“It isn’t here,” she said.
“What isn’t?” asked Lynn, who had admitted the visitors and was showing them round.
“That dagger. I’ve studied all the hilts.”
“That dagger is still in the hands of the police,” said Dame Beatrice.
“Well, there’s nothing here I recognise except a part of a blade, and I only noticed that because the hilt is new and the item isn’t labelled like the rest are. I’m surprised you included it in a collection of this value,” she added, turning to Lynn.
“Would you point out the blade?” said Conway.
Mrs Wells went to the third of the glass cases she had examined and pointed to a slim dagger which had a simple hilt made of walnut and a single ring on the metal quillon-block. The blade was about fifteen inches long, some of it having been inserted in the hilt. The inspector put a handkerchief over his hand, picked up the dagger and closed the case, laying the dagger on top of it. Lynn said indifferently, “Oh, that thing! It’s the dagger Jasper had made for himself to wear in the play. I don’t know what it’s doing here. It’s worthless.”
“Would you turn it over, please? Ah, that’s it!” said Mrs Wells. “Well, I never! Yet I suppose it’s natural enough, when you come to think.”
“Then pray share your thoughts with us, Mrs Wells,” said Dame Beatrice. “You recognise this dagger. That is obvious.”
“Not the hilt I don’t. That’s why I passed it over the first time. There’s no doubt about the blade, though. Here, take my glass and look for yourselves. Can you make out the lettering on the blade? The beginning of the words has been cut off, but there’s enough left for you to see.”
The Chief Constable took the watchmaker’s glass she produced and studied the blade. He then read aloud “chior etter” and, removing the glass, which he handed back, he added, “Obviously the letters mean more to you than they do to me, Mrs Wells.”
“Well, they’re a modern forgery, of course, like the blade itself,” she said, “but they stand for Melchior Diefstetter of Munich. He was a famous German swordsmith of the middle of the sixteenth century. This is the lower end of the blade of that rapier I sold that poor boy. Goodness knows why he had it cut down. Mind you, although this is much later than Diefstetter’s time, and the hilt is almost new, like I said, it’s a nice bit of work had it been genuine.”
“Genuine?” snorted Lynn. “Of course it’s not genuine, although it could deceive some people, I suppose.”
“If it had been genuine,” Mrs Wells went on, “it would have been a real collector’s piece and I certainly would not have let it go to that boy for what he gave me.”
“How did it come into your possession, Mrs Wells?” asked Dame Beatrice, motioning Lynn to remain silent.
“Oh, in the usual way, through the trade. There was an auction and one or two items interested me. The whole lot had been in the armoury of a big house in the Midlands. I got”—she looked hopefully at Marcus Lynn—“a genuine haute-piece and a fifteenth-century German sallet, but when it came to the rapier, well, everybody knew it was a dud and there were no bids, so, in the end, I got it thrown in with quite a nice German gothic mace, late fifteenth century, for which I knew I’d got a customer.”
“Do you know an antiques dealer named Rinkley, Mr Rinkley’s divorced wife, who has a shop in this town?” asked Dame Beatrice.
“Oh, most of us know each other in the trade, but she wasn’t at this particular sale. Her specialities are china and glass, so there was nothing to interest her. Living not so far apart, and our professional lives never crossing, as you might say, if I hear of anything in her line I let her know and she does the same by me. That’s really as much as I know about her.”
“What is a haute-piece?” asked the Chief Constable.
(“Shades of Rosamund!” murmured Laura to Dame Beatrice.)
“Oh, it’s a guard for the neck. It was placed on the pauldrons.”
“And those?”
“They are the thick metal plates which protected the shoulders.”
“And a sallet?”
“That is—if you’ll excuse the description—a po-shaped helmet, sixteenth century, with just a slit for the eyes. It’s a bit longer at the back than the front to ward off a slash on the back of your neck. I believe the foot-soldiers used to wear them against attacks by cavalry.”
“Thank you. Well,” the Chief Constable went on, “it seems it must have been Jasper himself who placed this dagger amongst his father’s collection.”
“Like hell he did!” exclaimed Lynn indignantly. “Of all the damned impudence! I wouldn’t have that pseudo object among my collection if Jasper had gone on his bended knees to me. Still, I mustn’t curse the lad now.”
“Where did you see it last, Mr Lynn?” asked Conway.
“Hanging from a hook on the lad’s bedroom wall with a damned silly notice pinned up underneath it to the effect that She—whoever She is—buckled it on for him at the last performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. There followed the last date of the play and then there was this foolery that he was going to become a Buddhist monk.”
“Interesting,” said Dame Beatrice. “He shaved his head to try out how he would look, I suppose. It suggests doubt.”
“Well, what’s our next move?” asked Laura, when they were alone again.
“We must find the person who cut up the rapier and turned it into two daggers. The police are already looking for him.”
“Nobody is going to admit to having done it. After all, two murders have been committed with the beastly things.”
“Or two suicides; or one murder and one suicide. In neither case has murder been proved. As to the person who converted the rapier into the daggers, we now have a little more to go on. Ring up Mr Lynn and ask him whether he employs an expert to examine his collection of weapons from time to time and keep it in good order. I think there must be someone of that sort in the background.”
Lynn’s expert was employed by a museum whose collection of weapons, although significantly smaller than that at the Tower of London, for example, was worthy enough to be listed in a catalogue of notable collections. The expert the museum employed also did some private work of the same kind. He was responsible to the museum for the maintenance and repair of the weapons and was skilled at replacing worn or missing parts, not with any intention to deceive, but merely to preserve valuable metal objects so that they could be exhibited for the benefit of students, researchers, historians and other interested parties.
Conway, sceptical, but exhibiting both daggers, asked whether the expert could identify them.
“Oh, yes, certainly I can,” the expert replied at once. “I was shown a rapier, a fairly modern forgery of a weapon purporting to be by the German master Melchior Diefstetter of Munich. It was brought by young Jasper Lynn and I told him it wasn’t genuine. He said he only wanted a couple of daggers made for some theatricals and asked whether I could fashion them from the rapier. I do my own smithing, you see. Well, I’ve done a lot of work for his father, including advising him and accompanying him to antiques shops and sales, and I do any small repairs and see to the cleaning and maintenance of what is one of the finest private collections in this country. I was happy to oblige the boy, especially as it was nothing valuable that he wanted cut up.”
“How long ago was this?” asked Dame Beatrice.
“Oh, a good many weeks now. Back at the beginning or middle of June, near enough. But may I ask what this is all about?”
“All in good time, if you don’t mind, sir,” said Conway. “You will have gathered that we should not have approached you on a matter of minor importance. If it becomes necessary, would you be willing to swear in court that the two daggers I have just shown you were made from the same rapier?”
“Swear to that? Well, of course I would. The thing one doesn’t mistake is one’s own handiwork, and I take pride in mine.”
“Well,” said Dame Beatrice to Laura, who had not accomp
anied her to the museum, “I feel certain that there is a connection between the two daggers and the change of understudies for the part of Pyramus.”
“But only the married couples at the cocktail party were told about that.”
“One of the married couples had an adopted son and his name was Jasper Lynn.”
“But Jasper Lynn wasn’t with them at the cocktail party, was he? I thought he was supposed to be swotting for his exams.”
“Connect us with Jonathan over the telephone. Deborah will remember who was present, if he does not. As his father’s son, I think Jasper had an opportunity of handling the properties before the opening of the play, including the third night. Were we not told that he helped to carry them down from the house?”
“I seem to remember hearing that he helped his father and Brian Yorke to carry the ‘props’ down to the trestle tables, yes, but what would he have had against either Rinkley or Bourton, let alone Jonathan?”
Dame Beatrice did not answer. Laura went out to the telephone and then made her report.
“Jasper was not at the cocktail party,” she said, “but Jon says he remembers him helping to carry down the props. The players were issued with their costumes and Jon, Tom Woolidge, Brian Yorke and Donald Bourton got their swords and daggers with their costumes, but young Yolanda and Jasper had theirs put on the table, because they were only supposed to wear daggers in the hunting-scene. Jasper, however, defied the producer on the last night and wore his dagger all the time. Jon says he noticed it because, of course, they were in the first scene together, but Yorke and Lynn didn’t make any fuss as it was the last night. I can’t see that all this matters, anyway.”
“I have said all along that the lethal dagger was put into the belt intended for Pyramus before the play opened on the third night. Jasper was in possession of the two daggers made from the rapier.”
“I see what you mean. Jasper could have done it, but—a schoolboy! It seems most unlikely. Why would he want to kill anybody?”
“I quote Marcus Lynn, who had read (with irritation, one gathers) a notice which Jasper had pinned up in his bedroom. He said, ‘She—whoever She was—buckled it on for him at the last performance.’ Symbolism here shows a shining morning face, does it not?”
“Symbolism? I don’t follow.”
“A knight of old liked to have his sword buckled on by his lady and, as I am not a gentleman, I may be excused for bandying this particular lady’s name. I think we need look no further than Barbara Bourton.”
“But, good Lord, she’s nearly old enough to be his mother!”
“I seem to remember a play called Young Woodley,” said Dame Beatrice. “Besides, as a very charming woman once said to me when we were discussing the subject of demonstrative love: ‘I don’t think age has anything to do with it’.”
“But even if you think Jasper doped Rinkley’s whisky, and even if he had heard from his parents that Bourton was to be the understudy, how did he think getting rid of Bourton would help him? He can’t have thought Barbara would ever marry him!”
“No, he did not imagine for a moment that Barbara would.”
“Then what did he think?”
“That by getting rid of Bourton he would not only free Barbara so that she could marry Tom Woolidge, but he could also ensure that she would be a wealthy woman. I see him as an unhappy, idealistic youth. The urge to become a Buddhist monk is typical. So were his doubts about his appearance.”
“No, honestly, I can’t swallow all this. If what you say is true, who killed Jasper!—and why?”
“Barbara Bourton may be able to tell us. If she will not do so, I shall be compelled, in order to clear up the case, to tell her. I shall see her alone.”
Chapter 18
Threnody
“And as he errs, doting on Hermia’s eyes.”
« ^
How much do you know?” asked Barbara Bourton.
“That is a stock question,” replied Dame Beatrice, “and I will give the appropriate answer. I know all that I need to know. For one thing, I know that Jasper Lynin did not put the fatal dagger among his father’s collection of weapons.”
“You make it sound like an Elizabethan tragedy and I suppose that is what it was.”
“Will you tell me the plot, or shall I tell it to you?”
“Oh, just as you please. I pay you the compliment of believing that by this time you know it all. If you did not, you would hardly have singled me out. There is one thing, though, which I should like to know.”
“Why the anonymous letters suddenly stopped?”
“I see that you are a thought-reader. No wonder you are so successful in your profession.”
“My profession helps, no doubt. The letters stopped because it was fairly obvious who was writing them. I sent her a warning, that is all, and she was sensible enough to accept it.”
“Is it of any use to ask—?”
“I shall name no names. There were two possible candidates, both unattractive, both, at the beginning of rehearsals, unhappy, but, before the letters were written, one had recovered her spirits, the other, I am sure, had not. You may or may not know that Mr Rinkley, as well as yourself and the two young girls, came to me for comfort and advice.”
“Rinkley? Had he received one of the letters?”
“More than one, he gave me to understand.”
“Oh, well, there is only one unattractive woman—you did say she was unattractive, didn’t you?—who would have written nasty letters to Rinkley, and that woman was not Emma Lynn.”
“Shall we leave it at that?”
“What did the letters accuse him of?—not paying his gambling debts to my husband? He should have ignored the letters. You can’t be had up for so-called debts of honour, and, whatever his faults, Donald didn’t employ strong-arm men to frighten or bash people into paying up. A properly conducted turf accountant’s business doesn’t need to go in for that sort of thing. It covers itself as it goes along. So, if the letters were not about gambling, they must have had to do with the play and that means Robina Lester.”
“When did you first realise that young Jasper Lynn was in love with you?” asked Dame Beatrice abruptly.
“Or thought he was. They get over it very quickly and easily, you know, although it can be a nuisance and a responsibility while it lasts—or so I’ve always discovered.”
“But Jasper got over it neither quickly nor easily, did he?”
“You can’t blame me for that. I’m sure I gave him no encouragement.”
“I seldom apportion blame. Let me hear the evidence for the defence. A woman of your experience could have put a stop to the affair as soon as you realised what was happening. Why did you not do so?”
“Oh, please! It never developed into an affair! It wasn’t until the very end that I knew what he was feeling, and then it was too late to do anything.”
“But at the rehearsals—?”
“Oh, those rehearsals! Really, Dame Beatrice, you have no idea how unutterably tedious and boring they were. And to have to use one’s voice all the time in the open air and in the evenings at that, with all the mist coming up from the bay and some idiotic bird trilling away in the trees! If it hadn’t been for Tom, I would have thrown up the part. I only took it on because the play gave us a chance to be alone together occasionally in those woods.”
“Ah, yes. ‘Under the greenwood tree, who loves to lie with me, and tune his merry note unto the sweet bird’s throat.’ ”
“Good gracious, Tom isn’t a gamekeeper, even if he does breed dogs! Neither am I Lady Chatterley. There was nothing improper in our encounters, I assure you. There were far too many people round and about, for one thing, for us to take any risks.”
“There was certainly one small and very inquisitive person to bear witness to the proceedings, so your circumspection was justified and I apologise for my lapsus linguae. I intended no odious comparisons. May we return to the matter in hand? It is serious enough, in all conscience
. You must surely have been aware, very early on, that Jasper Lynn was infatuated with you. Boys of his age are adept at hiding some of their feelings, but the blind adoration of a beloved object is not among these.”
Barbara was silent for a full minute; then she said, “I don’t suppose you know this, but in the read-through of the play I was cast as Helena, not Hermia, and so I did not appear in the first scene until nobody was left on-stage except Emma and Tom. I knew that a gangling adolescent had been chosen as Egeus and my only concern was that he was hardly likely to be convincing in the part. As to his being billed as Emma’s father, well, I was thankful that they were only to play the opening scene together and that I didn’t have to appear with him, but when Emma turned down the part of Hermia and it was wished on me, the ludicrous aspect struck me all over again. It became embarrassing, though, when Brian Yorke, never the soul of tact, pulled the boy up in mid-speech in one of the early rehearsals.
“ ‘Look, Jasper, darling boy,’ he said, ‘you are suggesting that Barbara must either be put to death or become a nun if she doesn’t carry out your wishes. I realise that, left to your natural inclinations, you would not want either of these things to happen, but you are playing a part, not indulging in a visit to the Hesperides. Do pay attention to what is going on. Back to “With cunning hast thou filched my daughter’s heart”, and look daggers at Tom when you say it and then look at Barbara as though you’d like to give her a thrashing. All right, then. Now, please, everybody, put some pep in it. This scene sets the whole play moving.’ It was only then that I realised the boy had been making sheep’s eyes at me.”
“I can guess the next bit,” said Dame Beatrice. “The boy came to you at the end of the rehearsal and abased himself for making you conspicuous. You, I suppose, feeling sorry for him, gave him a kiss and obtained a response which, as a beautiful and experienced woman, you ought to have foreseen and allowed for.”
“I was never more astonished in my life. To me he was just an abashed and awkward schoolboy and suddenly to find myself locked in his arms and having to listen to the kind of stuff that would have made Antony and Cleopatra turn in their graves with embarrassment—well, it was not only ludicrous; it was quite alarming.”
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