Off with His Head

by Ngaio Marsh

  When they had rejoined Alleyn, Dr Otterly said: ‘An infallible sign of old age is a growing inability to understand the toughness of the young. I mean toughness in the nicest sense,’ he added, catching sight of Ralph.

  ‘Camilla,’ Ralph said, ‘is quite fantastically sensitive.’

  ‘My dear chap, no doubt. She is a perfectly enchanting girl in every possible respect. What I’m talking about is a purely physiological matter. Her perfectly enchanting little inside mechanisms react youthfully to shock. My old machine is in a different case. That’s all, I assure you.’

  Ralph thought to himself how unamusing old people were when they generalized about youth. ‘Do you still want me, sir?’ he asked Alleyn.

  ‘Please. I want your second-to-second account of the Dance of the Five Sons. Fox will take notes and Dr Otterly will tell us afterwards whether your account tallies with his own impressions.’

  ‘I see,’ Ralph said, and looked sharply at Dr Otterly.

  Alleyn led him along the now familiar train of events and at no point did his account differ from the others. He was able to elaborate a little. When the Guiser ducked down after the mock beheading, Ralph was quite close to him. He saw the old man stoop, squat and then ease himself cautiously down into the depression. ‘There was nothing wrong with him,’ Ralph said. ‘He saw me and made a signal with his hand and I made an answering one, and then went off to take up the collection. He’d planned to lie in the hollow because he thought he would be out of sight there.’

  ‘Was anybody else as close to him as you were?’

  ‘Yes, “Crack”—Begg, you know. He was my opposite number just before the breaking of the knot. And after that he stood behind the dolmen for a bit and—‘ Ralph stopped.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s just that—no, really, it’s nothing.’

  ‘May I butt in?’ Dr Otterly said quickly from the fireside. ‘I think perhaps I know what Ralph is thinking. When we rehearsed, “Crack” and the Betty—Ralph—stood one on each side of the dolmen and then while Ralph took up the collection, “Crack” was meant to cavort round the edge of the crowd, repeating his girl-scaring act. He didn’t do that last night. Did he, Ralph?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Ralph said, and looked very disturbed. ‘I don’t, of course, know which way your mind’s working, but the best thing we can do is to say that, wearing the harness he does, it’d be quite impossible for Begg to do—well, to do what must have been done. Wouldn’t it, Dr Otterly?’

  ‘Impossible. He can’t so much as see his own hands. They’re under the canvas body of the horse. Moreover, I was watching him and he stood quite still.’

  ‘When did he move?’

  ‘When Ralph stole Ernie Andersen’s sword. Begg squeaked like a neighing filly and jogged out by the rear exit.’

  ‘Was it in order for him to go off then?’

  ‘Could be,’ Ralph said. ‘The whole of that part of the show’s an improvisation. Begg probably thought Ernie’s and my bit of fooling would do well enough for him to take time off. That harness is damned uncomfortable. Mine’s bad enough.’

  ‘You, yourself, went out through the back exit a little later, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Ralph agreed very readily. ‘Ernie chased me, you know, and I hid. In full view of the audience. He went charging off by the back exit, hunting me. I thought to myself, Ernie being Ernie, that the joke had probably gone far enough, so I went out, too, to find him.’

  ‘What did you find, out there? Behind the wall?’

  ‘What you’d expect. “Crack” squatting there like a great clucky hen. Ernie looking absolutely furious. I gave him back his sword and he said—’ Ralph scratched his head.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘I think he said something about it being too late to be any use. He was pretty bloody-minded. I suppose it was rather a mistake to bait him but it went down well with the audience.’

  ‘Did Begg say anything?’

  ‘Yes. From inside “Crack”. He said Ernie was a bit rattled and it’d be a good idea if I left him alone. I could see that for myself, so I went off round the outside wall and came through the archway by the house. Dan finished his solo. The Sons began their last dance. Ernie came back with his sword and “Crack” followed him.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Just up at the back somewhere, I fancy. Behind the dancers.’

  ‘And you, yourself? Did you go anywhere near the dolmen on your return?’

  Ralph looked again at Dr Otterly and seemed to be undecided. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘I don’t really remember.’

  ‘Do you remember, Dr Otterly?’

  ‘I think,’ Otterly said quietly, ‘that Ralph did make a round trip during the dance. I suppose that would bring him fairly close to the stone.’

  ‘Behind it?’

  ‘Yes, behind it.’

  Ralph said: ‘I remember now. Damn’ silly of me. Yes, I did a trip round.’

  ‘Did you notice the Guiser lying in the hollow?’

  Ralph lit himself a cigarette and looked at the tip. He said: ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘That’s a pity.’

  ‘Actually, at the time, I was thinking of something quite different.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes. I’d caught sight of Camilla,’ said Ralph simply.

  ‘Where was she?’

  ‘At the side and towards the back. The left side, as you faced the dancing arena. OP, she calls it.’

  ‘By herself?’

  ‘Yes, then.’

  ‘But not earlier? Before she ran away from “Crack”?’

  ‘No.’ Ralph’s face slowly flooded to a deep crimson. ‘At least, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Of course she wasn’t,’ Dr Otterly said in some surprise. ‘She came up with the party from this pub. I remember thinking what a picture the two girls made, standing there together in the torchlight.’

  ‘The two girls?’

  ‘Camilla was there with Trixie and her father.’

  ‘Was she?’ Alleyn asked Ralph.

  ‘I—ah—I—yes, I believe she was.’

  ‘Mr Stayne,’ Alleyn said, ‘you will think my next question impertinent and you may refuse to answer it. Miss Campion has been very frank about your friendship. She has told me that you are fond of each other but that, because of her mother’s marriage and her own background, in its relation to yours, she feels an engagement would be a mistake.’

  ‘Which is most utter and besotted bilge,’ Ralph said hotly. ‘Good God, what age does she think she’s living in! Who the hell cares if her mum was a blacksmith’s daughter?’

  ‘Perhaps she does.’

  ‘I never heard such a farrago of unbridled snobbism.’

  ‘All right. I dare say not. You said, just now, I think, that Miss Campion had refused to see you. Does that mean you haven’t spoken to each other since you’ve been in South Mardian?’

  ‘I really fail to understand—‘

  ‘I’m sure you don’t. See here, now. Here’s an old man with his head off, lying on the ground behind a sacrificial stone. Go back a bit in time. Here are eight men, including the old man, who performed a sort of playdance as old as sin. Eight men,’ Alleyn repeated and vexedly rubbed his nose. ‘Why do I keep wanting to say “nine”. Never mind. On the face of it, the old man never leaves the arena or dance floor or stage or whatever the hell you like to call it. On the face of it, nobody offered him any violence. He dances in full view. He has his head cut off in pantomime and in what for want of a better word, we must call fun. But it isn’t really cut off. You exchanged signals with him after the fun so we know it isn’t. He hides in a low depression. Eight minutes later, when he’s meant to resurrect and doesn’t, he is found to be genuinely decapitated. That’s the story everybody gives us. Now, as a reasonably intelligent chap and a solicitor into the bargain, don’t you think that we want to know every damn’ thing we can find out about these eight men and an
ybody connected with them?’

  ‘You mean—just empirically. Hoping something will emerge?’

  ‘Exactly. You know very well that where nothing apropos does emerge, nothing will be made public.’

  ‘Oh, no, no, no,’ Ralph ejaculated irritably. ‘I suppose I’m being tiresome. What was this blasted question? Have I spoken to Camilla since we both came to South Mardian? All right, I have. After church on Sunday. She’d asked me not to, but I did because the sight of her in church was too much for me.’

  ‘That was your only reason?’

  ‘She was upset. She’d come across Ernie howling over a dead dog in the copse.’

  ‘Bless my soul!’ Alleyn ejaculated. ‘What next in South Mardian? Was the dog called Keeper?’

  Ralph grinned. ‘I suppose it is all a bit Brontë. The Guiser had shot it because he said it wasn’t healthy, which was no more than God’s truth. But Ernie cut up uncommonly rough and it upset Camilla.’

  ‘Where did you meet her?’

  ‘Near the forge. Coming out of the copse.’

  ‘Did you see the Guiser on this occasion?’

  After a very long pause, Ralph said: ‘Yes. He came up.’

  ‘Did he realize that you wanted to marry his granddaughter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what was his reaction?’

  Ralph said: ‘Unfavourable.’

  ‘Did he hold the same views that she does?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘You discussed it there and then?’

  ‘He sent Camilla away first.’

  ‘Will you tell me exactly all that was said?’

  ‘No. It was nothing to do with his death. Our conversation was entirely private.’

  Fox contemplated the point of his pencil and Dr Otterly cleared his throat.

  ‘Tell me,’ Alleyn said abruptly, ‘this thing you wear as the Betty—it’s a kind of stone age crinoline to look at, isn’t it?’

  Ralph said nothing.

  ‘Am I dreaming it, or did someone tell me that it’s sometimes used as a sort of extinguisher? Popped over a girl so that she can be carried off unseen? Origin,’ he suggested facetiously, ‘of the phrase “undercover girl”? Or “undercover man”, of course.’

  Ralph said quickly and easily: ‘They used to get up to some such capers, I believe, but I can’t see how they managed to carry anybody away. My arms are outside the skirt thing, you know.’

  ‘I thought I noticed openings at the sides.’

  ‘Well—yes. But with the struggle that would go on—’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Alleyn said, ‘the victim didn’t struggle.’

  The door opened and Trixie staggered in with two great buckets of coal.

  ‘Axcuse me, sir,’ she said. ‘You-all must be starved with cold. Boy’s never handy when wanted.’

  Ralph had made a movement towards her as if to take her load, but had checked awkwardly.

  Alleyn said: ‘That’s much too heavy for you. Give them to me.’

  ‘Let be, sir,’ she said, ‘no need.’

  She was too quick for him. She set one bucket on the hearth and, with a sturdy economy of movement, shot half the contents of the other on the fire. The knot of reddish hair shone on the nape of her neck. Alleyn was reminded of a Brueghel peasant. She straightened herself easily and turned. Her face, blunt and acquiescent, held, he thought, its own secrets and, in its mode, was attractive.

  She glanced at Ralph and her mouth widened.

  ‘You don’t look too clever yourself, then, Mr Ralph,’ she said. ‘Last night’s ghastly business has overset us all, I reckon.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ Ralph muttered.

  ‘Will there be anything, sir?’ Trixie asked Alleyn pleasantly.

  ‘Nothing at the moment, thank you. Later on in the day some time, when you’re not too busy, I might ask for two words with you.’

  ‘Just ax,’ she said. ‘I’m willing if wanted.’

  She smiled quite broadly at Ralph Stayne. ‘Bean’t I, Mr Ralph?’ she asked placidly and went away, swinging her empty bucket.

  ‘Oh, God!’ Ralph burst out, and, before any of them could speak, he was gone, slamming the door behind him.

  ‘Shall I?’ Fox said and got to his feet.

  ‘Let him be.’

  They heard an outer door slam.

  ‘Well!’ Dr Otterly exclaimed with mild concern, ‘I must say I’d never thought of that!’

  ‘And nor, you may depend upon it,’ Alleyn said, ‘has Camilla.’

  CHAPTER 8

  Question of Fact

  When afternoon closing-time came, Trixie pulled down the bar shutters and locked them. Simon Begg went into the Private. There was a telephone in the passage outside the Private and he had put a call through to his bookmaker. He wanted, if he could, to get the results of the 1.30 at Sandown. Teutonic Dancer was a rank outsider. He’d backed it both ways for a great deal more than he could afford to lose and had already begun to feel that if he did lose, it would be in some vague way Mrs Bünz’s fault. This was both ungracious and illogical.

  For many reasons, Mrs Bünz was the last person he wanted to see and for an equal number of contradictory ones she was the first. And there she was, the picture of uncertainty and alarm, huddled, snuffling, over the parlour fire with her dreadful cold and her eternal notebooks.

  She had bought a car from Simon, she might be his inspiration in a smashing win. One way and another, they had done business together. He produced a wan echo of his usual manner.

  ‘Hallo-’llo! And how’s Mrs B today?’ asked Simon.

  ‘Unwell. I have caught a severe cold in the head. Also, I have received a great shawk. Last night in the pawk was a terrible, terrible shawk.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ he agreed glumly, and applied himself to the Sporting News.

  Suddenly they both said together: ‘As a matter of fact—’ and stopped, astonished and disconcerted.

  ‘Ladies first,’ said Simon.

  ‘Thank you. I was about to say that, as a matter of fact, I would suggest that our little transaction—ach! How shall I say it? Should remain, perhaps—‘

  ‘Confidential?’ he ventured eagerly.

  ‘That is the word for which I sought. Confidential.’

  ‘I’m all for it, Mrs B. I was going to make the same suggestion myself. Suits me.’

  ‘I am immensely relieved. Immensely. I thank you, Wing-Commander. I trust, at the same time—you do not think—it would be so shawkink—if—’

  ‘Eh?’ He looked up from his paper to stare at her. ‘What’s that? No, no, no, Mrs B. Not to worry. Not a chance. The idea’s laughable.’

  ‘To me it is not amusink but I am glad you find it so,’ Mrs Bünz said stuffily. ‘You read something of interest, perhaps, in your newspaper?’

  ‘I’m waiting. Teutonic Dancer. Get me? The 1.30?’

  Mrs Bünz shuddered.

  ‘Oh, well!’ he said. ‘There you are. I follow the form as a general thing. Don’t go much for gimmicks. Still! Talk about a coincidence! You couldn’t go past it really, could you?’ He raised an admonitory finger. The telephone had begun to ring in the passage. ‘My call,’ he said. ‘This is it. Keep your fingers crossed, Mrs B.’

  He darted out of the room.

  Mrs Bünz, left alone, breathed uncomfortably through her mouth, blew her nose and clocked her tongue against her palate. ‘Dar,’ she breathed.

  Fox came down the passage past Simon, who was saying: ‘Hold the line, please, miss, for Pete’s sake. Hold the line,’ and entered the parlour.

  ‘Mrs Burns?’ he asked.

  Mrs Bünz, though she eyed him with evident misgivings, rallied sufficiently to correct him: ‘Eü, eü, eü,’ she demonstrated windingly through her cold. ‘Bünz.’

  ‘Now, that’s very interesting,’ Fox said, beaming at her. ‘That’s a noise, if you will excuse me referring to it as such, that we don’t make use of in English, do we? Would it be the same, now, as
the sound in the French “eu”?’ He arranged his sedate mouth in an agonized pout. ‘Deux diseuses,’ said Mr Fox by way of illustration. ‘Not that I got beyond a very rough approximation, I’m afraid.’

  ‘It is not the same at all. “Bünz.”’

  ‘Bünz,’ mouthed Mr Fox.

  ‘Your accent is not perfect.’

  ‘I know that,’ he agreed heavily. ‘In the meantime, I’m forgetting my job. Mr Alleyn presents his compliments and wonders if you’d be kind enough to give him a few minutes.’

  ‘Ach! I too am forgetting. You are the police.’

  ‘You wouldn’t think so, the way I’m running on, would you?’

  (Alleyn had said: ‘If she was an anti-Nazi refugee, she’ll think we’re ruthless automatons. Jolly her along a bit.’)

  Mrs Bünz gathered herself together and followed Fox. In the passage, Simon Begg was saying: ‘Look, old boy, all I’m asking for is the gen on the 1.30. Look, old boy—’

  Fox opened the door of the sitting-room and announced her.

  ‘Mrs Bünz,’ he said quite successfully.

  As she advanced into the room Alleyn seemed to see, not so much a middle-aged German, as the generalization of a species. Mrs Bünz was the lady who sits near the front of lectures and always asks questions. She has an enthusiasm for obscure musicians, stands nearest to guides, keeps handicraft shops of the better class and reads Rabindranath Tagore. She weaves, forms circles, gives talks, hand-throws pots and designs book-plates. She is sometimes a vegetarian, though not always a crank. Occasionally she is an expert.

  She walked slowly into the room and kept her gaze fixed on Alleyn. ‘She is afraid of me,’ he thought.

  ‘This is Mr Alleyn, Mrs Bünz,’ Dr Otterly said.

  Alleyn shook hands with her. Her own short stubby hand was tremulous and the palm was damp. At his invitation, she perched warily on a chair. Fox sat down behind her and palmed his notebook out of his pocket.

  ‘Mrs Bünz,’ Alleyn said, ‘in a minute or two I’m going to throw myself on your mercy.’

  She blinked at him.

  ‘Zo?’ said Mrs Bünz.

  ‘I understand you’re an expert on folklore and, if ever anybody needed an expert, we do.’