“Yes, that’s true,” said Laura. “And, of course, if it was an accident, the person who caused it might well be chary of owning up, in case murder was suspected. You mentioned suicide. Was he a suicidal type?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so. He had strong religious convictions, but he wasn’t morbid and he wasn’t fanatical.”
“Did you think it odd that the Sunday School secretary-treasurer was playing sunbeams when all the time he knew that Luton was dead?”
“I didn’t think about it in that way, but I suppose it was a bit odd of him, wasn’t it?”
“He could bear a bit of watching if it was murder,” said Kitty. “I never heard of anything so heartless!”
“Well, the world must keep turning,” said Perse.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Exit a Poor Player
“One is compelled to admit that there is some suspicion attaching to Eadmund’s death.”
« ^ »
Laura was to return to her duties on the Wednesday, and did not anticipate further mystery and excitement, but on the Tuesday evening, at just after half-past six, young Mr Perse turned up again at his aunt’s flat.
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Kitty, when the maid showed him in.
“If it’s chops or cutlets or anything else that has to be counted, I haven’t come to dinner,” her nephew assured her, “so there’s no need for dismay. I just looked in to bring you a bit more news.”
“They haven’t arrested anybody?”
“Not so far as I know. The police are still busy grilling people.”
“How do you mean? They haven’t been here again, anyhow.”
“Well, of course they haven’t,” put in Laura. “There’s nothing you can tell them that’s of any use, and they know it.”
“They’re still keeping up this fiction of an accident while people were skylarking about with those swords,” went on Perse, “but they’re making honest citizens jump through hoops, all the same.”
“I don’t believe you know anything about it,” said Kitty. “Anyway, as it’s chicken, you can stay to dinner if you like.”
“Coo, ta, dear (as my landlady’s daughter says). I won’t say no. Chicken, eh? Free-ranging and country bred, I trust.”
“Yes, from Froggett’s farm. What’s this news with which you’ve baited your hook?”
“Only that the chap who took the part of Henry VIII in your pageant seems to have disappeared.”
“Disappeared? There’s been nothing about it in the papers.”
“They don’t usually put mere disappearances in the papers, unless it’s a kid or a Ward of Court, or something. I only happen to know about it by what you might call accident.”
“Sit down, and in a minute you can have a drink. I hear your uncle in the hall. When he comes in you can tell us all about it.”
“Well,” said Perse, when the company was settled down, “it may hardly surprise you to be told that the school meals at our place are so lousy that some of us have formed a sandwich and drinks club. We go twice a week to the local. There are six of us altogether—myself, Bob Lyttleton, Corney Thomas, Teddy Granger and a couple of chaps from the local Primary School.”
“I thought Grammar School masters didn’t mingle with the canaille,” said Laura.
“That point of view, if it ever existed, is outmoded, Auntie Laura. Anyway, we began by passing the time of day with them in the pub and then we gradually teamed up. It must be rotten for these chaps, the only fellows on an otherwise all-women Staff, and with a woman boss into the bargain. Anyway, we fixed up to meet them on Tuesdays and Fridays, when neither they nor we are on dinner duty, and they’ve proved to be very nice people. Their names are Gordon and Spey. You know them, Aunt Kay, I believe.”
“Gordon and Spey?” said Kitty. “Yes, I do seem to know those names. Oh, yes, I remember. Weren’t they the two menservants in The Merry Wives? Those were the names on the programme.”
“They were.”
“But you mentioned Henry VIII.”
“Yes, Spey was that in your pageant. Gordon was Edward III.”
“Oh, I see. I never knew any of the pageantry by name. I suppose those two looked different on the float from what they did in the play. They would have to, of course.”
“Yes. Spey wore a beard, of course, as Henry VIII and I suppose he was clean-shaven on the stage. Gordon had an even bigger beard for Edward III, and I imagine he also was clean-shaven on the stage.”
“Yes, I see. Well, do go on.”
“Right. Well, today being Tuesday, we had our usual get-together at the boozer, but found ourselves one short. We made a civil enquiry and were told that Spey hadn’t shown up at school either yesterday or this morning. The Old Cat—Gordon’s name for his headmistress—her actual name is Cattrick, so it’s not really as rude as it sounds and, actually, he quite likes her—had cut up rough on the Monday, (that’s yesterday), because Spey hadn’t sent a message, or anything, to say he couldn’t be at school, but today, as, again, she’d heard nothing, she seemed a bit worried, Gordon said. She couldn’t ring Spey because he isn’t on the ’phone, so she asked Gordon to call round and find out whether Spey had been taken ill and was too bad to get a message to school, or didn’t have anybody to send.” He paused to sip his drink.
“What did Gordon think about that?” asked Kitty’s husband.
“He was so little keen on the job that I offered to go with him. “It’s that awful business of poor Luton,” he said. “The police keep all on to me until I’m hanged if I know whether I’m coming or going. And now Spey! I tell you that if I go to that house and anything’s happened to him, I’ll be for it.” Well, of course I told him nothing would have happened to Spey except a dose of ’flu, or a broken leg, or something else quite simple, but he jumped at the idea of my going with him, so we met after school and got some tea in the town, and—we went.”
He finished his drink. Twigg poured him another.
“Get on with the tale,” he said, “or your aunt will explode.”
“Spey is married,” proceeded Perse, “but Gordon told me that Mrs Spey is down in Devonshire nursing an ailing mother, so he’s been alone in the house except for a char who comes in once a week to square up. Friday is her day.
“Well, we knocked and rang, but there was no answer, so we concluded that Spey must be pretty seedy and we’d better get inside somehow and see what was what. So we knocked up the neighbours—it’s a semi-detached house—and told them our troubles and informed them that we intended to break in. They were dubious about this, and advised us to contact the police, but Gordon, who, as he said, has had a bucketful of the police over Luton’s death, said that wasn’t necessary. He gave them the school number and invited them to ring up and get him identified. Evidently they took this offer as a guarantee of good faith, because they said it didn’t matter and shut their front door on us. We went round to the back and, before deciding to force a window, we tried the back door. It wasn’t locked or bolted, so we went in.
“On the kitchen table there was a note with a pepperpot on it to keep it in position. It said, Dear Sir, I have waited till nearly five and must be off to get my old man’s tea. Have took my wages from the shillings you keeps handy for the gas, as have my weekend shopping to do and oblige. Mrs Harmer. You can see what it all adds up to. Spey must have been missing since after school on Friday, and now it’s Tuesday evening and he hasn’t been traced or got any message to the school. We searched the house, of course, but there wasn’t a clue.”