Pageant of Murder

CHAPTER SIX

The Reclamation of Falstaff

“On one occasion the fat knight was conveyed from Ford’s house concealed in a “buck-basket”, covered over with dirty linen, and ultimately cast into the Thames.”

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The first intimation which Kitty had that the missing Falstaff had been found came on the following morning in the form of a call from the Brayne police. It did not come by telephone, but in the person of a young, charming and most disarming plain-clothes officer who asked whether he might come in. Kitty’s maid left him in the hall while she went to enquire.

“What have you been up to?” enquired Laura, when the maid had had instructions to show the officer into the drawing-room. “Parking offence, bouncing through the red lights, tossing rubbish into the reservoir, trying to blow up the gasworks?”

“Oh, dry up, Dog,” said Kitty. “It will be something about that wretched little man.”

“What wretched little man?”

“Falstaff. I bet he’s got himself run over in Brayne high street or something. I had the stage-manager on the telephone this morning to say he hadn’t been traced. Well, now I suppose he has finished up in hospital.”

“Why should they worry you about it?”

“Oh, Dog, because they’ve worried everybody else first, I suppose, and got nowhere.”

This was not a bad guess, as matters turned out. The young detective-constable apologised for bothering Kitty—just a routine enquiry, of course—but the police were trying to find out who might have seen the dead man last…”

“Dead man?” cried Kitty. “What dead man? I thought you’d come about Falstaff.”

“Indeed I have, madam. The gentleman who took the part in a pageant which, we understand, you organised, was a certain Mr Luton. He was found dead in the Thames at the foot of Smith Hill this morning. He had been stabbed.”

“Really? Oh, dear! I am sorry. But when you speak of a pageant, well, that was held yesterday morning. This Falstaff business was the concern of the Brayne Dramatic Society. Apart from billing them when they offered to do their stuff, I had very little to do with them at all.”

“Yes, madam, I see. We understand, though, that you proposed to have an unscripted interval midway between the two scenes of the play in which Mr Luton was the leading character.”

“Quite right. It wasn’t on the printed programme, but it seemed a good idea, so I announced it. You might say that it was more than a good idea. It was really necessary.”

“Could you explain that, madam?”

“Oh, yes. The scenery had to be changed, and we didn’t want a hold-up. Then the choirs had to be got down from the gallery and given time for all the usual things children seem to need to do on these occasions, and we wanted to let people sneak out for a lung-cancerous cigarette or a delirium tremens drink, and so forth. It was a bit of a last-minute decision, as you say, and, of course, we never got around to Scene Two because, by the time the interval was over, they’d lost Falstaff.”

“Yes, indeed, madam. Another routine question, if you don’t mind. Where were you during that interval?”

“I spent it in the auditorium. It wasn’t until there was this hold-up by the drama club that I went backstage and was told that Falstaff was missing.”

“I imagine that there were witnesses to this, madam?—your continued presence in the auditorium, I mean?”

“I sat between my friend Mrs Gavin here, and my husband. A row of Councillors was behind us. The Mayor and Mayoress, the Town Clerk and the vicar and his wife were in the front row with me, and…”

“Thank you very much, Mrs Trevelyan-Twigg. You will appreciate that I am bound to ask these questions. When exactly did you receive the first intimation that Mr Luton was missing?”

“Well, as I told you, at the end of the interval. We were waiting for the curtain to go up on Scene Two, and, of course, it didn’t, so I felt bound to find out why not.”

“I understand that you then went on to the stage and informed the audience that one of the actors was ill. What made you say that? You did not know whether it was strictly true, did you?”

“Well, hang it all,” said Kitty reasonably, “you try standing up in front of the local coshboys and announcing that the chief actor can’t be found! If you can’t imagine the reaction, I can!”

The young detective-constable smiled.

“I take your point, madam. You mean you were anxious to save yourself and others embarrassment. Quite. Very sensible and tactful, I’m sure. Well, as you’ll have deduced, we are sure that it must have been during the interval that Mr Luton met his death. Of course, we are keeping an open mind about what actually happened. Would you know anything about two swords which were used in the production?”

“Only that one of them got mislaid at the last rehearsal. But it was all right on the night.”

“I am glad to hear that, madam.”

“So poor old Falstaff was murdered,” said Laura, when the policeman had gone. “It’s what all that added up to. His “glad to hear that, madam”, was a nice bit of irony, you know.”

“Murdered?” cried Kitty, scandalised, “How do you mean—murdered?”

“The swords. Didn’t it ring a bell in your mind when he mentioned them? When he said “stabbed” what he really meant was that somebody must have run Falstaff through with a sword.”

Kitty looked horrified and incredulous.

“But you couldn’t run anybody through with a property sword, Dog,” she said—“or could you?”

“So you didn’t notice that one of the so-called property swords was a real one? I did.”

“Then why on earth didn’t you tell me at the time?”

“There didn’t seem any point in telling you. They didn’t fight a duel with them. I thought nothing of it at all until now, but I bet you Falstaff was killed with the real one.”

“That poor little man! He seemed so utterly harmless.”

“Yes. I wonder how they managed the rest of it.”

“They? Managed the rest of what?”

“Well, all I mean is that two people would have been needed to carry the body down to the river and dump it in the mud.”

“I don’t see that, Dog. He was ever such a slight little man. Even the cushions, to make him look fat, were inflatable and hardly weighed a thing.”

“I suppose the police are asking everybody who was involved with The Merry Wives the same questions as this chap asked you. I’m glad you had an alibi for the time when it must have been done.”

“But why should I want to kill the poor soul?” wailed Kitty.

“Why should anybody want to? That’s one thing the police will have to find out. The means, I would say, are pretty obvious, and the opportunity presented itself. All that remains to be discovered, as you so rightly point out, is the motive. The only thing is that I don’t see how it could have been done during the interval.”

“Why not, Dog?”

“Too many people milling about. Think of all those schoolkids! In any case, how many people knew there was going to be an interval before you actually announced it to the audience?”

“Nobody but The Merry Wives cast, so far as I know.”

“Somebody in the cast may have told somebody outside the cast.”

“I wonder where those menservants were—those who carried out the basket. Where were they, and what were they doing, when Falstaff was killed?—because I can’t believe either of them did it. They were the only nice people in the play, except for that little boy,” said Kitty.

“If they didn’t do it, what were they doing, and where were they, with fifty-one pubs in the town—beg pardon, borough—and one of them bang opposite the Town Hall? Oh, Kay, don’t be such a nit-wit! It would have been the work of a moment to dump the basket and make a quick dash across the high street for a pint, and, if they’re innocent, I bet that’s exactly what they did. They’d have had heaps of time, knowing about the interval and everything!”

“But their costumes, Dog!”

“What are overcoats for? Think of the coy members of Toc H when we were waiting for the procession to move off! Besides, everybody in the borough knew about the pageant and about the show at the Town Hall. Apart from a beery jest or two—possibly not even that—I don’t suppose anybody in the pub bothered about what they looked like. Perhaps some sportsman even stood them a drink.”

“What worries me is the thought of that sword—the real one, you know. I ought to have stopped them using it, I suppose, but I simply didn’t notice it was real.” There was silence until Kitty added, “The murder could have been committed during the interval, I suppose. Do you think they all rushed over to the pub?”

“Probably not the women, anyway, and probably not the stage-manager. He’d have had to be on hand to direct the Council workmen who were to put up the scenery for the second scene,” said Laura. “But what I do think is that Page and Ford would have put off their swords during the interval. Cussed things, swords. Get between your legs and trip you up if you’re not jolly careful. Besides, the real sword would have been heavy.”

“So anybody could have committed the murder, then, and you’ve changed your mind. You mean it was done during the interval. Oh, but, Dog…”

“Yes, that’s the snag, isn’t it?”

“How did you guess what I meant?”

“Because I’d just thought the same thing myself. The murderer, unless he was one of the cast, couldn’t have known he’d find a weapon all ready to hand, and even the cast couldn’t have known that Ford and Page would put off their swords during the interval.”

“Whoever did it may have intended to use some other method, Dog, and then spotted the sword and decided it was a better idea.”

“Came armed with his own weapon, you mean?”

“You know, the more I think of it, Dog, the more certain I am that your first idea was right, and that it must have been done before the interval, and it must have been done by an outsider. Nobody in the cast would have murdered the chief character before the play was over. It’s dead against human nature. But how would a stranger get in?”

“By the same way as those comedians went out, of course. You didn’t have anybody on duty at the side door, did you?”

“The door that opens on to Smith Hill? No, I didn’t. I didn’t think it was necessary. I had warned everybody beforehand, and when I let those awful comedians out I knew they were tight, so I impressed on them about walking uphill to the high street and not downhill into the Thames. I wouldn’t have gone back-stage at all, except that I was afraid one of them might have hurt himself when he fell.”

“You didn’t bother about gate-crashers?”

“The house was full. A gate-crasher wouldn’t have been able to get a seat, even if he’d known about the side door. And, of course, Dog, you’ve got to remember that there were plenty of people who had a perfect right to be behind the scenes, apart from the cast and the workmen.”

“You mean the mob who were also contributing items to the show? Yes, I appreciate that, and so do the police, I imagine. Well, the two comedians are in the clear, unless they oiled back after you’d seen them off, and I don’t suppose they did that.”

“I ought to tell the police they were drunk, Dog. They may have been intending a drunken jape and it went too far. Alcohol clouds the judgment, and they were steeped to the hair-parting in it.”

“That’s quite a thought. Assing about with the swords—yes, it’s more than possible. That is, of course, if they sneaked back. But why should they? I wouldn’t mind betting they stayed in the pub until closing time—that is, if they’d got enough money.”

“Oh, they’d got enough money. I’d paid them.”

“In coin of the realm?”

“Yes, they had two guineas each. I didn’t think they’d take a cheque, you see.”

“That should have seen them through the evening. Two guineas will buy a lot of beer.”

“Yes, but, Dog, would the barman have gone on serving them that long, considering they were plastered already?”

“Hm! I don’t really know. But, if he didn’t, and they got grouchy, nothing is more likely than that they did oil back to the Town Hall and get into mischief.”

“Unless they crawled to another pub or two.”

“Yes, that’s more likely still, I suppose. Oh, well! What about anybody else?”

“The Tots—little nuisances!—stayed in the wings to see and hear the comedians. The formation team cleared them out of the way, I expect, but I bet they were still getting dressed while the interval was on, because the formation team’s effort only took about ten minutes, if you remember, and the first scene of The Merry Wives was played so fast that that didn’t take long, either, once their bally scenery was up.”

“Yes, kids do take an age to get changed and do up their shoes and all that. But I can’t say I can see that vinegar-faced old pussy of theirs running a sword through anybody. What happened to the formation mob when their turn was over?”

“I’ve no idea. They came in a motor-coach, and were all togged up ready for the fray, so I suppose they just filtered out. They didn’t have to be paid, you see.”

“Refreshments?”

“They had those while they were waiting to go on, I expect. The Town Hall laid on coffee, bridge-roll sandwiches and some cakes, I believe. Anyway, there were sixteen dancers and I suppose they can all alibi one another for the time of the murder.”

“Of course, we still don’t know the time of the murder, do we?”

“Except that I’m quite convinced it must have been before the interval.”

“Not necessarily, you know. I’ve just had another bright thought.”

“But, Dog, there were all those schoolchildren about during the interval. Nobody could possibly have got away with murder with them around.”

“He could if the murder took place outside the Town Hall and not inside it, you know. Let’s suppose that the murderer gets Falstaff, on some pretence or other, out on to Smith Hill. He inveigles him down to the water’s edge, we’ll say, and pinks him through the heart. He dumps the body in the mud and trusts that the ebb tide—the river’s tidal as far as Teddington—will carry it away. If it doesn’t, well, it doesn’t matter all that much. If it happened like that, you see, it wouldn’t matter how many people were milling about during the interval.”

The pageant and its aftermath had taken place on a Thursday. The detective had called on Kitty on the Friday morning, therefore, and the evening paper that day headed its meagre account of Falstaff’s death with the caption, Horseplay Has Tragic Sequel.

“So that’s the way the cat jumps,” said Laura. “The police have put up a smoke-screen.”

The paragraph under the heading was unrewarding. A mock duel, it was suggested, had been fought, and one of the contestants fatally wounded. Those responsible had evidently panicked and had removed the body to the river. The dead man was clad in period costume, and a clothes-basket—one of the properties used in the play—had also been found bogged down in the riverside mud. The dead man, a popular member of the Brayne Dramatic and Operatic Society, was Sidney Matravers Luton. He was unmarried and (the sub-editor had slipped up for once) had left no children.

Laura and Kitty absorbed this information.

“I always did say there was a jinx on the wretched pageant,” said Kitty, on the Sunday morning. “I wish to goodness I’d never got myself mixed up in it. I ought to have known better, and I did know better, really, but when a nephew comes touting around for assistance, you do rather find yourself letting yourself in for things. Oh, Lord! The telephone! Now what?”

The call came from the nephew in question. Young Mr Perse was ringing up his aunt to find out whether she had heard the news. Kitty informed him that she had, whereupon he invited himself round for afternoon tea and offered to place all his inside knowledge at her disposal.

He arrived at four, dressed in a dark lounge suit and wearing a buttonhole.

“Why the foliage?” enquired Kitty, resentfully.

“I sent for thee upon a sad occasion,” said Laura. Young Mr Perse kissed both of them.

“I don’t take an evening paper,” he said, “but I knew something must have happened to Luton. He didn’t show up at Sunday School this morning.”

“Sunday School?” queried Laura.

“He was the Sunday School superintendent at the League of Young Hearts chapel. It was left to the secretary-treasurer to conduct the revels. This he did (amid acclaim) by purporting to be a sunbeam.”

“A sunbeam?” said Kitty. “But…”

“Yes, I know (although, until this moment, you didn’t) he’s fat and wears a beard,” said her nephew, “but the chosen hymn was about sunbeams and he became one, cavorting about the platform with his thumbs in his waistcoat armholes and his plump little legs twinkling in time to a rather wheezy harmonium.”

“But you couldn’t have been to Sunday School!” cried Kitty.

“Why couldn’t I? You don’t realise how thoroughly and to what extent we Councillors go about our duties. We visit schools, Sunday Schools, Church parades, supermarkets, recreation grounds, the Girls’ Friendly Society, hospitals, Old People’s Homes, orphanages…”

“And the Old Bull and Bush, I suppose,” said Laura, deeply interested. Perse bowed.

“So it fell to my lot to attend this Sunday School session at ten o’clock this morning, and it was then I decided that something had happened to Luton. The sunbeam act surprised me, you see, and, knowing that Luton usually conducted the revels, I couldn’t forbear asking after him, only to be told that the poor chap had been killed.”

“What’s a Sunday School superintendent doing in a drama club, anyway?” demanded Kitty.

“My dear aunt! I should point out that we live in modern times.”

“And then to go and get himself killed in this utterly nefarious (right, Dog?) way!” continued Kitty. “Dog and I have talked it over until my head spins. What do you know that we don’t—or have you come to tea under false pretences?”

“I’m afraid it’s under false pretences, dear Aunt Kitty. I was hoping you could tell me something. I wish now that I hadn’t opted out of being present at the Town Hall.”

“I’m pretty sure this story of a mock duel with fatal ending is pure boloney,” said Laura. “But, actually, we don’t know a thing. The police have been here, of course, because of Kitty’s tie-up with the show, and I’m sure they think it was murder.”

“Do they, by Jove! But a more harmless citizen than Luton couldn’t be found! Who on earth could have had it in for him sufficiently to go to the length of doing him in? I don’t see why accident should be ruled out. The police would be bound to make enquiries, just as much in a case of accidental death as in a case of suicide or murder.”

“Yes, that’s true,” said Laura. “And, of course, if it was an accident, the person who caused it might well be chary of owning up, in case murder was suspected. You mentioned suicide. Was he a suicidal type?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so. He had strong religious convictions, but he wasn’t morbid and he wasn’t fanatical.”

“Did you think it odd that the Sunday School secretary-treasurer was playing sunbeams when all the time he knew that Luton was dead?”

“I didn’t think about it in that way, but I suppose it was a bit odd of him, wasn’t it?”

“He could bear a bit of watching if it was murder,” said Kitty. “I never heard of anything so heartless!”

“Well, the world must keep turning,” said Perse.