'Mr. Sheringham, my wife,' said Dr. Chalmers, with the greatest cheerfulness. 'And this is Frank Mitchell; another of our local medicos.'
Roger professed himself enchanted to meet Mrs. Chalmers and Dr. Mitchell.
'But whom,' he added, scrutinizing the latter's bandana and mask, 'are you supposed to represent? I thought I had them all at my fingertips, but I can't place you. Are the two of you Brown and Kennedy?'
'No, Jack the Ripper,' said Dr. Mitchell proudly. He displayed his red - splotched hands. 'This is blood.'
'Disgusting,' said Mrs. Chalmers - Maybrick.
'I quite agree,' Roger said politely. 'I much preferred your methods. You used arsenic, didn't you? Or never used it, according to another school of thought.'
'If I did, it's a pity I used it all,' said Mrs. Chalmers, with a short laugh. 'I might have saved some up for a better purpose.'
A little mystified, Roger produced a polite smile. The smile died away as he observed a significant glance pass between the two doctors: a glance which he could not quite interpret, but which seemed to convey a kind of mutual warning. In any case both doctors immediately began to speak at once.
'I suppose you don't know many - Sorry, Frank.'
'Talking of arsenic, I wonder if - Sorry, Phil.'
There was an awkward pause.
This is odd, thought Roger. What the devil is going on in this place?
To fill up the pause he said: 'And you still baffle me completely, Chalmers. You don't seem to be made up as anyone at all.'
'Phil never will dress up,' remarked Mrs. Chalmers resentfully.
Dr. Chalmers, who appeared to have remarkable powers of blandly ignoring the observations of his wife, replied heartily: 'I'm an undiscovered murderer. That's out of compliment to you. I know it's a theory of yours that the world's full of them.'
Roger laughed. 'I don't call that quite fair.'
'And anyhow,' put in Mrs. Chalmers, 'Philip couldn't murder anyone to save his life.' She spoke as if this were an old grievance of hers.
'Well, I'll be an undiscovered doctor - murderer if you like,' said Dr. Chalmers, with complete equanimity. 'I expect there are plenty of them about. Eh, Frank, my man?'
'Sure to be,' agreed Dr. Mitchell with candour. 'Hullo, is that the music stopping? I think I'll . . .' He finished off his drink and strolled towards the ballroom.
'He's only been married four months,' remarked Mrs. Chalmers tolerantly.
'Ah,' said Roger. The three exchanged smiles, and Roger wondered why it should be amusing when a man has only been married four months. He could not quite see why, but undoubtedly it was. Roger decided that almost anything to do with marriage was either comedy or tragedy. It depended whether one was looking at it from the outside or the in.
'Good gracious,' exclaimed Dr. Chalmers, 'you haven't got a drink, Sheringham. Ronald will never forgive me. What can I get you?'
'Thanks,' Roger said, 'I've been drinking beer.'
He stood hopefully by, as one does when someone else is manipulating a bottle for one's benefit. Watching, he could not help noticing the unhandy way in which Dr. Chalmers carried out that same manipulation. Instead of holding both bottle and tankard on a level with his chest in the usual way, he held them much lower; and after he had filled the latter, Roger noticed that he put down the tankard, which he had been holding in his right hand, and gave his left arm a jerk upwards with that hand before he could lift the bottle over the edge of the table. The disability was so obvious that Roger remarked on it.
'Thank you,' he said, taking the tankard. 'Got a bad arm?'
'Yes. A bit of trouble from the war, you know.'
'Philip had the whole of his left shoulder shot away,' said Philip's wife, in an annoyed way.
'Did you? That must be rather a nuisance to you, isn't it? I suppose you can't operate?'
'Oh, yes,' Dr. Chalmers said cheerfully. 'It doesn't bother me much, really. I can drive a car, and sail a yacht, and do a bit of flying when I can get off; and operate, of course. It's only the shoulder that's gone, you see. I can't raise my upper arm from the shoulder, but I can lift my forearm from the elbow. It might have been a lot worse.' He spoke quite naturally, and without any of the false embarrassment which seems to overtake most men when forced to speak of their war wounds.
'Rotten luck,' said Roger sincerely. 'Well, here's the best. Mrs. Chalmers, aren't you drinking anything?'
'Not Just yet, thank you. I don't want to make an exhibition of myself.'
'I'm sure you wouldn't do that,' said Roger, a little taken aback. The remark had seemed so pointed that it could only have been directed at himself, but he could not understand why Mrs. Chalmers should have thought it necessary to be so rude.
'No, and I don't intend to,' said Mrs. Chalmers grimly and looked fixedly in his direction.
The next moment Roger saw that she was not looking at him at all, but over his right shoulder. He turned round and followed her eyes. Several people had drifted in from the ballroom, and among them was Ronald Stratton's sister - in - law, the woman dressed as Mrs. Pearcey. It was on her that Mrs. Chalmers's gaze was fixed.
She was standing by the bar, in company with a youngish, tall man whom Roger had not yet met, and he was evidently asking her what she would like. 'I'll have a whiskey - and - soda, thanks,' she said, in a voice which was just loud enough to be a shade ostentatious. 'A large one. I feel like getting drunk tonight. After all, it's the only thing worth doing, really, isn't it?'
This time Roger joined in the significant glance which passed between Dr. and Mrs. Chalmers. He finished up his beer, made his excuses to the Chalmers, and went off to look for Ronald Stratton.
'I must meet that woman,' he said to himself, 'drunk or sober.'
Ronald was in the ballroom, twiddling with the wireless. The music to which they had been dancing had been provided by Konigswusterhausen, and Ronald had decided it was too heavy; something French was indicated.
Three persons were remonstrating with him, for no particular reason beyond the strange prejudice most people have against seeing the owner of a large wireless set twiddling its knobs. One of them Roger knew to be Ronald's sister, Celia Stratton, a tall girl, picturesquely dressed as eighteenth - century Mary Blandy; the other two were Crippen and a small woman dressed as a boy who was not difficult to recognize as Miss Le Neve.
A piercing soprano voice shot out from the wireless in one momentary shriek, instantly cut off, but not quickly enough for the manipulator's critics.
'Leave it alone, Ronald,' begged Miss Stratton.
'It was perfectly all right as it was,' reinforced Miss Le Neve.
'It's a funny thing,' pronounced Dr. Crippen with some weight, as one who has given considerable thought to the point, 'that people who have a wireless can't leave it alone for more than two seconds at a time.'
'Blah,' said Ronald and continued to twiddle the knob. A burst of jazz music rewarded him. 'There!' he said with pride. 'That's a great deal better.'
'It isn't a bit better,' his sister contradicted.
'It's worse,' opined Miss Le Neve.
'It's rotten,' Dr. Crippen supported her. 'Where is it?'
'Konigswusterhausen,' replied Ronald blandly, and with a wink at Roger walked quickly away.
Before the latter could follow him, a question from Celia Stratton took his opportunity away. Did he know Mr. and Mrs. Williamson? Roger had to admit that he did not know Mr. and Mrs. Williamson. Dr. Crippen and Miss Le Neve were made acquainted with him under that title. Roger politely expressed admiration of their disguises.
'Osbert only had to put on a pair of gold - rimmed glasses,' volunteered Mrs. Williamson. 'He's just like Crippen, isn't he, Mr. Sheringham?'
'How unsafe you must feel, Lilian,' said Celia Stratton.
'Can you wonder I want to leave the studio and get a place with a few more rooms? If the fit came on him there, I could never get away in time.'
'You know perfectly well, Lilian,' remonstrated her husband, 'that you only wanted me to be Crippen so that you could be Miss Le Neve. Lilian never loses a chance of getting into trousers,' explained Mr. Williamson with
