She turned to Simon. Her face was the colour of lard and she smiled horridly. “Wing-Commander Begg, you, as much as I, are implicated in this idle prank. Should I repeat?”
Simon took her gently round the waist. “I don’t see why not, Mrs. B.,” he said. “You be a good girl and play ball with the cops. Run along, now.”
He gave her a facetious pat. “Very well,” she said and produced a sort of laugh. “After all, why dot?”
So she went out by the side archway and Simon by the centre one. Dr. Otterly struck up his fiddle again.
It was the tune that had ushered in the Fool. Dr. Otterly played the introduction and, involuntarily, performers and audience alike looked at the rear archway where on Sword Wednesday the lonely figure in its dolorous mask had appeared. The archway gaped enigmatically upon the night. Smoke from the bonfire drifted across the background and occasional sparks crossed it like fireflies. It had an air of expectancy.
“But this time there won’t be a Fool,” Dulcie pointed out. “Will there, Aunt Akky?”
Dame Alice had opened her mouth to speak. It remained open, but no voice came out. The Rector ejaculated sharply and rose from his chair. A thin, shocking sound, half laughter and half scream, wavered across the courtyard. It had been made by Ernie and was echoed by Trixie.
Through the smoke, as if it had been evolved from the same element, came the white figure: jog, jog, getting clearer every second. Through the archway and into the arena: a grinning mask, limp arms, a bauble on a stick, and bent legs.
Dr. Otterly, after an astonished discord, went into the refrain of “Lord Mardian’s Fancy.” Young Bill, in the character of the Fool, began to jog round the courtyard. It was as if a clockwork toy had been re-wound.
Alleyn joined Fox by the rear archway. From here he could still see the Andersens. The four elder brothers were reassuring each other. Chris looked angry, and the others mulish and affronted. But Ernie’s mouth gaped and his hands twitched and he watched the Fool like a fury. Offstage, through the archway, Alleyn was able to see Mrs. Bünz’s encounter with Simon. She came round the outside curve of the wall and he met her at the bonfire. He began to explain sheepishly to Alleyn.
“We’d fixed it up like this,” Simon said. “I met her here. We’d plenty of time.”
“Why on earth didn’t you tell us the whole of this ridiculous story at once?” Alleyn asked.
Simon mumbled, “I don’t expect you to credit it, but I was cobs with the boys. They’re a good shower of bods. I knew how they’d feel if it ever got out. And, anyway, it doesn’t look so hot, does it? For all I knew you might get thinking things.”
“What sort of things?”
“Well, you know. With murder about.”
“You have been an ass,” Alleyn said.
“I wouldn’t have done it, only I wanted the scratch like hell.” He added impertinently, “Come to that, why didn’t you tell us you were going to rig up an understudy? Nasty jolt he gave us, didn’t he, Mrs. B.? Come on, there’s a big girl. Gently does it.”
Mrs. Bünz, who seemed to be shattered into acquiescence, sat on the ground. He tipped up the great cylinder of “Crack’s” body, exposing the heavy shoulder straps under the canvas top and the buckled harness. He lowered it gently over Mrs. Bünz. “Arms through the leathers,” he said.
The ringed canvas neck, which lay concertinaed on the top of the cylinder, now swelled at the base. Simon leant over and adjusted it and Mrs. Bünz’s pixie cap appeared through the top. He lifted the head on its flexible rod and then introduced the rod into the neck. “Here it comes,” he said. Mrs. Bünz’s hands could be seen grasping the end of the rod.
“It fits into a socket in the harness,” Simon explained. The head now stood like some monstrous blossom on a thin stalk above the body. Simon drew up the canvas neck. The pixie cap disappeared. The top of the neck was made fast to the head and Mrs. Bünz contemplated the world through a sort of window in the canvas.
“The hands are free underneath,” Simon said, “to work the tail string.” He grinned. “And to have a bit of the old woo if you catch your girlie. I didn’t, worse luck. There you are. The Doc’s just coming up with the tune for the first sword-dance. On you go, Mrs. B. Not to worry. We don’t believe in spooks, do we?”
And Mrs. Bünz, subdued to the semblance of a prehistoric bad dream, went through the archway to take part in the Mardian Sword Dance.
Simon squatted down by the bonfire and reached for a burning twig to light his cigarette.
“Poor old B.,” he said, looking after Mrs. Bünz. “But, still.”
Camilla had once again run away from the Hobby into Ralph Stayne’s arms and once again he stayed beside her.
She had scarcely recovered from the shock of the Fool’s entrance and kept looking into Ralph’s face to reassure herself. She found his great extinguisher of a skirt and his queer bi-sexual hat rather off-putting. She kept remembering stories Trixie had told her of how in earlier times the Betties had used the skirt. They had popped it over village girls, Trixie said, and had grabbed hold of them through the slits in the sides and carried them away. Camilla would have jeered at herself heartily if she had realized that, even though Ralph had only indulged in a modified form of this piece of horseplay, she intensely disliked the anecdote. Perhaps it was because Trixie had related it.
She looked at Ralph now and, after the habit of lovers, made much of the qualities she thought she saw in him. His mouth was set and his eyebrows were drawn together in a scowl. “He’s terribly sensitive, really,” Camilla told herself. “He’s hating this business as much in his way as I am in mine. And,” she thought, “I daresay he’s angryish because I got such an awful shock when whoever it is came in like the Guiser, and I daresay he’s even angrier because Simon Begg chased me again.” This thought cheered her immensely.
They watched young Bill doing his version of his grandfather’s first entry and the ceremonial trot round the courtyard. He repeated everything quite correctly and didn’t forget to slap the dolmen with his clown’s bauble.
“And that’s what Mrs. Bünz didn’t know about,” Ralph muttered.
“Who is it?” Camilla wondered. “He knows it all, doesn’t he? It’s horrible.”
“It’s that damned young Bill,” Ralph muttered. “There’s nobody else who does know. By Heaven, when I get hold of him —”
Camilla said, “Darling, you don’t think —?”
He turned his head and looked steadily at Camilla for a moment before answering her.
“I don’t know what to think,” he said at last. “But I know damn’ well that if the Guiser had spotted Mrs. Bünz dressed up as ‘Crack’ he’d have gone for her like a fury.”
“But nothing happened,” Camilla said. “I stood here and I looked and nothing happened.”
“I know,” he said.
“Well, then — how? Was he carried off? Or something?” Ralph shook his head.
Dr. Otterly had struck up a bouncing introduction. The Five Sons, who had removed their bells, took up their swords and came forward into position. And through the central archway jogged the Hobby-Horse, moving slowly.
“Here she comes,” Camilla said. “You’d never guess, would you?”
Alleyn and Fox reappeared and stood inside the archway. Beyond them, lit by the bonfire, was Simon.
The Sons began the first part of the triple sword-dance.
They had approached their task with a lowering and reluctant air. Alleyn wondered if there was going to be a joint protest about the re-enactment of the Fool. Ernie hadn’t removed his gaze from the dolorous mask. His eyes were unpleasantly brilliant and his face glistened with sweat. He came forward with his brothers and had an air of scarcely knowing what he was about. But there was some compulsion in the music. They had been so drilled by their father and so used to executing their steps with a leap and a flourish that they were unable to dance with less than the traditional panache. They were soon hard at it, neat and vigorous, rising lightly and coming down hard. The ring of steel was made. Each man grasped his successor’s sword by its red ribbon. The lock, or knot, was formed. Dan raised it aloft to exhibit it and it glittered in the torchlight. Young Bill approached and looked at the knot as if at his reflection in a glass.