Extract:
GLANCING at the watch which, housekeeper-like, Miss Bell always wore at her waist, she observed that it was nearly a quarter to three.
It was time to think of leaving. She was a little fatigued, though less so than she had expected. Several other groups had drifted away, the King, as befitted his rank, being amongst the first. That of course had been the cue for anyone else who wanted to leave comparatively early to make his exit likewise. Normally that category would have included Miss Bell, who as a rule was far from at ease in social situations. But tonight was a little different. She was satisfied that she had held her own. Thanks not only to Johnnie Waite, but more recently to Miss Cavendish, who came into Deer Head School twice a week to teach the great girls dancing and deportment, she had known the steps to most of the dances, and taken part in well over a dozen (she had lost count of the exact number) without making a fool of herself.
It would be nice to leave now, feeling that she had performed creditably. It was of course important to avoid conceit. Mr. Tyrrell did not like people who were pleased with themselves, and for that matter neither did she. But that she had performed creditably there was little doubt. She had not spoken too much, or too little. Neither a simpering and spineless wallflower, nor a strident hussy, though even the self-deprecating Miss Bell recognized that she was not much prone to the latter failing. For all that, she felt that it was time to leave. She should quit while she was ahead, as gamblers put it.
It was not only that. Miss Bell was far from experienced in social functions, and had certainly never attended one of this eminence, but it seemed to her that the event had reached the stage where things were beginning to turn sour. The food in the supper-room lay around half-eaten, and the smell of alcohol was everywhere. Many men and some of the women had been smoking cigarettes, whose butts were beginning to make an appearance on tables, plates, even the floor. One or two of the chairs lay overturned and rather forlorn. Several people, of both sexes, were unsteady on their feet. Voices were becoming louder, guests’ behaviour less inhibited, and the sound of breaking glass not uncommon.
She was relieved to note that M. Lemoine was starting to look around and fidget in the manner characteristic of one about to leave. What a splendid evening it had been. What a boost to her self-confidence. All that it had lacked to make it perfect was the presence of Mr. Tyrrell.
She must tell him of her adventure, for so she regarded it, in some detail. Not too much – she must avoid becoming a bore. And it would of course be quite ridiculous to cast herself as the ‘Belle of the Ball,’ besides not deceiving him for one moment. No, she would tell him quite frankly of her doubts and uncertainties, and explain that she was pleased, or at least fairly pleased, with the way she had coped. No doubt she could have done better, but she had coped.
M. Vidocq, who had spent much of the night in their company, and particularly that of Colonel Thiercelin, was likewise looking around prior to making the decision to depart. ‘Well,’ he observed complacently, as if personally responsible, ‘I think we may say it’s been a most successful event.’
‘Indeed,’ said M. Lemoine. ‘For all that, I think perhaps it’s time we were making tracks.’ Miss Bell and Célimène nodded.
‘I agree,’ said Colonel Thiercelin, detaching himself with apology from an old army acquaintance whom he had never been able to stand, but who now behaved as if they had been bosom friends. ‘There’s no sense in outstaying our welcome.’ He glanced around at the dancers. ‘I don’t see your good lady.’
‘I think I last saw her in the gallery,’ said his daughter. ‘Admiring some tapestries. I’ll go and look for her.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Miss Bell. It occurred to her that Mme. Lemoine, never absent from the dance floor for very long, had probably been occupied by a necessary occasion, in which case ladies would be more appropriately employed in looking for her than gentlemen. The Opera House had been one of the first public buildings to provide such facilities, a move which Miss Bell, in her down-to-earth Yorkshire way, considered long overdue.
The staircase was being used by some dancers as a convenient though unofficial sitting-out place. One young couple in particular were behaving in a manner of which she deeply disapproved. She averted her eyes and hurried past.
As she reached the gallery a man overtook on her left wearing a costume resembling an English pantomime horse. As he passed Miss Bell he emitted a foolish neighing sound. Very much the worse for drink, she told herself. He had even spilt some of it down himself. It was undoubtedly well that she was leaving. She had reached the stage of regarding people with prim disapproval. Not entirely without cause; by now few of those remaining seemed entirely sober.
Mlle. Thiercelin had stopped on the stairs to speak to a couple of those sitting out, enquiring perhaps if they had seen her cousin. As Miss Bell paused to allow her to catch up she noticed Luise, or la Pompadour as she now tended to think of her, approaching from the direction of the ladies’ room. She gave them a quick smile in acknowledgment.
‘You have not seen Mme. Lemoine, have you, Luise?’
She shook her head. ‘I did not see her in the ladies’ room. But she may have been there. If I should see her I’ll mention that you’re looking for her.’
‘Thank you.’
Instead of taking the stairs, Luise continued along the gallery, looking at the tapestries in a rather abstracted manner. Célimène also seemed somewhat distraite.
‘I last saw her along here,’ she said, looking around vaguely. ‘Perhaps she’s gone downstairs again, and we’ve missed her.’
‘Perhaps. But the ladies’ room,’ Miss Bell suggested tentatively, ‘still seems more likely.’
To reach the room in question it was necessary to turn right at the top of the stairs, then take the first left into a short corridor leading to another passage parallel to the gallery. As she rounded the corner into this passage a suit of plate armour in fifteenth-century style came into view.
Dangling from the wall opposite was a semi-human marionette. Stuck to the wall, in fact, rather than dangling from it. Miss Bell had become used to the bizarre disguises worn by some of the dancers, but this one really was in the most appalling taste, more appropriate to one of the less respectable parts of Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens than a distinguished social gathering.
Even there it would have been grotesquely out of place. A female figure, with eyes and mouth wide open in an expression of insane horror, breast impaled by a long metal spike. It bore little relation to a human being. Indeed it was not human at all. A poorly executed travesty of a human female, like an obscene Gilray cartoon. Bright red blood was still spreading all over the front of the ball dress.
Of a sudden Miss Bell felt her senses reeling.
It could not be true … No … She turned to speak to Célimène. But she had fainted.