Julian’s expectations, or the lack of them, proved prophetic. Except for a small collection of children from the local schools (whose half-term break was to come a week later than that of the Grammar School), there was the merest smattering of people, and these, Laura surmised, were mostly the parents of the boys concerned in the production, plus one or two local reporters.
She took a seat at the end of the fifth row and studied the programme which a boy in a Grammar School blazer, and wearing the badge of a prefect, had handed to her at the door. Suddenly it occurred to her that, as she could claim acquaintance with the producer, she was offered now an unique opportunity of going behind the scenes to see what happened when an entertainment was actually in progress.
The number of players (according to the programme) was fairly large. In the scene as envisaged by young Mr Perse, the King and his entourage would be welcomed by the citizens of Brayne, there was to be a loyal address spoken by one Thomas de Maydewell, followed by general acclamation, and then would come the presentation of alms by the saintly (later mentally-afflicted) monarch, to the poor of Saint Lawrence parish. After this—the programme notes were full, informative and the loving product of Mr Perse’s summer holiday leisure—there was to be the solemn ceremony of the royal touch against the King’s Evil.
The second scene purported to take place in the banqueting room of The Hat With Feather. A further note on the programme informed those who took an interest in such matters that, in the time of Henry VI, the inn had been known as The Leopards and Lilies, but that the name had been changed to commemorate a lively little skirmish, on the twelfth of November, 1642, between the Royalist troops and the Parliamentarians.
Laura folded the programme, stuffed it into her coat pocket and looked around her. Among the teachers in charge of the chattering schoolchildren she wondered whether she could identify Mr Gordon. There was only one schoolmaster in the auditorium. He was in charge of a mixed group of younger children whose principal way of passing the time, except for eating sweets and (in the case of the little boys) committing puppy-like assaults upon one another’s persons, appeared to be by taking it in turns to visit the usual offices.
Laura had a retentive memory for faces, and was certain that the schoolmaster was Mr Gordon. This view received confirmation when young Mr Perse came in front to receive the Mayoress who, he informed the sparse and indifferent audience, had kindly consented to be present. A boy then presented the Mayoress with a bouquet of chrysanthemums, there was unenthusiastic applause, and young Mr Perse returned to his place behind the scenes by way of a swing door which led to a passage which, in its turn, led to the dressing-rooms.
To gain this door he had to pass by Laura’s gangway seat. She promptly grabbed his sleeve, hissed, “I’m coming with you,” released him and followed him into the corridor. Here he turned and faced her.
“The curtain’s going up at once, now that the Mayoress is here,” he said. “Sorry I can’t stop. Where’s Aunt Kitty?”
“Never mind Aunt Kitty. You cut along and start the proceedings. I’m on a detective snoop behind the scenes. Is that Gordon with those kids?” He nodded. “Right. See you later, I hope.”
What else she hoped she scarcely knew. She had had some vague but exciting idea that now the scene of Falstaff’s murder was peopled again, some clue to the mystery of his death might manifest itself. The last time she had been backstage she had been in company with Dame Beatrice and Kitty, and, except for their presence, the rooms had been deserted, but now boys were already in the wings waiting to go on. Other boys were flitting hither and thither with no apparent object. Dressing-room doors were being left open by the actors and were being shut with exaggerated care by a couple of prefects in school uniform. A harassed junior master was imploring all and sundry to “get back in there, you clothheads, and don’t make such a row.” There was music from the school orchestra. This had been pressed into blasphemous service and was annoyed at the prospect of losing part of the half-term holiday. There was a temporary silence back-stage, followed by a slight creaking sound, as the stage curtains, operated by a pulley, fell apart to disclose (Laura supposed) a throng of the loyal citizens of Brayne in the year 1445.
Nobody took the slightest notice of her as she passed the dressing-room doors and peered in at the room which was used for refreshments. This time the long deal tables were bare, and nothing but an array of plastic cups and a pile of cardboard picnic plates of various sizes on shelves at the far end gave to the initiated a clue as to the usual function of the room. The only window offered a depressing view of a concreted area furnished with two heaps of coke and a line of dustbins. Laura tested the window-fastenings, but these were pegged so that, except for an opening of two inches or so which had been allowed at the top, the windows let in a certain amount of air and light, but offered no prospect of affording a way in or out of the building.
She passed on into Bouquets. This time there was only one nylon overall hanging from its peg. Apart from this, the room was in exactly the same state as before, except that some water and two or three chrysanthemum leaves, plus some soaking wet paper towels on the side of a bowl, afforded circumstantial evidence that the Mayoress’s bouquet had been in protective custody in the room before the stems of the flowers had been dried prior to presentation.
While Laura was contemplating these unhelpful additions to the terrain, a woman wearing a nylon overall and a workman’s cap came in.
“They’ve already took the bookie,” she said. “The Mayoress, she’s been give it. You’re too late. One of their mistresses, is you?”
“No, I’m the lawful wedded wife,” replied Laura, deliberately misunderstanding the question, “of Detective Chief-Superintendent Gavin of the C.I.D. He can’t be here himself, so I’m having a poke round on his behalf.”
The woman looked at her suspiciously.
“‘Ow did you get in?” she enquired.
“In the usual way, by the front entrance,” said Laura. “Shut the door, please. I have some questions to put to you.”
“Oh, you ’ave, ’ave you? Well, I ain’t a-shuttin’ no doors. ’Ow do I know what you’re up to?”
“If you’re not satisfied, you’d better ask Councillor Perse what I’m up to,” retorted Laura. “I met him a minute or two ago, so I know he must be somewhere about.”
“Oh, if you’re a friend of Councillor Perse’s I suppose it’s all right,” the woman conceded. She went to the door and shut it. “Well, what do you want with me?”
“Some information which you may not possess. You remember the last pageant that was held here?”
“Not likely to forget it. If ever I ’aves to come ’ere of a night I takes care to bring my little girl with me. If I never ’ad nobody with me I might take to seein’ things. This place is ’aunted, I reckon.”
“Haunted? Whatever makes you think that?”
“Deeds what is done in the dark of the moon carries their ghosties about with ’em.”
“Ah, you mean the death of Mr Luton. But that wasn’t a dark deed, you know. There was some stupid fooling about with the swords which were used in the play. Mr Luton got hurt, and nobody liked to own up to doing it.”
“Oh, that’s what they say,” said the woman, “but there’s them of us as knows better.”
“How do you mean? You can’t go against the verdict at the inquest.”
“Ho, can’t I? Then p’raps you’ll tell me just one thing: what ’appened to me keys which turned up missin’ and which ’asn’t been seen from that day to this? If that don’t mean sommat fishy, well, I don’t know what funny going-ons is.”
“First I’ve heard of this,” said Laura, in a studiedly casual tone. “Why didn’t you tell the police?”