“I must meet your husband,” said Hitchcock.
“Horatio is not here. He abhors parties. He especially abhors Rufus’ parties. In fact, he thoroughly detests Rufus.” She leaned into him conspiratorially. “I’m sure you know all about Rufus and the scandal that brought him down.”
“I’ve heard rumors,” replied Hitchcock blandly.
“Horatio says the Derwent family motto should be ‘Dishonor Before Death.’ Quite outspoken, my Horatio. Undoubtedly busy with his hobby.”
“Which is?”
“Butterflies. And what do you do?”
“I don’t have hobbies.”
“I mean professionally, you silly.” She poked him with the crook, which she maneuvered with the ease of a conductor wielding a baton.
And now, decided Hitchcock, for the moment of truth. “I direct films.”
“Moving pictures?” She looked as though she had just found her straying sheep.
“Talkies.”
“What did you say your name was?” Hitchcock decided if she came any closer, she’d soon be behind him.
“I only told you my first name, which is Alfred. The entire name is Alfred Hitchcock. Have you heard of me?”
“I most certainly have! You’ve rejected all of my novels for filming! You terrible man, you!”
“You mustn’t blame me. You must blame my readers.” You must blame Alma, who in my estimation will be forever blameless.
“Perhaps you’ll like my new one. It’s coming off the press next month. It’s about a girl in distress who takes a job as a tutor to a young girl who resides in a strange Victorian gothic mansion near the moors with her father who’s named Portchester, and what the girl tutor whose name is Janette doesn’t know is that Portchester’s mad wife is kept chained up in the attic behind an iron door administered to by a faithful woman servant who it turns out is as deranged as she is and—how does that strike you?” She paused to take a breath while waiting for Hitchcock to digest the thumbnail plot she’d just recited.
“It strikes me with a feeling of deja vu,” said Hitchcock solemnly.
“In what sense deja vu?” The challenge in her voice was ominous.
“My dear woman” said Hitchcock, wondering if perhaps she’d been having him on, “you have just told me the plot of Jane Eyre!”
Her face screwed up unpleasantly. “Jane Who? My book is titled Janette in Jeopardy. I see you’re not interested in this one either. How can a person of such poor judgment succeed in the film business? I suppose you married into it. You’ll excuse me. I think I see my lover beckoning.”
She swept past him with a snort of indignation, and Hitchcock watched her heading toward an Adolf Hitler who appeared to be mesmerizing her with his index finger.
“Quite tiresome, isn’t she?” The voice belonged to a woman of breeding.
Hitchcock turned and confronted the Empress Josephine. He assumed it was Josephine, as opposed to Eugenie or Carlotta, because at her side stood Napoleon Bonaparte. Neither of them wore a mask and both were quite elderly, albeit handsome. “Do forgive us. We couldn’t help overhearing you. Angelica’s voice could fell an oak. How do you do, Mr. Hitchcock? What brings you to Harborshire?” The Empress Josephine favored him with a whimsical smile.
“I’m looking for a gentleman who is missing a part of the little finger of his left hand.”
Napoleon raised his left hand. “You mean like mine?”
“How do you do, Sir Rufus?” He turned to the Empress Josephine. “And this, I assume, is Lady Miranda?” She nodded her head. “And the object prodding my stomach I gather is a gun.”
“A very small gun,” said Sir Rufus. “It’s been in the family for years, handed down from generation to generation, like a recipe for mince pie.”
The orchestra was playing “The Very Thought of You,” and Hitchcock was thinking of Alma and Patricia and then briefly of Herbert Grieban. In an amazingly controlled voice, he said, “Surely you don’t intend to shoot me here.”
“Good heavens, no!” exclaimed Lady Miranda. “I’ve just had the floors polished. Kindly precede us into the hallway. I assure you, it is to your benefit to make no fuss. We have many friends here.”
“Most of them, I assume, impersonating Mr. Hitler/’
“Aren’t you clever? Rufus, isn’t Mr. Hitchcock clever?”
“Oh, indeed. I wish he was batting his wicket for us instead of the opposition.” He prodded Hitchcock with the gun. Hitchcock turned and slowly made his way through the guests toward the hall, Rufus and Miranda directly behind him.
“Daddy? Mummy? Where are you off to?” They were joined by Shirley Temple holding an oversized lollipop that she occasionally licked obscenely. Her curls hung down in tired tassels, and her candy-striped little girls’ dress revealed a pair of incredibly shapely legs.
“We were just going upstairs to our rooms for a quiet chat, darling,” said Lady Miranda. “Do keep an eye on the party for us.”
“Hello,” said the woman to Hitchcock, “I’ve seen your face somewhere.” The bulb lit. “I know! In Picturegoer magazine! You’re a film director!”
“I am Alfred Hitchcock,” he announced, prudently refraining from adding he was in a spot of trouble.
“Oh, yes, the thriller person. I’m their daughter, Violet Pack.”
“How do you do, Miss Pack.”
“It’s Mrs. Pack, though God knows I wish it wasn’t. What’s that you’ve got there, Daddy?” She saw the gun. “Oh. Well, then, I’ll see to the guests.” She danced away, licking her lollipop, and Sir Rufus nudged Hitchcock with the gun. Arriving in the hallway, Lady Miranda signaled to a footman, and as Hitchcock led the way up the stairs, she gave some instructions to the footman that Hitchcock did not overhear. Then Lady Miranda joined Hitchcock and her husband, gently lifting her skirt so as not to trip on it as she ascended.
At the head of the stairs, Sir Rufus directed Hitchcock to his left. “There, on your right, the
