Pageant of Murder (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  The high street was a straight and narrow thoroughfare unredeemed from squalor. Small shops, many of them closed and derelict, bordered it on the north side, and on the side which ran by the river were the gasworks, the fire station, the police station, and the hideous Edwardian Town Hall. Odd little scrofulous alleys separated some of the shops, but on the river side only a lane to the ferry and the now notorious Smith Hill led to the Thames.

  Half-way between the two bridges a road left the high street at right-angles and, with it, the whole character of the town seemed to change. This road was clean and fairly wide. It led past the Butts, where Kitty’s pageant had been assembled, and then made a wide sweep, following the course of the ancient trackway which had preceded it. At one time it had wound past an Iron-Age camp, the guardian of the only spot for many miles where the Thames could be forded.

  It passed on over a railway bridge and then the scene changed again. There were meadows and a farm. Beyond the farm a high brick wall, flanked by enormous elm trees, hid Colonel Batty-Faudrey’s policies from view, but some three hundred yards farther on were the wrought-iron gates through which could be glimpsed the Elizabethan mansion Squire’s Acre.

  Beyond a broad, hedge-bordered lane opposite these gates were market gardens, and further north still, beyond these, was another farmhouse, a long, low building supported by stables on one side of a hollow square and cow-byres on the other. Beyond the farm, incongruously enough, ran a branch of the Underground railway.

  The road, still bordered by fields on the side opposite the farmhouse, rose to the railway bridge and dropped gently down to the other side. In a meadow on the left, a solitary oak tree stood in the middle of grassland. At some distance from it, half-a-dozen swings and a see-saw indicated a public recreation ground. In addition, there were park benches and a cricket pitch.

  Dame Beatrice’s car drove on, and very shortly came to an imposing road-house set back from the thoroughfare so that cars could be parked in front of it. Young Mr. Perse’s lodgings were down a turning by the side of the building and proved to consist of two very respectable rooms on the first floor of a semidetached house. The visitors were expected, and Mr. Perse opened the door to them himself.

  “Ah, come right in and have a drink,” he said, hospitably, “unless you’d prefer a cup of tea.”

  Dame Beatrice accepted sherry, Laura and the host chose whisky. The object of the visit then came to light.

  “I am anxious to see the private road in which Mr. Spey’s body was found. Apart from that, I am also keenly interested in this projected pageant of yours. Perhaps you will be kind enough to tell me all about it,” said Dame Beatrice.

  “There’s nothing much to tell. I thought the first one was entirely inadequate. The wrong people, including my aunt, were running it, and some aspects of it were farcical, as was the whole of the Town Hall show. I want to put on a pageant which really does credit to the history of the borough. What’s more, I’m not going to give that pernicious and ridiculous drama club any part in it. I am going to use my boys and the High School girls for the whole thing.”

  “Does the High School know?” enquired Laura shrewdly.

  Young Mr. Perse smiled.

  “Not yet. I conceived the idea too late in the term—in the middle of G.C.E. and all that—to bother them, but I shall write to Miss Empson immediately after the summer holiday. She’ll be only too glad to allow her girls to take part. I shall need to hold auditions, of course, and to vet the girls for looks and height and so on, and that will take a good deal of my spare time, as it will all have to be done out of school hours, but I feel it’s necessary.”

  “Your headmaster is aware of your project and approves of it, I imagine?” said Dame Beatrice.

  Young Mr. Perse looked down at the drink in his glass. He frowned thoughtfully.

  “Actually, neither—yet. But he’s bound to think it a thundering good idea. It will be entirely educational, you see, and, in addition, it should put an end, once and for all, to the Cold War.”

  “What cold war?” enquired Laura; although she could guess the answer to her question and so was not surprised when it came.

  “Why, the cold war between our scholastic establishment for the sons of not quite gentlemen and the High School for Girls, of course.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes. There was a bit of tension about a year ago on account of the fact that a gang of our nit-wits kidnapped a couple of Fourth Form girls and shut them up in the groundsman’s tool shed, it being his afternoon off. There was no end of a hoo-ha. The girls, who, of course, complained, were brought into our Senior Assembly to identify the culprits. This they failed to do. The school itself stood firmly shoulder to shoulder, so that nothing the Head could think of succeeded in bringing the sinful boys to justice.”

  “An unusual state of affairs, surely?”

  “I would think so, but, as one would expect, there were wheels within wheels.”

  “There always are. What inner wheels in this case?” demanded Laura.

  “Well, I happen to be on terms of more than ordinary friendship (as they say) with the junior Maths mistress, and she confided to me that she was fairly certain the kidnapping was a put-up job and had had the full support and connivance of the two girls. It was an odd sort of coincidence, she said, that they should have been kidnapped and locked away on the very afternoon of her end-of-the-year Maths test, Maths being a subject at which they did not shine.”

  “Didn’t she make them sit for it next day?” enquired Laura, reminded of her own delinquent youth.

  “No. As it happened, the next day the end-of-term inter-House tennis tournament was staged and took all the time there was.”

  “They could have missed the tournament for once.”

  “That’s just what they couldn’t do. Both were playing for their House, and their housemistress happened to be the formidable Mrs. Golightly (but she doesn’t), the senior Physics mistress. Science women always seem to me to get it up the nose, and this one is no exception, so poor old Valerie didn’t dare chuck her weight about, and keep the blighters out of the tennis, for fear of offending this frightful woman.”

  “How about after school?”

  “Well, the school bus, a decrepit affair run by the local motor-coach people, is the sacred cow of the High School’s being, because, for some of the girls, there’s no alternative form of transport unless they come on bikes or (in the case of the privileged Sixth Form) in their own cars. So, as it would be manifestly unfair to keep back those kids who don’t use the school bus, it is an unbreakable rule that nobody is ever kept in after school under any circumstances. Even the school clubs and societies and games practices are all held in the dinner hour.”

  “Oh, I see. No wonder the girls found themselves unable to identify your naughty lads. But why the ill-feeling between the two schools?” asked Laura.

  “Bless you, there’s no ill-feeling between the two schools; it’s just between the two Heads, whose senior Staff, of course, feel bound to back them up. The High School lady accuses our Old Man of lax discipline, and the Old Man avers that her sexy little madams lead our pure young boys astray.”

  “And you really think your pageant will effect a reconciliation? I shouldn’t like to bank on it,” said Laura.

  “Oh, well, be that as it may,” said young Mr. Perse, airily brushing aside criticism, “what about going and having a look at the spot where the body was found? The simplest, quickest, and nicest way from here is to walk along the towing-path. It’s only about a mile, and quite easy going at this time of year. I’ll give your man directions where to pick you up, shall I?”

  A lane bordered by trees and a hawthorn hedge led by the side of the public park to a river in which children were bathing. The party, led by Perse, walked along its bank until they came to an iron bridge where the river, at a sharp bend, flowed into the canal. The towing-path was broad and the going was firm. On the water’s edge there were meadow-sweet
and purple loosestrife, and on the side next to the park were herb robert, common St. John’s wort, bush vetch, silverweed, and knotgrass. Quite a country scene, as Laura remarked.

  A stroll of just over a quarter of a mile brought the party to a very high, stone-built, narrow, iron-railed bridge, where the towing-path came to an end on the north bank and continued on the opposite side of the canal. An overgrown but obvious path continued, however, along the north bank, and a tiny, rather spiritless weir carried some of the water alongside it. Laura stood and gazed. The overgrown lane looked far more attractive, she thought, than the towing-path they were about to follow on the opposite side of the canal.

  “That bit of the stream runs past the lower end of Squire’s Acre, the wooded part,” explained Perse, halting by Laura and following her gaze. “Squire’s Arm they call it. It’s got a bend half-way along it, rather the shape of a slightly-bent elbow, if you’re fanciful. It’s no good going that way if you want to get back into Brayne, though. It joins the canal again, further on, it’s true, but there’s no way of getting back to the towing-path because there isn’t another bridge, so you have to retrace your steps.”

  “Is that overgrown path on Batty-Faudrey land? Is it private, I mean?”

  “If it is, they don’t bother about it any longer. The Batty-Faudrey woods are railed off against kids because some of them play along the path and pick the wild irises and the dog-roses. It’s true that there is an old picture in Brayne library showing a broad ride down through Squire’s Acre woods to a wooden footbridge, and there’s a stretch of open ground on the opposite side of the river with just a few oak trees and an elm or two. This seems to show that the estate was a lot bigger before the canal was cut than it is now.”

  “Talking of oaks,” said Laura, as they crossed the towing-path bridge, “why on earth don’t the Council take down that tree which stands bang in the middle of the public park? It must get horribly in the way when you’re fielding at cricket.”

  “Take down the Sacred Oak?—or Hangman’s Oak, as some call it? My darling Auntie Laura, it’s more than our lives would be worth. We’d all be slung out, lock, stock, and barrel, at the next Council election! The thing’s holy! Besides, I need it for my pageant.”

  “I thought your pageant was going to be held in the Town Hall.”

  “So it is, some of it, but before that we’re going to do our Hocking and then dance round the oak to the music, played on recorders, of Mage on a Cree.”

  “You mean Sellenger’s Round, a dance obviously intended to be offered to a sacred tree,” said Laura.

  “Yes, but the other’s a better tune. Anyway, I can think that over later.”

  The narrow road-bridge which carried Brayne high street over the canal was reached a short time later. They crossed the high street opposite a small public house called The Faudrey Arms and a walk of five minutes’ duration brought them to the private road they sought. It was bordered on one side by a house with a brick-walled garden and on the other side there was another and a higher brick wall. The road was not gated and was wide enough to take a large car. It was only about sixty yards long and did not lead directly to the ducal mansion, but to a kissing-gate which, in its turn, gave on to a public footpath leading down to the Thames.

  “Well, that’s your lot,” said Julian Perse. “It’s no good asking me exactly where the body was found—the spot marked with a cross, I mean—because I don’t know.”

  “It is immaterial,” said Dame Beatrice. “One may assume, I think, that the body was brought along the high street and not out from the ducal mansion. It would be helpful to know where the murder took place and where the head is hidden. However, as the police, with all their resources, have so-far failed to discover these things, it is in the highest degree unlikely that we shall succeed. Still, it is a pleasant evening and quite early, and our time is our own. I should wish to continue our walk. Where did you instruct George to meet us?”

  A respectful note on a horn saved Mr. Perse from answering this pertinent question. George was backing the car towards them along the narrow road. He pulled up alongside and got out.

  “Ah, George,” said Dame Beatrice, “we are enjoying our walk and propose to extend it. Mr. Perse will tell you where to wait for us.”

  “Very good, madam.”

  “Turn left at the top of this road, then left again at the traffic lights and keep straight on until you get to the river. Turn right and you’ll see a biggish pub called More Fish in the Sea. We shall call in there for a drink and then you can pick up the ladies and go home. All right?” said Mr. Perse.

  “Very good, sir.” The stocky, stolid, eminently respectable chauffeur climbed back into the driver’s seat and started up the car. Mr. Perse held the kissing-gate open for the ladies and Dame Beatrice and Laura, followed by the young man, threaded their way through it and found themselves on a gravel path fenced on both sides by iron railings. There were trees, and some cows were grazing behind the railings. A little further on there was a large, shallow lake.

  “Freezes over very readily in sharp weather,” said Julian. “People come from all over the place to get some free skating. Otherwise, the park, as you see, is kept inviolate. You can, however, on payment of half-a-crown, enter and view the mansion and use the woods behind it for picnics. It’s one of our nicest school outings and well worth while, in other ways, too—history and so forth, I mean. Henry V founded a convent here and, when it was dissolved, all sorts of important people came along. At different times it housed Catherine Howard as a prisoner before her execution, and also Lady Jane Grey, who was living here at the time when she accepted the crown. Charles I visited his children here, when he was a prisoner at Hampton Court, and Queen Anne made it her home before she came to the throne. The interior is a magnificent job by Adam, and Capability Brown did the landscaping. Then there are fine portraits and period furniture…”

  “And once,” said Laura, “the body of Henry VIII. The real one, I mean.”

  “These murders are very odd,” said Julian, side-tracked, from his own point of view, but brought back on to the highroad, in Laura’s estimation. “I am very glad you have interested yourself in the matter, Dame Beatrice. I suppose you don’t want a working partner?”

  “You’re already on the strength, showing us round like this,” said Laura. “Besides—”

  “Yes?” said Julian hopefully. Laura scowled thoughtfully at a cow which, not satisfied with the lush riverside pastures which stretched for acres all around it, had put its head through the iron railings and was eating the drier, inferior grass which bordered the gravel path.

  “It’s something you’ve said since we met you today,” she said. “There’s a bell ringing somewhere, but, so far, I haven’t been able to place it. It will come back, I suppose. I hope so, anyway, because it’s so loud and clear that it’s definitely shouting in my ear. Most frustrating and annoying.”

  “Perhaps Dame Beatrice heard it, too.”

  “She may have done, but, somehow, I have a kind of sort of feeling that she didn’t, and why she didn’t I can’t think, but there it is. I’d better put it right out of my mind and then it will come back of its own accord, I hope.”

  The gravel path ended at a tall, wrought-iron gate and they found themselves on a bus-route. Another road, quiet and, apparently, little used by motor traffic, debouched from this and led gently downhill past some hospital buildings and, in ironic and grim juxtaposition, a cemetery. About half a mile further on was the river, and the quiet road, making a right-angle bend past an eighteenth-century church, led to the public house mentioned by Julian. George had the car drawn up outside it. They went inside for a drink and then Dame Beatrice insisted upon giving Julian a lift back to his rooms. She and Laura declined his invitation to go in, and soon they were on their way towards Dame Beatrice’s Kensington house, where they had planned to stay the night before going back to the New Forest and the Stone House at Wandles Parva.

  Laura was r
emarkably silent during the drive. Dame Beatrice glanced at her once or twice, but said nothing and left her to her thoughts.

  “It’s no good,” said Laura, at last. “I ought to let it rest and wait for it to come back of its own accord, but I just keep chewing it over in the way one can’t leave an aching tooth alone. All the same, try as I will, I’m getting nowhere, so I’ll change the subject. As Henri and Celestine are both at the Stone House, how and where are we going to eat? It’s getting late and I’m absolutely starving.”

  “Our dear Mrs. Trevelyan-Twigg has invited us to dine with her, and she will also feed George.”

  Kitty was delighted to welcome them. They were given sherry and an excellent dinner, and then Kitty asked whether their outing had been satisfactory. Laura gave her an account of it and suddenly, in her own expression, the penny dropped as she was describing the walk along the canal.

  “So then we came to this steep, high, narrow bridge, where the towing-path changed sides,” she said. “There was a much nicer path which ran past the Batty-Faudrey woods, but Julian said it didn’t lead anywhere. It’s called Squire’s Arm…” She broke off. “Good Lord!” she exclaimed. “That’s it! That must be it!”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Head Tucked Underneath His Arm

  “From that stately mansion and the beautifully wooded and verdant surroundings…we will now pass once more to the extreme…boundary which we shall make the starting place for a ramble to some of the most interesting scenes in the old County town.”

  Dame Beatrice gazed at her secretary with mild interest, Kitty with deep concern.

  “Do you feel all right, Dog?” she enquired.

  “Very much all right,” replied her friend. “Something that’s been nagging at me for hours has suddenly fallen into place. Let’s forget it. It will keep. Stick some Bach on, and let Mrs. Croc. enjoy herself. We’ve had a tiring although fascinating day.”