Death of a Fool ra-19

by Ngaio Marsh

  Even through the window, which was shut, they heard her yelp of pain. It was clearly to be seen that Simon was making awkward apologies. Presently he took Mrs. Bünz by the elbow — he was the sort of man who habitually takes women by the elbow — and piloted her away towards the car she had bought from him. He lifted the bonnet and soon they had their heads together talking eagerly over the engine.

  Fox said dubiously to Alleyn, “Is that what it was all about?”

  “Don’t you believe it, Br’er Fox. Those two are cooking up a little plot, the burden of which may well be, ‘For, O, for, O, the hobby-horse is forgot.’ ”

  “Shakespeare,” Fox said, “I suppose.”

  “And why not? This case smacks of the Elizabethan. And I don’t altogether mean Hamlet or Lear. Or nine-men’s morris, though there’s a flavour of all of them, to be sure. But those earlier plays of violence when people kill each other in a sort of quintessence of spleen and other people cheer each other up by saying things like, ‘And now, my lord, to leave these doleful dumps.’ Shall you be glad to leave these doleful dumps, Fox?”

  “So, so,” Fox said. “It’s always nice to get a case cleared up. There’s not all that much variety in murder.”

  “You’ve become an epicure of violence, which is as much as to say a ‘bloody snob.’ ”

  Fox chuckled obligingly.

  Mrs. Bünz had drawn away from the car. She now approached the pub. They stood back in the room and they watched her. So did Simon Begg. Simon looked extremely worried and more than a little dubious. He scowled after Mrs. Bünz and scratched his head. Then, with the sort of shrug that suggests the relinquishment of an insoluble problem, he slammed down the bonnet of her car. Alleyn grinned. He could imagine Simon saying out loud, “But, still,” and giving it up.

  Mrs. Bünz approached the pub and, as if she felt that she was observed, glanced up at the windows. Her weathered face was patchy and her lips were set in a determined line.

  “It’s a very odd temperament,” Alleyn muttered. “Her particular kind of Teutonic female temperament, I mean. At her sort of age and with her sort of background. Conditioned, if that’s the beastly word, by violence and fear and full of curiosity and persistence.”

  “Persistence?” Fox repeated, savouring the idea.

  “Yes. She’s a very thorough sort of woman, is Mrs. Bünz. Look what she did on Wednesday night.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Rubbed her fat shoulders raw, prancing round the dolmen in ‘Crack’s’ harness. Yes,” Alleyn repeated, more to himself than to Fox, “she’s a thorough sort of woman, is Mrs. Bünz.”

  The sun continued to shine upon South Mardian and upon the surrounding countryside. The temperature rose unseasonably. Bigger and bigger patches emerged, dark and glistening, from the dismantled landscape. Dr. Curtis, driving himself across country, slithered and skidded but made good time. At noon he rang through to say he expected to be with them before three. Alleyn directed him to Yowford, where the Guiser waited for him in the cottage-hospital mortuary.

  At half past one a police car arrived with five reinforcements.

  Alleyn held a sort of meeting in the back parlour and briefed his men for the afternoon performance. Carey, who had been down at Copse Forge, came in and was consulted with fitting regard for his rank and local importance.

  “We haven’t the faintest notion if we’ll make an arrest,” Alleyn said. “With luck, we might. I’d feel much happier about it if the results of the P.M. were laid on, but I’ve decided not to wait for them. The chances of success in a reconstruction of this sort rest on the accuracy of the observers’ memories. With every hour they grow less dependable. We’re taking pretty considerable risks and may look damn’ silly for damn’ all at the end of it. However, I think it’s worth trying and Mr. Fox agrees with me. Now, this is what happens.”

  He laid out his plan of action, illustrating what he said with a rough sketch of the courtyard at Mardian Castle.

  Dame Alice, Dulcie Mardian and the Rector would again sit on the steps. The rest of the audience would consist of Trixie, her father, Camilla, Carey, Sergeant Obby and Mrs. Bünz. The events of Wednesday night would be re-enacted in their order. At this point it became clear that Superintendent Carey was troubled in his mind. Seeing this, Alleyn asked him if he had any suggestions to make.

  “Well! Naow!” Carey said. “I was just asking myself, Mr. Alleyn. If everybody, in a manner of speaking, is going to act their own parts over again, who would — er — who would —”

  “Act the principal part?”

  “That’s right. The original,” Mr. Carey said reasonably, “not being available.”

  “I wanted to consult you about that. What sort of age is the boy — Andy’s son, isn’t it? — who was the understudy?”

  “Young Bill? Thirteen — fourteen or thereabouts. He’s Andrew’s youngest.”

  “Bright boy?”

  “Smart enough little lad, far’s I know.”

  “About the same height as his grandfather?”

  “Just, I reckon.”

  “Could we get hold of him?”

  “Reckon so. Andrew Andersen’s farm’s up to Yowford. Matter of a mile.”

  “Is Andy himself still down at the forge?”

  “Went home for his dinner, no doubt, at noon. There’s been a great family conference all morning at the smithy,” Carey said. “My sergeant was on duty there. Obby. I don’t say he was as alert as we might prefer: not used to late hours and a bit short of sleep. As a matter of fact, the silly danged fool dozed off and had to admit it.”

  The Yard men were at pains not to catch each other’s eyes.

  “He came forward, however, with the information that a great quantity of money was found and locked away and that all the boys seem very worried about what Ern may say or do. Specially Chris. He’s a hot-tempered chap, is Chris Andersen, and not above using his hands, which he knows how to, having been a commando in the war.”

  “Hardly suitable as a mild corrective technique,” Alleyn said drily.

  “Well, no. Will I see if I can lay hold of young Bill, Mr. Alleyn? Now?”

  “Would you, Carey? Thank you so much. Without anything being noticed. You’ll handle it better than we would, knowing them.”

  Carey, gratified, set about this business.

  They heard him start up his motor-bicycle and churn off along Yowford Lane.

  “He’s all right,” Alleyn said to the Yard men. “Sound man, but he’s feeling shy about his sergeant going to sleep on duty.”

  “So he should,” Fox said, greatly scandalized. “I never heard such a thing. Very bad. Carey ought to have stayed there himself if he can’t trust his chaps.”

  “I don’t think it’s likely to have made all that difference, Br’er Fox.”

  “It’s the principle.”

  “Of course it is. Now, about this show — here’s where I want everyone to stand. Mr. Fox up, at the back by the archway through which they made their exits and entrances. Bailey and Thompson are coming off their specialists’ perches and keeping observation again: there” — he pointed on his sketch—“by the entrance to the castle, that is to say, the first archway that links the semicircular ruined wall to the new building, and here, by its opposite number at the other end of the wall. That’s the way Ralph Stayne came back to the arena. The bonfire was outside the wall and to the right of the central archway. I want three men there. The remaining two will stand among the onlookers, bearing in mind what I’ve said we expect to find. We may be involved with more than one customer if the pot comes to the boil. Carey will be there, with his sergeant and his P.C., of course, and if the sergeant dozes off at this show it’ll be because he’s got sleeping sickness.”

  Fox said, “May we inquire where you’ll be yourself, Mr. Alleyn?”

  “Oh,” Alleyn said, “here and there, Br’er Fox. Roaring up and down as a raging lion seeking whom I may devour. To begin with, in the Royal Box with the nob
s, I daresay.”

  “On the steps with Dame Alice Mardian?”

  “That’s it. Now, one word more.” Alleyn looked from Fox, Bailey and Thompson to the five newcomers. “I suggest that each of us marks one particular man and marks him well. Suppose you, Fox, take Ernie Andersen. Bailey takes Simon Begg as ‘Crack,’ the Hobby. Thompson takes Ralph Stayne as the Betty, and the rest of you parcel out among you the boy in his grandfather’s role as the Fool and the other four sons as the four remaining dancers. That’ll be one each for us, won’t it? A neat fit.”

  One of the newcomers, a Sergeant Yardley, said, “Er — beg pardon.”

  “Yes, Yardley?”

  “I must have lost count, sir. There’s nine of us, counting yourself, and I understood there’s only eight characters in this play affair, or dance, or whatever it is.”

  “Eight characters,” Alleyn said, “is right. Our contention will be that there were nine performers; however.”

  “Sorry, sir. Of course.”

  “I,” Alleyn said blandly, “hope to keep my eye on the ninth.”

  Young Bill Andersen might have sat to the late George Clauson for one of his bucolic portraits. He had a shock of tow-coloured hair, cheeks like apples and eyes as blue as periwinkles. His mouth stretched itself into the broadest grin imaginable and his teeth were big, white and far apart.

  Carey brought him back on the pillion of his motor-bicycle and produced him to Alleyn as if he was one of the natural curiosities of the region.

  “Young Bill,” Carey said, exhibiting him. “I’ve told him what he’s wanted for and how he’ll need to hold his tongue and be right smart for the job, and he says he’s able and willing. Come on,” he added, giving the boy a business-like shove. “That’s right, isn’t it? Speak up for yourself.”

  “Ar,” said young Bill. He looked at Alleyn through his thick white lashes and grinned. “I’d like it,” he said.

  “Good. Now, look here, Bill. What we want you to do is quite a tricky bit of work. It’s got to be cleverly done. It’s important. One of us would do it, actually, but we’re all too tall for the job, as you can see for yourself. You’re the right size. The thing is: do you know your stuff?”

  “I know the Five Sons, sir, like the back of me yand.”

  “You do? You know the Fool’s act, do you? Your grandfather’s act?”

  “Certain-sure.”

  “You watched it on Wednesday night, didn’t you?”

  “So I did, then.”

  “And you remember exactly what he did?”

  “Ya-as.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  Bill scratched his head. “Reckon I watched him, seeing what a terrible rage he was in. After what happened, like. And what was said.”

  “What did happen?”

  Bill very readily gave an account of the Guiser’s arrival and the furious change-over: “I ’ad to strip off Uncle Ern’s clothes and he ’ad to strip off Grandfer’s. Terrible quick.”

  “And what was said?”

  “Uncle Ern reckoned it’d be the death of Granfer, dancing. So did Uncle Chris. He’ll kill himself, Uncle Chris says, if he goes capering in the great heat of his rages. The silly old bastard’ll fall down dead, he says. So I was watching Granfer to see.”

  Bill passed the tip of his tongue round his lips. “Terrible queer,” he muttered, “as it turned out, because so ’e did, like. Terrible queer.”

  Alleyn said, “Sure you don’t mind doing this for us, Bill?”

  The boy looked at him. “I don’t mind,” he declared and sounded rather surprised. “Suits me, all right.”

  “And you’ll keep it as a dead secret between us? Not a word to anybody: top security.”

  “Ya-as,” Bill said. “Surely.” A thought seemed to strike him.

  “Yes?” Alleyn said. “What’s up?”

  “Do I have to dress up in them bloody clothes of his’n?”

  “No,” Alleyn said after a pause.

  “Nor wear his ma-ask?”

  “No.”

  “I wouldn’t fancy thik.”

  “There’s no need. We’ll fix you up with something light-coloured to wear and something over your face to look like a mask.”

  He nodded, perfectly satisfied. The strange and innocent cruelty of his age and sex was upon him.

  “Reckon I can fix that,” he said. “I’ll get me a set of pyjammers and I got a ma-ask of me own. Proper clown’s ma-ask.”

  And then, with an uncanny echo of his Uncle Ernie, he said, “Reckon I can make proper old Fool of myself.”

  “Good. And now, young Bill, you lay your ears back and listen to me. There’s something else we’ll ask you to do. It’s something pretty tricky, it may be rather frightening and the case for the police may hang on it. How do you feel about that?”

  “Bettn’t I know what ’tis first?”

  “Fair enough,” Alleyn said and looked pleased. “Hold tight, then, and I’ll tell you.”

  He told young Bill what he wanted.

  The blue eyes opened wider and wider. Alleyn waited for an expostulation, but none came. Young Bill was thirteen. He kept his family feeling, his compassion and his enthusiasms in separate compartments. An immense grin converted his face into the likeness of a bucolic Puck. He began to rub the palms of his hands together.

  Evidently he was, as Superintendent Carey had indicated, a smart enough lad for the purpose.

  Chapter XII

  The Swords Again

  The afternoon had begun to darken when the persons concerned in the Sword Wednesday Morris of the Five Sons returned to Mardian Castle.

  Dr. Otterly came early and went indoors to present his compliments to Dame Alice and find out how she felt after last night’s carousal. He found the Rector and Alleyn were there already, while Fox and his assistants were to be seen in and about the courtyard.

  At four o’clock the Andersens, with Sergeant Obby in attendance, drove up the hill in their station-waggon, from which they unloaded torches and a fresh drum of tar.

  Superintendent Carey arrived on his motor-bike.

  Simon appeared in his breakdown van with a new load of brushwood for the bonfire.

  Ralph Stayne and his father walked up the hill and were harried by the geese, who had become hysterical.

  Trixie and her father drove up with Camilla, looking rather white and strained, as their passenger.

  Mrs. Bünz, alone this time, got her new car half-way up the drive and was stopped by one of Alleyn’s men, who asked her to leave the car where it was until further orders and come the rest of the way on foot. This she did quite amenably.

  From the drawing-room window Alleyn saw her trudge into the courtyard. Behind him Dame Alice sat in her bucket chair. Dulcie and the Rector stood further back in the room. All of them watched the courtyard.

  The preparations were almost complete. Under the bland scrutiny of Mr. Fox and his subordinates, the Andersens had re-erected the eight torches: four on each side of the dolmen.

  “It looks just like it did on Sword Wednesday,” Dulcie pointed out, “doesn’t it, Aunt Akky? Fancy!”

  Dame Alice made a slight contemptuous noise.

  “Only, of course,” Dulcie added, “nobody’s beheaded a goose this time. There is that, isn’t there, Aunt Akky?”

  “Unfortunately,” her great-aunt agreed savagely. She stared pointedly at Dulcie, who giggled vaguely.

  “What’s that ass Ernie Andersen up to?” Dame Alice demanded.

  “Dear me, yes,” the Rector said. “Look at him.”

  Ernie, who had been standing apart from his brothers, apparently in a sulk, now advanced upon them. He gesticulated and turned from one to the other. Fox moved a little closer. Ernie pointed at his brothers and addressed himself to Fox.

  “I understand,” Alleyn said, “that he’s been cutting up rough all the afternoon. He wants to play the Father’s part.”

  “Mad!” Dame Alice said. “What did I tell you? He’ll g
et himself into trouble before it’s all over, you may depend ’pon it.”

  It was clear that Ernie’s brothers had reacted in their usual way to his tantrums and were attempting to silence him. Simon came through the archway from the back, carrying “Crack’s” head, and walked over to the group. Ernie listened. Simon clapped him good-naturedly on the shoulder and in a moment Ernie had thrown his customary crashing salute.

  “That’s done the trick,” Alleyn said.

  Evidently Ernie was told to light the torches. Clearly mollified, he set about this task, and presently light fans of crimson and yellow consumed the cold air. Their light quivered over the dolmen and dramatized the attentive faces of the onlookers.

  “It’s a strange effect,” the Rector said uneasily. “Like the setting for a barbaric play — King Lear, perhaps.”

  “Otterly will agree with your choice,” Alleyn said and Dr. Otterly came out of the shadow at the back of the room. The Rector turned to him, but Dr. Otterly didn’t show his usual enthusiasm for his pet theory.

  “I suppose I’d better go out,” he said. “Hadn’t I, Alleyn?”

  “I think so. I’m going back now.” Alleyn turned to Dulcie, who at once put on her expression of terrified jocosity.

  “I wonder,” Alleyn said, “if I could have some clean rags? Enough to make a couple of thick pads about the size of my hand? And some first-aid bandages, if you have them?”

  “Rags!” Dulcie said. “Fancy! Pads! Bandages!” She eyed him facetiously. “Now, I wonder.”

  “ ’Course he can have them,” Dame Alice said. “Don’t be an ass, Dulcie. Get them.”

  “Very well, Aunt Akky,” Dulcie said in a hurry. She plunged out of the room and in a surprisingly short space of time returned with a handful of old linen and two bandages. Alleyn thanked her and stuffed them into his overcoat pocket.