Hangmans Holiday by Dorothy L. Sayers Page A

sang Lord Peter, as the band broke into the old tune. “I do adore this music. Foot it featly here and there—oh! there’s Gerda Bellingham. Just a moment! Mrs. Bellingham—hi! your royal spouse awaits your Red Majesty’s pleasure in the buffet. Do hurry him up. He’s only got half a minute.”
    The Red Queen smiled at him, her pale face and black eyes startlingly brilliant beneath her scarlet wig and crown.
    “I’ll bring him up to scratch all right,” she said, and passed on, laughing.
    “So she will,” said the Dowager. “You’ll see that young man in the Cabinet before very long. Such a handsome couple on a public platform, and very sound, I’m told, about pigs, and that’s so important, the British breakfast-table being what it is.”
    Sir Charles Deverill, looking a trifle heated, came hurrying back and took his place at the head of the double line of guests, which now extended three-quarters of the way down the ballroom. At the lower end, just in front of the Musicians’ Gallery, the staff had filed in, to form a second Sir Roger, at right angles to the main set. The clock chimed the half-hour. Sir Charles, craning an anxious neck, counted the dancers.
    “Eighteen couples. We’re two couples short. How vexatious! Who are missing?”
    “The Bellinghams?” said Wimsey. “No, they’re here. It’s the White King and Queen, Badminton and Diabolo.”
    “There’s Badminton!” cried Mrs. Wrayburn, signalling frantically across the room. “Jim! Jim! Bother! He’s gone back again. He’s waiting for Charmian Grayle.”
    “Well, we can’t wait any longer,” said Sir Charles peevishly. “Duchess, will you lead off?”
    The Dowager obediently threw her black velvet train over her arm and skipped away down the centre, displaying an uncommonly neat pair of scarlet ankles. The two lines of dancers, breaking into the hop-and-skip step of the country dance, jigged sympathetically. Below them, the cross lines of black and white and livery coats followed their example with respect. Sir Charles Deverill, dancing solemnly down after the Duchess, joined hands with Nina Hartford from the far end of the line. Tumty, tumty, tiddledy, tumty, tumty, tiddledy … the first couple turned outward and led the dancers down. Wimsey, catching the hand of Lady Hermione, stooped with her beneath the arch and came triumphantly up to the top of the room, in a magnificent rustle of silk and satin. “My love,” sighed Wimsey, “was clad in the black velvet, and I myself in cramoisie.” The old lady, well pleased, rapped him over the knuckles with her gilt sceptre. Hands clapped merrily.
    “Down we go again,” said Wimsey, and the Queen of Clubs and Emperor of the great Mahjongg dynasty twirled and capered in the centre. The Queen of Spades danced up to meet her Jack of Diamonds. “Bézique,” said Wimsey; “double Bézique,” as he gave both his hands to the Dowager. Tumty, tumty, tiddledy. He again gave his hand to the Queen of Clubs and led her down. Under their lifted arms the other seventeen couples passed. Then Lady Deverill and her partner followed them down—then five more couples.
    “We’re working nicely to time,” said Sir Charles, with his eye on the clock. “I worked it out at two minutes per couple. Ah! here’s one of the missing pairs.” He waved an agitated arm. “Come into the centre—come along—in here.”
    A man whose head was decorated with a huge shuttlecock, and Joan Carstairs, dressed as a Diabolo, had emerged from the north corridor. Sir Charles, like a fussy rooster with two frightened hens, guided and pushed them into place between two couples who had not yet done their “hands across,” and heaved a sigh of relief. It would have worried him to see them miss their turn. The clock chimed a quarter to two.
    “I say, Playfair, have you seen Charmian Grayle or Tony Lee anywhere about?” asked Giles Pomfret of the Badminton costume. “Sir Charles is quite upset because we aren’t