Death of a Peer by Ngaio Marsh Read Free Book Online Page B

looked not at but through her. Roberta became less self-conscious and listened more attentively to the rest of the family. With every turn of their preposterous conversation her four years of separation from them seemed to diminish and Roberta felt herself slip, as of old, into an attitude of mind that half accepted the mad logic of their scheming. They discussed the suitability of a charade — Lady Charles and her children with passionate enthusiasm, Lord Charles with an air of critical detachment. Roberta wondered what Lord Charles really felt about the crisis and whether she merely imagined that he wore a faintly troubled air. His face was at no time an expressive one. It was a pale oval face. Shortsighted eyes that looked dimly friendly, a colourless moustache and an oddly youthful mouth added nothing to its distinction, and yet it had distinction of a gentle kind. His voice was pitched rather high and he had a trick of letting his sentences die away while he opened his eyes widely and stroked the top of his head. Roberta realized that though she liked him very much she had not the smallest inkling as to what sort of thoughts went on in his mind. He was an exceedingly remote individual.
    “Well anyway,” Frid was saying, “we can but try. Let’s fill him up with sherry and do a charade. How about Lady Godiva? Henry the palfrey, Daddy the horrid husband, one of the twins Peeping Tom, and the rest of you the nice-minded populace.”
    “If you think I’m going to curvet round the drawing-room with you sitting on my back in the rude nude—” Henry began.
    “Your hair’s not long enough, Frid,” said Patch.
    “I didn’t say I’d be Lady Godiva.”
    “Well, you can hardly expect Mummy to undress,” said Colin, “and anyway you meant yourself.”
    “Don’t be an ass, darling,” said Lady Charles, “of course we can’t do Lady Godiva. Uncle G. would be horrified.”
    “He might mistake it for a Witches’ Sabbath,” said Henry, “and think we were making fun of Aunt V.”
    “If Frid rode on you, I expect he would,” said Patch.
    “Why?” asked Mike. “What do witches ride on, Daddy?”
    Lord Charles gave his high-pitched laugh. Henry stared thoughtfully at Patch.
    “If that wasn’t rude,” he said, “it would be almost funny.”
    “Well, why not do a Witches’ Sabbath?” asked Stephen, “Uncle G. hates Aunt V. being a witch. I daresay it would be a great success. It would show we were on his side. We needn’t make it too obvious, you know. It would be a word charade. Ipswich for instance.”
    “How would you do Ips?” asked Colin.
    “Patch could waggle hers,” said Henry.
    “You are
beastly
, Henry,” stormed Patch. “It’s foul of you to say I’m fat. Mummy!”
    “Never mind, darling, it’s only puppy-fat. I think you’re just right.”
    “We could do Dulwich,” said Stephen. “The first syllable could be a week-end at Deepacres. Everybody yawning.”
    “That would be
really
rude,” said his mother seriously.
    “It wouldn’t be far wrong,” said Lord Charles.
    “I know, Charlie, but it would never do. Don’t let’s get all wild and silly about it. Let’s just think sensibly of a good funny charade. Not too vulgar and not insulting.”
    There followed a long silence broken by Frid.
    “I know,” Frid cried, “we’ll just be ourselves with bums in the house. It could be a breakfast scene with Baskett coming in to say: ‘A person to see you, m’lord.’ You wouldn’t mind, would you, Baskett?”
    With that smile demanded by the infinite courtesy of service, Baskett offered Frid cheese. Roberta wondered suddenly if Baskett thought the Lampreys as funny as she did. Frid hurried on with her plan.
    “It really would be a good idea, Mummy. You see, Baskett could bring in the bum, and we could all plead with him and Daddy could say all the things he really wants Uncle G. to hear. Robin could do the bum, she’d look heaven in a bowler and a muffler. It would seem sort