“Did you gather or deduce, from their conversation or demeanour, that either or both of your friends guessed the identity of the murderer of Mr Luton?” asked Dame Beatrice.
“No, ni l’un, ni l’autre,” responded the young man. “I’m certain they hadn’t, either of ’em, an inkling. But I’m equally certain the murderer thought Spey had, and then I believe he had another think, and concluded that Spey might have told Gordon his suspicions.”
“The whole thing, then, as we have assumed from the beginning, hinges upon the death of Mr Luton. From what you have told us this afternoon, it seems to me probable that Mr Luton was responsible for borrowing the sword from Colonel Batty-Faudrey’s armoury. I wonder how much credence we should attach to Mr Giles Faudrey’s asseveration that he did not set eyes upon his visitor that night?”
“Personally, I wouldn’t believe a word the little reptile said, unless I was in a position to prove the truth of it.”
“Whence comes this pronounced dislike of a man with whom you are only superficially acquainted?” asked Dame Beatrice.
Julian laughed. He bowed theatrically.
“The psychiatrists have a word for it,” he said. “He was up at Cambridge whilst I was merely at U.C.L. Moreover, when we were both up, he beat me at chess, and I rather fancied myself at chess. Apart from that, he’s a poisonous little squirt where women are concerned. I know of two local girls he’s got into trouble, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there were others. Oh, and Luton, so I heard, tried to get him to marry one of them.”
“Giles claims droit de seigneur, no doubt,” interposed Laura. “Does it derive from his uncle, do you suppose? The Colonel seems to have a ready and welcoming knee!”
“Goodness knows! But because he lives at Squire’s Acre, and his aunt is as rich as Croesus, nobody except Luton cared to cast down the gauntlet before Giles. The girls in question (and their parents) may even have taken a certain pride in the fact that Giles’ attention has been attracted to them. It’s astonishing the point of view some of these people have. Why, one of the girls in question told our After Care Committee that her baby had blue blood in him! Why are girls such lunatics?”
“The answer is in the sob-stuff pages of the women’s magazines. Their correspondents are always being asked to prove their love,” said Laura. “But we are side-stepping the point. The pricking of my thumbs informs me that Dame B. has another question, or, more probably, other questions, to put to you.”
“To have no alibi,” said Dame Beatrice, “for the day and time of a murder, is almost a proof of innocence. Your suggestion that Mr Luton may have taken upon himself the task of admonishing Mr Faudrey is within the realm of possibility, but would he have been moved to do so in a general way? Is it not more likely that…”
“Gosh, yes! One of his Sunday School teachers!” cried Laura. “Of course! I can see it all!”
“Oh, darling Laura! How naughty of you!” said young Mr Perse, dodging a blow which was aimed at his ear. “Besides, I can see it all, too. There’s this fussation about the missing sword and (if I know them) a few other little matters connected with the drama club, and Hiawatha the Good decides that he can put one thing right, at any rate. As soon as the dress rehearsal is over, he climbs into his minicar and tazzes along to Squire’s Acre. There he borrows the sword (with permission) and then, when Faudrey comes up to the long gallery (which I’m absolutely positive he did), Luton confronts him with the fact that one of the Sunday School teachers has blotted her copybook and is now in the make-me-an-honourable-woman market.”
“It makes sense,” said Laura. “Do as I tell you, and marry the girl (says Luton) or there’ll be a word, this time, in the ear of the Colonel.”
“So much for speculation,” said Dame Beatrice. “Now it seems likely—in fact, it is as certain as anything incapable of proof can be—that Mr Spey was killed on the Friday evening, although his headless body was not found until several days later. Do you remember what you did on that Friday evening?”
“The same as I almost always do on a Friday in term-time. Saw the First Eleven at half-past four for a final checkup and pep-talk against Saturday morning’s match, stayed in the Staff-room until a quarter to six to clear up any arrears of marking—can’t expect the boys to keep up their interest if the previous week’s work isn’t corrected up to date—went with Sims to the local nearest the school and had a pint and a couple of sandwiches, went on to my digs and changed into a dark suit, and so to the Town Hall and the usual Friday-night meeting of the General Purposes Committee. That usually lasts until about ten, which leaves just nice time for a nightcap in the pub on the opposite side of the high street.”
“Was Mr Sims in the Staff-room with you while you were correcting your pupils’ exercises?”
“No. He was in the gym playing badminton with some of his boys. I went along to fish him out when I’d finished my job.”
“So that you would have had plenty of time to knock Mr Spey on the head without anyone being the wiser?”
“Plenty of time, yes, but that’s where it would begin and end, you see.”
“How so?”
“Because, from four-thirty onwards, the whole of our school building is crawling with women cleaners. If one puts her head in at the Staff-room door and says, in very disgruntled tones, “Oh, sorry, sir. Didn’t know as anybody was ’ere. I’ll ’ave to leave it till last, then,” I should think never fewer than four of them do. It’s most distracting. In the end, the first who turned up just simply comes in, tight-lipped, and sweeps and cleans all round you. It’s devastating.”
“But supposing that you had not been in the Staff-room during the time you claim to have been there, could you still produce an alibi?”
“No, of course not. But I was there. Any of the cleaners will tell you so.”
“For a Friday, yes, but do you think they would be prepared to swear to that particular Friday?”
“Oh, I see. Well, no, I wouldn’t think their memories were all that reliable. And, of course, some of them would say anything if you put it into their heads. So you mean I had only to make some verbal arrangement with Spey, when we met for our usual Friday lunchtime drinks and eats, to get him to come up to school somewhere between four-thirty and five-thirty, we’ll say, and there I am, but not (as I claim I was) in the Staff-room. Where do you suggest I was when I did for him?”
“Games shed,” said Laura, in response to a glance from Dame Beatrice. “Cricket bats, you know. All you’d need to do would be to give him something to inspect—preferably at the very back of the shed—come behind him, bash him over the head, leave him there, lock the shed—you seem to have a good deal to do with the games, so, naturally, you would have a key—and there’s the body all nicely stashed away until you can behead it and carry it along to the private road which leads to the ducal park. Any flaws in the reconstruction?”
“It’s beautiful. It might have come out of a book. The only weak point is that Belton, my captain of cricket, always took the key of the games shed from its hook in the secretary’s office as soon as he turned up for the match on a Saturday morning. He got out a couple of balls and the stumps and bails, and a bat or two for the chaps who hadn’t got their own, so I can’t help thinking that he would have noticed the body, you know, even though it was the morning of the Goodman’s School match.”
“Not if you had come back at night on the same Friday and taken the body away in your car. What do you say about that?” demanded Laura.
“The school gates are locked as soon as everybody’s gone home. The schoolkeeper sees to that. I couldn’t possibly have taken my car into the grounds—that, at least, can be proved—and even you, darling Laura, highly though you seem to regard my iron determination and scheming brain, can hardly venture to think that I would carry the body to the school gate and climb over, holding it in my arms. Apart from that, how on earth could I have persuaded Spey to tog up as Henry VIII, if I’d merely invited him to come and have a look at the games shed?”