The mystery of the Peacock's Eye

Brian Flynn
London
John Hamilton Ltd.
First Printed, July, 1928
The foot-fascinating strains of the Red Ruritanian Band died gently away—to commence again after a short interval just as exquisitely. The Hunt Ball at Westhampton was the outstanding event of the season and this year it had exceeded all past successes and even present anticipations. It was actually honoured, so it was whispered, with the presence of Royalty—which interesting fact although not announced publicly or even hinted at in the Press—was nevertheless an open secret to at least half-a-dozen of the most influential people present. Life in the Midlands is a very different proposition from life in London or in the residential neighbourhoods that are within that great city’s reasonable range. Social distinctions mean very much more—there is the sharply-definite cleavage of class—determined very often by “County” prejudice—a line of division against which there is little or no chance of struggling with any degree of success.
The Westhampton Hunt Ball represented all that was select, some of what was superior, and most of what was supercilious in the county of Westhamptonshire. There had been fears, and recent fears at that, that this year’s Ball might possibly be held under a shadow. But happily for the peace of mind of Westhampton, this shadow had been partially lifted from the town. The affair of the “Mutual Bank” frauds that had at one time seriously threatened to involve more than one of the most exclusive County families in an upheaval that would have resulted in their financial ruin, had been brilliantly handled by those in charge of the case and the final crash triumphantly averted—with the sensational arrest of Sir Felix Warburton, one of the Bank’s most important directors. Whereat the more distinguished portion of Westhampton—albeit shocked and startled—breathed freely again and welcomed its Annual Ball with all its accustomed avidity.
On the February evening in question the Red Ruritanian Band was in its most scintillating form, and beautiful women piloted by bronzed men—sun-tanned and wind-tanned and released for the time-being from the accustomed lilt of the galloping feet of horses—swept round what was unanimously acclaimed as a perfect floor, on twinkling toes and endeavoured with the assurance of the expert dancer, to do it the strictest justice.