“I see. And is the populace to be admitted?”
“No. Only the friends and relations of the boys taking part. That was the stipulation, and Julian made no objection. He told Kitty that the Domesday Book must be included, as Brayne is actually mentioned in it, but that the episode would be far too dull to appeal to the general public. I agree with him. Personally, I couldn’t care less about hides and carucates and virgates, or how many ploughs make five.”
“And does that end the open-air part of the proceedings?”
“Yes, for the morning. In the afternoon he takes his boys to the Town Hall for the next bit of history. He wanted to use The Hat with Feather, because that’s where the event is supposed to have taken place—in an earlier building, of course, but on the same site—but his headmaster and the hotel manager joined forces in turning the project down. The headmaster refused to allow his boys to enter licensed premises, and the manager thought the said licence might be jeopardised if they did.”
“And this particular act?—a Chapter of the Garter held in 1445 by the sixth Henry, one surmises.”
“Quite correct, and I gather that Julian has very much gone to town on the costumes. Oh, and he had an anonymous letter about the sacred oak. He’s sure it came from some of the boys—Middle School, he thinks.”
“I venture to guess the contents.”
“And I wouldn’t be surprised if you were right. Yes, they said they were sorry the Head Boy had felt obliged to turn down the idea of the dancing because they understood that the tree had also been used as a gallows…”
“And they saw no objection to hanging one of the masters on it, I presume?”
“Yes. Saucy little devils! They did not specify which master, though. Rather restrained of them, I thought. Well, there’s a lot more to take place in the Town Hall, of course, but, in the early evening, directly after tea, comes Julian’s real masterpiece. He’s going to stage an eighteenth-century election in the market square at the canal end of the Butts—hustings, horseplay, torches—everything to be included except the beer.”
“That should take some stage-managing. Are you proposing to go along and take part in the revels?”
“Well, if you could spare me, I’d rather like to go, if only in support of old Kitty, whose family feeling impels her to make one of the party, highly though she disapproves of the whole project. She says it’s asking for a spot of mayhem, and I don’t mind betting she’s right.”
“Go, by all means. I shall await with interest your account of the affair.”
Laura set out for Brayne with mixed feelings. She was interested to see whether young Mr Perse’s pageant was as good as his script, and she wondered whether it would serve to throw any fresh light on the aftermath of Kitty’s own attempts to illuminate the history of Brayne. On the other hand, she had a superstitious dread that tragedy might stalk in the wake of the second pageant as it had done during and after the first.
Kitty, dressed with her usual combination of “good taste slightly emphasised,” (in Laura’s own words), and a particularly noticeable hat and accessories, met her, by arrangement, at Julian’s lodgings. The young man himself opened the door and Kitty’s voice floated towards them from his sitting-room.
“That you, Dog?”
“Here, in all my glory.”
“Come right in. Julian,” explained Kitty, when Laura presented herself, “has to push off in about ten minutes’ time to round up his squad, so we’ll drink his sherry until it’s time to start. He says we’d better walk. Do you mind?”
“If we’re going to drink his sherry, it might be as well if we do walk. How are you feeling, Julian?”
“That death would be preferable to running this pageant.”
Kitty blenched.
“Don’t use that word,” she said.
“Beg pardon. Just an expression. Aunt Kay, dear, why not remove that expensive-looking lid? You don’t need to start for at least three-quarters of an hour. I’ve got to get to school and pile my yobs into motor-coaches and then we’ve got to sort ourselves out at the end of Ferry Lane before we can do our stuff.”
“This hat,” said Kitty, “is on right, and I’m not going to touch it. You ought to wear a hat, Dog. Why don’t you?”
“Wouldn’t be seen dead in one,” said Laura. Kitty recoiled.
“Do you mind?” she asked faintly.
“Eh? Oh—I see. Sorry, and all that. Just slipped out. A manner of speaking, that’s all.”
“Well,” said Julian, “I’m off. See you later, if I survive.”
“Julian and I seem fated to lacerate your feelings,” Laura remarked. “Cheer up, old soul. Nothing else is going to happen.”
“There’s still Edward III at large, Dog. I wish I’d never promised Julian I’d come along today. Oh, well, we may as well drink to his success.”
To reach Ferry Lane they took the road to the Half Acre and then turned left along the high street. They passed the Town Hall and the police station and turned down by the fire station after they had crossed the road.
Ferry Lane was a narrow, cobbled thoroughfare which boasted (“thank goodness,” said Kitty, conscious of high-heeled, expensive, fashionable shoes) a narrow pavement on the left-hand side of the way. Kitty leading, she and Laura walked in single file towards the river, and were approaching the final bend in the lane when a sudden, unexpected sound rent the air and was followed by cheering, whistling and other excited and approving noises.
“Good heavens!” cried Kitty, stopping so dead in her tracks that Laura nearly fell over her. “He’s done it, after all!”
“Good old Aulus Plautius!” said Laura. “I’m all for an elephant or two.”
“But we’ll be trampled to death in this narrow lane! Come on, Dog! I’m going back!”
“They won’t come up here,” said Laura. “Anyway, you go back, if you like, but I’m going to march breastforward. Anyway, you’ve scotched the hoodoo. You’ve used the ghost-word yourself.”
“Yes, but I meant what I said. People can be trampled to death in crowds, and by elephants, too. Suppose they get scared at the noise and go berserk or become rogues or something!”
“They won’t. I bet they’re from that circus which has its headquarters a few miles up the river. They’ll be as tame as Angora rabbits.”
“Well, all right, if you say so, but at the first sign of danger I shall flee for my life.”
Laura took the lead and they rounded the bend. There was not a large concourse assembled. The largest crowd was on the opposite bank of the river. On the nearside, surrounding an obelisk of marble raised on a concrete plinth, was a comparatively orderly array of schoolchildren, marshalled by their teachers, among whom Kitty recognised Gordon. They had been drawn up in neat lines on a broad stone quay, the property of the Lower Thames-side Coal, Coke and General Fuel Company. Around the plinth on which the obelisk stood were a couple of dozen boys dressed as Roman legionaries, while on the plinth itself, with one arm around the unyielding waist of the obelisk to keep him from falling off the narrow ledge, stood a tall boy in the full regalia of a Roman general. His standard-bearer, with lion headdress complete, stood just below him, holding the Imperial eagle. At a distance of some twenty yards cowered a bevy of Ancient Britons and, safely away from all humans except their keepers, were a couple of circus elephants. The Roman general was declaiming in Latin.
“It’s jolly well done,” commented Laura to Kitty. “Pity more people wouldn’t come along to see it.”
“Too early in the day, Dog. The mums will be shopping and the dads will be at work. You’ll get your fill of crowds at the free-for-all this evening, I expect. Well, I’ve done what you wanted, so, for goodness’ sake, let’s go. We can wait in the high street to see them pass, if you like, but I’m not staying here any longer.”
“I suppose they walked the elephants along the towing-path and over the bridge,” remarked Laura, as they retraced their steps, Kitty again in the lead. “They’d hardly
have got them to stroll across the river. The channel is dredged in these degenerate days, so I suppose the ford simply isn’t there any more.”
“I didn’t see Julian in the crowd,” said Kitty, over her shoulder.
“He was Aulus Plautius, I expect,” said Laura. “He could never have got a boy to learn all that Latin in the time.”
“Oh, rot, Dog! And that’s my answer to both those corny ideas. I expect he’s left the Romans to Mr Thingummy—him I did spot in the offing—and is up at Squire’s Acre superintending the Domesday Book stuff. I wonder what Gordon feels like, having to bring his class to another pageant? A bit grim, I should think, wouldn’t you?”
“I wish I had a chance of getting inside the Hall,” said Laura, wistfully. “I’m certain that’s where lies the evidence.”
“What evidence, Dog?”
“Somewhere among the Colonel’s armoury, dear heart, lies the answer to Falstaff’s death.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Second Pageant, Part Two
“…lives were lost, property destroyed, and ruffianism went rampant for days in succession… The hustings were erected in a large open space on “a piece of ground” near the road, “called the Half Acre”: and we may safely fix the site on the higher part of the Butts…”
« ^ »
The Domesday Survey for the Manor of Brayne (“the Abbot of Saint Peter’s holds Brayne”) turned out to be as uninspiring as Julian Perse had expected. When the episode—mercifully brief—was over, Colonel Batty-Faudrey invited Kitty, Laura and Julian to go into the house for coffee. This was served in the morning-room, however, and Laura could think of no way of getting herself invited to look at the armoury housed in the long gallery. She consoled herself with the thought that, in any case, there would have been no time to make a detailed inspection, so she enjoyed the coffee, made herself pleasant to her host and hostess, exchanged mild badinage with Giles Faudrey (between whom and Julian there appeared to be a wary kind of give and take which reminded Laura of two boxers testing each other’s potentialities in the first round or so of a ten round contest) and, at the end of half an hour, she left with the others.
Julian, whose boys had returned to school in the motor-coaches provided, followed them in order to make certain that all was ready for the afternoon programme. Laura and Kitty lunched at The Hat With Feather and discussed the Batty-Faudreys and the first two items of Julian’s pageant.
“Rather a frost, so far,” said Laura. “The Romans were all right, but Domesday Book was like I’d always thought it would be. Incidentally, there doesn’t seem to be much support from the rest of the school.”
“Well, it’s half-term-holiday Tuesday,” Kitty explained, “so you couldn’t expect much interest from the masters and boys. It’s good of Mr Thingummy to turn up and help. Julian did tell me his name, but I can’t remember it because I always mix up Tomkinson and Hepplewhite, and I know it isn’t either of those—anyway, he’s hankering after a headship, so, if there’s any chance of appearing in public and catching a useful eye, of course he’s all for it.”
“What’s going to happen at this Chapter of the Garter business this afternoon?”
“Goodness knows, Dog. I’m not going to it.”
“Not going to it? Why not?”
“It’s to be held in the Town Hall, and wild horses wouldn’t drag me there to see another show.”
“I call that morbid. A dozen shows must have been put on there since The Merry Wives. You disappoint me.”
“Well, you go, and I’ll put in time in Julian’s rooms. We’re having tea with him there, in any case, so, when you’ve had your fill of the Town Hall, come along and join me. You don’t need a ticket to get into the Town Hall, by the way. Julian doesn’t expect much of an audience, so it’s free.”
Julian’s expectations, or the lack of them, proved prophetic. Except for a small collection of children from the local schools (whose half-term break was to come a week later than that of the Grammar School), there was the merest smattering of people, and these, Laura surmised, were mostly the parents of the boys concerned in the production, plus one or two local reporters.
She took a seat at the end of the fifth row and studied the programme which a boy in a Grammar School blazer, and wearing the badge of a prefect, had handed to her at the door. Suddenly it occurred to her that, as she could claim acquaintance with the producer, she was offered now an unique opportunity of going behind the scenes to see what happened when an entertainment was actually in progress.
The number of players (according to the programme) was fairly large. In the scene as envisaged by young Mr Perse, the King and his entourage would be welcomed by the citizens of Brayne, there was to be a loyal address spoken by one Thomas de Maydewell, followed by general acclamation, and then would come the presentation of alms by the saintly (later mentally-afflicted) monarch, to the poor of Saint Lawrence parish. After this—the programme notes were full, informative and the loving product of Mr Perse’s summer holiday leisure—there was to be the solemn ceremony of the royal touch against the King’s Evil.
The second scene purported to take place in the banqueting room of The Hat With Feather. A further note on the programme informed those who took an interest in such matters that, in the time of Henry VI, the inn had been known as The Leopards and Lilies, but that the name had been changed to commemorate a lively little skirmish, on the twelfth of November, 1642, between the Royalist troops and the Parliamentarians.
Laura folded the programme, stuffed it into her coat pocket and looked around her. Among the teachers in charge of the chattering schoolchildren she wondered whether she could identify Mr Gordon. There was only one schoolmaster in the auditorium. He was in charge of a mixed group of younger children whose principal way of passing the time, except for eating sweets and (in the case of the little boys) committing puppy-like assaults upon one another’s persons, appeared to be by taking it in turns to visit the usual offices.
Laura had a retentive memory for faces, and was certain that the schoolmaster was Mr Gordon. This view received confirmation when young Mr Perse came in front to receive the Mayoress who, he informed the sparse and indifferent audience, had kindly consented to be present. A boy then presented the Mayoress with a bouquet of chrysanthemums, there was unenthusiastic applause, and young Mr Perse returned to his place behind the scenes by way of a swing door which led to a passage which, in its turn, led to the dressing-rooms.
To gain this door he had to pass by Laura’s gangway seat. She promptly grabbed his sleeve, hissed, “I’m coming with you,” released him and followed him into the corridor. Here he turned and faced her.
“The curtain’s going up at once, now that the Mayoress is here,” he said. “Sorry I can’t stop. Where’s Aunt Kitty?”
“Never mind Aunt Kitty. You cut along and start the proceedings. I’m on a detective snoop behind the scenes. Is that Gordon with those kids?” He nodded. “Right. See you later, I hope.”
What else she hoped she scarcely knew. She had had some vague but exciting idea that now the scene of Falstaff’s murder was peopled again, some clue to the mystery of his death might manifest itself. The last time she had been backstage she had been in company with Dame Beatrice and Kitty, and, except for their presence, the rooms had been deserted, but now boys were already in the wings waiting to go on. Other boys were flitting hither and thither with no apparent object. Dressing-room doors were being left open by the actors and were being shut with exaggerated care by a couple of prefects in school uniform. A harassed junior master was imploring all and sundry to “get back in there, you clothheads, and don’t make such a row.” There was music from the school orchestra. This had been pressed into blasphemous service and was annoyed at the prospect of losing part of the half-term holiday. There was a temporary silence back-stage, followed by a slight creaking sound, as the stage curtains, operated by a pulley, fell apart to disclose (Laura supposed) a throng of the loyal citizens of Brayne in
the year 1445.
Nobody took the slightest notice of her as she passed the dressing-room doors and peered in at the room which was used for refreshments. This time the long deal tables were bare, and nothing but an array of plastic cups and a pile of cardboard picnic plates of various sizes on shelves at the far end gave to the initiated a clue as to the usual function of the room. The only window offered a depressing view of a concreted area furnished with two heaps of coke and a line of dustbins. Laura tested the window-fastenings, but these were pegged so that, except for an opening of two inches or so which had been allowed at the top, the windows let in a certain amount of air and light, but offered no prospect of affording a way in or out of the building.
She passed on into Bouquets. This time there was only one nylon overall hanging from its peg. Apart from this, the room was in exactly the same state as before, except that some water and two or three chrysanthemum leaves, plus some soaking wet paper towels on the side of a bowl, afforded circumstantial evidence that the Mayoress’s bouquet had been in protective custody in the room before the stems of the flowers had been dried prior to presentation.
While Laura was contemplating these unhelpful additions to the terrain, a woman wearing a nylon overall and a workman’s cap came in.
“They’ve already took the bookie,” she said. “The Mayoress, she’s been give it. You’re too late. One of their mistresses, is you?”
“No, I’m the lawful wedded wife,” replied Laura, deliberately misunderstanding the question, “of Detective Chief-Superintendent Gavin of the C.I.D. He can’t be here himself, so I’m having a poke round on his behalf.”
The woman looked at her suspiciously.
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