Off With His Head. Ngaio Marsh

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?’

      ‘Andy Andersen’s boy will come in as a Son,’ Dulcie said. ‘I know that’s what they planned if it happened.’

      ‘And I s’pose,’ 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 cosily.

      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 lovely smell was mixed with the pungent odour of tar.

      The Mardian Dolmen stood darkly against the snow. Flanking it the torches flared boldly upon a scene which – almost of itself, one might have thought – had now acquired an air of disturbing authenticity.

      Dame Alice, with a wooden gesture of her muffled arm shouted: ‘Evenin’, everybody.’ From round the sides of the courtyard they all answered raggedly: ‘Evening. Evening, ma’am,’ dragging out the soft vowels.