Pageant of Murder

CHAPTER ONE

The Special Sub-Committee Meets

“It may therefore serve a useful purpose, if, at this point, we devote a few moments to the consideration of the subject.”

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It having been signified by the Council,” said Councillor Topson, the chairman, “as how we are going to celebrate being made into a borough, it is our duty, being appointed the special sub-committee for arrangements, to seek ways and means to bring the said borough into public notice. The Chair is open to any suggestions.”

“What about a sports-day for the children?”

“Church parade of the Council, with fully-choral service?”

“Plant a tree in the park?”

“A civic dinner at The Hat With Feather?”

“A tea for the old folks?”

“A competition for the best front garden?”

“Open-air dancing in the park, with flood-lighting and a platform for the band?”

“Historical pageant, indicating the development of the town?”

The last suggestion came from a man named Perse. He was the youngest recruit to the Council, and there were those who wished that he had never been voted in.

“Sports day for the children?” said Councillor Topson. “That will be taken care of, anyway. Nothing takes place in this town—soon to be a borough—without a sports day for the children. Have to see about prizes, that’s all. Church parade? Well, naturally, the Mayor will have to be churched. It’s the understood thing, so both them suggestions are in.”

“What about planting a tree in the park?” persisted the woman Councillor who had suggested this. The chairman beamed at her.

“A ruddy good idea, Councillor Mrs Skifforth,” he said. “We could have a Mayor’s Avenue, as time goes on. I have seen such a memorial before. Very effective and nice, and we’ll certainly propose it. But we need something a little more lively and entertaining as well. Now, Councillor Perse, what was your suggestion?”

“Oh, I withdraw it,” said young Mr Perse airily. “It doesn’t seem necessary, if we are to have all the other things.”

“We are open to all suggestions, Councillor, so, if you would oblige with yours again, I’m sure members of this sub-committee would be honoured to consider of it,” said the chairman, with heavy irony.

“Well, in that case, I thought that, being roughly, so to speak, on the road to Windsor, we might put on an historical pageant, showing the development of the town from a Thames-side village to its new status of borough, if you see what I mean.”

“I like that idea. It’s classy. But wouldn’t it need words and music?”

“We’ve got the town band. As to words, I don’t see those would be necessary. All we’d need would be a printed programme, to be sold beforehand in shops and the market, setting out the order of the pageant and what the various floats were representing.”

“Councillor Band’s brother runs a printing press,” said the member who had proposed the church parade. “He might do the job at reduced rates, if approached official and patriotic-like.”

“And he might not!” said the member who had proposed a tea for the old folks. “If he knows it’s for the Council, it will be the reverse, if I know anything. But I like the idea of a pageant. I vote the chairman puts it to the meeting.”

“If it’s to be historical, then it’s got to be something people have heard about, or had learned ’em at school,” said the chairman thoughtfully.

“Such as?” asked young Mr Perse, innocently.

“Such as Alfred and the Cakes, and Rawley and the Puddle, and all them sort of things, and they didn’t take place around these parts, I don’t mind betting. So what can we put on to raise the public interest? That’s what this sub-committee wants to know.”

“I take your point,” said young Mr Perse. “Just half a minute.” He picked up the pencil which lay beside his official scribbling pad, frowned thoughtfully and then began to write. The others waited in respectful but slightly hostile silence. Mr Perse was a graduate of London University and it was suspected (with some justification) that he was inclined to look down on those less favoured than himself. “What about this?” he asked, putting down his pencil. “Suppose we kick off with the Ancient Britons? They lived all over the place, so, presumably, some of them lived here.”

“Too cold, these days,” objected the chairman. “You can’t ask people to ride all round the town with nothing on but a bit of fur round their middle.”

“You’ve got it wrong, Mr Chairman. I’m talking about people who lived in the Iron Age and understood all about pottery and commerce and the making and wearing of ornaments and clothes, and even a bit about money. I am not thinking of Palaeolithic or Neolithic Man.”

“Oh? Oh, well, we can discuss the details later,” said the chairman hastily. “Personally, I still think the Ancient Britons should be included out.”

“Very well. Let’s start with the Romans. They’re supposed to have crossed the Thames somewhere around here.”

“Ah, that’s better. Very pictureskew, them Romans. Helmets and shields and all that.”

“Women must be given a fair share of representation, so what about Boadicea?” suggested the woman Councillor.

“Boudicca,” said young Mr Perse, rather insufferably. “I don’t think we should include her. We were all Catuvellauni around here. Boudicca belonged to and led the tribe of the Iceni, of course.”

“I thought the early folks round here were all Saxons. I seem to have read that somewhere,” put in the Councillor who had suggested the civic dinner at The Hat With Feather.

“You forestall me, Councillor,” said young Mr Perse pleasantly. “The Saxons must come into it, of course, and we really ought to follow them with the Normans. Still, as we have no Norman castle or church in or near the borough…” he smirked as he used the new and magic word… “I don’t see why we shouldn’t jump straight to the Crusades. The First Crusade was preached and took place in Norman times and we have no evidence that our own lord of the manor did not take part.”

“Richard the Lion-Heart. Read a story about him once,” said the Councillor who had proposed open-air dancing in the park.

“Yes, yes, the Third Crusade,” said Mr Perse, brushing it aside. “I referred to the first one.”

“What happened to the second one, then?” demanded the protagonist for a competition among the owners of front gardens. Mr Perse declined to accept responsibility for describing what had happened to the abortive and disgraceful Second Crusade.

“Bearing in mind what the chairman has told us,” he said, “I think we could then jump to the reign of Edward III, and have Queen Philippa, on her knees, begging him to spare the lives of the six burghers of Calais. As this event took place in Calais, there may be objections to including it.”

“Ropes round their necks and them in their shirts?” said the Councillor who had been snubbed about the school-children’s sports. “Nearly as draughty as Councillor Topson’s Ancient Britons!” He chuckled hoarsely and broke into a wheezy coughing.

“Everybody knows about ’em, though, and as for feeling chilly, they can wear their long pants—or even their trousers—under their shirts,” said the chairman austerely. “Long as we put plenty of straw on the floor of the lorry, and top up the sides a bit, it’ll never be noticed.”

“They can’t kneel all the time,” said the woman Councillor, “nor can Queen Thingummy. You couldn’t expect it. Kneeling can be terribly tiring, especially for a woman, if the trunk has to be kept upright all the time.”

“They can cut their cloth according to the size of the crowds,” said the chairman, obscurely but comprehensibly. “They only got to use a bit of gump.”

“Then,” said Perse, “we could go on to Henry VIII, I should think. He was buried at Windsor, you know.”

“You got something there,” said the chairman. “Henry VIII and all his six wives, Anne Boleyn with her head tucked underneath her arm—raise a rare laugh, that would!”

Young Mr Perse looked shocked.

“I’d only thought of the funeral cortège, followed by a posse of Gentlemen-at-Arms. Rather more dignified, surely?” he asked coldly.

“No good at all, boy!” said the chairman, blithely. “After all, being made a borough is an occasion of rejoicing, and rejoicing, to my mind, includes a bit of a giggle. Old Harry the Lad, with a couple of cushions shoved up his doublet, and Anne Boleyn like what I said, that’s the stuff to give the troops, you take my word for it.”

“We ought to include Queen Elizabeth I, with a retinue, and then the pony club might like to take part as the Roundheads and Cavaliers,” said the woman Councillor, who wanted the part of the Virgin Queen for herself, and whose daughter was one of the pony club’s leading lights. “And that’s another thing,” she added. “Colonel Batty-Faudrey, up at the Hall, will expect something special for him and his wife and nephew.”

“What about Joan of Arc?” demanded the Councillor who had suggested the church parade.

“Joan of Arc wasn’t English,” objected the Councillor for the Old Folks’ Tea.

“Mrs Batty-Faudrey has the costume, though, and she’s also got her own horse,” said the woman Councillor. “And the Colonel could be Charles II. He was pictured in the local paper as that, the year before last, when they had that show for charity up at the Hall.”

“There’s an idea there, Councillor Mrs Skifforth,” said the chairman, approbation in his voice. “I been wondering, ever since these here festivities were mooted, how we were going to include-in the Colonel, him being, as you might say, our most prominent citizen until we get the Mayor. Handle him right, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t invite the pageant to end up in the grounds of the Hall and provide a bite to eat and some refreshment. So now, all them in favour of the Colonel being invited to take on Charles II and his good lady Joan of Arc, will signify in the usual manner. Thank you! Carried nearly unanimous.” He looked reproachfully at Mr Perse, who had not raised his hand. “Now that’s settled, what about a part for young Mr Faudrey, the Colonel’s nephew?”

“Dick Turpin, I should think,” said Perse viciously. “The man’s a mountebank.”

“We could end up with Queen Victoria and Prince Albert,” said Mrs Skifforth, eagerly. “Everybody will recognise them. I wonder whether we can get the loan of an open carriage?”

“The vicar’s lady could do Queen Victoria. Spit and image,” said the chairman. “And a barouche or a landau, or something of that, shouldn’t be beyond us. I’ll put Councillor Field on to it. He takes a great interest in things of that sort and is sure to be able to wangle something for us. Well, but, if the vicar’s lady can be persuaded, we’ve still got to find somebody for Prince Albert. Anybody any ideas?”

“What have we got a drama club for?” demanded young Mr Perse. “Surely one of their elegant gents can glue on some long hair and a bit of face-fungus?”

The chairman’s face cleared.

“Well, that seems to take care of that,” he observed. “That’s got the important folk settled. Now what about other parts? We ought to go back to the full Council with some concrete ideas, I reckon.”

“We’ve settled the pony club,” the woman Councillor pointed out, “and I’m sure they’ll be more than willing to take part.”

“We ain’t giving the other kiddies much of a look-in, so far as I see it,” said the Councillor who had proposed the children’s sports.

“There’s the races for ’em,” said the chairman, “and I daresay it might run to a presentation mug and some lemonade and a bun.”

“Merrie England,” said the Front-Gardens Councillor. “Stick the little ’uns in the first float, behind the band and that. The teachers ’ull have to see they’re all togged up right, and keep ’em in order, and stop ’em falling off the lorry. Part of their job.”

“Strewth!” muttered Mr Perse, who taught in the local grammar school, and genuinely pitied his colleagues in the primary and County Secondary schools.

“Then,” pursued the Front-Gardens Councillor, “I reckon as how the bigger boys could do the Romans for us. Again, their history master could vet. the dressing-up so we’d know it was all authentic.”

“And the bigger girls, or one of the pop groups who are intelligent enough to have long hair, could represent the Saxons, I suppose?” said Mr Perse, ironically.

“The bigger girls? Why, yes,” said the chairman, to Mr Perse’s astonishment. “That’s a very useful suggestion, Councillor. Save the hire of wigs, and, as to physiquew, well, the girls is as good as the boys these days, I reckon. Well, that takes care of that, then. Now, any other ideas?”

“The Crusaders could be done by Toc H, couldn’t they?” suggested the Councillor who had recommended the civic dinner.

“On that, we might be able to get a military band as well as the town band, provided they was able to play the same toon,” said the Councillor for the Children.

“That’s right. It would add a bit of uplift, and I reckon they wouldn’t hear each other if we put one in the lead of the procession and the other to bring up the rear,” said the Councillor for Open-air Dancing, “especially when you think of the row the spectators are bound to kick up. It would never notice if one was playing Annie Laurie and the other one Two Lovely Black Eyes, so far as I can see.”

“We could do with a pop-singer group, like Councillor Perse said.”

“The Scouts and Guides will have to come into it.”

“What about the Red Cross and St John Ambulance?”

“There’s the Fire-fighting Services and the Civil Defence.”

“Where do we put the Mayor and Mayoress? They’ll have to be part of the procession.”

“If we have the Scouts and the Guides, we ought to have the Church Lads’ Brigade and the Girls’ Life Brigade, else there won’t half be a shine.”

“There’s the Salvation Army. They’ve got a decent sort of band. We could stick them somewhere in the middle of the procession. They can always be relied on for a bit of liveliness.”

“They’d sing, and that might steal the show.”

“What about amusements?”

“Amusements?” said the chairman, plunging in.

“Yes, you know. In the park. Roundabouts and swings and a coconut shy and hoopla, and that. Put up a marquee and have a bingo session.”

“Put two gondolas on the lake and let ’em breed,” quoted Councillor Perse sardonically. “I’ll tell you what,” he said aloud. “If we’re really going ahead with this thing, we shall need a pageant-master, otherwise everything will be chaos.”

“And who do you propose?” demanded the chairman. “And how much lolly will they want? We got to think of the rate-payers, you know.”

“I suggest we ask Mrs Kitty Trevelyan-Twigg. She’ll probably do it for next to nothing—possibly for nothing at all—if we give her a bit of publicity.”

“Mrs Kitty Trevelyan-Twigg? But she writes in Vogue !”exclaimed Councillor Mrs Skifforth. “How on earth could we get her?”

“She happens to be my aunt,” said young Mr Perse modestly.