‘—it is also home to Bilver-Tone Records,’ continued Mickey with a shake of his head. ‘They’ve turned the deconsecrated sixteenth-century chapel next door to the house into a modern electronic recording studio. They’ve got all the latest gear from America.’

  ‘I’m not sure how sleeping in a recording studio is a step up. It’s still a draughty old chapel, no matter how many American toys they’ve put in it,’ said Eustace.

  ‘Give it a rest, Eustace,’ said Dunn. ‘Like Skins says, we’ve played worse places, and you’ve slept in worse places. But I’m sure you can find someone to drive you into Oxford if you’d prefer to spend your cut of the fee on a night in a posh hotel. It’s up to you, old mate. Just say the word.’

  ‘Yes. Well. I’m just used to better, that’s all.’

  ‘You and your missus live in a little flat in Kilburn,’ said Mickey.

  ‘Too right, we do. And not in a draughty, deconsecrated chapel full of American electronics and old army cots.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said a voice from behind them. ‘We have a question about your luggage.’

  It was the butler.

  ‘Some of it’s definitely very questionable,’ said Skins. ‘How can we help you?’

  ‘Mister Howard suggested that your personal luggage might be better in the chapel since that’s where you’ll be staying, but we can leave it in the billiards room for the evening if you prefer. You’ll be using it as your . . . I believe he said “green room”.’

  ‘Sounds good to me. We’ll need the instruments and one or two of the bags on the stage, but the rest can go to the chapel like he says.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. But we need some guidance as to which items you’ll be needing on the stage, and which can safely be taken away.’

  Ellie stepped forward. ‘Lead the way, Mr . . . ?’

  ‘Dunsworth, madam.’

  ‘Lead the way, Mr Dunsworth. I’ll give you all the guidance you need.’

  ‘You’re most kind, madam. Have you been offered refreshment?’ he asked.

  ‘We haven’t,’ said Ellie. ‘I’m sure they’d welcome a “cuppa”. If I’ve learned anything about you Britishers it’s that everything is fuelled by tea.’

  ‘I’ll have some sent out. Please follow me.’

  He retraced their steps back through the salon and library to the Grand Hall, where a footman was dropping off the last of the bags. Ellie scanned them quickly. The staff had had no trouble sorting the instruments into a pile of their own, and she pointed out which of the other bags would be needed on stage and which were just personal luggage.

  ‘They really wouldn’t mind coming back here and fetching this stuff themselves, you know,’ she said.

  ‘It’s no trouble, madam. They’ll be working hard enough this evening, I’m sure.’

  ‘That’s swell of you. Now, I don’t want to embarrass you but what I could really do with is—’

  ‘Up the left-hand stairs and turn left, madam. Second door on the right.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Dunsworth, you’re a lifesaver.’

  While Dunsworth and the footman started hefting the instrument cases on to a trolley, Ellie swished up the impressive staircase.

  When Ellie returned to the hall she found the bags and servants gone, and thought it best to have a quick look in the billiards room to check what had been set out for them there.

  The room was, predictably, dominated by a twelve-foot billiards table, which, on closer inspection, she discovered had been set up for snooker. There were velvet armchairs between the windows along one of the long walls, and a scoreboard and a rack for cues and rests beside the fireplace on the other.

  A card table by the window on the short wall was now home to an impressive selection of glasses, with a crate of beer and a half-dozen bottles of champagne on the floor beside it. Ellie surveyed the comfortably elegant room, feeling pleased. With the armchairs, a chaise longue and the few upright chairs beside the window to the front of the house, there was plenty of room for everyone to relax.

  There was no sign of the luggage, which she presumed had been taken to their accommodation in the chapel, wherever that was.

  The door at the far end was closed, and she checked to make sure it was locked as promised. It was, and the key was in the lock on this side. Curiosity got the better of her and she unlocked it and peeped through. She found a drawing room with all its furniture pushed back against the walls to allow guests to wander and mingle. Mildly worried that she might be discovered, she withdrew, relocked the billiards room door and went back out to see if she could retrace her steps to the marquee.

  After finding her way to the library and back outside through the salon, she turned her face to the sun for a few moments, luxuriating in it. It seemed to have been wet and grey for days and she was glad of a touch of midsummer warmth.

  In the marquee, all was abustle.

  The Dizzies had a well-drilled routine for setting up. The trouble was that it didn’t involve the whole band being present. As drummer, Skins had the most to do and would usually arrive at the venue first, accompanied by Dunn. While Skins assembled his drum set, Dunn would arrange the chairs and make sure they had everything they needed backstage.

  As the appointed kick-off time approached, the other band members would drift in with their instruments and music stands and make themselves ready. Once everything was in order they would retire to whatever space had been set aside for them before making a dramatic and professional entrance and commencing their foot-tapping performance.

  It didn’t run nearly so smoothly when everyone was there.

  Dunn couldn’t set out the chairs on the stage because they didn’t yet have any. Skins had tripped on Benny’s trombone case, knocked over Puddle’s music stand and walked into Vera. Twice.

  ‘Steady on there, mate,’ said Dunn after the second clash.

  ‘Sorry, Vera,’ said Skins. ‘I’m not used to having people about when I do this.’

  ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘We’re all getting under each other’s feet. I’ll only complain if you actually manage to knock me over on me bum.’

  A footman arrived with the first batch of smart-looking wooden folding chairs on a porter’s truck.

  ‘Blimey,’ said Skins, ‘you look all in, mate. Where are you having to go for those?’

  ‘Down the chapel,’ said the footman. ‘They keep a big stack of them for the musicians. They’ve had symphony orchestras playing down there. Takes a lot of chairs to seat a symphony orchestra.’

  ‘I can imagine. How many have you got there?’

  ‘Just five, I’m afraid. Mr Dunsworth says you need eight.’

  ‘To be honest,’ said Dunn, ‘we only desperately need five. Two of us stand up all night and he’s got his own little stool, look.’ He indicated Skins, who was, indeed, sitting on his own little stool and adjusting the tension of his snare drum head. ‘The other three can wait till you’re less busy.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, sir, but Mr Dunsworth’ll skin me if I don’t do exactly as he said.’ The young footman looked around to make sure he wasn’t overheard. He leaned over the chairs and spoke more quietly. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m pleased to be out of the way of the party preparations for a little while. I much prefer helping you. I love jazz.’

  ‘Then it would be mean-spirited of us to deny you the chance for a skive,’ said Dunn. ‘Three more of your finest chairs, please, my good fellow.’

  The footman grinned. ‘Yes, sir. Right away, sir.’

  Katy had been listening. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.’

  ‘Didn’t know what?’ said Dunn.

  ‘About the chairs. I thought you had one each.’

  ‘Nothing to worry about. One each is a luxury, but if you’re ever under pressure, five will do us.’

  Katy took out a notebook and jotted this information down.

  ‘Honestly,’ said Skins. ‘Don’t worry about it. Look at the chaos here – half this shower don’t have a clue what needs to be done. They just turn up with their little instrument cases and sit down like the fairies have magically done it all.’

  ‘You’re quite right, Skins darling,’ said Puddle. ‘We have servants to set everything up for us. We don’t deal with’ – she sniffed – ‘chairs.’

  ‘Help me out, Ells-Bells,’ he said. ‘She’s being nasty to me.’

  ‘She is, honey, I know,’ said Ellie from the floor. ‘You bring it on yourself, though. You shouldn’t have been such a chump earlier.’

  ‘I’ve only got myself to blame.’

  Ellie called out to the rest of the band. ‘Hey, I’ve checked the room Howard was talking about. Plenty of space, plenty of chairs, plenty of booze.’ There was a ragged cheer. ‘Before I tell them everything’s OK, I just need to know: is everyone happy getting changed in the chapel or would you prefer the green room? They’ve already taken all the luggage down to the chapel, but I can easily get them to bring it back.’

  ‘It’ll save us lugging it all down there after the party if we just get changed in our billet,’ said Mickey. ‘I’m happy with that.’

  The others agreed.

  ‘What about you, ladies?’ asked Ellie. ‘We can change in the billiards room or upstairs in the bathroom. It’s a lovely bathroom.’

  ‘I don’t mind changing with the boys, actually,’ said Puddle. ‘It’s not like we usually have much privacy.’

  ‘Vera?’ said Ellie.

  ‘I’m happy in the chapel if my case is already there,’ she said. ‘I’ve got clean drawers on.’

  Katy was less keen.

  ‘Just Katy and me for the bathroom, then. That simplifies things. Assuming they don’t mind. They won’t mind, will they?’

  ‘You could ask,’ said Skins. The young footman had returned surprisingly quickly with the second batch of chairs. ‘The ladies can use the bathroom in the house to change, can’t they?’

  ‘That is the guest bathroom, sir, yes,’ he said. ‘The bedrooms each have their own.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Skins. ‘That’s posh. There you are, then, Ells – you and Katy can titivate to your hearts’ content away from the vulgar gaze of these ill-bred troubadours.’

  Half an hour later the stage was neatly organized and everyone was happy with their seat. They shimmied through a couple of numbers while Ellie and Katy roamed the marquee to check how they sounded. It was, they declared, the perfect setting for a summer evening of jazz.

  Chapter Two

  Guests for the Bilverton Summer Ball began arriving a few minutes before the appointed hour of seven o’clock. The dress code on the invitations had specified ‘Swanky’ and this had been liberally interpreted by the family’s many friends, acquaintances and business associates.

  Senior members of the Bilverton’s board and their wives were in full evening dress, as were many of the local dignitaries and businessmen. Friends of the younger Bilvertons were mostly dressed in less-formal dinner suits and black tie, though Howard had elected to appear in a blazer with purple, cerise, pale blue and white stripes, set off with a cravat of drake’s-neck green. The cream Oxford bags and two-tone wingtip Oxford brogues that adorned his lower half were positively conservative by comparison.

  The host, John Bilverton, was greeting his guests at the bottom of the stairs with his wife Marianne by his side. He was tall and dapper, dressed in evening tails and white tie, while the much younger Marianne wore a floor-length evening gown of gunmetal silk.

  The warm smile as John welcomed friends, business associates and even some rivals was genuine, but it vanished as he caught sight of his youngest son descending the stairs.

  ‘What the devil do you think you’re wearing?’ he snarled.

  ‘Supporting the local traditions, Pater,’ said Howard. ‘Oxford bags, Oxford brogues.’

  ‘You look like a loafer. Go and change.’

  ‘Right you are, Pa,’ said Howard cheerily, though he made no obvious effort to do so. The young woman on his arm giggled. She was wearing an intricately embroidered white dress that John might have considered suitable for a ball had not the hem of the skirt reached only to her knees. They sauntered off together, John scowling at their retreating backs.

  A short while later, a gang of similarly informal and thoroughly fashionable Bright Young Things arrived, and John Bilverton sullenly resigned himself to the realization that the country and its youth were going to the dogs.

  Katy had discussed the dress code with the band during the week before the party.

  ‘We’ve only got two options when it comes to dressing,’ said Mickey. ‘We’ve got dinner suits or flashy suits. Dinner suits’ll do for most gigs, flashy ones for the cooler London clubs.’

  ‘Well what does “swanky” mean, then?’ asked Katy. ‘How does one dress swankily?’

  ‘I know it’s a posh do,’ said Skins, ‘but who’s likely to be going?’

  ‘The Bilvertons are new money,’ she said. ‘John Bilverton is the head of the family. He’s a Justice of the Peace, I think, and something big at the Oxford Chamber of Commerce. They’ll have lots of crusty old friends. But his children range from stolid and staid to wild and wilful.’

  ‘How on earth do you know so much about them?’ asked Dunn, slightly impressed.

  ‘Gossip pages. The papers and magazines were full of stories about them when John Bilverton married his secretary a few years after his wife died.’

  ‘The secretary was young, I suppose?’ said Ellie.

  ‘She was twenty-six. He was fifty-five. She’s less than a year older than his eldest son.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Skins. ‘No wonder the papers were talking about him. So it’s a middle-aged “pillar of the community” type with a wife and kids in their twenties who wants a cool London jazz band for their Midsummer Ball. Flashy suits and dresses, I reckon. Let’s give them what they paid for.’

  ‘But what if the old boy only agreed reluctantly?’ said Katy. ‘What if he wanted a palm court orchestra playing selections from Gilbert and Sullivan? What if he doesn’t really want us there at all? What if—’

  ‘Katy, darling,’ said her younger sister Puddle, ‘do shut up, there’s a good girl. Skins is right – they booked the cool London jazz band and we’ll give them the coolest London jazz band they can imagine. Besides, I have a Paul Poiret that absolutely needs an outing.’

  ‘You have a Paul Poiret?’ said Vera.

  ‘Well, sort of. I know a girl in Bethnal Green who makes the most marvellous copies. She—’

  ‘I just don’t want us to be underdressed,’ interrupted Katy. ‘You know, it’s so easy to get these things wrong, I—’

  ‘I shan’t tell you again, sweetie,’ said Puddle.

  Katy had sighed, but relented.

  As it turned out, their choice of attire was perfect. The older guests looked faintly disapproving and slightly intimidated, while one of Howard’s friends was overheard in front of the stage declaring them to be the caterpillar’s kimono. Lively debate ensued as the knot of excitable youngsters danced their way back towards the middle of the dance floor.

  ‘I prefer oyster’s earrings,’ said one.

  ‘Gnat’s elbows,’ said another.

  ‘You’re all a bunch of twerps,’ said a third. ‘They’re self-evidently the kipper’s knickers.’

  Ellie sat with Katy to the side of the stage, sipping their chilled champagne and watching the dancing.

  ‘Don’t you find it a little frustrating?’ asked Katy. ‘Sitting here listening to these wonderful tunes and having no one to dance with?’

  ‘I’m used to it. Even when Ivor’s not playing I have no one to dance with – he won’t dance.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘He claims he never learned how. When all the other boys were learning how to dance, he was playing in the band.’

  Katy laughed. ‘Well, I’m going to go and see if I can find a nice man to Charleston with. Coming?’

  ‘No, I think I might take a wander into the house.’

  Katy left the stage at the end of the next number and went off in search of a dance partner. Before Ellie could get up, Howard leaped energetically up on to the stage beside her, accompanied by the beautiful young girl in the white dress.

  ‘Having fun?’ she said.

  ‘Rather. Just came to talk to the band. Do you think they’d mind?’

  ‘I’m sure they’d love it.’

  She stayed to earwig as the youngest Bilverton approached Eustace.

  ‘I say, you chaps are bloody marvellous. Thank you so much.’

  ‘Our pleasure,’ said Eustace with a rare smile.

  ‘Do you take requests? Do you know “Fidgety Feet”? Or perhaps “Tiger Rag”? By The Wolverines. New American band.’

  ‘You know The Wolverines?’ said Eustace. ‘A man of taste. Both numbers are coming up later, as it happens. They have an astonishing cornet player, The Wolverines – Bix Beiderbecke. Marvellous fellow. Such clarity. Such a beautiful tone. They record in Richmond, Indiana, you know. You’d have thought it would be New Orleans or Chicago, but—’

  ‘He’s gone, dear,’ said Vera.

  Like Katy, she had only officially been with the band for a week. The London jazz world was a small one, though, and she had known most of the individual members for quite a while longer. She’d always got on well with Eustace, but she was well aware of how he sometimes came across to others.

  ‘Still,’ he said. ‘Nice to meet a genuine aficionado.’

  Howard, by now, was talking enthusiastically to Mickey.

  ‘This is Hetty Hollis. She’s my best pal’s fiancée. Kenneth Mary’s his name, poor chap. He couldn’t be here, though – family emergency – so I’m looking after her.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ said Mickey with a warm smile.

  Hetty returned the smile. ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’

  Mickey’s jaw dropped. Hetty looked almost entirely indistinguishable from hundreds of Bright Young Things he’d seen in nightclubs all over the country, but her voice . . . There was a warm silkiness to it that belied her age.

  ‘Do you sing, Miss Hollis?’ he asked.