Dread Murder by Gwendoline Butler Page A

either.’ Her body seemed to curve away from him rather than cling. But it had been some while since Mearns had had anything to do with a woman (although the Castle always presented offers) and perhaps ways had changed.
    The Major’s powers of observation had not misled him. Miss Fairface was not happy with her Macbeth.

    â€˜You smell,’ she whispered, very quietly, her back turned to the audience so that they would not hear. But Charlie with his youthfully acute hearing heard her.
    â€˜And I know of whom …’ he thought.
    Beau kept his Macbeth stance, but managed to mutter something under his breath.
    â€˜I bet it was that sluttish Dol Worboys,’ Miss Fairface hissed back.
    â€˜Had nothing to do with Dol for ages.’ He pulled away, going into one of his biggest speeches. He had a lovely voice and he did not want to waste a syllable of it.
    The audience sat hushed, even as he spun around, treading on Charlie’s toe and letting Miss Fairface know that if she made any more trouble he would kill her.
    The Theatre was lit by great chandeliers, while wicks in oil held in tin containers lit the stage.
    As Beau marched about the stage, proclaiming Macbeth’s fate, somehow the bottom of his robe, made of imitation fur, caught Charlie’s foot and hobbled the royal progress. He was a good enough actor to build it into his action so that it looked natural, but the glance he gave Charlie suggested that the death threat included him as well as Miss Fairface.
    Macbeth is a short play so the party on the stage was soon assembling. There was to be a short interval, with refreshments for those who wanted them, before finishing off the night with a comedy. Charlie abandoned his stage cloak and slid into the crowd.

    Major Mearns and Sergeant Denny had also arrived at the party. Across the room they saw Mindy. No surprise there, as the Castle and the Theatre mingled happily. Wine, beer, tea and coffee with cakes and cheese savouries passed between them. Everyone there was laughing as they talked, at least pretending to be happy. In this world, you had to act as though you were successful even if you were not.
    Across the room was Mr Pickettwick, who was no more an admirer of the Bard than Denny and Mearns, but liked to be in the social swim. He was talking to the boy, Charlie, beaming broadly and nodding his head, and apparently making a little joke because they were both laughing. He liked the boy – but the boy was likeable.
    Denny looked at Mearns with a query.
    â€˜It’s all right, Denny, he doesn’t want a boy; he’s just a friendly old man. There are a few around.’
    â€˜I like the boy myself. He has something …’ Denny hesitated. ‘He’s clever; but more than that – you see him looking at the world and telling himself what it means …
    â€˜You’re confused,’ said Mearns kindly.
    As they watched, Pickettwick and the boy started to talk to a tall, thin woman who had been standing near them.
    â€˜An actress?’ asked Denny. ‘Don’t know her.’
    â€˜We don’t know them all …’
    â€˜Had a jolly good try.’
    This was true of the Sergeant, although his great
protection was that he was never taken seriously – otherwise, as the Major put it, he would have been married off a hundred times since.
    The woman was talking away and waving her hands. One had begun to stroke Charlie’s head – a hard, strong hand.
    Hand still on the boy, she began to promenade round the room, talking to as many as would answer back. Not all did.
    Mearns gave a quick laugh. ‘Ask her to march.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Look at her ankles, man, and the way she walks. Women don’t use their feet like that.’
    He gave another laugh. ‘She’s a man.’
    Slowly, Mearns added, ‘and the boy knows it. I think he recognises it.’
    â€˜Let’s go talk to the man-woman. Bound to be