“That was a very bad thing,” she said. “Is there any chance, do you think, that one of the small children who were in the play—I am thinking of the little boys rather than of the little girls—that one of them could have been playing with the weapons, probably before the performance began?”
“It took a little girl to sneak the bloodhounds away, so children can get at the props,” said Deborah.
“So I am right about the children?”
“Not a chance,” said Jonathan. “At the dress-rehearsal we had a bit of trouble, but of a very different kind. Supervision was not very strict and our two, Rosamund and Edmund, contrived to purloin the two bloodhounds and take them to bed. They were severely scolded—I put Rosamund as the organiser of the enterprise—and Signora Moretti was asked to keep a particularly vigilant eye on her charges during the actual performances.”
“Nobody would manage to elude that old lady, as I think you will agree,” said Deborah. “Besides, the properties were not put out until the children were being dressed up. I know that for a fact, and once the performance started there were always people in the wings. No child could have got away with touching anything on the props tables.”
“What must have happened, I think,” said Jonathan, “was that either Yorke or one of the Lynns, who carried the things down and laid them out on the tables, dropped the daggers out of the belts quite by accident and put the wrong dagger into the belt meant for Pyramus. There were four daggers and two swords. Yorke had a sword and, as Oberon, Bourton had one, but the swords don’t come into it. I myself had a dagger, so had Tom Woolidge. We found them less troublesome than swords. Then young Yolanda Yorke as Philostrate carried one in her belt, but only in the hunting scene and, even then, hers was only a very short sgian dhu, the little knife Highlanders carry stuck into their stockings, not the one she was first given.”
“The blade which killed Mr Bourton was six inches long. I was present when the police surgeon took it out,” said Dr Jeanne-Marie.
“What I don’t understand,” said Jonathan, “is how those two fellows, Lynn and young David Lester, who dumped Bourton on that stretcher and carried him off-stage, did not see that there was something very seriously wrong with him.”
“There was nothing to see except the hilt of the dagger protruding from his body.”
“Blood, surely?”
“No. The only person who might have suspected something was the girl who found that she could not immediately pull the weapon out.”
“But I thought stab wounds bled like the very dickens, Doctor.”
“It depends in what part of the body the wound is made. In this case the most that would be noticed would be some blood from the nose and the mouth, but this could be attributed by a non-medical person to the patient’s having had a nose-bleed. Actually, there was not even this symptom on Mr Bourton when we examined him, neither should I have expected it.”
“But poor Donald died of the wound!” exclaimed Deborah. “Could you explain what you mean, Doctor?”
“Why not? It will come out at the inquest. It depends on the position the body is in when the blow is struck. I was in the front row of the audience and saw what happened. Of course, until I was called to the side of the stage, I had no idea that the weapon was anything but a theatrical toy, although I did think that Mr Bourton was a very good actor. To stab himself he first raised his head and shoulders a little off the ground, but not enough to make any real difference to the prone position in which he had been lying, then he stabbed himself and fell flat again. He would have lost consciousness immediately and was dead by the time Mr Lynn and young Mr Lester had carried him off the stage, but there was no outward sign of bleeding.”
“Lord, yes,” said Jonathan. “I read about it in Professor Keith Simpson’s autobiography. What poor Bourton gave himself when the dagger went in was an internal haemorrhage. The blade must have gone in between two ribs and may not have pierced the lung. The blood would have seeped into the cavity of the chest and there might have been no outward sign at all except the hilt of the dagger sticking out of him.”
When Dr Jeanne-Marie had collected her sons, and Rosamund and Edmund had been sent to play in the garden, Marcus Lynn called to confirm that his demolition squad would be coming next day and, under the eye of their employer, would make short work of the clearing up. Marcus stayed for sherry. He was gloomy.
“That was one hell of an ending to the show,” he said. “I’ve been to the hospital and it seems it was simply one of those things. If the poor chap had struck on a rib instead of the dagger going between two of them, there might have been some chance of saving him. As it was, there was no hope at all. Emma is terribly distressed and I suppose there will be every sort of a hooha about how the daggers got changed over.”
“That reminds me,” said Jonathan. “Is it known what happened to the theatrical dagger?”
“Oh, yes. It was the first thing I thought of when it was obvious that the poor chap was dead, so when Yorke and I gathered up the properties after the police surgeon had authorised the removal of Bourton’s body, I checked, with Yorke standing by. The retractable dagger must have slid out of the belt as the props were placed on the tables. I can’t think why none of the three of us noticed—Jasper helped Yorke and myself to carry the stuff down—but, of course, the lights were not put on until the performance began. Anyway, the dagger had got kicked under the table and all I can think is that some well-meaning busybody (who, of course, will never own up to it now) noticed that the belt was empty and shoved a dagger into it.”
“The one and only objection to that theory,” said Deborah, “is that whoever did it must have been able to lay his hands on another dagger, unless he had brought one with him and the whole thing was done out of malice aforethought.”
“In which case the dagger couldn’t have been meant for Bourton, but for Rinkley,” said Jonathan, “but all this is idle speculation. All the real evidence will come out at the inquest. Have you spoken to any of the others, Marcus?”
“No. I think better not. It will be better to leave all that to the police. No blame can attach itself to anyone. Nobody could possibly have known that Rinkley would have been taken ill and an understudy put on, and if Rinkley had accidentally got the wrong dagger, he would have known as soon as he drew it out.”
“Or perhaps even before that, because of the weight of the thing when he slung the belt over his shoulder,” said Deborah. Later she added to her husband, “I’d like to get Rosamund and Edmund out from here for a bit, away from all the publicity. There won’t only be the police. There will be the reporters and the sightseers, as I said before.”
“I don’t think you need worry. The death will be declared accidental and the papers won’t give it more than a mention, if that. Besides, where should we put the kids? Everybody must have had a bucketful of minding them by now.”
“Try Aunt Adela and Laura. They only had them for a week instead of the promised fortnight. A week will see us in the clear, I should think.”
So Deborah telephoned the Stone House which was on the edge of the New Forest and contacted Laura.
“Deborah here.”
“Hullo. How did the last night go?”
“That’s why I’m phoning. I’d rather tell you about it when we meet. A dreadful thing happened and I want the children out of here for a day or two. Could you possibly have them again while we get things sorted out?”
“I’ll ask the boss, but I’m sure we can. Are you and Jonathan all right?”
“Oh, yes, perfectly all right, the children, too.”
“Good show! Hang on while I contact the fountain-head.” Laura was back on the telephone in less than a minute with an assurance that Dame Beatrice would be delighted to have the children again. “She says would it help if we came over and fetched them? She thinks you may be in a bit of a spot. Would it help?”