Death in Fancy Dress: Fancy Dress Ball

J. Jefferson Farjeon

Description

This suspense murder mystery is set in the Albert Hall - on the night of nights, the Chelsea Arts Ball on New Year’s Eve. In this setting of dancing and gaiety and bright lights, this story introduces among the light-hearted assembly of guests various characters in fancy dress hiding behind colorful masks who gather at the famous ball and involuntarily play their parts in a terrific drama that will keep any reader's hair standing rigidly on end. But how may the horror and mystery of the deep night be explained away clearly enough to satisfy the demands of reason in the cold bright light of morning?

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Policier
• Mysteries
• Detective fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 04 novembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781774642528
• Langue: English

Extrait

Death in Fancy Dress
by J. Jefferson Farjeon

First published in 1934
This edition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

Fancy Dress Ball




by J. Jefferson Farjeon

NINE P.M.
There is a theory, which some people find harder andharder to refute, that the world is mad. Yet whoamong us can definitely prove or disprove this assertion?Madness, often enough, is merely a relative term,and the lunatic of yesterday may be the sage of to-day,while the sage of to-day may become the lunatic ofto-morrow. There appears as yet no central point tosanity, unless it resides in the elusive seed of humanhappiness, and happiness is as difficult to define asmadness itself.
But if those who take an uncomplimentary view ofthe world’s condition wish to reinforce their opinionthey can do so once a year, at least, by purchasing aticket for the Chelsea Arts Ball at the Albert Hall.Here our search for happiness takes the strangest form.From ten p.m. till five a.m. sober folk discard theirsobriety, flinging themselves into queer costumes andqueerer mental attitudes in an attempt to forget thehumdrum of existence. For seven hours they play thisgame, thumbing their noses at Fate, and laughing atReality.
Yet Fate stalks in their midst, and Reality beats intheir hearts. For it is only a game, this attempt toescape from the humdrum, and the underlying pathosshatters criticism. The real story of that man overthere is not in his bandit costume; it is on the StockExchange, among considerably duller forms andfigures. That elderly gentleman behind him, watchingthe dancers revolve round the vast dancing space,has nothing to do with the gaily-lined Venetian cloakhe is wearing; he is wasting away with disease, tryingto warm cold fingers in a fading fire. The beautiful,sparsely-clad nymph who floats dreamily by and throwshim a little smile (or so he pretends) will be serving,to-morrow, in a West End shop. That coy blonde withdeep frank bosoms is speeding despairingly towardssixty.
Others, more fortunate, do receive a definite fillipto the momentary happiness they have brought withthem from outside. The lights, the colour, the music,all on the most elaborate and most magnificent scale,add to their natural buoyancy of spirit, and these truelovers who mingle with the sensualist and the cynicfind in the Albert Hall an almost overpowering fulfilmentof an exciting dream. But all possess stories ofone kind or another which have their centre elsewhere,and as the great ballroom revolves with itscomedy and tragedy, its light and its shade, some ofthe stories are suspended, and some go on.
Henry Brown regarded his half-shaved face in thelittle mirror hanging by his bed. He regarded it withdisapproval, almost with panic. It looked worriedwhen it ought to have looked gay, for this was to bea night of nights, an occasion of high adventure andrare audacity, and if he did not begin in the rightmood, in what kind of a mood would he end? Heforced a smile into his strained features. “This is fun !” he assured himself, overdoing the confidence.His smile did nothing to compose his agitated mind.
He turned from the mirror to the window. Thewindow-glass was obscured by a dark, worn blind. Thecord was off the blind and you had to give the bottoma careful tug to get it up. Not a hard tug. If you didthat something disastrous happened and the blindstayed down for days. A soft, delicate tug. . . . Hegave a soft, delicate tug. The blind shot up with aviolent snap, snarled round the top roller, and becamewedged. Now it would stay up for days.
“Damn!” muttered Henry Brown.
Life was very difficult.
With the blind up he feared that everybody wouldsee in, and he was not in a condition to be viewed.Almost immediately, however, he realised that he hadno need to worry about his visibility. No one couldsee in if he himself could not see out. A thick foghung outside the window, a brooding, yellow, impenetrablecurtain. It had been threatening all day. Themorning paper had predicted it, the evening wirelesshad confirmed it, and here it was, adding fresh troubleto the occasion. Henry’s mind jerked from one trialto another, and the lines on his rather tired facedeepened.
“Fog!” he grunted. “That’s a nice thing! How amI going to get to the blessed place?” Then anotherthought struck him. “Yes, and what happens if I can’t ?”
For a brief instant the possibility of not getting therebrightened, surprisingly, his horizon. He recognisedthat although he had planned and plotted to get there,and had scraped and saved to get there, he also dreadedgetting there; and no one could call you a funk, couldthey, for failing to turn up at a place you could notreach! If this particular place could not be reached—ifthe ’buses were at a standstill and the taxis weresprawling across the pavement—then Henry Brownwould be forced to spend the evening at home, andnobody would ever see him in the ridiculous costumethat lay on his bed waiting for his insufficient body.A loose velvet jacket of unfamiliar shape. Strange,hugely-checked slacks. An enormous flowing blue tie.A vast red sash. Or was the tie the sash, and the sashthe tie? And above all, in every sense, a mammothberet. Not the happy beret of a Borotra, but an endlessexpanse of dark ribbed stuff that flowed over theside of your head almost down to your neck, givingyou the feeling that you were in deep mourning for apancake. It was this Gargantuan headgear that hadfirst upset Henry’s morale, and that now made himmomentarily bless the fog.
The moment passed, however. Henry was even moreafraid of fear than of the thing he feared. He did notpossess a first-class mind, but it was good enough torecognise the spuriousness of his excuses. And therewas, in addition, the financial side of the question tostrengthen his resolve and to urge him forward. Thehiring of the costume had cost half a guinea, paid inadvance. The paid in advance was important. Itmeant that you could not get the money back again.Then the ticket for the Albert Hall had cost anotherthirty-one and six. You saved ten-and-six by purchasingit hazardously before the actual day. Happily theticket included supper, so you could be sure of gettingsomething definite for your outlay. Then, again, therewas a manicure. Henry had thought a lot about themanicure. It was not likely that his small hand wouldbe noticed in the vastness of the Albert Hall, but somehowor other the manicure had seemed necessary;though not a pedicure. He had never been manicuredbefore, and he had suffered acutely when the manicuristhad taken his unattractive hand into her prettyone and had replied to his muttered apologies that shehad seen worse. Two shillings, that suffering had cost,with sixpence for the girl. That raised the damage todate up to £2 4s. 6d. Almost a week’s pay! No,dammit, you couldn’t allow yourself to waste as muchas that!
There was something deeper than purse or pride,however, that drew Henry back into the current ofterrifying desire. It was the stirring possibility of adventureand romance. Not that adventure andromance were likely to come his way, for people ofhis timid type rarely attract them. Still—you neverknew, did you? Some girl or other might smile at himin the crowd, and he might smile back. He might evenhave the courage to ask her for a dance. Particularlyif wine were included in the supper! You never knew ,did you?
He returned determinedly to his shaving. He couldwake up on the morrow resigned to the knowledge thatadventure had not come his way, but he would wakeup in a torment of distraction, he was convinced, ifthrough eleventh hour funk he failed to resolve theagonising question!
His shaving complete, he felt his chin. The uttersmoothness of it comforted him. No barber could haveshaved him closer for sixpence. And he had not cuthimself.
Then, taking a breath, he tackled the strange garmentson the bed.
His pants and his vest, as he stood in them beforethe plunge, had never seemed so dear to him. Theywere like a familiar home about to be obliterated. Hedecided not to look at himself during the obliteratingprocess, for to watch the metamorphosis bit by bitwould be too unnerving. When the transformationwas accomplished and he regarded himself in themirror, the shock was almost more than he could bear.He discovered, to his dismay, that he had dared tohope.
“Do you mean to tell me,” he cried aloud to hisreflection, “that any girl is going to dance with that ?”
He seized the flowing beret from his head and hurledit to the ground. Then he picked it up again.
“Silly ass!” he growled at himself. “You’d thinka girl was all I was going for!”
Possibly it was.
He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Aquarter-past nine. That was a nuisance. He wished ithad been later. The ball didn’t start till ten, and you’dlook a fool if you got there earlier. On the other hand,you didn’t want to waste any of it by getting there late.And, of course, the fog would mean slow travelling.
“Five minutes—I’ll wait five minutes,” he decided.
What could he do to fill out five minutes?
All at once he thought of it. Money! Whew, hemight have gone without any! His forehead perspiredat the ghastly idea. How much did one take? Justenough for the fare there and back? Or a shilling ortwo over, in case of accidents? “I suppose wine is included?” he reflected. “But suppose it isn’t? Will Iwant any?” He rarely took wine. For one reason, hecould not afford it, and for another, a very little wenta long way. “No, I won’t want any,” he settled it.“This is costing me quite enough as it is.” Then intoHenry’s wavering mind came a sudden star