Free Final Curtain by Ngaio Marsh

looked down at her. Behind him, Troy saw in fancy a young Henry Ancred bending his gaze upon the women in his heyday and imagined how pleasurably they must have melted before it. ‘Delighted,’ he repeated, and his voice underlined adroitly his pleasure not only in her arrival but in her looks. ‘Hold your horses, chaps,’ thought Troy and removed her hand. ‘I hope you continue of that mind,’ she said politely.
    Sir Henry bowed. ‘I believe I shall,’ he said. ‘I believe I shall.’ She was to learn that he had a habit of repeating himself.
    Paul had moved a chair forward. Sir Henry sat in it facing the fire, with the guest and family disposed in arcs on either side of him.
    He crossed his knees and rested his left forearm along the arm of his chair, letting his beautifully kept hand dangle elegantly. It was a sort of Charles II pose, and, in lieu of the traditional spaniel, the white cat leapt gracefully on his lap, kneaded it briefly and reclined there.
    â€˜Ah, Carabbas!’ said Sir Henry, and stroked it, looking graciously awhile upon his family and guest. ‘This is pleasant,’ he said, including them in a beautiful gesture. For a moment his gaze rested on Miss Orrincourt’s bosom. ‘Charming,’ he said. ‘A conversation piece. Ah! A glass of sherry.’
    Paul and Fenella dispensed the sherry, which was extremely good. Rather elaborate conversation was made, Sir Henry conducting it with the air of giving an audition. ‘But I thought,’ he said, ‘that Cedric was to join us. Didn’t you tell me, Millamant—’
    â€˜I’m so sorry he’s late, Papa,’ said Millamant. ‘He had an important letter to write, I know. I think perhaps he didn’t hear the gong.’
    â€˜Indeed? Where have you put him?’
    â€˜In Garrick , Papa.’
    â€˜Then he certainly must have heard the gong.’
    Barker came in and announced dinner.
    â€˜We shall not, I think, wait for Cedric,’ Sir Henry continued. He removed the cat, Carabbas, from his knees and rose. His family rose with him. ‘Mrs Alleyn, may I have the pleasure of taking you in?’ he said.
    â€˜It’s a pity,’ Troy thought as she took the arm he curved for her, ‘that there isn’t an orchestra.’ And as if she had recaptured the lines from some drawing-room comedy of her childhood, she made processional conversation as they moved towards the door. Before they reached it, however, there was a sound of running footsteps in the hall. Cedric, flushed with exertion and wearing a white flower in his dinner-jacket, darted into the room.
    â€˜Dearest Grandpapa,’ he cried, waving his hands, ‘I creep, I grovel. So sorry, truly. Couldn’t be more contrite. Find me some sackcloth and ashes somebody, quickly.’
    â€˜Good evening, Cedric,’ said Sir Henry icily. ‘You must make your apologies to Mrs Alleyn, who will perhaps be very kind and forgive you.’
    Troy smiled like a duchess at Cedric and inwardly grinned like a Cheshire cat at herself.
    â€˜Too heavenly of you,’ said Cedric quickly. He slipped in behind them. The procession had splayed out a little on his entrance. He came face to face with Miss Orrincourt. Troy heard him give a curious, half-articulate exclamation. It sounded involuntary and unaffected. This was so unusual from Cedric that Troy turned to look at him. His small mouth was open. His pale eyes stared blankly at the diamond star on Miss Orrincourt’s bosom, and then turned incredulously from one member of his family to another.
    â€˜But’—he stammered—‘but, I say—I say.’
    â€˜Cedric,’ whispered his mother.
    â€˜Cedric,’ said his grandfather imperatively.
    But Cedric, still speaking in that strangely natural voice, pointed a white finger at the diamond star and said loudly: ‘But, my God, it’s Great-Great-Grandmama