Murder on the Thirteenth by A.E. Eddenden

again.
    â€œWhere?”
    The music started up again.
    â€œCome, come, Tretheway,” Zulp blurted. “You can’t hog all the beautiful women.”
    Mary Dearlove blushed as coyly as a middle-aged woman could.
    â€œThe Missus is waiting.” Zulp looked at Tretheway.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œMrs. Zulp.” Zulp jerked his head backwards, at his table. “Back at the table.”
    â€œRight.” Tretheway had forgotten his annual must-dance with his superior’s wife. Zulp and Mary twirled away.
    Tretheway didn’t remember much about dancing with Mrs. Zulp. He couldn’t stop thinking of Mary Dearlove; about her clandestine manner, and about some of the puzzling comments she had made. What deep, dark secret, he thought. And what could he do to help?
    Mrs. Zulp had stopped talking. She stared intently at Tretheway managing to focus on a spot some distancebehind his head. Tretheway realized she was waiting for an answer.
    â€œI see.” He nodded his head and smiled. It appeared to satisfy her. She continued her thick-tongued monologue which gave Tretheway more time to reach back into his memory. One phrase nagged more at his worried subconscious than any other; two words that he turned over and over in his mind as he whirled perfunctorily around the floor—“witching hour.”
    â€œThank you very much, Inspector.” Mrs Zulp clapped her hands together decorously.
    Tretheway jerked back to the present. The dance was over. “My pleasure, Mrs. Zulp.” He joined in the applause. From Mrs. Zulp’s benign expression Tretheway concluded that he must have nodded and smiled in all the right places during their conversation. He followed her on her unsteady passage back to the table.
    The evening gained social momentum. Everybody wore a party hat except Tretheway. Addie’s and Jake’s matched, but only Addie’s was becoming. Mrs. Zulp’s hat twisted over one eye while the Chief, in metallic gold and purple, still managed to look intimidating. Beezul and Gum sported tasteful but festive models. Zoë Plunkitt had found a fuchsia, conical one with a sequined floppy brim that matched her dress.
    â€œAlbert, you don’t have a hat,” Addie said.
    Tretheway shrugged.
    â€œWe’ll find you one.” She began to look around.
    â€œAddie.” Tretheway caught his sister’s eye. “Don’t worry about it.”
    Addie stopped looking.
    By now, all attempts to hide the refreshments had gone by the board. Bottles, no longer full to the top, stood in the centre of every table for all to see, with white gloves abandoned beside them.
    Tretheway overheard Garth Dingle tell a loud joke to Patricia Sprang—who had switched to white wine—and Cynthia Moon. They both laughed well before the punch line. He watched the Squire close his eyes gradually as he listened to a list of Warbucks’s statistics. Mary Dearlove sat down for less than a minute before she disappeared into the crowd again. Doc Nooner and Wan Ho exchanged old anecdotes. Horns tooted tentatively all over the ballroom, rehearsing for the midnight release of balloons from the ceiling. The general noise level increased.
    The drums rolled. “Ladies and gentlemen.” King Chauncey announced as though introducing a prize fight, “The Paul Jones!”
    Before the balloons were released from their nets, before the short speeches form the Mayor and Chief Zulp and before the final toast to the King that officially wrapped up the 1943 Ball, the highlight of the evening was the Paul Jones. A local hybrid dance, part grand march, part fast fox trot, part polka, but mostly square dance, it was the pinnacle of sweat-producing physical activity during the ball. Everybody took part.
    Tretheway danced first with Patricia Sprang. She felt strong and capable, but not unfeminine, in his arms.
    â€œI just love a Paul Jones,” she said in anticipation.
    â€œGets the blood