Frequent Hearses by Edmund Crispin

can’t remember how she made out later. By midnight,” said Miss Cecil, pleased, “the males had got their sexual steam up, and us girls were being bounced from hand to hand like a lot of beachballs… So we none of us had much time to watch what the others were doing. It really was a lovely party,” she concluded in heartfelt tones.
    And this seemed to be the general opinion; people had been so busy enjoying themselves that they had had no attention to spare for Gloria Scott, and although it was agreed that she had not seemed at all in a suicidal frame of mind, there emerged nothing more substantial concerning her than the information Caroline Cecil had already given. Had she run amok, with a bread-knife—thought Humbleby gloomily—the occurrence might have been noted and remembered; but any nuance of behaviour subtler than that had been doomed by the circumstances to be swept permanently out of recollection the instant after it happened.
    “And when did she leave?” he asked.
    She had been the last to go, Nicholas Crane said. A small diehard contingent which included Medesco, Caroline Cecil and Evan George had made their farewells and clattered downstairs into the street, and Gloria Scott had remained behind for a minute or two, alone in the flat, with her host.
    “Why was that?” said Humbleby.
    “She wanted to talk about her part in The Unfortunate Lady. Getting it had rather gone to her head. I shooed her away as soon as I possibly could. Films are just work as far as I’m concerned, and when I’m not actually doing that work I like to forget about it.”
    “And you didn’t upset her in any way?”
    “Good heavens, no. She went off quite happily to join the others, who were still hanging about chatting on the pavement. That was about two in the morning, I fancy.”
    “And you others—did you find her cheerful when she came out of the flat and joined you?”
    Medesco sniffed. “We didn’t have time to notice, my dear man,” he growled. “She picked up Evan George in a single comprehensive movement and trotted away with him towards Piccadilly… ‘You’ll take me home, won’t you, Mr. George?’” Medesco mimicked. “And pouf!—they’d gone.”
    Humbleby turned to that novelist, who was slightly flushed with embarrassment. “Did you know her well, then, sir?”
    “I never set eyes on her before the party,” said George hurriedly. “It’s quite true—you can ask anyone.” He looked round for support. “She’d—well, she’d been making up to me a bit during the evening. I don’t know why, I’m sure,” he said apologetically, “because there were plenty of younger men about… Anyway, it’s true that she asked me to take her home. We went off to try and find a taxi.”
    “And what did you talk about while you were finding it?”
    George looked blank as he struggled to remember. “Oh, anything and everything,” he said at last with exacerbating vagueness. “The party. The film—I told her a bit about what had been going on at script conferences. Oh, and just people. The trouble is,” he said uncomfortably, “that I was a bit under the weather… But she didn’t look to me as if she was going to commit suicide, and I’m sure I can’t have said anything to upset her. Damn it, I scarcely knew the girl.”
    “And in the end you didn’t take her home?”
    “No, I didn’t. I was quite liking the prospect, I tell you that frankly, but when we got to the Piccadilly end of Half Moon Street she suddenly flared up at something I said.”
    “What was that?”
    “Well, it was about Miss Crane.” George cleared his throat uneasily and flushed again. “I just happened to mention how much I admired her looks.” Miss Crane, at this, smiled a little smile which combined in very masterly fashion diffidence, gratitude and overweening sadness at her brother’s death. “Obviously that was a mistake, because Miss Scott said something like: ‘Oh, for God’s sake, must you talk about