Death of a Beauty Queen by E.R. Punshon Page A

their accustomed tattoo that always meant he was deeply worried. He said, a little abruptly now:
    â€˜You knew Miss Mears?’
    â€˜Only a very little. I met her at a dance once, and once or twice besides. Mr Beattie introduced us.’
    In reply to some more questions Lily explained that it was at the same dance she had first met Roy Beattie. A friend had introduced her to him, and then he had introduced her to Carrie Mears. Mr Beattie had asked her to call at his studio and let him take her photograph, but she had never done so yet, though she had promised that perhaps some day she might. Mitchell rather gathered that at this dance the young photographer had shown Lily rather more attention than Carrie had quite approved. She had regarded his scalp as dangling permanently at her waist, and had not relished seeing it transferred elsewhere. That meant then, it seemed, that there had been a note of rivalry, possibly of some ill feeling, between the two girls even before this evening, and Mitchell scowled again as this new fact forced itself upon his recognition. Claude Maddox had also been at the dance, but not Leslie Irwin, for, while dramatic societies were bad enough, dances, in the eyes of old Mr Irwin, were worse – very much worse, in fact. To have attended a dance would have been sheer defiance – it would probably have meant for the young man the risk of an open breach with his father. Besides – perhaps an even more conclusive reason – Leslie was no dancer, having no natural skill in the art, and never having had any lessons, while both Claude Maddox and Roy Beattie were expert performers.
    â€˜Did you know Mr Maddox and Miss Mears were engaged?’ Mitchell asked, and Lily shook her head, and said she had heard a lot of guesses about the direction Carrie’s favour was likely to take, but nothing definite.
    â€˜To come to to-night,’ Mitchell continued. ‘I believe there was some kind of misunderstanding between you and Miss Mears?’
    Lily flushed again, and looked piteously at her aunt for assistance. Mrs Francis tried to give her version of the affair, but Mitchell checked her.
    â€˜It is Miss Ellis’s own account I would like to hear,’ he explained. ‘That is, if she has no objection.’ He added to Lily: ‘Of course I am only asking if you feel disposed to help us. If you would prefer not to, you need only say so. But in that case, you will understand, I shall have to depend on other people’s versions, and I would rather have yours. Still, if you would prefer to wait till you’ve had a chance to talk to your solicitor and have his advice’
    â€˜Oh, no, no,’ Lily interposed. ‘I do want to help all I can, only it’s all so dreadful, and as if it couldn’t be – well, real. Only it is. What happened was that Carrie told me she had been disqualified for stopping on the stage too long, and I must be careful or I might be too – disqualified, I mean. So I ran off as quickly as I could after I went on, and they all laughed at me, and they said it was a trick of Carrie’s so the judges wouldn’t have time to mark my card.’
    â€˜Too bad,’ said Mitchell. ‘That meant you thought you had lost your chance. Were you upset at all?’
    â€˜I was most awfully angry – furious,’ Lily exclaimed, with sudden energy, as for the moment she forgot everything else but the indignation that had burned in her when she discovered the trick played her. Her eyes blazed, she straightened herself with a tense and formidable energy one felt could easily translate itself into action; the tempest of her anger seemed, indeed, entirely to transform her. Then, as quickly as it had come, it passed: ‘Oh, I forgot... oh, poor Carrie,’ she said.
    But Mitchell’s face was dark and heavy, and he seemed to droop a little as he sat there, silent now, a little as if he dared ask no more questions. For