The Skeleton in the Grass by Robert Barnard

stimulating to play with someone who has the will to win.”
    Inside the house the various festivities were going on with great zest and noise. Sarah looked in on the smallest guests, who were playing Happy Families, which was Chloe’s favourite game. In another room the Killingbeck girls were amassing huge sums of paper money at Monopoly, and in the study Waddy was doing his performance from Dickens.
    He was standing at a lectern, rather in the manner oflate photographs of the author himself, and performing with all the dreadful enthusiasm of the amateur actor.
    â€œÂ â€˜The African project at present employs my whole time,’ ” said Waddy, his eye fixed on some distant, unhealthy shore. Ah, so he was doing Mrs. Jellyby. At least Oliver had got the book right. “ ‘We hope by this time next year to have from a hundred and fifty to two hundred healthy families cultivating coffee and educating the natives of Borrioboola-Gha, on the left bank of the Niger.’ ”
    He had a little knot of listeners, for whom no doubt this was an annual treat, or tour of duty. Probably like most customs this one had become enjoyable after a time. Certainly Lady Wadham seemed to be loving it, and plenty of the others were laughing dutifully. Sarah stood in the doorway for about five minutes, then felt she could slip away.
    In the conservatory food had been set out. Most of the guests had been roped in for one game or another, but one or two had managed to resist. Sarah saw Dennis capture Elizabeth on her way from a game of Sardines, looking for another game to join. He was pressing her to some of the fare, and Sarah went over to join them.
    The food was less than inviting—but then nobody came to the Waddies for the food, Dennis said. It was, as Elizabeth had prophesied, nursery food, and like nursery food it was lukewarm. There was an awful preponderance of jellies and junkets and tinned fruit with cream, but if one really looked one could find Cornish pasties, cottage pie and macaroni cheese, all kept warm on chafers. Sarah took a dish of kidneys that would have been nice if it had not entirely lacked salt or pepper in the preparation. Dennis and Elizabeth were already deep in a typically Hallam discussion about why mad women wore ankle socks.
    â€œIt’s an observable phenomenon,” insisted Dennis. “And all over the country. Mad women wear socks in Scotland and Wales too.”
    â€œOh, absolutely,” agreed Elizabeth. “But does a taste for ankle socks drive you mad, or does madness somehow create a taste for ankle socks?”
    â€œAnd are all ankle-sock wearers mad, and do all mad women wear ankle socks?” contributed Sarah.
    â€œAh,” said Dennis. “Here we must go carefully. It was our respected hostess who raised the question in our minds. And personally I would contend that Josabeth—”
    â€œI could hardly believe that was her name,” said Sarah. “How unfortunate.”
    â€œYes, isn’t it? Her father was a church organist with a passion for Handel. The name comes from one of his lesser-known oratorios. Anyway, I would contend that Josabeth, though eccentric, is by no means mad. If we certify her, we would have to certify half the House of Lords.”
    â€œThat would make the debates much less entertaining,” agreed Elizabeth. “Certainly madness requires more than a scatterbrain. It requires obsession. Apropos of which, Sarah, did Major Coffey get hold of you again?”
    Sarah screwed up her face.
    â€œWe exchanged two words, unavoidably.”
    â€œWe evaporated when we saw him,” said Dennis. “It used to be our policy to be impeccably polite, if cool. I would find it difficult to keep to that, after all this.”
    â€œI must say I was surprised to see him here,” said Elizabeth. “Not at all the Waddies’ type. And what jolly game can one imagine him playing?”
    â€œHe seems to