Free Death of a Fool by Ngaio Marsh Page A

was remarkable for its lamentable food and excellent wine, Ralph excused himself. He had to get ready for the dance. The others sipped coffee essence and superb brandy in the drawing-room.
    The old parlour-maid came in at a quarter to nine to say that the dancers were almost ready.
    “I really think you’d better watch from the windows, you know,” Dr. Otterly said to his hostess. “It’s a devil of a cold night. Look, you’ll see to perfection. May I?”
    He pulled back the heavy curtains.
    It was as if they were those of a theatre and had opened on the first act of some flamboyant play. Eight standing torches in the courtyard and the bonfire beyond the battlements flared into the night. Flames danced on the snow and sparks exploded in the frosty air. The onlookers stood to left and right of the cleared area and their shadows leapt and pranced confusedly up the walls beyond them. In the middle of this picture stood the Mardian dolmen, unencumbered now, glinting with frost as if, incongruously, it had been tinselled for the occasion.
    “That youth,” said Dame Alice, “has
not
cleared away the thistles.”
    “And I fancy,” Dr. Otterly said, “that I know why. Now, how about it? You get a wonderful view from here. Why
not
stay indoors?”
    “No, thankee. Prefer out.”
    “It’s not wise, you know.”
    “Fiddle.”
    “All right! That’s the worst of you young things: you’re so damned headstrong.”
    She chuckled. Dulcie had begun to carry in a quantity of coats and shawls.
    “Old William,” Dr. Otterly went on, “is just as bad. He oughtn’t to be out to-night with his heart what it is and he certainly oughtn’t to be playing the Fool — by the way, Rector, has it ever occurred to you that the phrase probably derives from one of these mumming plays? — but, there you are. I ought to refuse to fiddle for the old goat. I would if I thought it’d stop him, but he’d fiddle and fool too, no doubt. If you’ll excuse me I must join my party. Here are your programmes, by the way. That’s
not
for me, I
trust
.”
    The parlour-maid had come in with a piece of paper on her tray. “For Dr. Otterly, madam,” she said.
    “
Now
, who the hell can be ill?” Dr. Otterly groaned and unfolded the paper.
    It was one of the old-fashioned printed bills that the Guiser sent out to his customers. Across it was written in shaky pencil characters:
     
    Cant mannage it young Ern will have to. W.A
.
     
    “There now!” Dr. Otterly exclaimed. “He
has
conked out.”
    “The Guiser!” cried the Rector.
    “The Guiser. I must see what’s to be done. Sorry, Dame Alice. We’ll manage, though. Don’t worry. Marvellous dinner. ‘Bye.”
    “Dear me!” the Rector said, “what
will
they do?”
    “Dan Andersen’s boy will come in as a Son,” Dulcie said. “I know that’s what they planned if it happened.”
    “And I ’spose,” Dame Alice added, “that idiot Ernie will dance the Fool. What a bore.”
    “Poor Ernie, yes. A catastrophe for them,” the Rector murmured.
    “Did I tell you, Sam, he killed one of my geese?”
    “We don’t know it was Ernie, Aunt Akky.”
    “Nobody else dotty enough. I’ll tackle ’em later. Come on,” Dame Alice said. “Get me bundled. We’d better go out.”
    Dulcie put her into coat after coat and shawl after shawl. Her feet were thrust into fur-lined boots, her hands into mitts and her head into an ancient woollen cap with a pom-pom on the top. Dulcie and the Rector hastily provided for themselves and finally the three of them went out through the front door to the steps.
    Here chairs had been placed with a brazier glowing in front of each. They sat down and were covered with rugs by the parlourmaid, who then retired to an upstairs room from which she could view the proceedings cozily.
    Their breath rose up in three columns. The onlookers below them were wreathed in mist. From the bonfire on the other side of the battlements smoke was blown into the courtyard and its