"THE LAST WALTZ"


David J. Hussey.

"I see that Gringley Manor is up for sale again" I said to my friend Charlie, a retired police inspector, "And, by the way, what is that bottle of hair-dye-for-men doing in your bathroom?" I asked, coming out of said room.
Charlie looked embarrassed. "I only use it once a year," he muttered, "and then only for a couple of weeks and before you say anything else you had better reserve your judgement for later.
"When I heard that you were back in this country I figured that you would be the one to tell this strange tale too; hence the invitation to join me for the week-end." He paused for a moment and then, having gathered his thoughts together, continued. "By a strange coincidence, tonight is the night that I have to go up to the Manor to carry out a task for the late owner's solicitors. Perhaps you would like to come with me and I'll tell you all about it on the way." Of course I agreed as I had heard many stories before from Charlie and, from his manner, this sounded extra special.

As we travelled in his car he commenced his tale. "I attended," he said, "when I was a serving police officer, an investigation into a death at the Manor. It turned out to be the young daughter of Major Thompson, the then owner of the place. It was a very strange situation. I was surrounded by the family and their guests all dressed in costume. It had been a fancy dress party. Even the staff were dressed in period costume. Apparently the young girl had just collapsed in the middle of a dance. I was unable to find any suspicious circumstances and the inquest agreed that the death, though tragic, was caused by a heart attack. The Major didn't seem convinced by the verdict and kicked up the devil of a fuss, then and for years afterwards."

Charlie paused there as we drove up the drive of Gringley Manor. As we approached the front door I noticed that, although there had been a 'For Sale' sign at the end of the drive, there was obviously someone in residence as the house was a blaze of lights and the shadows of people dancing could be seen on the richly draped windows. I remarked on this to my friend as he drove past the front door and parked at the back of the property. "Now listen to me," he said, "and none of your smart-alecky comments about the trades-men's entrance being good enough for us." I put on my serious face and duly listened.
Charlie paused for a moment to light his pipe before continuing. "I asked you to come with me as I knew that you would be the only person likely to believe me. "Old Major Thompson," he resumed, "died three years ago and his solicitors contacted me. They told me that, in his will the Major had set a stipulation upon the sale of the house - as follows: On the anniversary of the death of his daughter the house should be vacated for one night by whoever owned it." I was about to comment on this but saw that Charlie was not going to brook interruptions. "The price put on the property was approximately half its value so moving out for one night seemed well worth the inconvenience," he continued, puffing at his pipe. "I became involved due to my being the investigating officer and the Major had apparently been impressed by my sympathetic manner."
My friend paused, giving me a suspicious glance, no doubt awaiting a sarcastic comment. I bit my tongue and he continued. "The solicitors told me that I was to be present on that night to protect the property and to see that nobody else came into the house. I assumed they meant the Press, as rumours had begun to circulate. There was to be a fee, of course." "Of course." I echoed, before I could stop myself. My friend ignored my interruption and continued.
"I have carried out those instructions for two years now and tonight is the third time and I don't mind telling you I was scared stiff both times."
" Oh, " I said with a laugh, "That explains the hair dye does it?" His expression choked off the laugh and I apologised. He continued his tale. "I don't know what you will think of this but, come on, we're going inside but I wish that I had never agreed to carry out this task."
The door was opened by a man dressed in period costume. This took me aback but Charlie greeted him solemnly. "Good evening Perkins (The butler. Goes with the house)" he muttered to me, "Is every thing all right?" "Yes sir." answered Perkins. "There is only myself present, as usual. The owners left yesterday." I looked puzzled. "But what about the,-- ouch!" I gasped, as Charlie's elbow poked into my ribs followed by his hand pushing me into the hall and up the wide curving staircase.
"Now just a minute!" I exclaimed when we were out of earshot of the butler. "I can hear an orchestra and voices." "I'm glad about that" said Charlie, "So can I; but Perkins seems oblivious to it, perhaps" he mused, "Because he was present on the night of the tragedy."
By this time we had reached the closed double doors to the upstairs lounge. From behind these doors came the sound of music and of people enjoying themselves.
"What happens now?" I asked. "Do we go in and join the guests, although I assume we are not dressed for the occasion?"
"There are no guests" said my friend "And," he said, silencing my comment with a raised hand. "We stay out here until the 'festivities' are over." I gazed at him in amazement. It was not like Charlie to forego the chance of free refreshment or a glass of punch which, I was sure awaited us behind the closed doors.
"Now look here!" I said, "What is the mystery? Why can't Perkins hear this music?"
"Because," said my friend uncomfortably, "there is no music, no guests, nothing. Now sit there like a good fellow whilst I have wander around the house to see that everything is secure. And, " he emphasised, "DON'T OPEN THE DOORS!"

I sat down quietly as requested and listened to the music coming from the other side of the double doors. Charlie seemed a long time so, ignoring his instructions, (and I defy anyone else to do otherwise), I gently opened the doors and stepped into the room.
The large gallery was full of people dancing to a waltz. I noticed a small orchestra at the far end of the room. The scene was of years' past. The opulence took my breath away. As I watched, one of the party, a young lady, suddenly cried out and collapsed to the floor. It was as I moved forward to help her that I noticed that the orchestra had ceased playing and that the dancers were staring, not at the fallen girl but at me. There was a murmuring from the crowd that became louder and, to my confused mind, menacing. I paused and stared at them grouped around me and started back in horror. The scene changed. The dancers gradually faded away and the murmurs became the sighing of the wind outside and the room, as I stared, was not the same room that I had observed a moment ago but a family lounge with tables and chairs and library books around the walls. For a moment I was rooted to the spot with terror and could feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end as I staggered outside to meet Charlie coming along the passage.
"I knew you couldn't resist it." he said. "Tell me what you saw."
After listening to my admittedly garbled account, he said, "Thank God! I began to think it was me. "You have described what I saw when I went into the room on my first visit, except," he said thoughtfully, for the menacing attitude of the dancers. Anyway," he went on briskly, "As the festivities are obviously over for another year, we can go home for a drink. You look as if you could do with one. And," he continued, "Before you ask, No! I can't explain it and, if you look in the mirror behind you, it looks as if you will have to borrow that hair dye of mine."