Chapter 27: At The Ball
Friday Night
Martin fairly ran down the hill, hardly daring to think that Louisa might be in danger. He got to the entrance of the big tent, which was vibrating with music and had coloured fairy lights strung along the edges. He was stopped by a burly fisherman apparently doubling as doorman for the night, guarding the entrance behind him.
"No entry without a ticket, Doc."
"I've been called in on a medical matter. P.C. Penhale said there was an emergency."
"Emergency? You sure, Doc?" The burly man squinted, confused. "Everybody seems to be havin' a grand old time. The party's just hittin' its stride."
"Penhale said there was a possible poisoning."
"Poisonin'?!" The man scratched his head. "Well all right then, but you do have to wear a mask to enter."
"What? Like a surgical mask?"
"A face-hidin' mask. Mr. Powell's orders. You don't have to wear fancy dress but no one admitted without a mask. It adds to the intrigue and then there's a big unmaskin' at the stroke of midnight."
"Don't be ridiculous. This may or may not be a life-or-death situation."
"You don't seem very sure."
Martin huffed. "In any case, I don't have a mask."
"Here you go, Doc. Your choice." The doorman held up in one hand a gold-sequined full face mask with purple feathers sprouting from the top and in the other a plain black eye mask. Martin grunted and grabbed the black one. He pulled it down over his close cropped hair and adjusted it so he could see.
"Nice choice." The doorman grinned. "Goes great with the dark suit."
"Where can I find Penhale?"
"Probably hovering around the desserts table, if I know him."
Martin expected to feel silly with his face concealed but instead he felt strangely comforted by the sense of anonymity it conferred. He pushed past the doorman and into the tent.
Sensory Overload. The entrance was like a portal to another world. The interior was bigger than he expected, almost as if the tent was bigger on the inside than the outside, absurd as that seemed. There were fairy lights across the ceiling, a mirror ball hanging over the dance floor, and strobe lights intermittently flashing so brightly he feared they might trigger a seizure in someone susceptible. The thumping bass line from the band was amplified so he could feel it throughout his body. The night air felt even heavier here with the humidity of many bodies inside an enclosed space. The mingled scents of perfumes and the sweat of people dancing and grinding up against each other created a miasma that was almost painful to breathe in. He felt hot and cold at the same time and miserably ill at ease. The inhabitants of Portwenn normally seemed like alien creatures to him and here they were dressed in fashions that made them seem even more alien.
Martin stopped to take a deep breath and steady his nerves, then he plunged in amid the chaos, pushing tables and chairs aside, striding across the dance floor, gyrating masked and costumed dancers darting out of his way as he followed a straight line toward his objective, oblivious of any obstacles.
He headed for the refreshments table at the back of the tent. There was a man there dressed in black, with cape and boots, a cowl covering half his face, and some sort of yellow belt. Martin realized he could recognize Joe Penhale by the outline of his body and the way he moved, despite the silly costume. He glanced around and recognized a number of other people, as strange as they all looked. As long as their costumes didn't distort or conceal too much he could tell their identities almost as well as seeing their faces. Not that he remembered all their names of course, but he could see that the man dressed like a ninja was the farmer with sciatica, the woman in the Alice in Wonderland pinafore the ninja was dancing with was the postmistress with psoriasis, the woman in the ill-fitting hula girl costume was Pauline's mother, and so on.
Martin approached Penhale, who didn't recognize him until Martin barked at him. "Please state the nature of the medical emergency!"
"Doc, your mask is perfect!" Penhale sounded delighted. "You could be Robin, but you have to get the rest of the costume together. Then we really could be the Dynamic Duo!"
"Robin?"
"Sidekick to Batman." Penhale grinned broadly. "You do know who Batman is, right?"
"Of course I do. I was a child once. What's going on here?"
"Not exactly sure, Doc. I think someone may have spiked the punch."
"Hm. Have you tasted it?"
"Course not. I'm on duty."
"You're on duty dressed as Batman?"
Penhale backtracked. "Not officially on duty as such. Just undercover, keeping an eye on things like the chief inspector said to do. But look around you, Doc. We're in danger of a riot breaking out."
Martin took a second look around him. There was Bert Large costumed as Elvis; Chippy Miller with a long beard and Neptune's trident; Roger Fenn in a Mozart frock coat and wig; and Mrs. Tishell in a frilly dress with black stockings, a plumed hat, and a feather boa draped around her best black neck brace. She swished her skirts as she walked and to Martin's dismay he realized she was attired as a can-can dancer. Next to her was an unfamiliar woman dressed as Cleopatra dancing with a blackbearded pirate, and next to them a geisha was dancing with a man in white robes who was waving some sort of plastic sword that lit up like a blue laser. Really the whole spectacle was straining the limits of Martin's familiarity with popular culture.
All the costumed revellers were writhing up against each other in a most unbecoming manner that made what he remembered of the Portwenn Players Ball seem tame. He suddenly felt even more anxious than he had on entering this strange environment.
He glanced around again but saw no sign of Louisa or Jago Powell amid the boisterous crowd. He did notice people coming up to the refreshments table, eagerly scooping up cups of a frothy ruby red punch from a large crystal bowl, stumbling around and almost elbowing each other aside.
"What's in this?" he asked Penhale.
"Dunno. I suppose lemonade, a bit of fruit juice, some rum or champagne. The usual, supposed to be only mildly alcoholic, but I suspect someone dumped a flask of something harder or worse in there. That's why I called you."
Martin went up to the crystal bowl and ladled out a half cup. He sniffed it. Fruity and sugary sweet, but with a whiff of something harsher, something faintly like… petrol perhaps? Not quite, but definitely something odd. He hesitated, then dipped one finger in and tasted it. A burning sensation began at his tongue and ran down his throat. His hands felt warm and a tingling began in his ankles, slowing creeping up his legs.
Vile liquid. Yet all around him people seemed desperate for it, some not even bothering to use the ladle but dipping their cups right into the punch bowl. He shuddered in revulsion at the unsanitary practice. Yes, the drink was vile, and yet… somehow, not entirely unpleasant.
"Go on, Doc Martin," said a familiar voice. "Drink up."
To be continued…