Jumping Jenny Read Free

round his neck and a black mask pushed up on his forehead, and his hands were splashed with red. The two were discussing, in the way of doctors, some obscene innard belonging to one of their less fortunate patients, which Dr. Mitchell had been engaged that afternoon in yanking out. Beside them stood, angrily, a thin, dark lady. Roger recognised her as the Mrs. Maybrick with the leg-of-mutton sleeves who had been dancing with David Stratton.
    “Ah, Sheringham,” Dr. Chalmers greeted him. “We’re talking shop, I’m afraid.”
    “Do you ever talk anything else?” observed the thin, dark lady acidly.
    “Mr. Sheringham, my wife,” said Dr. Chalmers, with the greatest cheerfulness. “And this is Frank Mitchell; another of our local medicos.”
    Roger professed himself enchanted to meet Mrs. Chalmers and Dr. Mitchell.
    “But whom,” he added, scrutinising the latter’s bandanna and mask, “are you supposed to represent? I thought I had them all at my finger-tips, but I can’t place you. Are the two of you Brown and Kennedy?”
    “No, Jack the Ripper,” said Dr. Mitchell proudly. He displayed his red-splotched hands. “This is blood.”
    “Disgusting,” said Mrs. Chalmers-Maybrick.
    “I quite agree,” Roger said politely. “I much preferred your methods. You used arsenic, didn’t you? Or never used it, according to another school of thought.”
    “If I did, it’s a pity I used it all,” said Mrs. Chalmers, with a short laugh. “I might have saved some up, for a better purpose.”
    A little mystified, Roger produced a polite smile. The smile died away as he observed a significant glance pass between the two doctors: a glance which he could not quite interpret, but which seemed to convey a kind of mutual warning. In any case, both doctors immediately began to speak at once.
    “I suppose you don’t know many— Sorry, Frank.”
    “Talking of arsenic, I wonder if— Sorry, Phil.”
    There was an awkward pause.
    This is odd, thought Roger. What the devil is going on in this place?
    To fill up the pause he said: “And you still baffle me completely, Chalmers. You don’t seem to be made up as anyone at all.”
    “Phil never will dress up,” remarked Mrs. Chalmers resentfully.
    Dr. Chalmers, who appeared to have remarkable powers of blandly ignoring the observations of his wife, replied heartily:
    “I’m an undiscovered murderer. That’s out of compliment to you. I know it’s a theory of yours that the world’s full of them.”
    Roger laughed. “I don’t call that quite fair.”
    “And anyhow,” put in Mrs. Chalmers, “Philip couldn’t murder anyone to save his life.” She spoke as if this was an old grievance of hers.
    “Well, I’ll be an undiscovered doctor-murderer if you like,” said Dr. Chalmers, with complete equanimity. “I expect there are plenty of them about. Eh, Frank, my man?”
    “Sure to be,” agreed Dr. Mitchell with candour. “Hullo, is that the music stopping? I think I’ll …” He finished off his drink and strolled towards the ball room.
    “He’s only been married four months,” remarked Mrs. Chalmers tolerantly.
    “Ah,” said Roger. The three exchanged smiles, and Roger wondered why it should be amusing when a man has only been married four months. He could not quite see why, but undoubtedly it was. Roger decided that almost anything to do with marriage was either comedy or tragedy. It depended whether one was looking at it from the outside or the in.
    “Good gracious,” exclaimed Dr. Chalmers, “you haven’t got a drink, Sheringham. Ronald will never forgive me. What can I get you?”
    “Thanks,” Roger said. “I’ve been drinking beer.”
    He stood hopefully by, as one does when someone else is manipulating a bottle for our benefit. Watching, he could not help noticing the unhandy way in which Dr. Chalmers carried out that same manipulation. Instead of holding both bottle and tankard on a level with his chest in the usual way, he held them much lower;