“I thought you said the props were on tables and nobody was allowed to touch them, so how did Yolanda come to show you her knife?”
“At the dress-rehearsal Yolanda wore her belt with the dagger in it all the time. She was in the first scene and she wore the belt with the dagger and she showed it me before she went on the stage. After that, her mummy wouldn’t let her wear it until the hunting-scene, so at the dress rehearsal I asked her to show it me. It was in a leather sheath, but I wanted to see the real knife. Yolanda said she wasn’t supposed to take it out of the sheath, but she said she would if I would hear her her part. She did not have anything to say in the first scene, just to stand there behind Mr Yorke’s chair, but she had to speak in the last scene and say that Mr Yorke wouldn’t want to see the workmen’s play because it was silly, but Mr Yorke couldn’t have thought it was silly, because they did it, all the same.”
“How do you know? You never saw the last scene, did you?”
“No, but Yolanda told me. So when I had heard her her part, she heard me mine. We all practised our parts a lot. Mr Woolidge and Mrs Bourton practised their parts more than anybody, because they were supposed to be in love, so they went into the woods when they were not on the stage and practised being in love.”
“Very painstaking of them, but how do you know? I thought you were with Signora Moretti when you weren’t on stage.”
“Oh, that was only for the three proper nights. The other times we did as we liked, mostly. I used to get out of bed and go down to the woods and—”
Laura thought it was time to get away from Lysander and Hermia and their impromptu rehearsals in the woods. She managed this by asking, “Did Yolanda show you the other daggers?”
“Oh, no. Well, she couldn’t, because everybody was wearing them.”
“Except Mr Rinkley, I think. His dagger was in his belt and his belt would have been on the table. As I remember the play, he didn’t need it until the last scene.”
“We didn’t go near the tables. Yolanda showed me her knife, but on the real nights Yolanda wasn’t allowed to wear it any more until the part of the play us fairies never saw.”
“So you didn’t see what was on the tables at the side of the stage, not even the toy dog?”
“No, but I wouldn’t have wanted to see a toy dog when there were the real ones. Edmund cried when Mrs Yorke came and took the dogs out of our beds.”
“She bit me,” said Edmund. “That’s why I cried.”
“Of course she didn’t bite you. She said the dogs might bite you if they didn’t like being in bed,” said Rosamund.
“She bit me,” Edmund insisted.
“He got the idea in his head when Mrs Yorke took the dogs,” said Rosamund to Laura. “Cook said people should never put ideas in his head. She said it when Carrie was tossing the pancakes. Cook makes lovely pancakes, but she comes all over alike when they have to be tossed, so Carrie did it and Edmund watched her and it made him laugh, so he picked up the bowl that the batter was still in and threw the batter up in the air and it all fell on him. Cook was terribly cross.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Mummy said to Daddy, ‘You’re not to laugh at him. He’s a very naughty boy’, and Carrie had to take him away and bath him, so Cook had to turn the pancakes with a knife.”
“So you didn’t handle any of the daggers at the real play at all? Are you sure you didn’t?”
“We were with Signora. I told you! Auntie Deb was with us a lot of the time, too, and so was Mr Bourton and so was Peter Woolidge. Mr Bourton said to Auntie Deb, ‘Your eyes are lodestars’, and Auntie Deb said, ‘The dice are loaded, too, my lad, so don’t be silly’, and Mr Bourton said, ‘I always play with my own dice’, and Auntie Deb said, ‘Cheats never prosper’, and Signora said, ‘ben trovato’. Signora is really French and her name is Madame Moret, but we have to call her Signora because she says ‘Madame’ stinks of the bordello. What is a bordello?”
“A home for girls who haven’t got any other.”
“Who was Ben Trovato?”
“It does not mean a person. I think it is the Italian for well-played, or something like that.”
“Do you think Yolanda’s bouquet was bigger than mine?”
“Not if Mr Lynn is a gentleman, and I’m sure he is.”
“I’ve checked as far as I can,” said Laura to Dame Beatrice over the telephone when the children had gone out in the car with the chauffeur and handyman, “and it confirms what we already knew. There doesn’t seem any way in which the children—and I don’t mean Rosamund and Edmund only—could have gone anywhere near the props during the actual performances and mucked about with the daggers. The only exception would have been Yorke’s little girl, Yolanda, but it seems that, except when she went to the summerhouse to look at the bloodhounds, she was with her parents and wouldn’t have been allowed to handle the properties on the tables.”
“I have thought from the beginning that the daggers were changed over before that last performance began. I have talked with Jonathan and he thinks the likeliest thing is that the daggers slipped out of the pockets in the belts while they were being carried away at the end of the second performance and were put back in the wrong places before anybody wore them again. This, however, does not account for the theatrical dagger under the table. Of course, it was so unfortunate that the one person who would realise that Pyramus had been provided with the wrong dagger was not in a position to point this out.”
“Too busy expelling indigestible shellfish from his system. As our physiology lecturer used to say: ‘better two feet up than forty feet down’. The process was probably aided by alcohol. I am told that Rinkley had the name for being a bit of a sozzler. In any case, surely he must have known that the beastly things were indigestible?”
“Not if he had never eaten mussels before.”
“And if he hadn’t, it was a cloth-headed idea to try them for the first time before making what I suppose, to his way of thinking, was an important public appearance.”
“Perhaps he dined with friends and they provided the mussels. It might have been considered impolite to refuse them under such circumstances.”
“Are you, by any chance, acting as devil’s advocate?”
“Perhaps, and it seems that you are determined to refute me.”
“I always believe the worst and then it’s so much of a relief to find that things (and people) are not so black as I thought they were.”
“You Celts are born pessimists, of course. Let Rosamund prattle away and give ear to any interpolations Edmund may make. Something useful might emerge. One never knows. Rosamund has told us a good deal already, one way and another.”
“There is a bit to add. Bourton was not the only member of the cast to pursue his amours under the leafy branches. Tom Woolidge and Barbara Bourton—”
“Dear me! Rosamund does appear to have told tales out of school!”
“Innocently, as always. She thought they were rehearsing their love scenes. My guess is that the so-called rehearsals were confined to pretty brief and relatively chaste encounters. They wouldn’t have dared be away from the rest of the company for any length of time. This is a funny old business. Nothing that, between us, we know seems to add up to a motive for murder, and yet I can’t get away from the idea that Bourton’s death was no accident. The only point at issue is whether the ‘accident’ happened to the right person, the one for whom it was intended.”
“What do we know ‘between us’, as you put it?”
“That Bourton was a womaniser, Rinkley was a heel, Mrs Yorke a bit of a shrew, Jonathan a strong-arm man with a beast of a temper (which we knew), Tom Woolidge probably Barbara Bourton’s fancy man, and (rather important, I think) that, in whatever way those daggers got changed over, it was not because children had been meddling with the things on the ‘props’ tables.”
“An admirable summing up. ‘Proceed, moon.’ ”
“That’s another thing. The woman who wa
s Moonshine had three things to pick up from the table. She would have had the chance to fiddle with the sword-belts and switch the daggers if she had so desired.”
“You postulate that Bourton’s death was no accident, and I agree with you.”
“Yes, and if it wasn’t an accident, then the lethal dagger obviously was meant for Rinkley.”
“The one person who would have been certain there had been a substitution, whether intentional or otherwise, and would not have used the dagger on himself.”
“I suppose,” said Laura, “it couldn’t have been suicide?”
“On Mr Bourton’s part? You mean he changed over the daggers?”
“Or on Rinkley’s. It could cut either way. If you’re right, and the daggers were changed over before the play opened on the third night, Rinkley could have done it. He seems a nasty bit of work and may have had problems we know nothing about. On the other hand, Bourton may have got himself into a mess over some woman and chosen a way out. In that case, he could only have changed over the daggers when he knew he’d got to take over the part. He would have had an easy opportunity, with all the fuss over Rinkley’s collapse going on.”
“The daggers were changed over before the third performance began,” said Dame Beatrice. “I am sure about that. There were far too many people within sight of all the properties for any undetected substitution to have been possible, even after Mr Rinkley was taken ill.”
“Then who was the lethal dagger meant for? Rinkley’s illness couldn’t have been faked. Dr Jeanne-Marie would have spotted a malingerer at once.”
“Whoever changed over the daggers may not have bargained for Dr Delahague. All the same, you are quite right to raise doubts. All would be clearer if we knew which of three men was supposed to use the dagger on himself.”
“Three men?”
“Certainly. The original suggestion was not that Bourton, but that Jonathan, should understudy Rinkley.”
“And Jonathan had thumped Rinkley in the stomach and made him sick, and Rinkley had eaten mussels and no doubt washed them down with strong waters and made himself sick—oh, but there’s a flaw in that. Everybody would have known that Bourton was to be the stand-in and not Jonathan.”
“I doubt whether the changeover had been broadcast. Nobody, least of all the understudy, ever thinks a principal will be laid low. I doubt whether either Jonathan or Mr Bourton ever gave the matter another thought.”
“And nobody could have known that Rinkley was going to make himself ill on the third night and be unable to play Pyramus.”
“Nobody except Rinkley himself, perhaps. He may have had his own reasons for opting out.”
The medical practitioners, Dr Fitzroy and Dr Jeanne-Marie, his wife, had a surgery in the old part of the town, but lived in a large modern bungalow facing the bay. The bay was almost an inland sea and it covered a vast area bounded on one side by marshy tracts of flat land through which a broad river meandered from its water-meadows into the lake-like harbour, and on the opposite side by an opening to the English Channel not more than a fifth of a mile across. A ferry service connected both arms of the bay and led to a waste of low-lying country divided from the open sea by the only road across what was virtually a large island. On this side, heavy loose sand gave way in time to steep chalk cliffs which ran inland to form a long, low range of hills from which a view of the entire bay could be obtained.
The Delahagues’ bungalow was one of a number of widely spaced dwellings which had an uninterrupted view of the harbour and only its own front garden, the road, and another stretch of sand, which was covered at high tide, to separate it from the flotilla of yachts and small cruisers which were anchored in the shallow waters.
Dr Jeanne-Marie, apprised of a visit from Dame Beatrice, welcomed her with regal courtesy and then said, with inconsequential naivety, “I have to attend surgery in half an hour. Will you be staying long?”
“No, I assure you. I would like to ask one question, if I may. You remember the man, a Mr Rinkley, who was taken ill at the third performance of last Saturday’s play, A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”
“Of course I remember. When he said he had eaten mussels I thought maybe he had been poisoned by myelotoxin and I got him to hospital.”
“And was he poisoned by myelotoxin? I believe not.”
“You are right, but one always takes precautions. If he was poisoned at all, it was by an excess of alcohol. As for the other, it is always as well to be on the safe side, although I have not come across a case of myelotoxin which was fatal. They will keep him under observation for a few days and he will suffer no permanent ill-effects from his collapse.”
“Did he think he had been poisoned by the mussels? I think there was more than that and alcohol to blame.”
“He says not, but I do not think that is the truth.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“He was heard to say something to the effect that it was the mussels, but there was something else.”
“Interesting. Thank you very much for allowing me to visit you.”
“You think that the death of Mr Bourton was a strange one. So do I. Are you with the police? I know of your work, of course.”
“I am not with the police at present. I am inquisitive by nature, that is all, and I was present at the first performance of the play.”
“If you have any more questions at any time, I shall take pleasure in doing my best to answer them.”
“There is one more. Had either man, the one who ate the mussels or the one who killed himself, ever been a patient of yours?”
“The first, no; Mr Bourton, yes, he was on my list. He said he preferred a woman doctor, but I think he just preferred a woman. Oh, do not mistake me! His conduct was most correct, but—well, one received an impression.”
“Yes,” said Dame Beatrice, “I think Mrs Jonathan Bradley, my niece by marriage, had received the same impression.”
“She is very attractive,” said the dark goddess, displaying the generosity which one beautiful woman can afford to extend to another. “I have to attend the inquest, as I was the doctor who saw the body before the police surgeon arrived. Shall you be present?”
“As an interested onlooker, yes.”
“Mr Rinkley’s wife keeps an antiques shop in the old town,” said Jeanne-Marie. Her dark eyes met those of Dame Beatrice.
“So you thought that, too?” said the old woman. “It seemed to me likely that an extra dagger was involved.”
“It was a strange ending to the play. The dagger which killed will be produced in court, no doubt. The inquest should be very interesting,” said Dr Jeanne-Marie. “There is another thing. Mr Bourton was a turf commission agent. Somebody may have owed him money, don’t you think, and was not willing to pay?”
“You have enlightened me on what may be two important matters, but much remains merely speculative at present.”
“Yes,” said Jeanne-Marie. “It can be baffling to work in the semi-darkness, and, with your gifts, you should not be called upon to do so. Our conversation is completely confidential, of course?”
“You hardly need to ask. What makes you suspect that there was more to Mr Bourton’s death than appears on the surface?”
“Those daggers were used on three previous occasions; at the dress rehearsal, at Thursday’s performance, at Friday’s performance. At Saturday’s performance the man who has used the retractable dagger three times in perfect safety is taken violently ill—oh, yes, there is no doubt that the mussels and the whisky had played havoc and I know you suspect something more which the hospital did not check. The illness came at a point in the play when there was no time to be lost in putting on an understudy and—ciel!—that understudy is stabbing himself to death because he and everybody else would be in too much of a hurry to check the equipment and discover that the wrong dagger was in the belt.”
“You mean that if Mr Rinkley had been taken ill before the play opened, the dagger would have been checked? I wonder whe
ther that is so? As you say, the harmless dagger had already been used three times. Would it have been checked each time?”
“I do not know whether it would have been, but I am quite sure that it should have been. Had all the daggers used in the play been fitted with retractable blades there might have been some excuse for not checking them, but when three out of the four are known to be lethal weapons, I am sure that any conscientious producer would have made certain that the only dagger which was to be used was the harmless one.”
“I cannot dispute that point.”
“However, the daggers were not checked, it seems.”
“One would have thought that Mr Rinkley himself would have checked to make sure that the dagger he was to use on himself was harmless.”
“Yes. It gives one to think, does it not? I wonder what Mr Rinkley had against Mr Bourton?”
“Or against my nephew Jonathan. But these are wild speculations which, for the present, we would be wise to keep to ourselves.”
Chapter 9
Coroner’s Court
“Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show.”
« ^ »
It was significant that at the inquest on Donald Bourton the coroner sat without a jury.
“So it’s going to be a verdict of accident or misadventure,” muttered Tom Woolidge to Jonathan. “Thank goodness for that!”
“Thank Marcus Lynn, you mean,” Jonathan softly replied. “He has graft in this here town.”
Barbara Bourton (‘pale, but composed’ wrote the reporters) gave evidence of the identity of the dead man, and then the medical witnesses were called. The cause of death was simple and undisputed. The deceased had died from a single blow from a sharp implement which had been driven with considerable force into the heart, by his own hand and accidentally.
It was clear that the coroner was in no mood to hustle the proceedings along. He was the senior partner in a firm of local solicitors and his most interesting enquiry so far had been into a case of treasure trove. This had been turned up by a man using a metal detector and was in the form of a cache of Roman silver found on a farm. It was a moot point whether the finder had been trespassing at the time, so the question of a reward had been a tricky one and the case had proved to be a cause of considerable, although strictly local, interest, since the landowner was unpopular and the find had been made on what had been a public footpath until it had been ploughed up during the war and never replaced.
Lovers Make Moan mb-60 Page 10