Read Online Death of a Fool by Ngaio Marsh - Free Book Online

her false teeth. “Is that young woman still at the Green Man?” she demanded.
    “Do you mean William Andersen’s grand-daughter?”
    “Who the deuce else should I mean?”
    “Yes, she is. Everyone says she’s awfully nice and — well — you know —”
    “If you mean she’s a ladylike kind of creeter, why not say so?”
    “One doesn’t say that, somehow, nowadays, Aunt Akky.”
    “More fool you.”
    “One says she’s a ‘lidy.’ ”
    “Nimby-pimby shilly-shallyin’ and beastly vulgar into the bargain. Is the gel more of a Campion than an Andersen?”
    “She’s got quite a look of her mother, but, of course, Ned Campion brought her up as a Campion. Good schools and all that. She went to that awfully smart finishing school in Paris.”
    “And learnt a lot more than they bargained for, I daresay. Is she keepin’ up with the smithy?”
    “She’s quite cultivating them, it seems, and everybody says old William, although he pretends to disapprove, has really taken a great fancy to her. They say that she seems to like being with them. I suppose it’s the common side coming out.”
    “Lor’, what a howlin’ snob you are, Dulcie. All the more credit to the gel. But I won’t have Ralph gettin’ entangled.”
    “What makes you think —”
    Dame Alice looked at her niece with contempt. “His father told me. Sam.”
    “The rector?” Dulcie said automatically.
    “Yes, he’s the rector, Dulcie. He’s also your brother-in-law. Are you goin’ potty? It seems Ralph was noticed with the gel at Sandown and all that. He’s been payin’ her great ’tention. I won’t have it.”
    “Have you spoken to Ralph, Aunt Akky?”
    “ ’Course I have. ’Bout that and ‘bout somethin’ else,” said Dame Alice with satisfaction, “that he didn’t know I’d heard about. He’s a Mardian, is Master Ralph, if his mother
did
marry a parson. Young rake.”
    Dulcie looked at her aunt with a kind of dim, watery relish. “Goodness!” she said, “is Ralph a rake, Aunt Akky?”
    “Oh, go and do yer tattin’,” said Dame Alice contemptuously, “you old maiden.”
    But Dulcie paid little attention to this insult. Her gaze had wandered to one of the many clocks in her aunt’s drawing-room.
    “Sword Wednesday to-morrow,” she said romantically, “and in twenty-four hours they’ll be doing the Dance of the Five Sons. Fancy!”
    Their final practice over, the eight dancers contemplated each other with the steady complacency of men who have worked together in a strenuous job. Dr. Otterly sat on an upturned box, laid his fiddle down and began to fill his pipe.
    “Fair enough,” said old William. “Might be better, mind.” He turned on his youngest son. “You, Ernie,” he said, “you’m Whiffler, as us all knows to our cost. But that don’t say you’m topper-most item. Altogether too much boistrosity in your whiffling. No need to lay about like a madman. Show me your sword.”
    “No, I won’t, then,” Ernie said. “Thik’s mine.”
    “Have you been sharpening up again? Come on. Have you?”
    “Thik’s a sword, bean’t ’er?”
    Ernie’s four brothers began to expostulate with him. They pointed out, angrily, that the function of the whiffler was merely to go through a pantomime of making a clear space for the dance that was to follow. His activities were purest make-believe. Ralph and Dr. Otterly joined in to point out that in other countries the whiffling was often done with a broom, and that Ernie, laying excitedly about him with a sword which, however innocuous at its point, had been made razor-sharp further down, was a menace at once to his fellow mummers and to his audience. All of them began shouting. Mrs. Bünz, at her lonely vigil outside the window, hugged herself in ecstasy. It was the ritual of purification that they shouted about. Immensely and thrillingly, their conversation was partly audible and entirely up her street. She died to proclaim her presence, to walk in, to join,