“You mean the mob who were also contributing items to the show? Yes, I appreciate that, and so do the police, I imagine. Well, the two comedians are in the clear, unless they oiled back after you’d seen them off, and I don’t suppose they did that.”
“I ought to tell the police they were drunk, Dog. They may have been intending a drunken jape and it went too far. Alcohol clouds the judgment, and they were steeped to the hair-parting in it.”
“That’s quite a thought. Assing about with the swords—yes, it’s more than possible. That is, of course, if they sneaked back. But why should they? I wouldn’t mind betting they stayed in the pub until closing time—that is, if they’d got enough money.”
“Oh, they’d got enough money. I’d paid them.”
“In coin of the realm?”
“Yes, they had two guineas each. I didn’t think they’d take a cheque, you see.”
“That should have seen them through the evening. Two guineas will buy a lot of beer.”
“Yes, but, Dog, would the barman have gone on serving them that long, considering they were plastered already?”
“Hm! I don’t really know. But, if he didn’t, and they got grouchy, nothing is more likely than that they did oil back to the Town Hall and get into mischief.”
“Unless they crawled to another pub or two.”
“Yes, that’s more likely still, I suppose. Oh, well! What about anybody else?”
“The Tots—little nuisances!—stayed in the wings to see and hear the comedians. The formation team cleared them out of the way, I expect, but I bet they were still getting dressed while the interval was on, because the formation team’s effort only took about ten minutes, if you remember, and the first scene of The Merry Wives was played so fast that that didn’t take long, either, once their bally scenery was up.”
“Yes, kids do take an age to get changed and do up their shoes and all that. But I can’t say I can see that vinegar-faced old pussy of theirs running a sword through anybody. What happened to the formation mob when their turn was over?”
“I’ve no idea. They came in a motor-coach, and were all togged up ready for the fray, so I suppose they just filtered out. They didn’t have to be paid, you see.”
“Refreshments?”
“They had those while they were waiting to go on, I expect. The Town Hall laid on coffee, bridge-roll sandwiches and some cakes, I believe. Anyway, there were sixteen dancers and I suppose they can all alibi one another for the time of the murder.”
“Of course, we still don’t know the time of the murder, do we?”
“Except that I’m quite convinced it must have been before the interval.”
“Not necessarily, you know. I’ve just had another bright thought.”
“But, Dog, there were all those schoolchildren about during the interval. Nobody could possibly have got away with murder with them around.”
“He could if the murder took place outside the Town Hall and not inside it, you know. Let’s suppose that the murderer gets Falstaff, on some pretence or other, out on to Smith Hill. He inveigles him down to the water’s edge, we’ll say, and pinks him through the heart. He dumps the body in the mud and trusts that the ebb tide—the river’s tidal as far as Teddington—will carry it away. If it doesn’t, well, it doesn’t matter all that much. If it happened like that, you see, it wouldn’t matter how many people were milling about during the interval.”
The pageant and its aftermath had taken place on a Thursday. The detective had called on Kitty on the Friday morning, therefore, and the evening paper that day headed its meagre account of Falstaff’s death with the caption, Horseplay Has Tragic Sequel.
“So that’s the way the cat jumps,” said Laura. “The police have put up a smoke-screen.”
The paragraph under the heading was unrewarding. A mock duel, it was suggested, had been fought, and one of the contestants fatally wounded. Those responsible had evidently panicked and had removed the body to the river. The dead man was clad in period costume, and a clothes-basket—one of the properties used in the play—had also been found bogged down in the riverside mud. The dead man, a popular member of the Brayne Dramatic and Operatic Society, was Sidney Matravers Luton. He was unmarried and (the sub-editor had slipped up for once) had left no children.
Laura and Kitty absorbed this information.
“I always did say there was a jinx on the wretched pageant,” said Kitty, on the Sunday morning. “I wish to goodness I’d never got myself mixed up in it. I ought to have known better, and I did know better, really, but when a nephew comes touting around for assistance, you do rather find yourself letting yourself in for things. Oh, Lord! The telephone! Now what?”
The call came from the nephew in question. Young Mr Perse was ringing up his aunt to find out whether she had heard the news. Kitty informed him that she had, whereupon he invited himself round for afternoon tea and offered to place all his inside knowledge at her disposal.
He arrived at four, dressed in a dark lounge suit and wearing a buttonhole.
“Why the foliage?” enquired Kitty, resentfully.
“I sent for thee upon a sad occasion,” said Laura. Young Mr Perse kissed both of them.
“I don’t take an evening paper,” he said, “but I knew something must have happened to Luton. He didn’t show up at Sunday School this morning.”
“Sunday School?” queried Laura.
“He was the Sunday School superintendent at the League of Young Hearts chapel. It was left to the secretary-treasurer to conduct the revels. This he did (amid acclaim) by purporting to be a sunbeam.”
“A sunbeam?” said Kitty. “But…”
“Yes, I know (although, until this moment, you didn’t) he’s fat and wears a beard,” said her nephew, “but the chosen hymn was about sunbeams and he became one, cavorting about the platform with his thumbs in his waistcoat armholes and his plump little legs twinkling in time to a rather wheezy harmonium.”
“But you couldn’t have been to Sunday School!” cried Kitty.
“Why couldn’t I? You don’t realise how thoroughly and to what extent we Councillors go about our duties. We visit schools, Sunday Schools, Church parades, supermarkets, recreation grounds, the Girls’ Friendly Society, hospitals, Old People’s Homes, orphanages…”
“And the Old Bull and Bush, I suppose,” said Laura, deeply interested. Perse bowed.
“So it fell to my lot to attend this Sunday School session at ten o’clock this morning, and it was then I decided that something had happened to Luton. The sunbeam act surprised me, you see, and, knowing that Luton usually conducted the revels, I couldn’t forbear asking after him, only to be told that the poor chap had been killed.”
“What’s a Sunday School superintendent doing in a drama club, anyway?” demanded Kitty.
“My dear aunt! I should point out that we live in modern times.”
“And then to go and get himself killed in this utterly nefarious (right, Dog?) way!” continued Kitty. “Dog and I have talked it over until my head spins. What do you know that we don’t—or have you come to tea under false pretences?”
“I’m afraid it’s under false pretences, dear Aunt Kitty. I was hoping you could tell me something. I wish now that I hadn’t opted out of being present at the Town Hall.”
“I’m pretty sure this story of a mock duel with fatal ending is pure boloney,” said Laura. “But, actually, we don’t know a thing. The police have been here, of course, because of Kitty’s tie-up with the show, and I’m sure they think it was murder.”
“Do they, by Jove! But a more harmless citizen than Luton couldn’t be found! Who on earth could have had it in for him sufficiently to go to the length of doing him in? I don’t see why accident should be ruled out. The police would be bound to make enquiries, just as much in a case of accidental death as in a case of suicide or murder.”