“Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood. You must have seen something, or heard something… Think! Bend the brain!”
“Look, Dog, I didn’t see or hear a thing. I grant you there was the usual give and take in that drama club, but there was nothing that could possibly lead to murder. You’ve got a bee in your bonnet, as usual.”
“I never have a bee in my bonnet. I see things steadily and I see them whole.”
“But you don’t, Dog. You’re too imaginative. Now I,” said Kitty smugly, “am a practical working woman.”
“Granted. Now tell me what you suspect. I shan’t do anything about it. I shall simply refer it to Mrs Croc., so be of good cheer, brave heart.”
“That’s all very well, Dog, but you can’t just count on a hunch.”
“Why not? I always do. What hunch did you have?”
“Well, I’m not exaggerating, Dog, when I tell you that I always had a feeling.”
“What sort of feeling?”
“I’ve told you before. I never have liked the idea of this pageant. I don’t really know why I took it on. I was talked into it by Julian. He said it was my bounden duty. Well, you know how it is, Dog. You’re sitting pretty, minding your own business, and raking in a certain amount of well-earned cash, and then comes along some persuasive nephew and tells you there are people worse off than yourself, which of course, you readily agree that there are—most of them their own fault, but some of them not—and he talks you into doing something about it, which you don’t want to do, and can’t do, anyway, not to your own satisfaction, and where does it get you?”
“Into producing a pageant, but where’s this leading us?”
“Into these murders, of course. Where did you think I was leading you?”
“I don’t know. Carry on, then. Let’s have it all.”
“Don’t rush me, Dog. My mills grind slowly…”
“Well, but do they have to grind so exceedingly small?”
“You wouldn’t know it, Dog, but that remark is blasphemous.”
“And this from the woman who thought Saint Lawrence was a former parish priest of Brayne?”
“Well, I still don’t see why he shouldn’t have been,” said Kitty, sturdily. “Anyway, back to what I was saying.”
“And that was?”
“These rows, Dog. Oh, nothing that could possibly lead to murder, as I’ve already said, but, well, there were difficulties.”
“How, exactly? And what kind of difficulties? Be specific, dear heart.”
“Well, there was this row about Falstaff.”
“Oh, there was, was there? What was the trouble? Everybody wanted the part?”
“No, that’s just it. Nobody wanted the part. They all saw themselves as Romeo, or Henry V, or something. Nobody wanted to be a fat old knight in a basket of stinking washing. Not that the drama club let it stink, of course.”
“Why on earth did they fix on The Merry Wives, if nobody wanted to play Falstaff?—not that I believe it!”
“It seems there were wheels within wheels.”
“There always are, in these local affairs. Be explicit.”
“But I am, Dog. I’m telling you as fast as I can. It was only at secondhand I got it, of course. It was all signed, sealed and settled by the time I came on the scene, so there was nothing on earth I could do about it. So far as I can make out, Mistress Ford and Mistress Page were the trouble. You see, they knew the parts they wanted, so they were at the back of this Merry Wives business. There doesn’t seem much doubt about that.”
“They were responsible for the choice of play, were they?”
“Well, I imagine so. You see, they were much too old to play Juliet—and that would only be one of them, anyway. And it takes someone like Dame Edith Evans to get away with the part of Juliet’s nurse. So Romeo and Juliet was out of it. As for Henry V, well, there again, you see, things sprang a leak.”
“As how?”
“Well, these two women, as you could see for yourself, are all of forty summers, and, even if they weren’t, only one of them could play Katherine.”
“There’s the Queen of France.”
“If you think one of those two would agree to play the part of the other one’s mother…!”
“What about Mistress Quickly?”
“Really, Dog!”
“Well, she gets a marvellous speech anent the death of Falstaff. Anyway, go on about the casting. Did those two pick the men? You seem to think they did.”
“You’d have to ask them. Their names are Brenda Gough and Dorothy Collis. The husband Gough doesn’t belong to the drama club. The husband Collis had the part of Page.”
“I’d better ring them up. What are the Collis initials?”
“P.E.”
“Right. Thanks. I’ll do both the women before I tackle anything else. I wonder what’s the best excuse for trying to get in touch?”
“Ask about joining the club. After all, you live in Kensington some of the time, and that isn’t such a long way from Brayne. Oh, and you can spread yourself on how much you admired their acting.”
“The recording angel wouldn’t like that very much, and, anyway, I don’t think I’ll suggest that I’d like to join the club. I know these enthusiastic amateurs. Before you know where you are, you find you’ve paid the subscription and signed on the dotted line, and are let in for shifting the scenery. Never mind, I’ll think up some way of obtaining speech with them. Which shall I tackle first?”
“Well, Brenda Gough giggles and Dorothy Collis moans.”
“So you pays your money and you takes your choice. I’ll have a shot at Mrs Collis. You get on to her and introduce me.”
“As what?”
“A serious student of the drama, of course. Ask her when she will be at liberty, and tell her I’ve got a wonderful idea for a five-act tragedy in blank verse.”
“Oh, Dog! You haven’t, have you?”
“No, but I can easily get hold of one, if necessary. Any respectable literary agent must get dozens of the things sent in. Hope springs eternal in a playwright’s breast. In any case, I can think out a basic plot while I’m on my way to see her—that’s if she’ll have me. What does she moan about?”
“You’ll know when you get there, Dog. The difficulty would be to tell you what she doesn’t moan about. Oh, well, if you’re set on it, here goes.”
Laura listened respectfully to Kitty’s professional “telephone voice”, and, having heard it, she was not in the least surprised when Kitty replaced the receiver and announced, with a sunny smile, that Mrs Collis would be delighted to entertain Mrs Gavin and Mrs Trevelyan-Twigg to afternoon tea at four o’clock, if that would be convenient.
It proved that Mrs Collis lived in a pleasant little cul-de-sac not very far from Squire’s Acre. She greeted her visitors with enthusiasm, led them into a well-furnished drawing-room and introduced to them her friend Mrs Gough. Laura was both surprised and delighted. “Two birds with one stone,” she signalled to Kitty, in the (except to initiates) almost indecipherable code of Cartaret Training College for Teachers. Kitty raised iconoclastic eyebrows, but this gesture merely increased Laura’s determination (as she expressed it later) of batting on a far from sticky wicket.
Tea was brought in by an expansive and semi-capable Mrs Mopp, and, over the teacups, buttered scones, thin bread-and-butter, jam, fish paste, layer cake, Dundee cake and chocolate biscuits, conversation flourished. There was no need of Laura’s well-planned schemes for introducing the object of her visit, for Mrs Gough, passing her cup for a second installment of tea, remarked, “Didn’t I see you in front with Mrs Trevelyan-Twigg when we did our scene from Shakespeare?”
“Yes, you did,” Laura replied. “Personally, when I’m on the stage (which isn’t often), I can’t distinguish anybody in the audience at all. How do you manage it?”