Uphill work as it had been, there was some slight thawing of the frost. When Moira suggested charades, no one except Mr. Tote absolutely refused to play. There was no doubt that the suggestion came from Moira. Everyone was to be clear about that, and that it was Leonard Carroll who violently objected to a charade, as he said that to drive totally incompetent amateurs through one scene would endanger his sanity, but that to attempt three would certainly wreck it, so he wasn’t prepared to go beyond doing a proverb. Whereupon Moira cut in with an “All right, you pick up for one side, and Greg for the other.” And Leonard Carroll put an arm round her shoulders and sang in his high, dry tenor, “You are my first, my only choice!” To which she replied with a short laugh, “You’ll have to take your share, darling. You can’t land Greg with all the rest.”
Gregory at once picked Martin Oakley, thus making it practically certain that Linnet would fall into the other camp.
In the end the party to go out under Leonard Carroll consisted of Mrs. Oakley, Moira, Mr. Masterman, and Mrs. Tote, while Gregory remained in the drawing-room with Miss Masterman, Dorinda, Martin Oakley, and Justin Leigh, Mr. Tote continuing to sit in a large armchair and smoke with an air of having nothing to do with the proceedings. His wife threw him rather an odd look as she left the room. There was apprehension in it, and something like reproof. It is all very well to be angry, but you needn’t forget your manners, and Albert was old enough to know when he’d had as much drink as he could carry. A couple of cocktails, and all that champagne, and goodness knew how much port wine-no wonder he didn’t feel like playing games. Well, no more did she, if it came to that. Games were for young people, and a pretty sight to see them enjoying themselves. They’d always had a Christmas party for Allie. Pretty as a picture she’d look with her fair hair floating.
It was just as the party reached the hall that the butler crossed it on his way to fetch the coffee-tray. He came back with it in a moment, a thin, narrow-shouldered man with a face which reminded Mrs. Tote of a monkey. Something about the way the eyes were set and the way his cheeks fell in. It was the first time she had noticed him. She did so now with pleasurable recollections of taking Allie to the Zoo and seeing the chimpanzees have their tea.
One of the drawbacks to games of the charade type is that half the company is consigned to a long, dull wait, whilst the other half has all the amusement of dressing up and quarrelling over what they are going to act. Leonard Carroll made it perfectly clear that he was going to have the star part, and that the others were only there to do what they were told. He was going to be the devil. Moira was to be a nun- “Go and get a sheet and two towels.” Mr. Masterman was to wear a long black cloak- “There’s one hanging up in the lobby.” Mrs. Tote a mackintosh and the largest man’s hat she could lay hands on. Mrs. Oakley could stay as she was. If she liked to take some of the flowers off the dinner-table and make herself a wreath she could. “And remember, everything’s going to depend on the timing, so if anyone doesn’t do what he’s told, off to hell he goes in my burning claws! Oh, and we’ll have to do it out here.”
He opened the drawing-room door abruptly and addressed the group inside.
“We’re doing it out here. Auditorium round the fire, nice and warm. Masterman will let you know when we’re ready.”
Inside the drawing-room Miss Masterman and Mr. Tote sat silent and the others talked. Dorinda found herself admiring the Uncle’s flow of bonhomie. It really was quite easy to be amused and to join in. Perhaps the fact that Justin had come over to sit on the arm of her chair made it easier than it would have been if he had been out in the hall with Moira Lane. But of course Mr. Carroll wouldn’t want him there. He admired Moira himself.
Mr. Carroll was a fast worker. It was certainly not more than ten minutes before the door opened and Mr. Masterman beckoned to them with an arm shrouded in black drapery.
Coming out of the brightly lighted room, the hall seemed dark. The glow had gone from the fire. All the lights had been extinguished except a small reading-lamp. It stood on the stone mantelpiece, its tilted shade covered and prolonged by thick brown paper in such a manner as to throw one bright beam across the hall. It fell slantingly and made a pool of light between the foot of the stair and a massive oak table placed against its panelled side. All beyond this was shadowy, the stair itself, the space around it, the back of the hall-degrees of darkness receding into total gloom.
Masterman piloted them to the hearth, around which chairs had been assembled, placed on a slant to face the stairway and the back of the hall. A point on which everyone afterwards, seemed uncertain was whether Mr. Tote had taken his place among the rest. No one could declare that he had, and no one was prepared to say that he had not.
From somewhere above their heads a high, floating voice said, “The curtain rises,” and down the length of the stair came a movement of shadowy forms, becoming more distinct as they came nearer to the pool of light, entering it and passing out of it again into the deeper shade beyond. Masterman first, really an effective figure in his black cloak, always the most macabre of garments, and a bandage, white and ghastly, blinding one eye and blotting out half his face. After him Mrs. Tote, bent double over a crotched stick, her grey satin and diamonds hidden by an old stained waterproof, her head lost in a battered wide-brimmed hat. She passed out of the light, and Linnet Oakley took her place-a dazzle of rose and silver, flowers in her hair, flowers in her hands. She had been told to smile, but as she stepped into the lighted space she was suddenly afraid. Her lips parted, her eyes stared. She stood for a moment as if she was waiting for something to happen, and then with a visible shudder went on into the dark. The tall white nun who followed her was Moira Lane. She walked with eyes cast down and a string of beads between her hands. Then full in the beam of light, the eyelids lifted, the head turned, the eyes looked back over her shoulder.
She passed on. At the moment she came level with the oak table something moved on the stair above her and the single light went out, leaving the hall quite black. Upon this blackness there appeared the luminous shape of a face, two jutting horns, two luminous thrusting hands. They were high up-they were lower-they came swooping down. Moira’s scream rang in the rafters, and was followed by a horrid chuckling laugh.
She did not scream again when Len Carroll caught her about the shoulders and brought his crooked mouth down hard upon her own, but she very nearly made her thumb and forefinger meet in the flesh of his under arm.
When Mr. Masterman switched on all the lights the devil was back on the table from which he had swooped, a dark pullover hiding his shirt, and a daubed paper mask dangling from his hand. The horns were paper too. They stuck out jauntily above a face which for the moment really did look devilish. The audience clapped, and Gregory called out, “Bravo, my dear fellow! First-class! But we’ve guessed your proverb-‘The devil takes the hindmost.’ ”
Leonard Carroll waved a hand whitened with paint and came down from the table in an agile leap.
“Your turn now,” he said. “I must go and get this stuff off, or it will be all over the place.” He came forward as he spoke.
Everyone was to be asked about how near he was to Gregory Porlock. The evidence on this point presents a good deal of confusion. There is general agreement that he joined the group by the fire, spoke to one or two people, was congratulated on the success of the charade, and then turned away and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Where the evidence fails is on the point of any direct contact with Gregory. When he was asked why he didn’t wash in the downstair cloakroom he had his answer ready-he had to get rid of the pullover and resume the dinner-jacket which he had left in his room.