her handbag with her and clutched it on her knee, peering at us over the top of it in much the same way as she had peered over the top of the piano earlier. I eyed her thick spectacles glumly. She might be in the position to see everything but I would not imagine that she could discern much in the way of fleeting expressions passing over faces.

  ‘Not once we were a pair we didn’t,’ said Alec.

  Miss Thwaite tittered. ‘It’s like a magic spell, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Mr Hodge often takes me for a twirl at the end of the day and leaves me quite giddy. I’ve got two left feet if I try on my own at home with the wireless on.’

  ‘Miss Thwaite,’ I said kindly. I had warmed to the little woman right away. She was English and even though there was a dollop of Lancashire or some such in her speech, set against that dreadful Glasgow burr she was quite the sound of home to me. ‘We’re investigating this rash of silly pranks played upon Miss Stott. But we’re not getting on very well. Something was left in her bag this morning and we’re stumped as to who might have put it there.’