Final Curtain by Ngaio Marsh Read Free Book Online

began.
    â€˜Oh, but she really is responding, splendidly,’ Miss Able interrupted. ‘That’s the first fight in seven and a half hours, and David began it. He’s rather a bad case of maladjustment, I’m afraid. Now, Patricia,’ she shouted. ‘Into the middle with you. And David, you see if you can catch her. One tries as far as possible,’ she explained, ‘to divert the anger impulse into less emotional channels.’
    They left her, briskly conducting the game, and continued their ascent. On the fourth terrace they encountered a tall and extremely good-looking woman dressed in tweeds and a felt hat, and wearing heavy gauntleted gloves.
    â€˜This is my mother,’ said Paul Kentish.
    Mrs Kentish greeted Troy rather uncertainly: ‘You’ve come to paint Father, haven’t you?’ she said, inclining her head in the manner of a stage dowager. ‘Very nice. I do hope you’ll be comfortable. In these days—one can’t quite’—she brightened a little—‘but perhaps as an artist you won’t mind rather a Bohemian—’ Her voice trailed away and she turned to her son: ‘Paul, darling ,’ she said richly, ‘you shouldn’t have walked up all those steps. Your poor leg. Fenella, dear, you shouldn’t have let him.’
    â€˜It’s good for my leg, Mother.’
    Mrs Kentish shook her head and gazed mistily at her glowering son. ‘Such a brave old boy,’ she said. Her voice, which was a warm one, shook a little, and Troy saw with embarrassment that her eyes had filled with tears: ‘Such an old Trojan,’ she murmured, ‘Isn’t he, Fenella?’
    Fenella laughed uncomfortably and Paul hastily backed away. ‘Where are you off to?’ he asked loudly.
    â€˜To remind Miss Able it’s time to come in. Those poor children work so hard. I can’t feel—however. I’m afraid I’m rather old-fashioned, Mrs Alleyn. I still feel a mother knows best.’
    â€˜Well, but Mother,’ Paul objected, ‘something had to be done about Panty, didn’t it? I mean, she really was pretty frightful.’
    â€˜Poor old Panty!’ said Mrs Kentish bitterly.
    â€˜We’d better move on, Aunt Pauline,’ Fenella said. ‘Cedric is driving up. He won’t do anything about unloading if I know him.’
    â€˜Cedric!’ Mrs Kentish repeated. ‘T’uh!’
    She smiled rather grandly at Troy and left them.
    â€˜My mother,’ Paul said uncomfortably, ‘gets in a bit of a flap about things. Doesn’t she, Fen?’
    â€˜Actually,’ said Fenella, ‘they all do. That generation, I mean. Daddy rather wallows in emotion and Aunt Dessy’s a snorter at it. They get it from Grandfather, don’t you think?’
    â€˜All except Thomas.’
    â€˜Yes, all except Thomas. Don’t you think,’ Fenella asked Troy, ‘that if one generation comes in rather hot and strong emotionally, the next generation swings very much the other way? Paul and I are as hard as nails, aren’t we, Paul?’
    Troy turned to the young man. He was staring fixedly at his cousin. His dark brows were knitted and his lips were pressed together. He looked preternaturally solemn and did not answer Fenella. ‘Why,’ thought Troy, ‘he’s in love with her.’

    The interior of Ancreton amply sustained the promise of its monstrous facade. Troy was to learn that ‘great’ was the stock adjective at Ancreton. There was the Great West Spinney, the Great Gallery and the Great Tower. Having crossed the Great Drawbridge over the now dry and cultivated moat, Troy, Fenella, and Paul entered the Great Hall.
    Here the tireless ingenuity of the architect had flirted with a number of Elizabethan conceits. There was a plethora of fancy carving, a display of stained-glass windows bearing the Ancred arms, and a number of presumably collateral