Hangmans Holiday by Dorothy L. Sayers Page B

complete.”
    “Not a sign of ’em. I was supposed to be dancing this with Charmian, but she vanished upstairs and hasn’t come down again. Then Joan came barging along looking for Tony, and we thought we’d better see it through together.”
    “Here are the waits coming in,” broke in Joan Carstairs. “Aren’t they sweet? Too-too-truly-rural!”
    Between the columns on the north side of the ballroom the waits could be seen filing into place in the corridor, under the command of the Vicar. Sir Roger jigged on his exhausting way. Hands across. Down the centre and up again. Giles Pomfret, groaning, scrambled in his sandwich-boards beneath the lengthening arch of hands for the fifteenth time. Tumty, tiddledy. The nineteenth couple wove their way through the dance. Once again, Sir Charles and the Dowager Duchess, both as fresh as paint, stood at the top of the room. The clapping was loudly renewed; the orchestra fell silent; the guests broke up into groups; the servants arranged themselves in a neat line at the lower end of the room; the clock struck two; and the Vicar, receiving a signal from Sir Charles, held his tuning-fork to his ear and gave forth a sonorous A. The waits burst shrilly into the opening bars of “Good King Wenceslas.”
    It was just as the night was growing darker and the wind blowing stronger that a figure came thrusting its way through the ranks of the singers, and hurried across to where Sir Charles stood; Tony Lee, with his face as white as his costume.
    “Charmian … in the tapestry room … dead … strangled.”
    Superintendent Johnson sat in the library, taking down the evidence of the haggard revellers, who were ushered in upon him one by one. First, Tony Lee, his haunted eyes like dark hollows in a mask of grey paper.
    “Miss Grayle had promised to dance with me the last dance before Sir Roger; it was a fox-trot. I waited for her in the passage under the musicians’ gallery. She never came. I did not search for her. I did not see her dancing with anyone else. When the dance was nearly over, I went out into the garden, by way of the service door under the musicians’ stair. I stayed in the garden till Sir Roger de Coverley was over—”
    “Was anybody with you, sir?”
    “No, nobody.”
    “You stayed alone in the garden from—yes, from 1.20 to past 2 o’clock. Rather disagreeable, was it not, sir, with the snow on the ground?” The Superintendent glanced keenly from Tony’s stained and sodden white shoes to his strained face.
    “I didn’t notice. The room was hot—I wanted air. I saw the waits arrive at about 1.40—I daresay they saw me. I came in a little after 2 o’clock—”
    “By the service door again, sir?”
    “No; by the garden door on the other side of the house, at the end of the passage which runs along beside the tapestry room. I heard singing going on in the ballroom and saw two men sitting in the little recess at the foot of the staircase on the left-hand side of the passage. I think one of them was the gardener. I went into the tapestry room—”
    “With any particular purpose in mind, sir?”
    “No—except that I wasn’t keen on rejoining the party. I wanted to be quiet.” He paused; the Superintendent said nothing. “Then I went into the tapestry room. The light was out. I switched it on and saw—Miss Grayle. She was lying close against the radiator. I thought she had fainted. I went over to her and found she was—dead. I only waited long enough to be sure, and then I went into the ballroom and gave the alarm.”
    “Thank you, sir. Now, may I ask, what were your relations with Miss Grayle?”
    “I—I admired her very much.”
    “Engaged to her, sir?”
    “No, not exactly.”
    “No quarrel—misunderstanding—anything of that sort?”
    “Oh, no!”
    Superintendent Johnson looked at him again, and again said nothing, but his experienced mind informed him:
    “He’s lying.”
    Aloud he only thanked and dismissed Tony. The White King stumbled