Lovers Make Moan

Chapter 17

Mute and Other Witnesses

“Nothing impaired, but all disordered.”

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Yes,” said the Chief Constable, taking his cigar out of his mouth and studying the length of ash on it. “We’ve had what you might call fun and games after Mrs Wells clinched the identification of the lad who bought the rapier.”

“With poor Mr Lynn, I suppose,” said Dame Beatrice, “you had what you call the fun and games.”

“Yes, with Mr Lynn. Nothing would satisfy him but an exhumation. He demanded to be allowed to examine the corpse we found dumped on the shore opposite Castle Island. We applied for permission and got it. I don’t know what his idea was. Seems ghoulish to me to dig people up once they’re decently buried. It wasn’t as though any further identification was necessary. Mrs Wells’ evidence was quite clear.”

“Perhaps Mr Lynn was not satisfied that his adopted son had been decently buried.”

“That was part of his argument. The lad had been buried in a common grave as, at the time, nobody knew who he was, but once you’re dead and in a coffin, what does the rest of it matter?”

“It would matter to me,” said Laura, “if the deceased was any child of mine.”

“Oh, well, anyway, we got official permission and a fine old how-de-do it all was. The decree went forth, as from Augustus Caesar, that the job was to be done in the small hours of the morning to avoid publicity and forestall morbid sightseers. What a hope! Avoid publicity? My God!”

“Yes, I have read Professor Keith Simpson on the subject of exhumations, particularly that of one of the Rillington Place victims,” said Dame Beatrice.

“Yes, I’ve read it, too. Well, our experience was much the same as his. First of all there was the need to screen off the grave which had been opened. That was done the day before, so any attempt at secrecy was doomed from the moment the hoarding went up. We had to do this the day before, so as to save time on the actual day, but we might as well have put up a notice to say that an exhumation had been arranged and would shortly take place.”

“All the same, I suppose there was some point in getting confirmation of identity,” said Laura.

“Well, perhaps, but what Lynn wanted was a slap-up funeral for his boy. I’m certain he had no more doubts about identification than the rest of us had. Anyway, we drafted in twenty uniformed coppers to keep a guard on the cemetery, put up barriers closing the place to the public and the press, and at the witching-hour of half-past five a.m. all those legitimately concerned surrounded the heap of gravel, clay and so forth which had been dug out on the previous evening and waited for the lifting of the coffin.”

“It sounds like something out of Edgar Allan Poe,” said Laura. “I should have expected something besides the coffin to pop up. I think exhumations are horrible.”

“Of course we didn’t allow Lynn himself to be present. He had to wait until we got the body to the mortuary, and there was really no need for me to be there, either, but I thought he would expect it, my being a friend of the family, so to speak, and being on dining terms with them and what not, so I showed up. The other people there besides the Super and Conway, were the pathologist, another doctor (in case any of us was overcome by the bizarre nature of the proceedings, I suppose), the grave-digger, the mortuary superintendent and the undertaker.”

“The last three to certify that the right coffin was being lifted, I suppose,” said Laura.

“It was the top one of five, but, even so, it had been buried five feet down. Well, of course you can’t patrol a place the size of that cemetery with only twenty policemen, so we couldn’t keep the newshounds at bay, especially their long-range cameras. Anyway, they didn’t dare come too close, although some of them must have seen the coffin come up out of the ground. Well, the box was cleaned up, the metal plate identified and then off we went to the mortuary. Apart from the reporters and camera crews, it was surprising what a number of citizens were on their way to work so early in the morning. I should think there were a couple of dozen of them outside the gates.”

“It’s the same mentality as that which will collect round a hole in the road,” said Laura. “Why they do it, goodness only knows.”

“Well, the grisliest part of the business was yet to come. I won’t describe it. A body which has been dead for any length of time is not a thing of dignity or beauty. However, Lynn said he was satisfied and had already arranged for what he called ‘a proper burial’, so the only thing left, so far as the official records were concerned, was to resume the inquest, confirm the identity of the corpse as being that of Jasper Lynn and get the coroner’s verdict of murder by person or persons unknown. Conway is still working on the identity of the murderer, but with no expectation of success. He says it must have been ‘one of those dark alley jobs’. His only hope is to find out where Jasper went, and with whom, during the time he was supposed to be touring on the Continent with his friends.”

“That means finding the lady,” said Laura, looking at Dame Beatrice for confirmation of this obvious view. “It shouldn’t be all that difficult, surely? As the son of a wealthy and prominent man, Jasper must have been very well known in the town.”

“Mrs Wells could not identify him until some hair had been added to his head,” said Dame Beatrice. “Baldness, it seems, can be as effective a disguise as a beard.”

“Of course he wore a beard in the play,” said Laura. This sidetrack remark was ignored by both her hearers. “Besides, there’s the weapon,” she went on, somewhat defiantly. “That must be somewhere. Could he have been stabbed with the lower part of that rapier?”

“If the shaven head was intended as a disguise,” said Dame Beatrice, “the answer to our problems may be nearer to us than we think. As for the weapon, where better to hide an object, as wiser tongues than mine have pointed out, than in a collection of similar objects?”

“Mr Lynn’s collection of swords and daggers!” said Laura.

“Mrs Wells may be able to help us there,” said Dame Beatrice.

“But Lynn didn’t murder his son!” protested the Chief Constable. “He was in Italy when the boy died!”

Lynn’s collection of weapons occupied two rooms on the second floor. One housed the firearms, the other what the Chief Constable referred to as ‘the cutlery’.

“I don’t want to be longer than I can help, “ said Mrs Wells, the expert. “You don’t tell me what I’ve got to look for?”

“One mustn’t prompt the witness, Mrs Wells,” said Dame Beatrice. “What do you think of the collection?”

“There’s some good stuff here.” The exhibits were mostly in glass cases and were neatly laid out and meticulously labelled. Only such items as lances, halberds, pikes, bills, boar-spears and partizans were outside the cases, although they were firmly attached to the walls.

Mrs Wells paid them no attention. She went methodically from case to case, but gave no sign of having made any discovery. At the end she shook her head.

“It isn’t here,” she said.

“What isn’t?” asked Lynn, who had admitted the visitors and was showing them round.

“That dagger. I’ve studied all the hilts.”

“That dagger is still in the hands of the police,” said Dame Beatrice.

“Well, there’s nothing here I recognise except a part of a blade, and I only noticed that because the hilt is new and the item isn’t labelled like the rest are. I’m surprised you included it in a collection of this value,” she added, turning to Lynn.

“Would you point out the blade?” said Conway.

Mrs Wells went to the third of the glass cases she had examined and pointed to a slim dagger which had a simple hilt made of walnut and a single ring on the metal quillon-block. The blade was about fifteen inches long, some of it having been inserted in the hilt. The inspector put a handkerchief over his hand, picked up the dagger and closed the case, laying the dagger on top of it. Lynn said indifferently, “Oh, that thing! It’s the dagger Jasper had made for himself to wear in the play. I don’t know what it’s doing here. It’s worthless.”

“Would you turn it over, please? Ah, that’s it!” said Mrs Wells. “Well, I never! Yet I suppose it’s natural enough, when you come to think.”

“Then pray share your thoughts with us, Mrs Wells,” said Dame Beatrice. “You recognise this dagger. That is obvious.”

“Not the hilt I don’t. That’s why I passed it over the first time. There’s no doubt about the blade, though. Here, take my glass and look for yourselves. Can you make out the lettering on the blade? The beginning of the words has been cut off, but there’s enough left for you to see.”

The Chief Constable took the watchmaker’s glass she produced and studied the blade. He then read aloud “chior etter” and, removing the glass, which he handed back, he added, “Obviously the letters mean more to you than they do to me, Mrs Wells.”

“Well, they’re a modern forgery, of course, like the blade itself,” she said, “but they stand for Melchior Diefstetter of Munich. He was a famous German swordsmith of the middle of the sixteenth century. This is the lower end of the blade of that rapier I sold that poor boy. Goodness knows why he had it cut down. Mind you, although this is much later than Diefstetter’s time, and the hilt is almost new, like I said, it’s a nice bit of work had it been genuine.”

“Genuine?” snorted Lynn. “Of course it’s not genuine, although it could deceive some people, I suppose.”

“If it had been genuine,” Mrs Wells went on, “it would have been a real collector’s piece and I certainly would not have let it go to that boy for what he gave me.”

“How did it come into your possession, Mrs Wells?” asked Dame Beatrice, motioning Lynn to remain silent.

“Oh, in the usual way, through the trade. There was an auction and one or two items interested me. The whole lot had been in the armoury of a big house in the Midlands. I got”—she looked hopefully at Marcus Lynn—“a genuine haute-piece and a fifteenth-century German sallet, but when it came to the rapier, well, everybody knew it was a dud and there were no bids, so, in the end, I got it thrown in with quite a nice German gothic mace, late fifteenth century, for which I knew I’d got a customer.”

“Do you know an antiques dealer named Rinkley, Mr Rinkley’s divorced wife, who has a shop in this town?” asked Dame Beatrice.

“Oh, most of us know each other in the trade, but she wasn’t at this particular sale. Her specialities are china and glass, so there was nothing to interest her. Living not so far apart, and our professional lives never crossing, as you might say, if I hear of anything in her line I let her know and she does the same by me. That’s really as much as I know about her.”

“What is a haute-piece?” asked the Chief Constable.

(“Shades of Rosamund!” murmured Laura to Dame Beatrice.)

“Oh, it’s a guard for the neck. It was placed on the pauldrons.”

“And those?”

“They are the thick metal plates which protected the shoulders.”

“And a sallet?”

“That is—if you’ll excuse the description—a po-shaped helmet, sixteenth century, with just a slit for the eyes. It’s a bit longer at the back than the front to ward off a slash on the back of your neck. I believe the foot-soldiers used to wear them against attacks by cavalry.”

“Thank you. Well,” the Chief Constable went on, “it seems it must have been Jasper himself who placed this dagger amongst his father’s collection.”

“Like hell he did!” exclaimed Lynn indignantly. “Of all the damned impudence! I wouldn’t have that pseudo object among my collection if Jasper had gone on his bended knees to me. Still, I mustn’t curse the lad now.”

“Where did you see it last, Mr Lynn?” asked Conway.

“Hanging from a hook on the lad’s bedroom wall with a damned silly notice pinned up underneath it to the effect that She—whoever She is—buckled it on for him at the last performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. There followed the last date of the play and then there was this foolery that he was going to become a Buddhist monk.”

“Interesting,” said Dame Beatrice. “He shaved his head to try out how he would look, I suppose. It suggests doubt.”

“Well, what’s our next move?” asked Laura, when they were alone again.

“We must find the person who cut up the rapier and turned it into two daggers. The police are already looking for him.”

“Nobody is going to admit to having done it. After all, two murders have been committed with the beastly things.”

“Or two suicides; or one murder and one suicide. In neither case has murder been proved. As to the person who converted the rapier into the daggers, we now have a little more to go on. Ring up Mr Lynn and ask him whether he employs an expert to examine his collection of weapons from time to time and keep it in good order. I think there must be someone of that sort in the background.”

Lynn’s expert was employed by a museum whose collection of weapons, although significantly smaller than that at the Tower of London, for example, was worthy enough to be listed in a catalogue of notable collections. The expert the museum employed also did some private work of the same kind. He was responsible to the museum for the maintenance and repair of the weapons and was skilled at replacing worn or missing parts, not with any intention to deceive, but merely to preserve valuable metal objects so that they could be exhibited for the benefit of students, researchers, historians and other interested parties.

Conway, sceptical, but exhibiting both daggers, asked whether the expert could identify them.

“Oh, yes, certainly I can,” the expert replied at once. “I was shown a rapier, a fairly modern forgery of a weapon purporting to be by the German master Melchior Diefstetter of Munich. It was brought by young Jasper Lynn and I told him it wasn’t genuine. He said he only wanted a couple of daggers made for some theatricals and asked whether I could fashion them from the rapier. I do my own smithing, you see. Well, I’ve done a lot of work for his father, including advising him and accompanying him to antiques shops and sales, and I do any small repairs and see to the cleaning and maintenance of what is one of the finest private collections in this country. I was happy to oblige the boy, especially as it was nothing valuable that he wanted cut up.”

“How long ago was this?” asked Dame Beatrice.

“Oh, a good many weeks now. Back at the beginning or middle of June, near enough. But may I ask what this is all about?”

“All in good time, if you don’t mind, sir,” said Conway. “You will have gathered that we should not have approached you on a matter of minor importance. If it becomes necessary, would you be willing to swear in court that the two daggers I have just shown you were made from the same rapier?”

“Swear to that? Well, of course I would. The thing one doesn’t mistake is one’s own handiwork, and I take pride in mine.”

“Well,” said Dame Beatrice to Laura, who had not accompanied her to the museum, “I feel certain that there is a connection between the two daggers and the change of understudies for the part of Pyramus.”

“But only the married couples at the cocktail party were told about that.”

“One of the married couples had an adopted son and his name was Jasper Lynn.”

“But Jasper Lynn wasn’t with them at the cocktail party, was he? I thought he was supposed to be swotting for his exams.”

“Connect us with Jonathan over the telephone. Deborah will remember who was present, if he does not. As his father’s son, I think Jasper had an opportunity of handling the properties before the opening of the play, including the third night. Were we not told that he helped to carry them down from the house?”

“I seem to remember hearing that he helped his father and Brian Yorke to carry the ‘props’ down to the trestle tables, yes, but what would he have had against either Rinkley or Bourton, let alone Jonathan?”

Dame Beatrice did not answer. Laura went out to the telephone and then made her report.

“Jasper was not at the cocktail party,” she said, “but Jon says he remembers him helping to carry down the props. The players were issued with their costumes and Jon, Tom Woolidge, Brian Yorke and Donald Bourton got their swords and daggers with their costumes, but young Yolanda and Jasper had theirs put on the table, because they were only supposed to wear daggers in the hunting-scene. Jasper, however, defied the producer on the last night and wore his dagger all the time. Jon says he noticed it because, of course, they were in the first scene together, but Yorke and Lynn didn’t make any fuss as it was the last night. I can’t see that all this matters, anyway.”

“I have said all along that the lethal dagger was put into the belt intended for Pyramus before the play opened on the third night. Jasper was in possession of the two daggers made from the rapier.”

“I see what you mean. Jasper could have done it, but—a schoolboy! It seems most unlikely. Why would he want to kill anybody?”

“I quote Marcus Lynn, who had read (with irritation, one gathers) a notice which Jasper had pinned up in his bedroom. He said, ‘She—whoever She was—buckled it on for him at the last performance.’ Symbolism here shows a shining morning face, does it not?”

“Symbolism? I don’t follow.”

“A knight of old liked to have his sword buckled on by his lady and, as I am not a gentleman, I may be excused for bandying this particular lady’s name. I think we need look no further than Barbara Bourton.”

“But, good Lord, she’s nearly old enough to be his mother!”

“I seem to remember a play called Young Woodley,” said Dame Beatrice. “Besides, as a very charming woman once said to me when we were discussing the subject of demonstrative love: ‘I don’t think age has anything to do with it’.”

“But even if you think Jasper doped Rinkley’s whisky, and even if he had heard from his parents that Bourton was to be the understudy, how did he think getting rid of Bourton would help him? He can’t have thought Barbara would ever marry him!”

“No, he did not imagine for a moment that Barbara would.”

“Then what did he think?”

“That by getting rid of Bourton he would not only free Barbara so that she could marry Tom Woolidge, but he could also ensure that she would be a wealthy woman. I see him as an unhappy, idealistic youth. The urge to become a Buddhist monk is typical. So were his doubts about his appearance.”

“No, honestly, I can’t swallow all this. If what you say is true, who killed Jasper!—and why?”

“Barbara Bourton may be able to tell us. If she will not do so, I shall be compelled, in order to clear up the case, to tell her. I shall see her alone.”