Pageant of Murder

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Dame Beatrice Puts In Her Oar

“Mr Carnegie then proceeded to open the door of the Building amid loud applause, after which the company passed to the Lecture Room by way of the grand teak staircase.”

« ^ »

Laura had not over-estimated Kitty’s courage, nor Dame Beatrice her secret anxieties.

“Of course I’ve wondered, Dog,” she said. “Mind you, I don’t believe for a single instant that Julian is mixed up in it, but ever since he insisted on staging that idiotic, unnecessary, stick-his-neck-out second pageant I’ve had some nasty moments. I haven’t said a word to a soul, of course—not even to Twigg—but that Edward III business cost me a lot of sleep. It was so potty of Julian to do a second pageant. I thought it was fairly potty when, in his cocky way, he put up for the Council, and I was quite staggered when he was voted in, but if he had anything to do with these murders he must be completely round the bend.”

“Wouldn’t his headmaster have noticed?”

“Well, he did carpet him when he found out that Julian had approached the girls’ school with a view to their taking part in the second pageant, and Julian was ass enough to talk back at him—something, I should have thought, judging from our own experiences at school when a row blew up, was the craziest thing in the world and simply pleading for a kick in the pants. So there you are! How will the police set to work?”

“By putting Mrs Croc, on the job, official-like.”

“So we’ll get at the truth, thank goodness! When does she begin?”

“Well, we’ve moved into the Kensington house for the winter, so I imagine she’ll begin at once.”

“One thing—Julian isn’t a liar,” said Kitty, on a reflective note, “and he’s the sort of boy who, once you’ve fastened on to him, you’ve got him in a cleft stick, if you see what I mean. He’s quite brainy at academic things, and I believe he’s quite a good teacher, but he isn’t what I call practical.”

“How well does he know Giles Faudrey?”

“Not very well. There was some funny business about a girl, so what he knows he doesn’t like.”

“How right he is! Well, be seeing you! Hold the head high. Mrs Croc., in chasing Julian, will really, I think, be putting her finger into many another pie.”

They parted, and Laura returned to her employer.

“Old Kitty is in good heart,” she reported. “It had already occurred to her that the nephew’s conduct has been a trifle remarkable. She doesn’t think he’s a murderer, of course, but she’s worried enough to want to get at the truth. Where do we start?”

They started by inviting Julian Perse to spend the weekend with them in the Kensington house. Having spent Saturday morning in refereeing a school football match, he turned up at lunch, a personable, carelessly dressed young man who ate with a good appetite, asked permission to smoke a pipe when Laura produced cigarettes, and then cast a wary although quizzical look upon his hostess.

“And now, Dame Beatrice, what about the Third Degree?” he said. At these words Laura mentally exonerated him. Dame Beatrice merely cackled. “No, I’m perfectly serious,” he said. “My excellent aunt tipped me off. “Tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, for matters must not be left where they are,” says she, staggering me by managing two word-perfect quotes in a single sentence. So now, fortified by your quite marvellous lunch, not to mention a claret which my totally uneducated palate probably did not sufficiently appreciate, I am at your service and am Ready to Tell All.”

“I can see why you got yourself elected on to the Council,” said Laura.

“Watch my progress, which will be upward and onward. As soon as they put up teachers’ salaries to the level which our talents should (but do not, alas!) command, I shall be Mayor.”

“How well did you know Mr Luton?” asked Dame Beatrice.

“Quite well, really, I suppose. I used to be a member of the drama club before I got on to the Council. That cut into my evenings, so I felt I had to resign. Rather sorry, in a way. Acting boosts one’s ego.”

“What did you make of his character?”

“He was one of these insufferably well-intentioned little men. You know that he used to run a Sunday School, of course, but that wasn’t the limit of his disinterested good works. He was a peacemaker, and I maintain that peacemaking causes a person to be so much disliked that none but those with the hide of a rhinoceros should attempt it.”

“Had Mr Luton such a hide?”

“I think he must have had—yes. There was such enormous scope for peacemaking in the drama club that anyone not possessing the said hide must have given up the unequal struggle, and Luton never did. I think somebody got sick of his public-spiritedness and bumped him off, you know.”

“Was peacemaking his only social error?”

“No, no. He was for ever putting in “a word in season”, if you know what I mean. “I don’t want to interfere in any way, and I expect you think it’s no business of mine, dear old chap, but mightn’t it be better if—” all that kind of thing. Well meant, I don’t doubt, but damned irritating, all the same.”

“Gosh!” said Laura. “No wonder he got himself murdered. Did he ever try it out on you?”

“Oh, yes, more than once. The first time I bore with him in a mood of silent contempt. The second time I treated him to some four-letter words he probably hadn’t heard since his schooldays. After that, he gave me up as a bad job, I think, although he did tell me that he had not voted for me at the local election, and deplored the fact that such as I should be in a position to put the morals of the people of Brayne in jeopardy.”

“How did he come to obtain the part of Falstaff in the play, I wonder?” said Dame Beatrice.

“I don’t know. I should guess that nobody else wanted it, so Sir Highmindedness nobly took it on. I expect that to shove him in the washing-basket gave the rest of the cast much pleasure.”

“I wonder what made the Dramatic Society choose an excerpt from The Merry Wives of Windsor?”

“There were two reasons, as I see it. First of all, there was the question of the title. We of Brayne are, for the most part, suspicious of and allergic to Shakespeare. The Merry Wives and A Comedy of Errors are probably the only works by the Bard which you could bill in our borough if you wanted to sell more than the first two rows of seating in the Town Hall. We go by titles. Even A Midsummer Night’s Dream would be suspect. Secondly, a play had to be chosen in which the talent and beauty of Mesdames Gough and Collis should be seen to be equally bright. Except for Cecily and the other gal in The Importance of Being Earnest—and, even then, both, to my possibly untutored mind, are completely overshadowed by Lady Bracknell…”

“Yes, we’ve met Mrs Gough and Mrs Collis,” said Laura, interrupting the flow. “Did you go to the performance on the night when Luton was killed?”

“No, I did not. If I had gone, it would have been in support of Timms, who runs our school choir, but I opted out, and the short straw fell to Manley.”

“You didn’t go?—and you a Councillor?”

“I pleaded that it would make the cast nervous if they knew that a former shining light of the drama club was in front. I was thanked personally by the Mayor for my public spirit.”

“What did you do, then?”

“Alas, darling Laura, I went wenching, and spent the evening in a very dull pub with a dead-from-the-neck-up blonde in the environs of the Charing Cross Road. I almost wished I’d gone to witness the downfall of The Merry Wives!”

“Who was the girl?”

“How should I know? I picked her up in a bus. Her name was Heliotrope and her boy-friends, so she informed me, (and, incidentally, everybody else in the bus), called her Hell. All I can say is, if hell is as dud as she was, I shall buy myself a nimbus and opt for heaven.”

“So you can’t produce an alibi for the evening of the performance in the Town Hall?”

“Well, I shan’t attempt to track down Heliotrope, if that’s what you mean, and I don’t suppose the barmaid would remember me after all this time. If she did, I’m certain she wouldn’t remember which evening I was there.”

“It’s a great pity you weren’t with the Mayor and the rest of the Councillors that night,” said Laura, sternly.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve enjoyed today’s lunch, which I certainly shouldn’t have been given if I hadn’t been under suspicion of being a murderer, should I? Add to that my never-failing delight in your society, darling Laura…”

“Take it as read. Now, then, we know that you were well acquainted with Spey and Gordon.”

Julian’s lighthearted manner dropped from him.

“Yes,” he said, soberly, removing his gaze from Laura’s face and fixing it unseeingly on a corner of the handsome, old-fashioned room, “I was well acquainted with Spey and Gordon, and if anything I can say or do will help to find their murderer, you can count me in.”

“Did you gather or deduce, from their conversation or demeanour, that either or both of your friends guessed the identity of the murderer of Mr Luton?” asked Dame Beatrice.

“No, ni l’un, ni l’autre,” responded the young man. “I’m certain they hadn’t, either of ’em, an inkling. But I’m equally certain the murderer thought Spey had, and then I believe he had another think, and concluded that Spey might have told Gordon his suspicions.”

“The whole thing, then, as we have assumed from the beginning, hinges upon the death of Mr Luton. From what you have told us this afternoon, it seems to me probable that Mr Luton was responsible for borrowing the sword from Colonel Batty-Faudrey’s armoury. I wonder how much credence we should attach to Mr Giles Faudrey’s asseveration that he did not set eyes upon his visitor that night?”

“Personally, I wouldn’t believe a word the little reptile said, unless I was in a position to prove the truth of it.”

“Whence comes this pronounced dislike of a man with whom you are only superficially acquainted?” asked Dame Beatrice.

Julian laughed. He bowed theatrically.

“The psychiatrists have a word for it,” he said. “He was up at Cambridge whilst I was merely at U.C.L. Moreover, when we were both up, he beat me at chess, and I rather fancied myself at chess. Apart from that, he’s a poisonous little squirt where women are concerned. I know of two local girls he’s got into trouble, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there were others. Oh, and Luton, so I heard, tried to get him to marry one of them.”

“Giles claims droit de seigneur, no doubt,” interposed Laura. “Does it derive from his uncle, do you suppose? The Colonel seems to have a ready and welcoming knee!”

“Goodness knows! But because he lives at Squire’s Acre, and his aunt is as rich as Croesus, nobody except Luton cared to cast down the gauntlet before Giles. The girls in question (and their parents) may even have taken a certain pride in the fact that Giles’ attention has been attracted to them. It’s astonishing the point of view some of these people have. Why, one of the girls in question told our After Care Committee that her baby had blue blood in him! Why are girls such lunatics?”

“The answer is in the sob-stuff pages of the women’s magazines. Their correspondents are always being asked to prove their love,” said Laura. “But we are side-stepping the point. The pricking of my thumbs informs me that Dame B. has another question, or, more probably, other questions, to put to you.”

“To have no alibi,” said Dame Beatrice, “for the day and time of a murder, is almost a proof of innocence. Your suggestion that Mr Luton may have taken upon himself the task of admonishing Mr Faudrey is within the realm of possibility, but would he have been moved to do so in a general way? Is it not more likely that…”

“Gosh, yes! One of his Sunday School teachers!” cried Laura. “Of course! I can see it all!”

“Oh, darling Laura! How naughty of you!” said young Mr Perse, dodging a blow which was aimed at his ear. “Besides, I can see it all, too. There’s this fussation about the missing sword and (if I know them) a few other little matters connected with the drama club, and Hiawatha the Good decides that he can put one thing right, at any rate. As soon as the dress rehearsal is over, he climbs into his minicar and tazzes along to Squire’s Acre. There he borrows the sword (with permission) and then, when Faudrey comes up to the long gallery (which I’m absolutely positive he did), Luton confronts him with the fact that one of the Sunday School teachers has blotted her copybook and is now in the make-me-an-honourable-woman market.”

“It makes sense,” said Laura. “Do as I tell you, and marry the girl (says Luton) or there’ll be a word, this time, in the ear of the Colonel.”

“So much for speculation,” said Dame Beatrice. “Now it seems likely—in fact, it is as certain as anything incapable of proof can be—that Mr Spey was killed on the Friday evening, although his headless body was not found until several days later. Do you remember what you did on that Friday evening?”

“The same as I almost always do on a Friday in term-time. Saw the First Eleven at half-past four for a final checkup and pep-talk against Saturday morning’s match, stayed in the Staff-room until a quarter to six to clear up any arrears of marking—can’t expect the boys to keep up their interest if the previous week’s work isn’t corrected up to date—went with Sims to the local nearest the school and had a pint and a couple of sandwiches, went on to my digs and changed into a dark suit, and so to the Town Hall and the usual Friday-night meeting of the General Purposes Committee. That usually lasts until about ten, which leaves just nice time for a nightcap in the pub on the opposite side of the high street.”

“Was Mr Sims in the Staff-room with you while you were correcting your pupils’ exercises?”

“No. He was in the gym playing badminton with some of his boys. I went along to fish him out when I’d finished my job.”

“So that you would have had plenty of time to knock Mr Spey on the head without anyone being the wiser?”

“Plenty of time, yes, but that’s where it would begin and end, you see.”

“How so?”

“Because, from four-thirty onwards, the whole of our school building is crawling with women cleaners. If one puts her head in at the Staff-room door and says, in very disgruntled tones, “Oh, sorry, sir. Didn’t know as anybody was ’ere. I’ll ’ave to leave it till last, then,” I should think never fewer than four of them do. It’s most distracting. In the end, the first who turned up just simply comes in, tight-lipped, and sweeps and cleans all round you. It’s devastating.”

“But supposing that you had not been in the Staff-room during the time you claim to have been there, could you still produce an alibi?”

“No, of course not. But I was there. Any of the cleaners will tell you so.”

“For a Friday, yes, but do you think they would be prepared to swear to that particular Friday?”

“Oh, I see. Well, no, I wouldn’t think their memories were all that reliable. And, of course, some of them would say anything if you put it into their heads. So you mean I had only to make some verbal arrangement with Spey, when we met for our usual Friday lunchtime drinks and eats, to get him to come up to school somewhere between four-thirty and five-thirty, we’ll say, and there I am, but not (as I claim I was) in the Staff-room. Where do you suggest I was when I did for him?”

“Games shed,” said Laura, in response to a glance from Dame Beatrice. “Cricket bats, you know. All you’d need to do would be to give him something to inspect—preferably at the very back of the shed—come behind him, bash him over the head, leave him there, lock the shed—you seem to have a good deal to do with the games, so, naturally, you would have a key—and there’s the body all nicely stashed away until you can behead it and carry it along to the private road which leads to the ducal park. Any flaws in the reconstruction?”

“It’s beautiful. It might have come out of a book. The only weak point is that Belton, my captain of cricket, always took the key of the games shed from its hook in the secretary’s office as soon as he turned up for the match on a Saturday morning. He got out a couple of balls and the stumps and bails, and a bat or two for the chaps who hadn’t got their own, so I can’t help thinking that he would have noticed the body, you know, even though it was the morning of the Goodman’s School match.”

“Not if you had come back at night on the same Friday and taken the body away in your car. What do you say about that?” demanded Laura.

“The school gates are locked as soon as everybody’s gone home. The schoolkeeper sees to that. I couldn’t possibly have taken my car into the grounds—that, at least, can be proved—and even you, darling Laura, highly though you seem to regard my iron determination and scheming brain, can hardly venture to think that I would carry the body to the school gate and climb over, holding it in my arms. Apart from that, how on earth could I have persuaded Spey to tog up as Henry VIII, if I’d merely invited him to come and have a look at the games shed?”

“You know, I almost think we’ll have to put him in the clear,” said Laura to Dame Beatrice. “All the same,” she added to Julian, “everybody wishes you hadn’t thought up that beastly second pageant. It played right into the murderer’s hands. You and your Hangman’s Oak!”

“I was thinking more of the Druids than of the hangman, please, when I suggested the dancing round the oak, and, do you know, some of my revered colleagues on the Council now want to chop the tree down. I can see their point of view, but I think it would be rather a pity.”

“Yes, it is not as though poor Mr Gordon was killed by being hanged on the tree,” said Dame Beatrice, “or that he committed suicide by hanging himself from its branches.”

“I’m glad you don’t agree with the suicide verdict,” said Julian. “I don’t, either. I’m sure he wasn’t the type. I read about the inquest in the local paper. It was very fully reported, and I noted particularly that there were two distinct lines of markings on Gordon’s neck.”

“Yes, I noted the same point. It was suggested that the deceased had made two attempts to hang himself. I wish I had been able to see the body,” said Dame Beatrice. “However, through the good offices of Laura’s husband, I hope to obtain permission to study the photographs.”

“What do you think happened, Dame Beatrice?”

“I feel certain that Mr Gordon was garrotted, although not with an iron collar, which seems to have been the Spanish custom, and afterwards hanged from the Druid’s Oak by the murderer.”

“Wouldn’t the marks made by the garrotting look different from those made by the hanging? I thought doctors could detect that sort of thing.”

“Quite so, but that point was covered by the suggestion that the deceased had made two attempts at suicide. And now I shall be grateful if you will introduce me, next Sunday morning, to the gentleman who impersonates sunbeams.”