“Nothing whatever. It all hangs together most beautifully.”
“Well, then, where’s the snag?”
“Go on with your story, for the death of Mr Luton was only the beginning of the business.”
“Yes, I admit that. Well, Giles thinks that he’s sewn up the parcel very neatly when he’s disposed of Falstaff, and, naturally, he’s horribly alarmed and extremely despondent when he discovers that Spey is wise to the whole business and has to be silenced.”
“Quite so. Well?”
“Perfectly simple. He offers to take Spey’s photograph in the Henry VIII outfit, gets him to Squire’s Acre, clumps him over the head, cuts his head off to disguise the method of murder, sinks the head in the river which runs past the woods at the bottom of Squire’s Acre park, plants the body in the ducal by-road, and once again thinks Bob’s Your Uncle until Gordon pops into the picture. I still can’t see where I stub my toe.”
“Neither can I, in the sense you mean.”
“Of course, we know that Luton was killed at the Town Hall, and we’re pretty certain that Spey was killed at Squire’s Acre. What we don’t know yet is where Gordon was killed. Is that what you mean? Is that the snag?”
“I cannot think so. What kind of man do you take Giles Faudrey to be?”
“Oh, the gay Lothario type, and entirely selfish and irresponsible, I would say.”
“Yes, selfish and irresponsible. And his motive for committing three murders?”
“To save himself from being kicked out of Squire’s Acre for getting girls into trouble.”
“Why should we suppose that he would have been turned out? There is no evidence in support of such a contention.”
“Mrs Batty-Faudrey strikes me as one who wouldn’t exactly view with equanimity a nephew who ran amok among the local girls.”
“Maybe not, but I have little doubt that this was a situation which she and the Colonel had been called upon to face before.”
“I see what you mean, but this Sunday School teacher affair may have been the last straw that broke the camel’s back, you know—or, anyway, Giles Faudrey thought it might be.”
“That is possible, of course. My difficulty is to reconcile Giles’ behaviour in public, with all its reckless disregard of the conventions—you will remember Mrs Trevelyan-Twigg’s description of the bold and insolent way in which he brought that rather indiscreetly-clad young woman to the tea-table at which his aunt and uncle were entertaining the Mayor and Mayoress—with these extremely odd, bizarre, sick-minded, extraordinary murders.”
“Just another way of showing off—the murders were, I mean. Well, of course, the actual murders were straightforward enough—a stabbing, a coshing and a strangling. It’s what was done with the bodies after death that seems so odd.”
“Yes, the compensation-phobia of a warped, distorted, essentially introspective mind. From what we know of Giles Faudrey, would you suppose that that is a reasonably accurate picture of his mentality?”
“You agree he’s irresponsible?”
“And egoistic—I do.”
“Well, he may have thought it was a kind of joke—a nasty kind of joke, I admit—to put Falstaff and basket in the Thames, and cut off Henry VIII’s head, and hang Edward III as Edward had intended to hang the burghers of Calais.”
“Yes, a young man’s idea of what constitutes a joke often leads to a great deal of thoughtlessness and cruelty, I admit, but surely the treatment of these particular bodies after death—or, in the case of Mr Spey, probably just before death—must have been the work of a mind diseased? Telephone Robert and inform him that I am going to Squire’s Acre to make a few enquiries. If he is not there, leave a message.”
“I thought you were going to have a talk with him before you did anything more, and were going to take his advice and rely on his police experience and his bump of caution.”
“They will be of more use to me, I think, when I have had a little chat with Mrs Batty-Faudrey.”
“You’re not going to Squire’s Acre unless Gavin and I go with you. It isn’t safe!”
“In that case—not that I share your fears for my safety—Mrs Trevelyan-Twigg, bless her heart, must give a little hentail party to which she will invite Mrs Batty-Faudrey, the Mayoress, Mrs Gough and Mrs Collis, the mistress of the Brayne ballet company, you and myself.”
“Not the manageress of the Tossington Tots?”
“Not the manageress of the Tossington Tots.”
“Amateurs only—not that the signora is an amateur. According to old Kitty, she gets fat fees from her dancers. She’s a frightful old woman, you know.”
“Nevertheless, I feel she will round off the party very nicely. Now is there anyone else you can think of?”
“Aren’t you having any men at all?”
“I think it is better not.”
“Where is old Kitty to hold this binge? At her flat?”
“No, I think it would be much more convenient if we could hold it somewhere in the immediate neighbourhood of Brayne. Perhaps Mr Julian Perse will know of a suitable hostelry. We must hire an ante-room in which the hentails can be circulated and a larger room where lunch can be served.”
“The Hat With Feather sounds the right sort of job. I’ll ring up old Kitty and put her wise to the scheme, and see whether she’s prepared to muck in.” She went to the telephone and returned with the tidings that Kitty was all agog, The Hat With Feather would be able and pleased to cope, especially as it was only a lunch and so would not clash with the arrangements of the Freemasons, the Rotary Club, the Philanthropic Society, the Mayor’s Banquet or the Stag at Eve Club, all of which would be certain to make their usual dinner bookings to be worked off before Christmas. “But,” concluded Laura, “old Kitty says we won’t get the Mayoress to come unless we bring somebody she knows pretty well to hold her hand. She feels desperately inadequate and shy, and lives in the shadow of the Mayor.”
“Has Mrs Trevelyan-Twigg any suggestions to offer?”
“She says there’s a woman Councillor, Mrs Skifforth.”
“Then all is well. Councillor Skifforth’s invitation can be sent to the Brayne Town Hall, as can that of the Mayoress. Mrs Batty-Faudrey’s address we know and although I do not remember how to reach Mrs Gough and Mrs Collis—nor, indeed, at which one’s house we met the other—they are almost certain to be in the telephone book. Mrs Trevelyan-Twigg must tell us where the mistress of the ballet resides, since, in her case, we are helpless. We do not even know her name.”
“Right,” said Laura. “Important-looking invitation cards ordered in old Kitty’s name, I take it, as soon as we’ve hit on a suitable date for the binge. Hope they’re all able to come!”
A date was decided upon, not too near to Christmas but sufficiently far ahead to keep it clear of immediate engagements, the rooms were booked and the white and gold cards were despatched. To Dame Beatrice’s surprise and Laura’s relief, all the invitations were accepted with most gratifying promptness, and Dame Beatrice and Kitty paid a visit to The Hat With Feather to confirm the arrangements and choose the wines to be offered at lunch.
“I’d just offer sherry beforehand,” suggested Kitty. “Most women like it, and it saves a lot of messing about.”
“Sherry and dry Martinis,” amended Dame Beatrice, “and a Dubonnet, I think.”
“Oh, well, it’s your party, although I’ve to pretend I’m the hostess,” said Kitty. “What, if you don’t mind my asking, do you expect to get from it? Laura went cagey on me when I demanded the whys and wherefores, so I gather it must be a mackerel to catch a sprat, as the saying goes.”