Pageant of Murder

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Droit de Seigneur

“…it was a signal to commence hostilities.”

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How did you enjoy yourself?” asked Laura, when her employer returned to the Kensington house. “Are we to take action as a result of your enquiries?”

“I think I must consult our dear Robert before we decide to do that. Something came out which may or may not have a bearing on the matter in hand. The trouble is that all my instincts are at war with my logical deductions.”

“Oh, dear! Psychological conclusions gone haywire?”

“Yes, indeed. I am in the utmost confusion of mind.”

“Well, Gavin won’t be much help over that. I don’t think he’s got a mind. What he relies on are a masculine ego and a policeman’s conscience.”

“It will help me to talk matters over with him. He will know what steps I ought to take.”

“It doesn’t sound like you when you assume such modesty. Why not talk things over with me? You don’t think Gavin is more intelligent than I am, I hope?”

“It is his experience of police work upon which I shall be relying, and his bump of caution, which is so much better developed than your own.”

“At least tell me what you’ve found out. I’m aching with curiosity. I suppose Giles Faudrey is all mixed up in it somehow.”

“He seems to be, but, all the same…”

“Well, what’s wrong with that? We’ve thought from the very beginning that he was a shady little character.”

“Yes,” admitted Dame Beatrice, “I know we have. I obtained an interview with the secretary of Mr Luton’s Sunday School…”

“Oh, yes, the sunbeam chap. Did he dance for you?”

“No. He gave me the address of some people in Brayne. I called there and obtained an item of information which, although it did not surprise me in itself, is not going to prove very helpful. One of the Sunday School teachers is to be the mother of Giles Faudrey’s child—at least, that is what I gathered. The girl was one of the servants at Squire’s Acre.”

“Well, I can see why that didn’t surprise you, but why isn’t it helpful? It would be very helpful, I should think, if you could prove that Luton knew about it and so was in a position, perhaps, to get Giles slung out of Squire’s Acre.”

“I don’t need to prove that Mr Luton knew about the girl’s misfortune. The secretary (now acting-superintendent) knew that the girl was to have a child, and he informed me that Mr Luton interested himself in the kind of social work connected with such cases. I feel certain, therefore—”

“That Luton not only knew about the baby, but would have found out who the father was, I suppose. Well, that ties up very neatly with Giles having been the murderer of Falstaff, doesn’t it? I should have thought it was Q.E.D.”

“Yes,” said Dame Beatrice, “that is what I tell myself. The trouble is that I cannot convince myself. I do not think it is the truth.”

“Why ever not? Look at the way it all hangs together. Falstaff, that peace-making little do-gooder, goes along to Squire’s Acre to borrow a sword in order to smooth over the quarrel between Ford and Page. Giles Faudrey is at home—that much we know for certain—but the rest of his story is all lies. He didn’t shut himself away in the library while Falstaff was left alone to roam about in the long gallery selecting a sword. That bit never did make sense. Do you agree so far?”

“Yes, I do agree. I have never thought that Mr Luton was seen by nobody but the servant who answered the door.”

“Well, then, the rest is perfectly simple and perfectly obvious. Falstaff taxes Giles with the girl’s troubles and gets him to promise to do something in the maintenance line. Giles, who, we shall find, has nothing but his allowance from the Batty-Faudreys to live on, has not the slightest intention of keeping the promise. He probably wouldn’t want to, anyway, but, in any case, he knows he can’t, for the simple reason that he isn’t in a position to fork out ready cash. Are you still with me?”

“You re-state my own arguments in their entirety.”

“Then I’m dashed if I can see your difficulty. It’s copybook stuff, this.”

“Pray continue your exposition. If you go on long enough, I have a feeling that you will begin to share my doubts.”

“I don’t think I shall. The story hangs together far too well. Giles watches while Falstaff selects a sword from the armoury in the long gallery. It seems to me that he guides Falstaff’s choice, so that he is certain to take one of a matching set. When Falstaff has gone, Faudrey earmarks a similar sword and, early on the following evening, enters the Town Hall and hides away in Bouquets until Falstaff is carried off the stage in the washing-basket. Then he inveigles him into Bouquets on the pretence of discussing the regrettable affair about the girl, pinks him through the heart with the duplicate sword, locks the body in Bouquets to keep it hidden until the show is over, wipes the sword on the dirty washing and brings the basket into Bouquets with the corpse. He probably stays in Bouquets himself until he knows the coast is clear and he can dump body and basket in the mud. Anything wrong with that?”

“Nothing whatever. It all hangs together most beautifully.”

“Well, then, where’s the snag?”

“Go on with your story, for the death of Mr Luton was only the beginning of the business.”

“Yes, I admit that. Well, Giles thinks that he’s sewn up the parcel very neatly when he’s disposed of Falstaff, and, naturally, he’s horribly alarmed and extremely despondent when he discovers that Spey is wise to the whole business and has to be silenced.”

“Quite so. Well?”

“Perfectly simple. He offers to take Spey’s photograph in the Henry VIII outfit, gets him to Squire’s Acre, clumps him over the head, cuts his head off to disguise the method of murder, sinks the head in the river which runs past the woods at the bottom of Squire’s Acre park, plants the body in the ducal by-road, and once again thinks Bob’s Your Uncle until Gordon pops into the picture. I still can’t see where I stub my toe.”

“Neither can I, in the sense you mean.”

“Of course, we know that Luton was killed at the Town Hall, and we’re pretty certain that Spey was killed at Squire’s Acre. What we don’t know yet is where Gordon was killed. Is that what you mean? Is that the snag?”

“I cannot think so. What kind of man do you take Giles Faudrey to be?”

“Oh, the gay Lothario type, and entirely selfish and irresponsible, I would say.”

“Yes, selfish and irresponsible. And his motive for committing three murders?”

“To save himself from being kicked out of Squire’s Acre for getting girls into trouble.”

“Why should we suppose that he would have been turned out? There is no evidence in support of such a contention.”

“Mrs Batty-Faudrey strikes me as one who wouldn’t exactly view with equanimity a nephew who ran amok among the local girls.”

“Maybe not, but I have little doubt that this was a situation which she and the Colonel had been called upon to face before.”

“I see what you mean, but this Sunday School teacher affair may have been the last straw that broke the camel’s back, you know—or, anyway, Giles Faudrey thought it might be.”

“That is possible, of course. My difficulty is to reconcile Giles’ behaviour in public, with all its reckless disregard of the conventions—you will remember Mrs Trevelyan-Twigg’s description of the bold and insolent way in which he brought that rather indiscreetly-clad young woman to the tea-table at which his aunt and uncle were entertaining the Mayor and Mayoress—with these extremely odd, bizarre, sick-minded, extraordinary murders.”

“Just another way of showing off—the murders were, I mean. Well, of course, the actual murders were straightforward enough—a stabbing, a coshing and a strangling. It’s what was done with the bodies after death that seems so odd.”

“Yes, the compensation-phobia of a warped, distorted, essentially introspective mind. From what we know of Giles Faudrey, would you suppose that that is a reasonably accurate picture of his mentality?”

“You agree he’s irresponsible?”

“And egoistic—I do.”

“Well, he may have thought it was a kind of joke—a nasty kind of joke, I admit—to put Falstaff and basket in the Thames, and cut off Henry VIII’s head, and hang Edward III as Edward had intended to hang the burghers of Calais.”

“Yes, a young man’s idea of what constitutes a joke often leads to a great deal of thoughtlessness and cruelty, I admit, but surely the treatment of these particular bodies after death—or, in the case of Mr Spey, probably just before death—must have been the work of a mind diseased? Telephone Robert and inform him that I am going to Squire’s Acre to make a few enquiries. If he is not there, leave a message.”

“I thought you were going to have a talk with him before you did anything more, and were going to take his advice and rely on his police experience and his bump of caution.”

“They will be of more use to me, I think, when I have had a little chat with Mrs Batty-Faudrey.”

“You’re not going to Squire’s Acre unless Gavin and I go with you. It isn’t safe!”

“In that case—not that I share your fears for my safety—Mrs Trevelyan-Twigg, bless her heart, must give a little hentail party to which she will invite Mrs Batty-Faudrey, the Mayoress, Mrs Gough and Mrs Collis, the mistress of the Brayne ballet company, you and myself.”

“Not the manageress of the Tossington Tots?”

“Not the manageress of the Tossington Tots.”

“Amateurs only—not that the signora is an amateur. According to old Kitty, she gets fat fees from her dancers. She’s a frightful old woman, you know.”

“Nevertheless, I feel she will round off the party very nicely. Now is there anyone else you can think of?”

“Aren’t you having any men at all?”

“I think it is better not.”

“Where is old Kitty to hold this binge? At her flat?”

“No, I think it would be much more convenient if we could hold it somewhere in the immediate neighbourhood of Brayne. Perhaps Mr Julian Perse will know of a suitable hostelry. We must hire an ante-room in which the hentails can be circulated and a larger room where lunch can be served.”

“The Hat With Feather sounds the right sort of job. I’ll ring up old Kitty and put her wise to the scheme, and see whether she’s prepared to muck in.” She went to the telephone and returned with the tidings that Kitty was all agog, The Hat With Feather would be able and pleased to cope, especially as it was only a lunch and so would not clash with the arrangements of the Freemasons, the Rotary Club, the Philanthropic Society, the Mayor’s Banquet or the Stag at Eve Club, all of which would be certain to make their usual dinner bookings to be worked off before Christmas. “But,” concluded Laura, “old Kitty says we won’t get the Mayoress to come unless we bring somebody she knows pretty well to hold her hand. She feels desperately inadequate and shy, and lives in the shadow of the Mayor.”

“Has Mrs Trevelyan-Twigg any suggestions to offer?”

“She says there’s a woman Councillor, Mrs Skifforth.”

“Then all is well. Councillor Skifforth’s invitation can be sent to the Brayne Town Hall, as can that of the Mayoress. Mrs Batty-Faudrey’s address we know and although I do not remember how to reach Mrs Gough and Mrs Collis—nor, indeed, at which one’s house we met the other—they are almost certain to be in the telephone book. Mrs Trevelyan-Twigg must tell us where the mistress of the ballet resides, since, in her case, we are helpless. We do not even know her name.”

“Right,” said Laura. “Important-looking invitation cards ordered in old Kitty’s name, I take it, as soon as we’ve hit on a suitable date for the binge. Hope they’re all able to come!”

A date was decided upon, not too near to Christmas but sufficiently far ahead to keep it clear of immediate engagements, the rooms were booked and the white and gold cards were despatched. To Dame Beatrice’s surprise and Laura’s relief, all the invitations were accepted with most gratifying promptness, and Dame Beatrice and Kitty paid a visit to The Hat With Feather to confirm the arrangements and choose the wines to be offered at lunch.

“I’d just offer sherry beforehand,” suggested Kitty. “Most women like it, and it saves a lot of messing about.”

“Sherry and dry Martinis,” amended Dame Beatrice, “and a Dubonnet, I think.”

“Oh, well, it’s your party, although I’ve to pretend I’m the hostess,” said Kitty. “What, if you don’t mind my asking, do you expect to get from it? Laura went cagey on me when I demanded the whys and wherefores, so I gather it must be a mackerel to catch a sprat, as the saying goes.”

“It is a sprat to decide the fate of a basking shark,” said Dame Beatrice solemnly. “Would you suppose, from what you know of him, that Mr Giles Faudrey expects to exercise droit de seigneur over the female population of Brayne?”

“Nothing would surprise me less. I shall never forget Mrs Batty-Faudrey’s face when he planted that awful girl at the tea-table on the day of my pageant. Silly of her to look so horrified, because she surely must be wise to Giles by now. You should have heard the stories of his love-life which were flying all over the place while I was rehearsing the pageant and they knew he was going to take part.”

The morning of the lunch was fair with winter sunshine and sharp with frost, but the rime on the road-surfaces had cleared by the time George had driven Dame Beatrice and Laura to Knightsbridge to pick up Kitty.

“I sent the pub a seating plan which they’ve promised to put up in the ante-room,” said Kitty, “and as soon as we get there I’ll nip in and put the place-cards on the table. The Mayoress and you will be one on either side of me, because, of course, you’ll be the principal guests, and I’ve put Mrs Batty-Faudrey between you and Mrs Collis. I do hope they’ve done what I said and given us a round table. Nine is an awkward number for a table with corners, isn’t it?”

The Hat With Feather had obeyed Kitty’s instructions, as she discovered when she went in to lay out the place-cards. She returned to the ante-room after she had had a word with the head waiter, and settled down with Laura and Dame Beatrice to await the arrival of the guests. These arrived in two parties. Mrs Collis and Mrs Gough, who were obviously enjoying an interval between skirmishes, had brought Signora Brunelli along with them, and the Mayoress and Councillor Skifforth had picked up Mrs Batty-Faudrey in the Mayoral car driven by the Mayoral chauffeur. Introductions and presentations were made where these seemed necessary, and, over the aperitifs, conversation was general, vigorous and cheerful.

Laura had wondered how Dame Beatrice would approach the matter for which the lunch had been planned. Dame Beatrice did it by turning the table talk, via Carey Lestrange and his pig-farm, to the subject of nephews, and gave a witty account of her own. The subject was one with an instant appeal to a gathering of women. Laura, in fact, proved to be the only nephew-less person present. She looked (and was) interested in the conversation, contributed nothing to it beyond polite appreciation, enjoyed her lunch and listened for the information of which Dame Beatrice was in search.

It came, such as it was, with the main course.

“Nephews,” said Mrs Batty-Faudrey, “can be a bigger problem than sons.”

“Do you speak from experience?” asked Laura, perceiving, in the last word, a cue. “My own son is the biggest problem I’ve ever faced in my life. But, of course, I haven’t any nephews, so perhaps I’m not in a position to judge.”

“Well, the same might be said of me, I suppose,” said Mrs Batty-Faudrey. “I have no sons, but, if I had, I doubt very much whether they would present the same problem as Giles does.”

She sipped her wine. A hovering waiter refilled her glass.

“Really?” asked Dame Beatrice, allowing her own glass to be replenished. “How do you mean? I have experience of sons, grandsons, nephews and grandnephews, and I cannot pretend that any have proved to be outstandingly tiresome—certainly not the nephews.”

“Ah, but perhaps you have not been obliged to have them live with you.”

“No, that has never been my experience. I suppose it would make a difference.”

“In the case of sons, one is entitled to assume that one’s husband will at least be fond of them and welcome them as inmates of the home. It appears that nephews…”

“In my family,” said Signora Brunelli, “we are living in a heap—father, mother, sons, daughters, grandparents, brothers, sisters, all children of everybody—the lot!”

“Ah, well, your customs would be different from ours, no doubt,” said Mrs Batty-Faudrey, with kindly condescension, “and, of course, they do say that there is safety in numbers”.

Mrs Gough giggled.

“Oh, dear!” she said. “I thought that only applied to love affairs!”

“Young people need a considerable amount of guidance in those,” said Dame Beatrice solemnly, “but they will seldom accept advice and frequently make what their families and friends are compelled to admit are the most mistaken alliances. A nephew of my own was continually flitting from flower to flower, if I may be allowed to use an expression which comes dangerously close to being a quotation from The Beggar’s Opera, and caused his family some anxiety, I believe.”

Laura caught the half-glance from her employer’s sharp black eyes.

“Yes,” she said, “Macheath was some sipper! How many wives with child a-piece did he finish up with?”

Mrs Batty-Faudrey looked pained; Mrs Gough giggled; Mrs Collis moaned feelingly, but whether because she deplored Laura’s levity or was sorry for Captain Macheath and his plurality of wives and offspring did not transpire; the signora leapt in where even Councillor Skifforth, a noted supporter of all attempts to limit the world’s birthrate, feared to tread.

“In Italy, my country, in our family,” she announced, “we kick out these offenders. They would be—how do you say?—not to be given their share of the riches.”

“Kicked out and disinherited? What, even though they are your own kith and kin?” exclaimed Laura.

“Family life is good, is pure, in my country. The Church does not stand for nonsense. Besides, no-one has time—not in my family—no time!”

“I think that’s the trouble,” said Dame Beatrice. “Some of the young people have too much time, and then the trouble begins. Still, I think your custom of turning offenders out of the family circle is a trifle drastic, Signora.”

“Oh, one couldn’t do it in England,” said Mrs Batty-Faudrey. “It would only draw attention to the scandal. I feel sure—although, of course, I have no experience in the matter—I feel sure that the only solution would be to hush the thing up. As for disinheriting—why, it could do nothing but create a criminal.”

“I agree, if the culprit, whether youth or young girl, is unmarried. But what of marital infidelity? Are you not in favour of divorce, then, Mrs Batty-Faudrey?” asked Dame Beatrice.

“I have never considered the matter,” said Mrs Batty-Faudrey, in slightly-thickened accents. “When a wife holds the purse-strings…” She appeared to think that the remark was an unwise one, and did not finish it, but emptied her glass instead.

“But so few wives do hold the purse-strings,” said Dame Beatrice. Mrs Gough giggled; Mrs Collis sighed; stately Mrs Skifforth said that wives had only themselves to blame if they allowed themselves to become supplicating doormats in the home.

“The only supplicating doormat I’ve ever seen,” said Laura, “is the one with Welcome on it, and, somehow, at those sort of houses, I feel one never is.”

The talk turned to the subject of home decoration, on which Kitty proved to be an expert. It went on to labour-saving devices and the impossibility, in a place like Brayne, of getting a reliable charwoman. The lunch concluded, as it had begun, in an aura of goodwill and goodfellowship. Brandy was served with the coffee, and the guests, well-fed and pleasantly tipsy, departed in a flurry of thanks and the usual vague and mostly meaningless promises of meeting again quite soon.

“Just as well that Collis and Company aren’t driving, and that the Mayoress, the Councillor and Mrs Batty-Faudrey have a chauffeur,” said Laura critically. “How did you think it all went? Am I right in thinking that, at some time before the end, you got what you wanted?”

“Yes, thank you, child, I did.”

“Oh, did you? I’m so glad,” said Kitty. “I say, the Skifforth is a bit of a battleaxe, isn’t she?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Laura. “Anybody would seem a battleaxe compared with that poor little Mayoress. I bet she won’t be sorry when the Mayor’s term of office is over. If ever I saw a shrinking violet, she’s it.”

“Signora Brunelli didn’t shrink, though, did she? “My country, right or wrong!” That was her banner and her slogan, it seemed to me.”

“It is customary for exiles to think more highly of their native land than of the one which is giving them work and shelter,” said Dame Beatrice. “All the same, except for yourself, my dear Laura, who returned my lobs with unerring skill, the signora was of much greater help than anybody except Mrs Batty-Faudrey herself. She made it clear, I thought, that any question of disinheriting her nephew Giles, whatever his social errors, simply does not arise.”