Pageant of Murder mb-38

by Gladys Mitchell

  “‘Ow did you get in?” she enquired.

  “In the usual way, by the front entrance,” said Laura. “Shut the door, please. I have some questions to put to you.”

  “Oh, you ’ave, ’ave you? Well, I ain’t a-shuttin’ no doors. ’Ow do I know what you’re up to?”

  “If you’re not satisfied, you’d better ask Councillor Perse what I’m up to,” retorted Laura. “I met him a minute or two ago, so I know he must be somewhere about.”

  “Oh, if you’re a friend of Councillor Perse’s I suppose it’s all right,” the woman conceded. She went to the door and shut it. “Well, what do you want with me?”

  “Some information which you may not possess. You remember the last pageant that was held here?”

  “Not likely to forget it. If ever I ’aves to come ’ere of a night I takes care to bring my little girl with me. If I never ’ad nobody with me I might take to seein’ things. This place is ’aunted, I reckon.”

  “Haunted? Whatever makes you think that?”

  “Deeds what is done in the dark of the moon carries their ghosties about with ’em.”

  “Ah, you mean the death of Mr Luton. But that wasn’t a dark deed, you know. There was some stupid fooling about with the swords which were used in the play. Mr Luton got hurt, and nobody liked to own up to doing it.”

  “Oh, that’s what they say,” said the woman, “but there’s them of us as knows better.”

  “How do you mean? You can’t go against the verdict at the inquest.”

  “Ho, can’t I? Then p’raps you’ll tell me just one thing: what ’appened to me keys which turned up missin’ and which ’asn’t been seen from that day to this? If that don’t mean sommat fishy, well, I don’t know what funny going-ons is.”

  “First I’ve heard of this,” said Laura, in a studiedly casual tone. “Why didn’t you tell the police?”

  “I told Mr Castle. It was up to ’im to pass it on, if he’d a mind to, and I s’pose ’e did.”

  “Would Castle be the caretaker?” asked Laura, with a vivid recollection of the fermenting John at the end of the Town Hall rehearsal of The Merry Wives of Windsor.

  “Yes, it would. John Castle, ’im as lives in Brocklebank Way, off the ’Am.”

  “What about the keys?”

  “Well, it bein’ an evenin’ do, I comes in at ’arpast four and has a look round to see as everythink’s as it should be, leavin’ me keys in this door, same as I allus does, not to lose ’em, you see, or forget ’em, and so’s to be all ready for when I comes to tidy up the next mornin’. Well…”

  “You mean you left your keys in this lock all night?”

  “That’s what I’m a-sayin’, ain’t it? Well, when I comes in in the mornin’ I looks for me keys and they isn’t there, so I goes to find Mr Castle and I says to ’im, “ ’Ere, John,” I says, “what you done with me keys? I can’t get in to clean them rooms, not without no keys I can’t,” I says.”

  “Oh, so this isn’t the only room you keep clean?”

  “Gawd, no! I does all the rooms this end. There used to be a time when us cleaners swopped the jobs around, but Councillor Mrs Skifforth, she put a stop to all that. “The way things is,” she says, “you don’t know who to blame if the place is a pigsty,” she says. “Hin my opinion,” she says, “each cleaner did ought to ’ave ’er own part of the premises to be responsible for, and to take a proper pride in,” she says, “and then if things is left in the disgraceful way the ante-room to the Council Chamber was—all cigarette ends in dirty ashtrays and a half-ate macaroon underneath the table, not to speak of two coffee-cups as I washed up with me own hands,” she says, “well, we’ll know where we stand”, she says.”

  “So none of the other cleaners would be likely to walk off with your keys?”

  “Not no good to nobody ’ceptin’ me. So I goes to Mr Castle…”

  “Who hadn’t got them, either?”

  “That’s what ’e says. “You must of left ’em at ’ome,” ’e says. “That’s just like you women,” ’e says. So I up and informs of ’im as I never takes no keys ’ome, there bein’ nothink worth burglin’ in the rooms ’ere as I ’aves to see to, so I borrers a lend of ’is master-key and ’ands it straight back as soon as I’d unlocked, and there you are. And a nice bit of box-fruit them dressing-rooms was, I don’t mind tellin’ you.”

  “And the keys have never turned up?”

  “That’s exactly what they never ’aven’t. Mr Castle ’ad all the locks changed and a noo set of keys to go with ’em. That’s what ’e thought would be best, and I ’as to ’and ’em back to ’im each time.”

  A good deal of clatter from outside the door of Bouquets was sufficient evidence that Henry VI had concluded his anti-scrofula campaign and that the stage was to be re-set as the principal room at an inn.

  “Only one more thing,” said Laura. “When you did get this room unlocked with the master-key, was it in the state you expected to find it?”

  “It was the only clean and tidy room in the place.”

  “Yes. You didn’t notice anything which struck you as being different, or out-of-place, or anything? Just some small point that perhaps no-one but yourself would notice?”

  The cleaner scowled thoughtfully before shaking her head.

  “There wasn’t nothink at all. It was only them keys bein’ took like that as was hodd. Somebody done it for devilment, p’raps. You never know what kids ’ull get up to, do you, and there was a hundred on ’em ’ere that night, so Mr Castle told me, and chewin’ gum all over the place.”

  Laura was back in her seat in time to see the curtain go up on a room at The Leopards and Lilies, the feasting begin, and the raising of two gentlemen of the neighbourhood to the status and rank of the Knighthood of the Garter. When the curtains had come together for the last time, she went in search of the caretaker and found him on the front steps of the Town Hall standing at the salute as the Mayoress was driven away by the Mayor’s chauffeur in the Mayor’s official Rolls Royce.

  “A word with you, Mr Castle,” she said. “You remember me, I expect? Yes, well, the police, as you probably know, are still interested in the deaths of Mr Luton and Mr Spey, and as I’m, so to speak, connected with them through my husband, who is in the C.I.D., I want to know what happened to Mrs What’shername’s keys—the cleaner who looks after the dressing-rooms, you know.”

  “Councillor Perse told me about your husband, ma’am. What’s more, the police are in the right of it. There wasn’t no horseplay where Mr Luton was concerned. After all, they wasn’t a lot of College lads, or nothing of that, to go fooling around with swords and stabbing each other to death. What I says is as what was done was done deliberate. As for Carrie Busby’s keys, well, I did think at first as how she must ’ave left ’em at ’ome, but when they never turned up no more—and her swearing as she’d left ’em in the lock outside the door—I ’ad another think about it.”

  “I wonder whether your thought was the same as mine?”

  “Well,” said the caretaker slowly, “things being as they was that night—by which I mean no bookays, so no need to use that room at all—why shouldn’t Mr Luton ’ave been done to death in there, and the body locked up in there till the ’All was cleared and everybody gorn ’ome?”

  “And then the murderer sneaked back and put the body and the basket in the river?”

  “No, I reckon he hid in Bookays with the body. I’ve thought about it and that’s how I size it up, ma’am.”

  “But wouldn’t somebody—probably you yourself—have done your last rounds and locked that side door which gives on to Smith Hill—the only door he could have used to get the body out of the Town Hall and down to the Thames?”

  “He’d only have to turn the ’andle from inside. It’s a Yale lock, you see. And then, when he’d done the job, all he’d have to do would be to pull the door shut behind him. We don’t never bolt it for the simple reason it don’t have no bolts. It wasn’t never meant as
nothing but an emergency door, you see, in case there might be a conflagration backstage like.”

  “Which way did the people taking part come in?”

  “Oh, by the front door and then down the passage to the dressing-rooms.”

  “So this door on to Smith Hill wasn’t opened until the two comedians left the hall, and again when some of the actors went across to the pub, I suppose.”

  She joined Kitty at Julian Perse’s rooms, and at a quarter past four Mr Perse came in, ate a great many sandwiches in an incredibly short time, drank a scalding cup of tea and then tore out again to superintend the revels in the Butts.

  “I suppose we’ll have to go,” said Kitty, “Look here, Dog, don’t you bother. I’ll see the thing through on my own. You’ve done your whack this afternoon. I’ll give you the keys to my flat, although I think there’ll be somebody in…”

  “I’m not going to miss an eighteenth-century election, Kay. I feel that Julian would be wounded were I not among those present.”

  “You’ll probably be wounded if you are among those present. The whole thing will be a free-for-all for the local mods and rockers, you see if it isn’t. I still think Julian is absolutely mad! There’s sure to be no end of trouble.”

  “It sounds like a melee of a sumptuous kind. Count me in on it. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. How long does he propose to keep it on?”

  “I’ve no idea, but I suppose he’ll pack it up before sunset. It’s not the kind of thing you’d want to carry on in the dark.”

  They reached the Butts at a quarter to six, Laura having indicated that they ought to give Julian time to “get the thing nicely warmed up” before they arrived on the scene to observe and criticise his efforts.

  The Butts presented a very different spectacle from that which Laura and Kitty had seen on the morning of the first pageant. Instead of lorry-loads of milling children, a full turn-out of the pony club, a dozen or so gleaming cars, some self-conscious men and sumptuously-costumed women, the broad Butts this time contained nothing more spectacular than a couple of wooden platforms, one at either end of the street. Each platform supported a table and a backless bench and was flanked by roughly-made wooden steps, one set, as Laura remarked, on the O.P. and the other on the prompt side.

  One platform was labelled Mr George Cooke; the other, Mr Fraser Honeywood. An audience mostly composed of schoolchildren filtered irresolutely between the two. The adult population of Brayne was represented by a smattering of bovine-faced women, a couple of policemen on duty, two coalmen, pausing after having delivered the last load of the day, three collarless dogs, a telegraph boy, a girl doing an evening paper round, Mr Giles Faudrey seated in his sports car, and one or two of the Butts residents who had come to their front gates to find out what was going on. Julian Perse was seated at one table, presumably acting as polling clerk for Mr George Cooke, and his headship-hunting friend lolled on the platform dedicated to Mr Fraser Honeywood. A succession of sheepish-looking boys took it in turn to mount each platform, mutter a name to the master in charge and cross over to leave the platform by the opposite flight of steps.

  “Poor Julian!” said Kitty. “What a ghastly fiasco! Even some rough stuff from the yobs would be better than this!”

  “More in keeping, too,” observed Laura. “If there was one thing more than another which these junketings provided, it was a glorious free-for-all, including the beer. We’d better attract Julian’s attention, so that he knows we’re here to support him. I’ll go up and vote, shall I?”

  Kitty held on to her coat-sleeve.

  “Don’t be an ass, Dog!” she said. “Look, I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll make sure that he’s seen us, and then we’ll walk about a bit and look interested…”

  “How do we do that?”

  “And look interested, and then we’ll go to The Hat With Feather. Their saloon lounge is most respectable, and it does quite decent snacks. What do you say?”

  They returned from The Hat With Feather to find that, during their absence, the scene at the Butts had changed. The yobs had had their tea and were not yet ready for the coffee-bar, the breaking-up of the Youth Club, the Mods and Rockers brawl on the canal bridge or even a visit to The One-Eyed Pig, their chosen local. To fill in time before tasting these more delectable dishes, they had looked in on the eighteenth-century election in the Butts. The melee, so earnestly sought after by Laura, appeared to be in full swing. It was concentrated around the two hustings, the wide open spaces of the Butts being inimical to the use of broken bottles and flick-knives as giving too much opportunity to the Grammar School adversaries of employing evasive measures. Not that the Grammar School appeared to be in any mood for these. For too long, was the general feeling, had the school been compelled to put up with gibes, insults, stone-throwing and being pushed off pavements or having their school caps twitched off and flung in the path of heavy traffic. Now, out of school hours, forty or fifty strong (and armed, as part of their costumes, with cudgels in the form of rounders sticks borrowed privately by Julian from the girls’ school), they were giving a good account of themselves.

  The two policemen had leapt into the fray, but were making little impact upon the milling youths. Julian, dancing about on the platform, was apparently shouting his head off, but whether to urge on reluctant voters or in encouragement or denunciation of the battle, it was impossible to say, as his voice made no impression on the din.

  “Here,” said Kitty, “let’s get out of this. There will be police reinforcements along in a minute and we don’t want to get mixed up in anything.”

  “All right,” said Laura. She seized a passing arm and smacked down hard on a hand which was holding a knife. There was a yell of pain, and the knife tinkled on to the roadway. Laura kicked it into the gutter. As its owner, with hideous curses, bent to pick it up, she kicked him and sent him sprawling. “I’ve always wanted to do that to one of them,” she said, as they left the field of battle, “so home, James, and don’t spare the horses. I noticed that Giles Faudrey did not stay to see things through.”

  “I expect he was bored, and left soon after we did,” said Kitty. “Tell me all about the Town Hall show this afternoon.”

  Laura obliged with a succinct account, and added, “I found out that Falstaff’s murderer could have lurked in that room labelled Bouquets until he saw his chance to do the job. It looks as though it must have been somebody in the cast. You know that door at the back?”

  “Yes, the two comedians left by it.”

  “I know. But it’s got a Yale lock. Nobody could have come in that way. The murderer, therefore, was already on the premises.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Death of Edward III

  “From the date of this deplorable event until the middle of the…century, history records little concerning local matters…”

  « ^ »

  It had been laid down as a command by Dame Beatrice that Laura was to stay the night in Kitty’s flat. From what she knew of young Mr Perse, Dame Beatrice had added, Kitty might be glad of a girlhood friend with whom she could share her woes.

  Twigg was at home when they arrived. He produced bottles and a shaker and informed Laura that dinner would be ready at half-past eight. When the in-coming tide of relaxation had set in, he ventured to enquire whether the pageant had been a success.

  “Well, it has, from Laura’s point of view, but I don’t know yet about Julian,” Kitty replied. “Laura made a yob yell, and he dropped his knife, and then she kicked him. After that we skedaddled.”

  “Retreated in good order,” amended Laura. Twigg put his head on one side. “We did, you know,” said Laura. “No panic. Just a strategic withdrawal. You see, old Kitty, with her usual omniscience, deduced that police reinforcements were on the way, so, as we didn’t want to get our names in the papers…”

  “Let’s have it from the beginning,” suggested Twigg. “One of you at a time, if possible.” He settled down for a cosy twenty minutes or so, havi
ng taken the precaution of pouring himself a second cocktail before he left the sideboard. At a nod from Laura, Kitty began the tale. There was not so very much to tell.

  “Julian got his elephants all right,” said Kitty. “I made Dog come away before they began to stampede or something. The Roman costumes were good, and he’d made some poor boy learn yards and yards of Latin—cruelty to children, I call it—and there wasn’t a smell of the Mayor from beginning to end of the pageant. At least he didn’t boycott mine.”

  “He’d hardly dare to, surely. Didn’t he approve of Julian’s project?”

  “I don’t think it was that, because the Mayoress turned up to the Chapter of the Garter, during which Dog…”

  “Only during the first scene,” put in Laura.

  “During which Dog sneaked away behind the scenes and cowered there until the interval.”

  “Doing a spot of detective work. Sneaking and cowering didn’t come into it. Strike those words from the record,” commanded Laura.

  “Well, anyway, after the Romans—oh, I forgot to mention Domesday Book. It was terribly dim, but the Batty-Faudreys gave us coffee and then Julian went back to school to round up his boys for the afternoon idiocy—this Garter business and the election stuff in the Butts—and we had some lunch and Laura went along to the Town Hall. The rest of it you know.”

  “Be interested to find out how the fracas ended. Why don’t you give Julian a ring?” asked Laura.

  “What, worry the poor innocent after the kind of day he must have had?” cried Julian’s kindhearted aunt. “I only hope he isn’t drowning his sorrows too deep. He’s got to go to school again tomorrow.”

  “I think you’ll find that, from his point of view, the pageant was a great success,” said Laura.

  “With that awful battle at the end, Dog?”

  “The usual give-and-take of an eighteenth-century election. I bet he’s delighted the yobs turned up in force and started a brouhaha.”

  This view was confirmed by the young man himself. He held a long telephone conversation with Kitty at ten o’clock that evening and, professing himself delighted with the way things had gone, canvassed her opinion upon the proceedings. Kitty replied, without reserve (for she was a generous-hearted woman), that she thought the pageant had been an all-out success. She enquired whether there had been any trouble with the police.