Pageant of Murder

CHAPTER NINE

The Death of Henry VIII

“One of the most popular games, however, was what may be called chasing the ox.”

« ^ »

As I see it,” said Laura, “there must be all sorts of permutations and combinations, any one of which could lead to the right answer. Let’s just see what we’ve got, shall we?—beginning with the death of Falstaff, whether murder or not.”

“I am all attention.”

“Wouldn’t you like to speak first?”

“Not at all. I shall be most interested to hear your views. I confess that, so far, I can see only one ray of light, and that, to my mind, is not sufficient to journey by.”

“I wonder whether you’re thinking the same as I am?”

“It is not unlikely. Pray proceed.”

“Would it help us to find out when the other property sword got lost or mislaid?”

“It might. It was not used at the dress rehearsal, you tell me, and that is all we know.”

“Perhaps we could find out at which rehearsal it was used.”

“I don’t suppose it was used at any rehearsal, child. You have some experience of amateur theatricals, and I am not entirely without knowledge of them myself. It is customary for the costumes and properties to be hired only for the week of the performance, I believe. But it is idle for us to speculate. We need precise information. I wonder whether the Brayne company has a wardrobe mistress?”

“Well, they’ve got a stage-manager. I expect he’d know about the props. I’ll get his address and number from old Kitty.”

She did this forthwith and immediately telephoned the stage-manager, mentioning Kitty’s name and requesting the favour of an interview.

“Are you connected with the police?” was the cautious query in a woman’s voice.

“Not directly, no.”

“Are you a reporter, then?”

“Oh, no, certainly not.”

“Do you wish to join the club?”

“No. We wanted to see the Brayne stage-manager about hiring costumes and props.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I can give you the address of the people they hire from. Won’t that do?”

Laura gave in and agreed that that would do. She took down the address as the woman dictated it, thanked her, and rang off.

“The answer’s a lemon,” she informed Dame Beatrice. “It was obvious that his wife, or whoever she is, wasn’t going to extend an invitation to us to visit him.”

“She has my sympathy. I expect they have had a surfeit of visitors since these mysterious deaths were first reported in the newspapers.”

“If we briefed old Kitty, I wonder whether she would muscle in?”

“I daresay she would, but, as I said before, apart from taking a purely academic interest in what has occurred, I do not think we have any right to involve ourselves in the business.”

“But you said you had a ray of light, and it seems pretty certain that the police haven’t even got that. I mean, there can’t be any doubt now, as we’ve agreed, but that Falstaff was murdered. You said yourself that the death of Henry VIII proves that, if any proof was needed. I’ll get on to old Kitty, then, shall I?”

“Go and see the costumiers first. It may strengthen your hand.”

“Are you coming with me?”

“No. You will manage better on your own.”

The costumiers lived in south-east London. The house consisted of two floors and a basement and the place was crammed with theatrical costumes and accessories of all descriptions. The atmosphere was claustrophobic and depressing, but there were several eager customers and the woman who admitted Laura informed her that she would be attended to as soon as possible and invited her, in the meantime, to “have a good look round, dear, and see if there’s anything you fancy.”

After about a quarter of an hour, during which Laura studied a long stand whose coathangers held samples of the costumes of every period from Roman to Early Victorian, a man in a frock coat of 1895 vintage and wearing a luxurious toupee of silver-grey, came up and asked what he could do for her.

“The costume of an Elizabethan gentleman,” said Laura.

“Just the one, madam?”

“No, I shall need two.”

“Just so. I will give you a form to fill in.”

“Oh, yes? What for?”

“Well, madam, we shall need to know chest and leg measurements.”

“Oh, I see. I wonder whether you could show me one or two of the costumes? I should like to have some idea of colour.”

“Certainly, madam, although you’ll appreciate we cannot guarantee that the colour you select will necessarily be the size the gentlemen require in the costumes. Come this way, madam.”

There was a pretty fair selection and the clothes were in good condition.

“I believe you recently fitted out a production of a Shakespeare play,” said Laura, casually.

“We are always fitting out Shakespearian productions, madam. They are extremely popular with amateurs. No royalties to be paid, you see.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose that’s so.” She wondered just how far she should go, and decided to hold back for a bit. She would gain nothing by a direct enquiry if these people had already been visited by the police. She busied herself by closely inspecting the Elizabethan costumes.

“Is your enquiry on behalf of young or rather older gentlemen, madam?” enquired the man, at last.

“As a matter of fact, one of them is for me and the other for my brother.”

“Then, if I might make a suggestion…” he eyed Laura’s generous proportions, “…would you not consider an Elizabethan lady’s costume for yourself? Then you and the gentleman would make a pair, would you not?”

“If it was for a fancy dress ball, yes, we would. But it seems impossible to get enough men to fill the parts in an amateur dramatic society, so you see…”

“Oh, perfectly, madam.”

“Well, so far as colour goes, there doesn’t seem anything in it. I’d rather like blue for myself, but it wouldn’t really matter. The costumes would have to be different colours, of course. It wouldn’t do for both to be alike. Oh, I suppose the hire of the costumes includes hats and shoes and swords?” said Laura, as though this was an afterthought.

“Hats are included. Shoes and swords would be extra.”

“I see. I should have thought shoes would be included as an essential part of the costume.”

“We used to include them, madam, but were forced to discontinue the custom, since so many times we got back either no shoes at all, or merely the one. Swords also either did not come back at all, or were bent and damaged.”

“Now that you charge, do you have the same trouble?”

“No, madam. A deposit equal to the value of the shoes and sword is payable upon hire and is returnable, less the charge for hiring.”

“So you never lose anything now?”

“Not since we introduced the new system, madam.”

“Not even a sword?” asked Laura, pressing her point.

“No, we have never lost a sword, madam, but some weeks ago we lost two valuable costumes. A group had ordered them from a place called Brayne. You may have read about the unhappy event there in which a young gentleman lost his life in some rough horseplay during a performance?”

“Oh, I believe I did read something about it,” said Laura carelessly. “Didn’t they do The Merry Wives of Windsor?”

“I believe that was it, madam. It was all extremely unfortunate. You see, we overlooked the necessity for a second sword, so I understand that a real sword was used, and caused the accident. Then there was a second death, and the two costumes have been retained by the police. I am still in correspondence with the club secretary for the cost of their replacement.”

“Oh, dear! Won’t the police send them back, then, later on?”

“It would be impossible to let either costume go out again, madam. I understand that both are stiff with blood.”

Laura left, bearing with her a printed form on which she could record measurements and descriptions of the costumes she was to hire. She returned to Dame Beatrice with the results of her interview and observed that she thought she had been wasting her time. Dame Beatrice disagreed.

“The missing property-sword is now accounted for,” she said, “so a minor mystery has been cleared up, and I feel that every little helps.”

“I can’t see how this helps. The murderer couldn’t have known that the costume people wouldn’t send it.”

“No, of course not. That is what causes me to think that the murder had not long been premeditated.”

“But you think it was premeditated?”

“I am sure it must have been, and, if we only knew the motive, I feel sure we could name the murderer. In any case, it was somebody who knew that a real sword had been borrowed.”

“That brings us back to the cast again. Nobody else would have known.”

“Except the person or persons who lent the sword, of course.”

“Old Kitty is pretty sure it was borrowed from Squire’s Acre Hall. She told us so, if you remember.”

“Well, no doubt the police have satisfied themselves upon that point.”

“Incidentally, she didn’t spot that one of the swords was a real one, whereas I did. How do you make that out?”

“Subconsciously, your gymnastic training made you realise that the two swords, as worn during the performance, although they were similar in appearance, differed in weight.”

“Yes, they hung differently, I remember. But why didn’t old Kitty spot the same thing? I mean, clothes (with which she is, as you know, so closely associated) differ in hang and in weight, too.”

“Between clothes and what are termed, I believe, accessories, there is a substantial difference. I doubt whether Mrs Trevelyan-Twigg would trouble herself about the difference in weight between two handbags or two pieces of imitation jewellery, for example, provided that these were appropriate to the garment which was being displayed.”

“Strikes me as a moot point, but you always have an answer to everything.”

“I doubt that very much. However, I suggest that we leave our unfruitful speculations regarding the death of Falstaff, and turn our attention to the equally mysterious death of Henry VIII. Of this we know very little. His, of course, is the other costume the police have retained, therefore it is clear that the dramatic society hired their pageant costumes and the costumes for the play from the same firm. We must find out more about the death of Mr Spey.”

“I’d better go to the library tomorrow and ask to look at all the newspapers we missed while we were on our cruise.”

“We can do better. I have requested our dear Robert to come and see me. I know that he is not in charge of the case, but I have no doubt that, in his position at Scotland Yard, he is fully informed about it. I propose to pick his brains.”

“If any,” said Laura, who made a point of belittling her husband in case anyone should suspect that she was still in love with him.

Detective Chief-Superintendent (recently promoted) Robert Gavin presented himself for lunch.

“Well, Casanova!” said his wife, when he was shown in. “So you’ve been making love to Mrs Croc., behind my back, have you?”

“On the contrary,” replied Gavin, kissing her before she could prevent him, “she has been making love to me. And what could be nicer? Well, what’s Kitty’s next-of-kin been up to?”

“He isn’t her next of kin, but he is a perishing nuisance. So are you, but at least you can give us the information we’re in need of.”

“And that is?”

“About Henry VIII, chump.”

“I only know about his wives. They were (in order of appearance) Katherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Anne of Cleves, Katherine Howard and Katherine Parr. In other words, as they “learnt” us at school, they were “divorced, beheaded, died; divorced, beheaded, survived.” What with his narrow choice of his wives’ names and his equally narrow choice of his wives’ fates, bluff King Hal can hardly, in my estimation, be called an original thinker.”

“Granted, and now quit stalling.”

“Well, not an awful lot is known, and what is known is rather bizarre.”

“So we gathered, but, you see, by the time we got back from our cruise I suppose it was all old hat.”

“There wasn’t much in the papers, as a matter of fact. All that we know is as follows: the police, naturally enough, picked on the two actors who’d carried Luton off the stage…”

“Yes, we know all about that. The police gave them a stinking time, and then Spey was killed.”

“Yes, indeed. They were very closely questioned, but there was nothing to connect them with Luton’s death. It seems to be established that they dumped the basket down in the wings and tore off to the public house.”

“Where was Falstaff’s page? He was off stage at the time. Didn’t he see anything?” asked Laura, struck by a sudden idea.

“It seems not. The misguided child was restoring his tissues and replacing lost energy by consuming sticky buns, sausage rolls and soft drinks in the room set aside for refreshments. As a member of the cast, he had his for free, and apparently did himself proud. His presence at the buffet table is sworn to by the couple of stout-hearted ladies who were serving behind the counter there.”

“Having given the place the once-over,” said Laura, “I’m convinced that Falstaff was persuaded to go into the washroom which is labelled (believe it or not) Bouquets. I’m sure the murder took place there, and that they washed the blood off their hands under the water-tap and disposed of the nylon overalls they put on over their stage-clothes to prevent them getting bloodstained.”

“There were only two nylon overalls kept in the room, I’m told. Both have been accounted for and neither is bloodstained.”

“That’s nonsense!”

“How so, dear heart?”

“There must be four overalls. They’d have to be laundered, so there would be two on and two off, don’t you see? I thought three at first, but there must have been four.”

“There were only two overalls, Laura. Everything at the Town Hall has been very carefully checked and only one woman had charge of that particular room, so only two overalls were considered necessary. Unless there was a “do” on, involving flowers, the two overalls, both clean, stayed put on their pegs, and that’s where the police found them.”

“Oh, I see. That disposes of that, then. Now tell us about Henry VIII. You said the whole thing was bizarre. Because the corpse had been beheaded, do you mean?”

“That, of course, but, in addition, the chap was not only wearing the Henry VIII costume, but the body was lying at the side of a private road leading to a ducal mansion where the body of Henry himself rested one night on the way to its burial at Windsor.”

“Is it known why the fancy dress?”

“No, but the other chap, Gordon, put out a plausible theory. He said that Spey fancied himself in the get-up and had probably kept it on hire to be photographed in it. But even if he did, I can’t see that it helps much. It couldn’t supply any clues to motive or opportunity.”

“What about the means?”

“We don’t know until we find the head. There were no marks of violence on the body and there was no trace of poison.”

“How long had he been dead?”

“For several days. The road is very little used, especially in the early morning, and a fellow who had a job to do in the park found the body on the Tuesday at eight o’clock or thereabouts. He reported it up at the house—the family are not in residence—and the factotum there immediately telephoned the police. The police doctor examined the body at about nine o’clock and in his report he stated that rigor had completely passed off.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, the onset is about five or six hours after death, and rigor isn’t complete, under ordinary circumstances, until twelve to eighteen hours have elapsed. It lasts about another twelve hours and then takes about the same time to pass off. Of course, rigor is only a rough guide. It depends upon all sorts of factors, including the previous health of the deceased, his age, the degree of fatigue or shock, the temperature of the place where the body was found—all very important and misleading.”

“Yes, I see. Anything more to tell?”

“I don’t think so. Except for the usual give and take among the members of the drama club, he doesn’t seem to have made any enemies. You probably know as much about him as the police do. He didn’t owe money, or go off with somebody else’s wife, or belong to the Mafia or…”

“But he must have been a menace to somebody. He must have had the goods on whoever murdered Falstaff.”

“Such is the theory of the police, who, whatever the verdict at the inquest may have been, still think Luton met with foul play and are keeping their files open with that supposition in mind. I wonder whether Spey himself hired the Henry VIII costume in which he was found dead, or whether the drama club did? Not that it makes any difference, I suppose.”

“I can answer that one,” said Laura. She described her visit to the costumiers.

“Wouldn’t the drama club have had photographs taken? These amateurs usually do,” said Gavin.

“Those would be taken in groups, I imagine. This, if Mr Spey had decided to be photographed separately, would have been a private venture,” said Dame Beatrice.

“Old Kitty certainly had what you might call official photographs taken of the pageant, so did the local paper. There was one of each lorry-load,” said Laura, “but no individual Vanity Fairs were allowed, so far as the actual pageant was concerned.”

“I wonder whether you have noticed that these bizarre affairs have a common denominator?” said Dame Beatrice. Gavin looked interested.

“Bizarre?” he said. “Oh, yes, we’re agreed on that, all right, but what’s this common denominator?”

“It may be an imaginary one. It probably is. All the same, Falstaff, in The Merry Wives of Windsor, was attempting to seduce two married women. Henry VIII was, to put it vulgarly…”

“A womaniser, the lecherous old pest. Yes, I grant you that, but it seems a pretty slender connection to me.”

“It is, indeed. I don’t know why it came into my mind.”

Laura remained silent, allowing her own mind to dwell on the idea. Then she said:

“If you’re right—and you always are right—we ought to track down Edward III and give him a broad hint.”

“Give him a broad hint?”

“Yes. Alice Perrers, you know.”

“I don’t think I have heard of Alice Perrers.”

“To be perfectly honest, neither had I, until old Kitty wised me up on the subject. It seems that this Alice Perrers was Edward III’s—how shall I put it?”

“Paramour?” suggested Gavin.

“That’s it. On his deathbed she tried—may have succeeded, for all I know—anyway, she was after his rings. Of course, Queen Philippa was dead by then.”

“Surely Mrs Trevelyan-Twigg did not wish to feature Alice Perrers in the pageant?” demanded Dame Beatrice.

Laura chuckled.

“You’d be surprised at what she wished to do,” she said. “Her idea was to have the scene enacted on the stage at the Town Hall with herself in the star role, a part written for herself by herself.”

“Really?”

“Well, you know what a lunatic she can be when she puts her mind (so-called) to it. Anyway, the drama club didn’t see eye to eye with her, so the project was scotched, together with a chunk of the early boyhood of Shelley. She’d got a kid all lined up for the part and she was going to dress him in a Fauntleroy suit. She was prepared to babble for hours about his golden hair and his large grey eyes and his hoarse riverside voice and his one and only vowel sound. I was obliged to gaff her.”

Dame Beatrice cackled, but her sharp black eyes and beaky little mouth became stern again as she said:

“I am prepared to concede that my common denominator is a figment of my imagination, and I could not think of drawing the attention of the local police to it, but, in order, as you would put it, to leave no stone unturned, we will find out where to contact the man who was Edward III. Did an Edward III actually take part, by the way?”

“Oh, yes. He was in the pageant on one of the floats with Queen Philippa and the burghers of Calais.”

“And no Alice Perrers?”

“And no Alice Perrers.”

“Then that may break our sequence.”

“Yes, I see what you mean. Falstaff and Henry VIII were shown up, so to speak, in the midst of their sins, but Edward III—yes, I do see what you mean. All the same, there’s something so haywire and unnecessary about these murders that I still think we might drop a word in season. You see, it’s not as though these two dead men were the real Falstaff or the real Henry VIII. They were only amateur actors. The thing doesn’t really make sense.”

“No,” agreed Dame Beatrice meekly, “I can see that it does not.”

Laura snorted at this display of humility and then said, “All the same, I should like to contact old Kitty and find out where Gordon, this Edward III chap, hangs out, and tip him the wink.”

“I am not entirely sure that that will be necessary. Do you not think that, after the two violent, unexplained deaths, the members of the drama club will be sufficiently alert to the possibility of their own danger?”

“I’d rather leave no stone unturned,” said Laura. “You don’t mind if I get on to old Kitty?”

“Do so, by all means.”

“Before you do that,” said Gavin, “let’s get all the facts clear in our minds and, to the facts, I’ll add the conclusions the police have arrived at, and then Dame Beatrice can sift the lot, if she’s a mind to, and let us have her deductions, if any.”

“Go ahead,” said his wife.

“Well, as you probably know, there was more than a bit of stress and strain between members of the drama club. The members, interviewed individually by the police, have been pretty cagey about the quarrels, except for Gordon and Spey, who asserted, at more than one official interview, that neither of them had any personal quarrel with any other member, but that the atmosphere had become so tense and disagreeable with the continual carping and wrangling that they had taken counsel with one another and had almost made up their minds to resign from the club as soon as the play and the pageant were over.”

“I don’t blame them,” said Laura. “Nothing gets on my nerves like bickering and general unpleasantness.”

“Didn’t know you had any nerves. However. The rows seem to have started over the choice of play and then over the casting. All the same, nothing that was said or done gave a motive for murder, therefore the police have washed out the quarrels—as a matter of fact, I gather that the shock of Luton’s death did that—and are looking elsewhere for the cause of the crime.”

“I shouldn’t think Falstaff was the type to have pinched somebody else’s girl-friend, and, from what we know of him, he couldn’t have been a blackmailer,” said Laura.

“How do you know?”

“Well, he was a Sunday School Superintendent.”

“Norman Thorne was a Sunday School Teacher and so was his murdered fiancée. Thorne didn’t scruple to kill her, and there’s no doubt she was trying to blackmail him into marrying her.”

“Yes, but Falstaff wasn’t like that. He was a most meek and inoffensive little man.”

“So are lots of people, no doubt—Crippen, for one. All the same, there is some reason why the death, even of meek little men, will benefit somebody, so they get bumped off just the same.”

“All right, I give in. Go on. You mean that the police haven’t found the cause of the crime, any more than we have.”

“Correct. Now, apart from the death itself, there is an unexplained circumstance which needs to be cleared up.”

“I can do that one, I think. The police would like to know who borrowed the sword with which the deed was done.”

“You are right, but only up to a point. Nobody seems to know who borrowed the sword. The chaps who played Ford and Page would seem to be the obvious choices, since they were the only people to require swords.”

“Falstaff ought to have had a sword, I should have thought. After all, he was a knight and therefore entitled to one, I suppose. The professional Falstaffs always seem to sport a sword.”

“Well, Luton didn’t have one. Everybody is certain about that. Ford and Page vigorously deny having borrowed a sword, both declare—and there are witnesses to it—that during the interval both took off their swords. They say they left them on chairs in the dressing-room, and there are witnesses to that, too, and nobody seems to have touched them. Page went on to the stage to supervise the setting-up of the scenery for the second part of the play, and was helped by Dr Caius, a chap named Spenning, while Ford nipped across to the pub, accompanied by Sir Hugh Evans (real name Griffiths) and Justice Shallow, otherwise Bence, the other men in the cast. They found Gordon and Spey already there, and also the two comedians who had completed their act nearer the beginning of the programme.”

“So what it all boils down to is that everybody in the cast except the two women has a watertight alibi, but only if the murder was committed during the interval. If it was committed before the interval…”

“It wasn’t committed during the interval, Laura. The police have taken dozens of statements—everybody backstage has been interviewed, even the Tots—and, but for Falstaff himself, there isn’t one single, solitary person, man, woman or child, who was alone for an instant during the interval except under the usual, unavoidable circumstances—and even then there was a queue, the Town Hall facilities being limited. There’s no doubt whatever that Falstaff was killed either before the interval or else he was spirited away—which doesn’t seem likely—and was killed when the show was over and everybody had gone home.”

“Do the police still suspect Gordon and Spey?”

“As we think it was done before the interval, yes, but, of course, Spey is out of the picture, in one sense, now that he’s dead. Remains Gordon. The only other solution…”

“Is that an outsider saw Spey and Gordon nip over to the pub as soon as they had carted Falstaff off the stage…”

“And got in by the side door, stabbed Falstaff and plonked the body and then the basket in the Thames. Yes. The only snag there is the Yale lock, unless the murderer had already concealed himself on the premises or had a key to the side door.”

“Yes, of course. But what did he stab him with?—not that it requires much thinking out.”

“Exactly. What did he stab him with? And, as you suggest, there’s an obvious answer. Two real swords must have been borrowed and only one accounted for. The murderer did the borrowing and hung on to the extra sword. Our lads have been to Squire’s Acre and interviewed the Colonel and his lady and also the nephew who lives with them at the Hall, and have closely inspected their armoury. The answer’s a lemon, so you’d better see what Kitty can dredge up. Instruct her to put her subconscious mind to work. It’s possible that something may come to the surface. Motive is what we’re after.”

“Right. Well, now, what about Henry VIII? Anything—any pointer there?”

“Well, the police have had a go at his wife, poor woman. What with spending weeks nursing a sick mother and now the shock of Spey’s death, she’s in a pretty poor way. She is certain her husband had no enemies. She thinks he was killed by a madman and has asked the police to keep a watch on her house. She’s ran down, grief-stricken and terrified. I’m sure she’s got nothing helpful to tell us, so I’ve suggested that we ship her back to her mother’s house. She’ll feel safer there, and the old lady seems to have recovered from her illness, so I’m sure it’s the best thing to do. The doctor wouldn’t hear of our showing her Spey’s body, so, as it was quite easy to get it identified by three independent witnesses, we conceded the point, and I’m jolly glad we were able to.”

“Is there any indication of where the murder and the decapitation of Spey took place?” Dame Beatrice enquired.

“Nothing at all, so far, except in the negative sense that neither took place in the ducal back-lane where the body was found. The neighbours think they heard Spey go out on that Friday night, but he often did while his wife was away, so they thought nothing of it and didn’t even notice the time.”

“So they would not be able to tell you whether he was carrying a suitcase,” said Dame Beatrice.

“A suitcase? Oh, you mean for the fancy dress outfit he had on when he was killed.”

“Yes. It might have occasioned no surprise to passers-by to see a protagonist strolling about in period costume on the night of the pageant, but, on a normal Friday evening, the spectacle of Henry VIII striding along Brayne high street would have occasioned remark, one would suppose.”

“You’re right. The point about the suitcase is a good one. I’ll put the lads on to it. I wish the neighbours would pin down the time for us, though.”

“I doubt very much whether they did hear him go out on that particular evening.”

“You mean that, in view of the fact that the charwoman’s note was still open on the kitchen table when Gordon and Kitty’s nephew went into the house, the inference is that Spey went straight off somewhere after school and did not enter his house on the Friday evening at all?”

“It seems to me quite possible.”

“So it does to me, but that means he must have taken the Henry VIII outfit with him to school on the Friday morning. The school has scarcely come into the enquiry as yet. We’d better have a detective go round and interview the headmistress, unless—no, I’ll tell you what! I wonder whether you and Laura would undertake that bit of investigation for us? A couple of women visitors in and around a school invite no speculation or comment, whereas a couple of Brayne policeman, even in mufti, would almost invariably be noticed. Could you do that for us, do you think?”

“Certainly,” Dame Beatrice agreed. “All we shall establish is that Spey had a suitcase with him when he arrived at school in the morning.”

“In the morning? Oh, yes, of course, it was one of his days for having sandwiches at the pub. You might be able to find out whether he accounted for the suitcase in any way.”

“He would give a simple and obvious reason for taking it to school.”

“Going to spend the week-end with his wife and her mother. Yes. Hm! That won’t get us much farther.”

“Why wouldn’t he have said he was going to have his photograph taken in the Henry VIII costume?” demanded Laura.

“He’d have been hooted out of the Staff-room, I should think,” her husband replied.

“That’s a pity, because, if he’d come clean about the photograph, he might also have said where he was going to have it taken.”

“True. Oh, well, if you and Dame Beatrice are willing to have a go at the school, I’ll be very much obliged.”

There was nothing to be gained at the school except the information that Spey had had a suitcase with him when he turned up on the Friday morning. No questions had been asked by his colleagues about this, and no information had been volunteered by Spey. It was assumed by Gordon, in common with others, that Spey proposed to spend the week-end with his wife and her sick mother, and that this accounted for the suitcase. He repeated his former theory, however, that Spey had retained the Henry VIII costume in order to be photographed in it. On the following day Laura went along to see Kitty.