Into the Valley of Death by Evelyn Hervey Page A

walls, that her young helper’s directionshad been needlessly involved. Within two minutes she was opening a small door in an upper passage. And then, to her quick satisfaction, she saw beneath her the brightly lit floor of the ballroom and heard coming up in bouncing waves of sound the music of the band, playing on a dais just underneath.
    The gallery, she found, was conveniently shrouded in darkness and, needing only to untie the white apron at her waist, in her black cambric dress she could count on being invisible to anyone chancing to look upwards, even if she put herself at its very edge.
    For a little while she watched the lines and circles of the dancers, forming and re-forming below, the swirl of spreading tulle skirts, the glint of jewels in hair and on bosoms, the white dazzle of starched shirt-fronts, the bright kaleidoscope of coloured uniforms. Nowhere could she spy, however, the bold red-and-black dress she remembered having seen when the lady guests had taken off cloaks and mantles.
    What if Mrs. De Lyall was not dancing? She might well have declined and gone instead for some refreshment, accompanied, no doubt, by a male escort. And who would that be? And would his mere presence at the lady’s side be any proof that he was her secret lover and the murderer of Alfie Goode? Or would Mrs. De Lyall be in the conservatory? Was she there at this moment seated behind an enshrouding bank of thick-growing ferns, allowing someone a furtive embrace?
    The cheerful music of a cotillion came to an end. The dancers dispersed.
    But then into the middle of the empty floor there stepped a figure Miss Unwin recognised, even seeing only the top of his head. General Pastell.
    “Ladies and gentlemen, fellow officers,” he said in parade-ground tones. “I am happy to tell you that I have just succeeded in persuading our good friend, Mrs. De Lyall, to dance for us her celebrated version of the famous Spanish
cachucha.”
    There was a loud murmur of appreciation, with, Miss Unwin thought, more in it of masculine growl than feminine squeak.
    Then the bold black-and-red dress she had looked for so keenly suddenly emerged on to the bare floor below. No doubt the General’s “persuasion” had taken place in some quiet corner, away from prying eyes. The band began to play, not very comfortably, a rhythmical, Spanish-sounding tune.
    Mrs. De Lyall stood, head lowered, in the very middle of the floor, attentively waiting. And out of the surrounding circle of onlookers there came stepping towards her none other than Captain Brackham. He was carrying in front of himself a red velvet-covered box. He went up to the waiting danseuse and, with a military click of heels, held the box out to her. She opened it and took out what Miss Unwin recognised, from some illustration in a book for her young charges somewhere, as a pair of black castanets. In a moment she had them fastened round her wrists. Captain Brackham withdrew, and the lady began to dance.
    Even seeing the performance from high above, it was plain to Miss Unwin that it was an altogether exciting affair. Whatever other qualities Mrs. De Lyall possessed, she certainly had dash. Watching her fling herself boldly backwards, arms above her head, castanets furiously clicking, two things became increasingly plain. The first was that the lady was clearly overstepping the bounds of feminine decorum, and the second was that almost all the gentlemen in the surrounding circle of onlookers were delighted that she should do so.
    But was one of them more delighted than any of the others? Was Captain Brackham, who had been allowed to offer her the box of castanets, more favoured than the rest?
    The music rose to a climax. Mrs. De Lyall swayed and swung till, from above, her wide red-and-black skirt lookedlike a shimmering circle of fire. And then, with a final
“olé,”
the wild dance came to an end.
    There was a storm of applause.
    When at last it began to die down, General Pastell stepped