Even through the window, which was shut, they heard her yelp of pain. It was clearly to be seen that Simon was making awkward apologies. Presently he took Mrs. Bünz by the elbow — he was the sort of man who habitually takes women by the elbow — and piloted her away towards the car she had bought from him. He lifted the bonnet and soon they had their heads together talking eagerly over the engine.
Fox said dubiously to Alleyn, “Is that what it was all about?”
“Don’t you believe it, Br’er Fox. Those two are cooking up a little plot, the burden of which may well be, ‘For, O, for, O, the hobby-horse is forgot.’ ”
“Shakespeare,” Fox said, “I suppose.”
“And why not? This case smacks of the Elizabethan. And I don’t altogether mean Hamlet or Lear. Or nine-men’s morris, though there’s a flavour of all of them, to be sure. But those earlier plays of violence when people kill each other in a sort of quintessence of spleen and other people cheer each other up by saying things like, ‘And now, my lord, to leave these doleful dumps.’ Shall you be glad to leave these doleful dumps, Fox?”
“So, so,” Fox said. “It’s always nice to get a case cleared up. There’s not all that much variety in murder.”
“You’ve become an epicure of violence, which is as much as to say a ‘bloody snob.’ ”
Fox chuckled obligingly.
Mrs. Bünz had drawn away from the car. She now approached the pub. They stood back in the room and they watched her. So did Simon Begg. Simon looked extremely worried and more than a little dubious. He scowled after Mrs. Bünz and scratched his head. Then, with the sort of shrug that suggests the relinquishment of an insoluble problem, he slammed down the bonnet of her car. Alleyn grinned. He could imagine Simon saying out loud, “But, still,” and giving it up.
Mrs. Bünz approached the pub and, as if she felt that she was observed, glanced up at the windows. Her weathered face was patchy and her lips were set in a determined line.
“It’s a very odd temperament,” Alleyn muttered. “Her particular kind of Teutonic female temperament, I mean. At her sort of age and with her sort of background. Conditioned, if that’s the beastly word, by violence and fear and full of curiosity and persistence.”
“Persistence?” Fox repeated, savouring the idea.
“Yes. She’s a very thorough sort of woman, is Mrs. Bünz. Look what she did on Wednesday night.”
“That’s right.”
“Rubbed her fat shoulders raw, prancing round the dolmen in ‘Crack’s’ harness. Yes,” Alleyn repeated, more to himself than to Fox, “she’s a thorough sort of woman, is Mrs. Bünz.”
The sun continued to shine upon South Mardian and upon the surrounding countryside. The temperature rose unseasonably. Bigger and bigger patches emerged, dark and glistening, from the dismantled landscape. Dr. Curtis, driving himself across country, slithered and skidded but made good time. At noon he rang through to say he expected to be with them before three. Alleyn directed him to Yowford, where the Guiser waited for him in the cottage-hospital mortuary.
At half past one a police car arrived with five reinforcements.
Alleyn held a sort of meeting in the back parlour and briefed his men for the afternoon performance. Carey, who had been down at Copse Forge, came in and was consulted with fitting regard for his rank and local importance.
“We haven’t the faintest notion if we’ll make an arrest,” Alleyn said. “With luck, we might. I’d feel much happier about it if the results of the P.M. were laid on, but I’ve decided not to wait for them. The chances of success in a reconstruction of this sort rest on the accuracy of the observers’ memories. With every hour they grow less dependable. We’re taking pretty considerable risks and may look damn’ silly for damn’ all at the end of it. However, I think it’s worth trying and Mr. Fox agrees with me. Now, this is what happens.”
He laid out his plan of action, illustrating what he said with a rough sketch of the courtyard at Mardian Castle.
Dame Alice, Dulcie Mardian and the Rector would again sit on the steps. The rest of the audience would consist of Trixie, her father, Camilla, Carey, Sergeant Obby and Mrs. Bünz. The events of Wednesday night would be re-enacted in their order. At this point it became clear that Superintendent Carey was troubled in his mind. Seeing this, Alleyn asked him if he had any suggestions to make.
“Well! Naow!” Carey said. “I was just asking myself, Mr. Alleyn. If everybody, in a manner of speaking, is going to act their own parts over again, who would — er — who would —”
“Act the principal part?”
“That’s right. The original,” Mr. Carey said reasonably, “not being available.”
“I wanted to consult you about that. What sort of age is the boy — Andy’s son, isn’t it? — who was the understudy?”
“Young Bill? Thirteen — fourteen or thereabouts. He’s Andrew’s youngest.”
“Bright boy?”
“Smart enough little lad, far’s I know.”
“About the same height as his grandfather?”
“Just, I reckon.”
“Could we get hold of him?”
“Reckon so. Andrew Andersen’s farm’s up to Yowford. Matter of a mile.”
“Is Andy himself still down at the forge?”
“Went home for his dinner, no doubt, at noon. There’s been a great family conference all morning at the smithy,” Carey said. “My sergeant was on duty there. Obby. I don’t say he was as alert as we might prefer: not used to late hours and a bit short of sleep. As a matter of fact, the silly danged fool dozed off and had to admit it.”
The Yard men were at pains not to catch each other’s eyes.
“He came forward, however, with the information that a great quantity of money was found and locked away and that all the boys seem very worried about what Ern may say or do. Specially Chris. He’s a hot-tempered chap, is Chris Andersen, and not above using his hands, which he knows how to, having been a commando in the war.”
“Hardly suitable as a mild corrective technique,” Alleyn said drily.
“Well, no. Will I see if I can lay hold of young Bill, Mr. Alleyn? Now?”
“Would you, Carey? Thank you so much. Without anything being noticed. You’ll handle it better than we would, knowing them.”
Carey, gratified, set about this business.
They heard him start up his motor-bicycle and churn off along Yowford Lane.
“He’s all right,” Alleyn said to the Yard men. “Sound man, but he’s feeling shy about his sergeant going to sleep on duty.”
“So he should,” Fox said, greatly scandalized. “I never heard such a thing. Very bad. Carey ought to have stayed there himself if he can’t trust his chaps.”
“I don’t think it’s likely to have made all that difference, Br’er Fox.”
“It’s the principle.”
“Of course it is. Now, about this show — here’s where I want everyone to stand. Mr. Fox up, at the back by the archway through which they made their exits and entrances. Bailey and Thompson are coming off their specialists’ perches and keeping observation again: there” — he pointed on his sketch—“by the entrance to the castle, that is to say, the first archway that links the semicircular ruined wall to the new building, and here, by its opposite number at the other end of the wall. That’s the way Ralph Stayne came back to the arena. The bonfire was outside the wall and to the right of the central archway. I want three men there. The remaining two will stand among the onlookers, bearing in mind what I’ve said we expect to find. We may be involved with more than one customer if the pot comes to the boil. Carey will be there, with his sergeant and his P.C., of course, and if the sergeant dozes off at this show it’ll be because he’s got sleeping sickness.”