Overture to Death by Ngaio Marsh

glad to hear that this old friend will be given an honourable place in the small recreation room at the back of the stage.”
    Sentimental applause.
    “I have one other announcement. You will see on your programmes that Miss Prentice of Pen Cuckoo, in addition to taking a part, was to play the overture and entr’acte this evening. I am sorry to say that Miss Prentice has — ah — has — ah — an injured finger which has given — and I am sorry to say is still giving her — a great deal of pain. Miss Prentice, with her customary pluck and unselfishness”—Mr. Copeland paused hopefully and was awarded a tentative outbreak of clapping—“was anxious not to disappoint us and was prepared, up to a minute or two ago, to play the piano. However, as she has an important rôle to fill later on in the evening, and as her hand is really not fit, she— ah — Dr. Templett has — ah — has taken matters in hand and ordered her not to — to play.”
    The rector paused again while the audience wondered if it should applaud Dr. Templett’s efficiency, but decided that, on the whole, it had better not.
    “Now, although you will be disappointed and will sympathize, I am sure, with Miss Prentice, we all know we mustn’t disobey doctor’s orders. I am happy to say that we shall still have our music — and very good music, too. Miss Idris Campanula, at literally a moment’s notice, has consented to play for us. Now, I think this is particularly generous and sporting of Miss Campanula, and I’ll ask you all to show your appreciation in a really — ”
    Deafening applause.
    “Miss Campanula,” ended Mr. Copeland, “will play Rachmaninoff’s ‘Prelude in C Sharp Minor.’ Miss Campanula.”
    He led her from the wings, handed her down the steps to the piano, and returned to the stage through the side curtains.
    It was wonderful to see Idris Campanula acknowledge the applause with an austere bend, smile more intimately at the rector, descend the steps carefully and, with her back to the aisle, seat herself at the instrument. It was wonderful to see her remove the “Venetian Suite,” and place her famous Prelude on the music rack, open it with a masterly flip, deal it a jocular slap, and then draw out her pince-nez from the tucked silk bosom that so closely resembled the tucked silk bosom of the instrument. Miss Campanula and the old piano seemed to face each other with an air of understanding and affinity. Miss Campanula’s back hollowed as she drew up her bosom until it perched on the top of her stays. She leant forward until her nose was within three inches of the music, and she held her left hand poised over the bass. Down it came.
    Pom.
Pom
. POM.
    The three familiar pretentious chords.
    Miss Campanula paused, lifted her big left foot and planked it down on the soft pedal.
     
    ii
    The air was blown into splinters of atrocious clamour. For a second nothing existed but noise — hard racketing noise. The hall, suddenly thick with dust, was also thick with a cloud of intolerable sound. And, as the dust fell, so the pandemonium abated and separated into recognisable sources. Women were screaming. Chair legs scraped the floor, branches of ever-greens fell from the walls, the piano hummed like a gigantic top.
    Miss Campanula fell forward. Her face slid down the sheet of music, which stuck to it. Very slowly and stealthily she slipped sideways to the keys of the piano, striking a final discord in the bass. She remained there, quite still, in a posture that seemed to parody the antics of an affected virtuoso. She was dead.
     
    iii
    Lady Appleby in her chair by the piano turned to her husband as if to ask him a question and fainted.
    Georgie Biggins screamed like a whistle.
    The rector came through the curtain and ran down the steps to the piano. He looked at that figure leaning on the keys, wrung his hands and faced the audience. His lips moved, but he could not be heard.
    Dinah came out of the prompt corner and stood