Final Curtain by Ngaio Marsh Page A

went in to wash them. The soap in the marble hand-basin was already stained with Rose Madder. ‘This is a mad-house,’ thought Troy.

    Sir Henry posed for an hour that afternoon. The next morning, Sunday, was marked by a massive attendance of the entire family (with Troy) at Ancreton church. In the afternoon, however, he gave her an hour. Troy had decided to go straight for the head. She had laid in a general scheme for her work, an exciting affair of wet shadows and sharp accents. This could be completed without him. She was painting well. The touch of flamboyancy that she had dreaded was absent. She had returned often to the play. Its threat of horror was now a factor in her approach to her work. She was strongly aware of that sense of a directive power which comes only when all is well with painters. With any luck, she thought, I’ll be able to say: ‘Did the fool that is me, make this?’
    At the fourth sitting, Sir Henry returning perhaps to some bygone performance, broke the silence by speaking without warning the lines she had many times read:
Light thickens, and the crow
    Makes wing to the rooky wood…
    He startled Troy so much that her hand jerked and she waited motionless until he had finished the speech, resenting the genuine twist of apprehension that had shaken her. She could find nothing to say in response to this unexpected and oddly impersonal performance, but she had the feeling that the old man knew very well how much it had moved her.
    After a moment she returned to her work and still it went well. Troy was a deliberate painter, but the head grew with almost frightening rapidity. In an hour she knew that she must not touch it again. She was suddenly exhausted. ‘I think we’ll stop for today,’ she said, and again felt that he was not surprised.
    Instead of going away, he came down into the front of the theatre and looked at what she had done. She had that feeling of gratitude to her subject that sometimes follows a sitting that has gone well, but she did not want him to speak of the portrait and began hurriedly to talk of Panty.
    â€˜She’s doing a most spirited painting of red cows and a green aeroplane.’
    â€˜T’uh!’ said Sir Henry on a melancholy note.
    â€˜She wants to show it to you herself.’
    â€˜I have been deeply hurt,’ said Sir Henry, ‘by Patricia. Deeply hurt.’
    â€˜Do you mean,’ said Troy uncomfortably, ‘because of something she’s supposed to have written on—on your looking-glass?’
    â€˜Supposed! The thing was flagrant. Not only that, but she opened the drawers of my dressing-table and pulled out my papers. I may tell you, that if she were capable of reading the two documents that she found there, she would perhaps feel some misgivings. I may tell you that they closely concerned herself, and that if there are any more of these damnable tricks—’ He paused and scowled portentously. ‘Well, we shall see. We shall see. Let her mother realize that I cannot endure for ever. And my cat!’ he exclaimed. ‘She has made a fool of my cat. There are still marks of grease-paint in his whiskers,’ said Sir Henry angrily. ‘Butter has not altogether removed them. As for the insult to me—’
    â€˜But I’m sure she didn’t. I was here when they scolded her about it. Honestly, I’m sure she knew nothing whatever about it.’
    â€˜T’uh!’
    â€˜No, but really—’ Should she say anything about the dark red stain under Cedric’s finger-nail? No, she’d meddled enough. She went on quickly: ‘Panty brags about her naughtiness. She’s told me about all her practical jokes. She never calls you grandfather and I happen to know she spells it “farther,” because she showed me a story she had written, and the word occurs frequently. I’m sure Panty’s too fond of you,’ Troy continued, wondering if she