The Skeleton in the Grass by Robert Barnard Page A

be here as Simon Killingbeck’s friend,” said Sarah. “He stood watching us play croquet, but he didn’t join in.”
    â€œHave you been playing croquet with the Young Master?” asked Elizabeth, eyebrows raised. “And did he cheat?”
    â€œHe did.”
    â€œHe always does. That’s why we never have the Waddiesover while he’s at home. It’s worst in his own home, because you can’t say anything.”
    â€œIt seems so unnecessary,” said Sarah. “He made no effort to get the best players in his team.”
    â€œYou miss the point. If he won, it would merely prove that he was better at croquet. If he wins by cheating it proves that he is cleverer than everybody else. Oliver has declined to play with him for years, and so has Will. They refuse to turn a blind eye to it, and have terrific rows with him . . . Where is Oliver, by the way?”
    â€œHaven’t seen him for ages,” said Dennis. “He went in with Chloe to start the young ones off, but since then I haven’t seen him. There are so many damned games in so many damned rooms, he could be anywhere.”
    â€œYou could hide yourself for Sardines and not be found for months,” agreed Elizabeth. “I was afraid I’d have to come out, and it’d be a bit like waving the white flag. Oh well, I suppose we’d better get back to the fray. Come on, Aged P.”
    â€œActually,” said Dennis, “I’m going to see if there is a little tiny room somewhere that is not devoted to board games or card games or ping-pong or billiards. I have a piece to do on D. H. Lawrence and Women, for the Sunday after next. I’m going to curl up with Frieda Lawrence, though I don’t think I should like to in real life. Not I, but the Wind. Have you ever heard a sillier title? It sounds like an apology for belching.”
    So Dennis went off in search of a bolt-hole, and Sarah and Elizabeth went in search of some other game to join. They were drawn towards ping-pong, but when they went in the direction of the appropriate sounds, they found that Simon Killingbeck had taken over the table, and was directing a tournament he was surely destined to win. They retreated upstairs, and found themselves welcomed into a game of Murder. All the nicest people in the county wereinvolved, Elizabeth whispered, and it certainly seemed that the game attracted a pleasant type.
    â€œI love murder, don’t you?” said Winifred Hallam to Sarah. They were waiting around for the next game to start. “I mean detective stories. Mostyn is awful, he says he never guesses them, and sticks with John Buchan and Dornford Yates. But not guessing the murderer is part of the fun, isn’t it? Have you read The ABC Murders? It’s pure heaven, and quite impossible to guess. Actually, I don’t like the game of Murder quite as much . . .”
    Nor, when it came to playing, did Sarah. Probably she would have done, had it not been for the recent incidents. They had made her jumpy—was someone doing something nasty in her vicinity, was she being watched? Murder in an old house rather increased the jumpiness. Mostyn Hallam was the sort of man who entered with an avuncular zest into games of this sort. “Ho-ho,” he would say as he strangled someone, “I’ve wanted to do this for years.” Or if he was not the murderer he would enjoy the girls’ squeals if he brushed up against them in the dark in a way that Sarah wondered a little about. They only used the first and second floors of Beecham Park, since the ground floor was entirely given over to the various games, but still there was ample area to give Sarah at times a nasty feeling of eeriness, abandon, or—worse—the feeling that she had thought she was alone, but now realized she was not.
    All in all Sarah was rather glad when they had finished with it.
    â€œOh dear,” said Winifred, mopping