“Obsessional?”
“Yes, that’s it. It’s a sort of bug.”
“You mean it’s a sort of dedication.”
“Do I? Oh, well, anyway, we didn’t give the school choirs a room because we’d had them in the gallery until the interval, so we just showed them the toilets and lined them up in the corridor where they got biscuits and soft drinks to keep them happy until we wanted them.”
“Yes, I see,” said Dame Beatrice. “And now may we go on to the stage?”
“One thing,” said Laura, as Kitty showed the way to the stairs which led up to the wings on the O.P. side. “What about your two comedians? Didn’t they need a dressing-room?”
“Not one of their own. We pushed them in with the drama club. There was plenty of space, and theirs was the second act, so they left the building as soon as they had finished their turn. And was I glad to see the back of them!”
“Are you sure they left the building?” asked Dame Beatrice.
“Oh, yes. They packed their traps and went across the road for beer. I saw them off and warned them about Smith Hill and the river.”
“They could not have come in again by the front entrance?”
“Not without a ticket. Why, you don’t suspect them of killing Falstaff, do you?—although we did wonder, their being tight, you know.”
“No, most emphatically I do not, but it is as well to eliminate as many people as possible as soon as possible.”
The three went on to the stage and Kitty pointed out that there were three entrances—from the Prompt Side, from the O.P. side and, in addition, a cunningly concealed one in the middle of the back-drop.
“Just in case you want to have the Demon King burst in with a clap of thunder, or the ballet suddenly erupt from somewhere unexpected,” she explained.
“And which of the entrances or exits was used for carrying Falstaff off the stage?” Dame Beatrice enquired.
“Oh, they dragged him off on the Prompt Side. It was nearest to the dressing-room, you see. And as the two men-servants had to come on again in Scene Two—not that we had it, of course—they wanted as much time in the pub as they could get, I suppose. Oh, and that’s another thing. I suppose they could swear—and probably did—to the comedians having been in the pub.”
“That can be established, I suppose,” said Laura, “unless the comedians had left the pub by then.”
“Not they,” said Kitty, in a confident tone. “If ever I saw a couple of men who intended to make a night of it, they were the ones. We’ve talked about this already.”
“Yes, we agreed they might have done a pub-crawl. Where now, Mrs Croc., dear?”
“Now for the door which opens on to Smith Hill,” said Dame Beatrice. Smith Hill proved to be a short, steep, cobbled slipway which began at the High Street and ended at the muddy borders of the Thames opposite a small, willow-fringed eyot. There was a street-lamp at the High Street end and a yard or so of green and slippery stones at the edge of the river. The slime showed the high-tide limits.
“I wonder what the state of the tide was that night,” said Laura, studying the uncompromising and unbeautiful little passage.
“I’ve no idea,” said Kitty. “As I said, we warned people leaving by the side door to be sure to walk uphill, that’s all I know.”
“Well, they’d naturally aim for the street-lamp, wouldn’t they?”
“I should have thought so. Anyway, the water affected nobody but poor Falstaff, and he, presumably, didn’t choose the way he went.”
“Did you get anything important from our tour of the Town Hall?” asked Laura, when dinner was over and she and Dame Beatrice were travelling back to Wandles Parva and the Stone House.
“Well, I noted one possibility,” Dame Beatrice admitted. “I can’t, of course, tell who the murderer was, but I have an idea that I know where the deed was done.”
“Yes, something to do with that room labelled Bouquets. That struck me, too. I deduce three nylon overalls, one of which has either been destroyed by the murderer or impounded by the police. I expect the murderer wiped the sword on it, you know, and then probably washed the blood off the floor with it, too. He’d have access to plenty of water in that particular room.”
“I think you have made a reasonable deduction.”
“Well, there’s no doubt in my own mind that Bouquets is where the deed was done, and, if so, it throws the thing wide open again. You remember old Kitty’s telling us she’d placarded the town? Anybody—but simply anybody—could have known that the room would be empty.”
“There is still the vexed question as to whose hand wielded the sword. It does not seem possible, if the sword was the weapon used, that the killing took place before the interval, because the sword would still have been on the stage, and yet it seems highly unlikely that the killer would have been undetected if the interval itself was the time when the deed was done. It is extremely puzzling.” She looked expectantly at Laura.
“Well,” said Laura, “I can’t get any further. We’re not even officially concerned, and that means we can’t question the Town Hall staff with any hope of getting them to tell us anything they may know. Anyway, I’m sure that, from the very beginning, the police knew it was murder. You could tell they did, from the way the detective questioned old Kitty.”
“That is not proof in itself. The verdict was Death by Misadventure. It seems to me that the police would attempt to find out how that misadventure was caused.”
“Like deaths in motoring accidents, you mean? I suppose there is that, of course.”
“And now for Henry VIII,” said Dame Beatrice. “Here there seems no possible reason for doubt.”
“Murder most foul,” agreed Laura.
“Of course,” said Dame Beatrice, “the sword used to kill Mr Luton was wiped on the linen in the clothes basket. There would be no other reason for putting the basket into the Thames.”
“Oh, in the hope that the blood would be washed away. Yes, I see.”
“The door on to Smith Hill has a Yale lock,” said Dame Beatrice thoughtfully. Laura looked expectantly at her, but Dame Beatrice added nothing to this statement.
CHAPTER NINE
The Death of Henry VIII
“One of the most popular games, however, was what may be called chasing the ox.”
« ^ »
As I see it,” said Laura, “there must be all sorts of permutations and combinations, any one of which could lead to the right answer. Let’s just see what we’ve got, shall we?—beginning with the death of Falstaff, whether murder or not.”
“I am all attention.”
“Wouldn’t you like to speak first?”
“Not at all. I shall be most interested to hear your views. I confess that, so far, I can see only one ray of light, and that, to my mind, is not sufficient to journey by.”
“I wonder whether you’re thinking the same as I am?”
“It is not unlikely. Pray proceed.”
“Would it help us to find out when the other property sword got lost or mislaid?”
“It might. It was not used at the dress rehearsal, you tell me, and that is all we know.”
“Perhaps we could find out at which rehearsal it was used.”
“I don’t suppose it was used at any rehearsal, child. You have some experience of amateur theatricals, and I am not entirely without knowledge of them myself. It is customary for the costumes and properties to be hired only for the week of the performance, I believe. But it is idle for us to speculate. We need precise information. I wonder whether the Brayne company has a wardrobe mistress?”
“Well, they’ve got a stage-manager. I expect he’d know about the props. I’ll get his address and number from old Kitty.”
She did this forthwith and immediately telephoned the stage-manager, mentioning Kitty’s name and requesting the favour of an interview.