Disclaimers: as before.

Dinner was at eight, but most people were 'fashionably' late. Among the tardy were Sydney and, more disturbingly for the rest of the staff, Pansy.

The latter's absence was particularly annoying for Nigel, as he was co-opted onto the waiting staff to replace her. Previously, he had just been allotted the task of pouring the wine and answering simple questions about the plotline of the murder mystery. He still didn't know who was going to 'do it,' but he was allowed to let on that a pantry maid had recently been fired, and that mysterious strangers had been seen in the castle after dark. None of this he relished, but he knew he could just about cope. He wasn't so sure about delivering the food.

At ten past eight, the room was filled with twenty guests, more overpaid and under-worked pleasure seekers having arrived while Sydney and Nigel were investigating the stables. There was still no sign of Sydney, Pansy or, indeed, of a genial host.

The Baron on the other hand, was making his presence very well known. The star of the now-cancelled 'Scorch Valley Sirens,' had little interest in entering into character for the party, even though everyone had been told that after the dinner, things would start to 'happen'. Ever the 'star', the Baron was regaling whoever would listen about two films which he had 'in the pipeline:' a NYPD thriller, and a supernatural science-fiction romance set on a recently declassified planet, which he assured everyone would 'change the way the world thought about Peter Morrison.'

'Its going to take more than a lousy sci-fi flick to make anybody think he's more than a washed-up, has-been,' whispered Moira to Nigel. 'He's got more wrinkles than the prune pudding!' Nigel laughed, and proceeded to serve bread rolls to the opposite end of the table to the Baron. Fortunately, Tabatha was hoping for a part in the new movie, and announced she was going to be doing all of the Baron's waitressing. Unfortunately for Nigel, however, 'Miss Miranda Macduff' was at his end of the table, and was making him very nervous.

She said she 'just worshipped him' in his waiters' outfit, which was, he conceded, mildly less degrading than his earlier apparel. It consisted of some conventional, although very tight-fitting, black trousers, a plain white shirt and a fairly silly tartan bow tie. As requested, he had slicked back his hair with some nasty cheap hair gel that his employers provided. Miss Macduff liked that, too.

Disaster first struck as he was leaning over her to serve a bread roll to her neighbour, Colonel Milford. Miss Macduff observed that the 'material in your slacks looks really soft and pliable.' To test the theory she stuck her hand in his pocket.

Nigel let out a small cry of alarm, and the bread roll twanged out of its metal servers and flew across the table, knocking over a still-empty wine glass. The colonel grumbled into his moustache and called Nigel a 'clumsy oaf,' while he apologised profusely. Lucy Milford smiled at him sympathetically. She had obviously been grumbled at through the moustache many times. From opposite, Lucy could also see that Miss Macduff was still fondling the trouser material at the top of Nigel's thigh.

After that, Nigel's table service went rapidly downhill. He didn't seem to be able to hold anything steady, and the melon and grapefruit towers all tumbled into unseemly piles before they reached the table. It didn't help that Moira and Tabatha were both consummate professionals: they had both been out-of-work actresses for some time. He was on the verge of simply running away to find where Sydney was, when the professor finally arrived. She burst through the doors in an abrupt fashion that caused conversation in the room to cease for a second.

As ever, she looked stunning. She was wearing a black evening dress, which hung off-the-shoulder on one side. It reminded Nigel of the one that Joan Fontaine wore in the 1940s film Rebecca, when she was trying to be more like her glamorous predecessor, the first Mrs. de Winter. Nevertheless, Sydney was far from immaculately groomed. Several strands of her hair had fallen from a once-neat bun on the back of her head. She was holding her stilettos in her hand, her feet still clad in a pair of solid boots. She was also slightly out of breath. Realising the eyes of the room were upon her, she smiled as naturally she could.

'I've been for walk. It's so lovely out there that I forgot the time. Silly me!'

The guests looked puzzled - it sounded like there was a force ten gale blowing outside and it was pelting it down with rain - but they soon returned to their melon starters. Sydney took her place at the table, and then gestured wildly at Nigel with her eyes for him to come over.

He came over, bringing the basket of the accursed bread rolls. 'Would you like a bread roll, ma'am?'

'Love one.' She grabbed his trouser pocket as he leant over to serve, pulling him in close.

'I wish people would stop doing that,' thought Nigel, although he certainly preferred it being Syd to anyone else. 'What is it?' he hissed.

'I found it! The statue!' whispered Sydney, urgently. 'There's a secret passage in the library leading to some sort of temple... I couldn't reach it, though. It was protected by traps. There was some sort of inscription, which I thought would show me how to get at it, but it was too dark to read. From what I made out, it was in Greek. Then the door started to shut behind me and I barely escaped in time.'

'Nigel! Honey!' Miss Macduff's salacious accents came wafting across the room. 'We'd love some wine over here, darling.'

'We certainly would, man,' thundered Colonel Milford. 'What the devil are you up to?'

'Coming!' smiled Nigel, through gritted teeth. He sounded oddly like Basil Fawlty.

'We'll go back after dark,' said Sydney quickly, as Nigel reluctantly tore himself away from her grip.

……………

Pansy finally flounced in just as the main dish was being served. Despite the disapproval of the other waitresses, and some angry shouting in the kitchen by Mr. and Mrs. Bob, she was unperturbed by either her lateness or her colleagues ire. She made no apology, but took over Nigel's waiting duties, leaving him to take over wine responsibilities for the whole table.

This, of course, meant he had to venture up the end of the table where the Baron was holding court. The said 'great man' was disturbingly pleased to see him.

'Hey, buddy!' he cried enthusiastically, as Nigel approached as inconspicuously as possible with a bottle of fine Bordeaux.

'Good evening,' said Nigel, with a waiters' unfamiliarity. 'Wine, Madam?' It would only be correct to serve the ladies first.

Eventually, though, he had to serve the Baron. 'Are you on the Bordeaux or the Chianti?'

'Chianti, Nigel, I prefer the Chianti. It goes so much better with the dish.' The Baron leant intimately towards Nigel.

'Do you have any fava beans? I like them with my flesh,' announced the Baron in a theatrical whisper that was clearly intended for an audience. The women seated around him tittered.

'Sir is a great wit,' said Nigel, dryly and unimpressed. He was getting into the 'Jeeves' act. It helped keep a distance. Besides, this guy was creepy enough already, without having any pretensions to being Hannibal Lector.

Disaster struck again, however, when he returned to the table the pour the Baron's wine of choice. He was just leaning over when, to his horror, he heard the television star observe that the 'material in your slacks looks really soft and pliable.' He saw a chunky, tanned hand reach for his pocket.

'Not you as well!' his mind screamed in alarm. He jerked his body sideways, out of the Baron's reach, and rebounded off the buxom woman sitting next to him. The force caused him to slop the Chianti right across the Baron's plate, and send the contents of the well-endowed ladies glass straight into his lap.

The Baron jumped to his feet, flicking the liquid from his tuxedo and trousers. Sydney looked across from the other side of the table, and cringed. 'Poor Nigel,' she thought, wondering if she ought to subtly intervene.

'That man is a clumsy oaf! Didn't I say so?' barked the Colonel.

Nigel backed away from the clearly displeased actor, who now loomed over him to his full height of six foot four. 'I'm terribly sorry…um, let me get you another glass. Can I help clean it up?'

He regretted this last line as soon as he said it. The Baron forgot his anger as he discerned Nigel's obvious discomfort, and grinned hungrily.

'Don't worry, Nigel. No real harm done, eh?' Nigel was not quite ready to let out a sigh of relief.

'Will you come to the bathroom with me to help clear it up?'

Nigel wanted to say 'not in a billion years,' but was still searching desperately for a politer refusal when Sydney began to sob violently.

'I really do love you, Syd,' he muttered under his breath as he dashed off to the aid of the destitute woman.

'What's wrong, dear' asked a kindly old gentleman seated next to Sydney.

'Oh, it's the spilt wine,' she wailed. 'It reminds me of my wedding night! I was deserted in our honeymoon suite after I spilt a 1922 vintage Chianti Classico all over my new husband's trousers.'

'The bastard!' exclaimed the Colonel, then bellowed at Nigel 'See the harm you've done?' Most of the other guests were beginning to think that all the events of the past few moments were some form of contrived theatricals that would make sense as part of the murder plot.

The Baron, deserted both by Nigel and his audience, stormed out of the dining room to clean-up his trousers himself.

…………..

The scream came as everybody was finishing their deserts. It was a piercing, prolonged and agonised wail, which echoed through every tottering turret and dank cellar of the great house. A bristle of excitement swept across the room. The party guests knew the fun was about to begin.

Mrs. Bob, still dressed as a cook, came bursting into the room, tears of horror and distress running down her face. 'He's dead! Lord Bannockburgh! He's lying in the library!'

'My God, she's a good actress,' exclaimed Nigel, and followed the general throng towards the 'scene of the crime.' Sydney pushed through the flock so as to be able to speak to him.

'I hope this doesn't make it difficult for us to come back to the library tonight,' she whispered. Nigel nodded. He hoped so too. He wanted to get that statue, and get out of there before he had to have anything more to do with the Baron and Miss Macduff.

Sure enough, Lord Bannockburgh, who was, of course, the man who had tried to scare Sydney earlier, was slumped across the desk. He was still wearing his black, vampire's cape but now his skin was even more deadly white. A whisky glass had fall forward out of his hand.

'He's been poisoned!' said Miss Macduff. 'How exciting!'

The Baron leaned in over the body. 'Wait,' he said. 'What's this?' he pointed to two small marks on the corpse's neck.

'Vampires!' screeched Miss Macduff. 'This is wonderful!'

The crowd was so absorbed by the body that nobody yet had noticed that the secret passage, which Sydney had discovered earlier behind the bookcases, was unconcealed. The hidden door was ever so slightly ajar. 'I didn't leave it like that,' whispered Syd to Nigel. 'Damn. I hope people won't be snooping down there as part of their investigations.' She sidled over and shut the door again.

The Colonel, however, was not enjoying the game at all. He was complaining bitterly to poor Moira that he had not got what he paid for.

'Dammit, girl,' he thundered. 'What the deuce is Bannockburgh playing at? I paid him handsomely so that my wife could be murdered - she'd rather spend the weekend in her bedroom anyway – and I could be the murderer! He said I could spend the next two days shooting while all these simpletons worked out the clues. I can't stand these Cluedo-affairs, but there's darned good hunting on this island!'

Moira apologised, and said there must have been some sort of mix up. Mrs. Bob was still sobbing uncontrollably and being comforted by Tabatha. Then, Mr. Bob, who a surprisingly subdued Pansy had been to fetch, burst into the room, let out a short expletive, and dashed over to the body. He pushed the animated guests out of the way, and felt Lord Bannockburgh's pulse.

'Somebody call the police,' he said somberly. 'This wasn't in the plot. He's really been murdered.'

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