Pageant of Murder
( Mrs Bradley - 38 )
Gladys Mitchell
PAGEANT OF MURDER
Gladys Mitchell
Dame Beatrice Adela Lestrange Bradley 38
Contents
CHAPTER ONE: The Special Sub-Committee Meets
CHAPTER TWO: So Does an Inner Circle
CHAPTER THREE: Town Hall Rehearsal
CHAPTER FOUR: The Day of the Pageant
CHAPTER FIVE: Doings at Squire’s Acre and the Town Hall
CHAPTER SIX: The Reclamation of Falstaff
CHAPTER SEVEN: Exit a Poor Player
CHAPTER EIGHT: Councillor Perse Takes a Hand
CHAPTER NINE: The Death of Henry VIII
CHAPTER TEN: Mistress Ford and Mistress Page
CHAPTER ELEVEN: The Environs of Brayne
CHAPTER TWELVE: Head Tucked Underneath His Arm
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: The Second Pageant, Part One
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: The Second Pageant, Part Two
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: The Death of Edward III
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Some Questions Answered
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Dame Beatrice Puts In Her Oar
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: The Sunday School Point of View
CHAPTER NINETEEN: Droit de Seigneur
CHAPTER TWENTY: On the Trail of a Youthful Councillor
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: The Batty-Faudrey Angle
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: The Special Sub-Committee Disbands
The dull but important little town of Brayne, situated somewhere between London and Windsor, is celebrating its new status as a borough. Among other festivities, the Council have decided to stage an historical pageant. Along with other celebrities are figured Shakespeare’s Falstaff and two English Kings—Henry VIII and Edward III.
The persons taking these parts are apparently innocent and harmless, and yet, in turn, all three are murdered, not, it seems, so much for their own sins as for the long-ago short-comings of the characters they represent in the pageant.
Dame Beatrice Adela Lestrange Bradley and her secretary, Laura Gavin, succeed in unravelling the mystery, Laura by making a somewhat gruesome discovery in the little river on which Brayne stands, and Dame Beatrice by applying to the case what the immortal Jeeves would call “the psychology of the individual.”
By the same author
Dead Man’s Morris
Come Away Death
St Peter’s Finger
Printer’s Error
Brazen Tongues
Hangman’s Curfew
When Last I Died
Laurels Are Poison
The Worsted Viper
Sunset Over Soho
My Father Sleeps
The Rising of the Moon
Here Comes a Chopper
Death and the Maiden
The Dancing Druids
Tom Brown’s Body
Groaning Spinney
The Devil’s Elbow
The Echoing Strangers
Merlin’s Furlong
Faintly Speaking
Watson’s Choice
Twelve Horses and the Hangman’s Noose
The Twenty-Third Man
Spotted Hemlock
The Man Who Grew Tomatoes
Say it with Flowers
The Nodding Canaries
My Bones Will Keep
Adders on the Heath
Death of a Delft Blue
LONDON HOUSE & MAXWELL
NEW YORK
FIRST PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 1965 BY
LONDON HOUSE & MAXWELL
A DIVISION OF THE BRITISH BOOK CENTRE, INC.
122 EAST 55TH STREET, NEW YORK 22, NEW YORK
Library of Congress Catalog Card No. 65-20725
© 1965 by Gladys Mitchell
Set and printed in Great Britain by Tonbridge Printers Ltd,
Peach Hall Works, Tonbridge, Kent, in Times ten on eleven point, on paper made by Henry Bruce at Currie, Midlothian, and bound by James Burn at Esher, Surrey
To my dear Helen Brace, with love, and with many thanks for giving me the special copy of Fred Turner’s book on Brentford
“Tout passe; l’amitié reste”
Author’s Note
All the quotations which follow the chapter headings in this book are taken from History and Antiquities of Brentford by the late Fred Turner, F.R.Hist.S.
CHAPTER ONE
The Special Sub-Committee Meets
“It may therefore serve a useful purpose, if, at this point, we devote a few moments to the consideration of the subject.”
^ »
It having been signified by the Council,” said Councillor Topson, the chairman, “as how we are going to celebrate being made into a borough, it is our duty, being appointed the special sub-committee for arrangements, to seek ways and means to bring the said borough into public notice. The Chair is open to any suggestions.”
“What about a sports-day for the children?”
“Church parade of the Council, with fully-choral service?”
“Plant a tree in the park?”
“A civic dinner at The Hat With Feather?”
“A tea for the old folks?”
“A competition for the best front garden?”
“Open-air dancing in the park, with flood-lighting and a platform for the band?”
“Historical pageant, indicating the development of the town?”
The last suggestion came from a man named Perse. He was the youngest recruit to the Council, and there were those who wished that he had never been voted in.
“Sports day for the children?” said Councillor Topson. “That will be taken care of, anyway. Nothing takes place in this town—soon to be a borough—without a sports day for the children. Have to see about prizes, that’s all. Church parade? Well, naturally, the Mayor will have to be churched. It’s the understood thing, so both them suggestions are in.”
“What about planting a tree in the park?” persisted the woman Councillor who had suggested this. The chairman beamed at her.
“A ruddy good idea, Councillor Mrs Skifforth,” he said. “We could have a Mayor’s Avenue, as time goes on. I have seen such a memorial before. Very effective and nice, and we’ll certainly propose it. But we need something a little more lively and entertaining as well. Now, Councillor Perse, what was your suggestion?”
“Oh, I withdraw it,” said young Mr Perse airily. “It doesn’t seem necessary, if we are to have all the other things.”
“We are open to all suggestions, Councillor, so, if you would oblige with yours again, I’m sure members of this sub-committee would be honoured to consider of it,” said the chairman, with heavy irony.
“Well, in that case, I thought that, being roughly, so to speak, on the road to Windsor, we might put on an historical pageant, showing the development of the town from a Thames-side village to its new status of borough, if you see what I mean.”
“I like that idea. It’s classy. But wouldn’t it need words and music?”
“We’ve got the town band. As to words, I don’t see those would be necessary. All we’d need would be a printed programme, to be sold beforehand in shops and the market, setting out the order of the pageant and what the various floats were representing.”
“Councillor Band’s brother runs a printing press,” said the member who had proposed the church parade. “He might do the job at reduced rates, if approached official and patriotic-like.”
“And he might not!” said the member who had proposed a tea for the old folks. “If he knows it’s for the Council, it will be the reverse, if I know anything. But I like the idea of a pageant. I vote the chairman puts it to the meeting.”
“If it’s to
be historical, then it’s got to be something people have heard about, or had learned ’em at school,” said the chairman thoughtfully.
“Such as?” asked young Mr Perse, innocently.
“Such as Alfred and the Cakes, and Rawley and the Puddle, and all them sort of things, and they didn’t take place around these parts, I don’t mind betting. So what can we put on to raise the public interest? That’s what this sub-committee wants to know.”
“I take your point,” said young Mr Perse. “Just half a minute.” He picked up the pencil which lay beside his official scribbling pad, frowned thoughtfully and then began to write. The others waited in respectful but slightly hostile silence. Mr Perse was a graduate of London University and it was suspected (with some justification) that he was inclined to look down on those less favoured than himself. “What about this?” he asked, putting down his pencil. “Suppose we kick off with the Ancient Britons? They lived all over the place, so, presumably, some of them lived here.”
“Too cold, these days,” objected the chairman. “You can’t ask people to ride all round the town with nothing on but a bit of fur round their middle.”
“You’ve got it wrong, Mr Chairman. I’m talking about people who lived in the Iron Age and understood all about pottery and commerce and the making and wearing of ornaments and clothes, and even a bit about money. I am not thinking of Palaeolithic or Neolithic Man.”
“Oh? Oh, well, we can discuss the details later,” said the chairman hastily. “Personally, I still think the Ancient Britons should be included out.”
“Very well. Let’s start with the Romans. They’re supposed to have crossed the Thames somewhere around here.”
“Ah, that’s better. Very pictureskew, them Romans. Helmets and shields and all that.”
“Women must be given a fair share of representation, so what about Boadicea?” suggested the woman Councillor.
“Boudicca,” said young Mr Perse, rather insufferably. “I don’t think we should include her. We were all Catuvellauni around here. Boudicca belonged to and led the tribe of the Iceni, of course.”
“I thought the early folks round here were all Saxons. I seem to have read that somewhere,” put in the Councillor who had suggested the civic dinner at The Hat With Feather.
“You forestall me, Councillor,” said young Mr Perse pleasantly. “The Saxons must come into it, of course, and we really ought to follow them with the Normans. Still, as we have no Norman castle or church in or near the borough…” he smirked as he used the new and magic word… “I don’t see why we shouldn’t jump straight to the Crusades. The First Crusade was preached and took place in Norman times and we have no evidence that our own lord of the manor did not take part.”
“Richard the Lion-Heart. Read a story about him once,” said the Councillor who had proposed open-air dancing in the park.
“Yes, yes, the Third Crusade,” said Mr Perse, brushing it aside. “I referred to the first one.”
“What happened to the second one, then?” demanded the protagonist for a competition among the owners of front gardens. Mr Perse declined to accept responsibility for describing what had happened to the abortive and disgraceful Second Crusade.
“Bearing in mind what the chairman has told us,” he said, “I think we could then jump to the reign of Edward III, and have Queen Philippa, on her knees, begging him to spare the lives of the six burghers of Calais. As this event took place in Calais, there may be objections to including it.”
“Ropes round their necks and them in their shirts?” said the Councillor who had been snubbed about the school-children’s sports. “Nearly as draughty as Councillor Topson’s Ancient Britons!” He chuckled hoarsely and broke into a wheezy coughing.
“Everybody knows about ’em, though, and as for feeling chilly, they can wear their long pants—or even their trousers—under their shirts,” said the chairman austerely. “Long as we put plenty of straw on the floor of the lorry, and top up the sides a bit, it’ll never be noticed.”
“They can’t kneel all the time,” said the woman Councillor, “nor can Queen Thingummy. You couldn’t expect it. Kneeling can be terribly tiring, especially for a woman, if the trunk has to be kept upright all the time.”
“They can cut their cloth according to the size of the crowds,” said the chairman, obscurely but comprehensibly. “They only got to use a bit of gump.”
“Then,” said Perse, “we could go on to Henry VIII, I should think. He was buried at Windsor, you know.”
“You got something there,” said the chairman. “Henry VIII and all his six wives, Anne Boleyn with her head tucked underneath her arm—raise a rare laugh, that would!”
Young Mr Perse looked shocked.
“I’d only thought of the funeral cortège, followed by a posse of Gentlemen-at-Arms. Rather more dignified, surely?” he asked coldly.
“No good at all, boy!” said the chairman, blithely. “After all, being made a borough is an occasion of rejoicing, and rejoicing, to my mind, includes a bit of a giggle. Old Harry the Lad, with a couple of cushions shoved up his doublet, and Anne Boleyn like what I said, that’s the stuff to give the troops, you take my word for it.”
“We ought to include Queen Elizabeth I, with a retinue, and then the pony club might like to take part as the Roundheads and Cavaliers,” said the woman Councillor, who wanted the part of the Virgin Queen for herself, and whose daughter was one of the pony club’s leading lights. “And that’s another thing,” she added. “Colonel Batty-Faudrey, up at the Hall, will expect something special for him and his wife and nephew.”
“What about Joan of Arc?” demanded the Councillor who had suggested the church parade.
“Joan of Arc wasn’t English,” objected the Councillor for the Old Folks’ Tea.
“Mrs Batty-Faudrey has the costume, though, and she’s also got her own horse,” said the woman Councillor. “And the Colonel could be Charles II. He was pictured in the local paper as that, the year before last, when they had that show for charity up at the Hall.”
“There’s an idea there, Councillor Mrs Skifforth,” said the chairman, approbation in his voice. “I been wondering, ever since these here festivities were mooted, how we were going to include-in the Colonel, him being, as you might say, our most prominent citizen until we get the Mayor. Handle him right, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t invite the pageant to end up in the grounds of the Hall and provide a bite to eat and some refreshment. So now, all them in favour of the Colonel being invited to take on Charles II and his good lady Joan of Arc, will signify in the usual manner. Thank you! Carried nearly unanimous.” He looked reproachfully at Mr Perse, who had not raised his hand. “Now that’s settled, what about a part for young Mr Faudrey, the Colonel’s nephew?”
“Dick Turpin, I should think,” said Perse viciously. “The man’s a mountebank.”
“We could end up with Queen Victoria and Prince Albert,” said Mrs Skifforth, eagerly. “Everybody will recognise them. I wonder whether we can get the loan of an open carriage?”
“The vicar’s lady could do Queen Victoria. Spit and image,” said the chairman. “And a barouche or a landau, or something of that, shouldn’t be beyond us. I’ll put Councillor Field on to it. He takes a great interest in things of that sort and is sure to be able to wangle something for us. Well, but, if the vicar’s lady can be persuaded, we’ve still got to find somebody for Prince Albert. Anybody any ideas?”
“What have we got a drama club for?” demanded young Mr Perse. “Surely one of their elegant gents can glue on some long hair and a bit of face-fungus?”
The chairman’s face cleared.
“Well, that seems to take care of that,” he observed. “That’s got the important folk settled. Now what about other parts? We ought to go back to the full Council with some concrete ideas, I reckon.”
“We’ve settled the pony club,” the woman Councillor pointed out, “and I’m sure they’ll be more than willing to take part.”
“There’s the races for ’em,” said the chairman, “and I daresay it might run to a presentation mug and some lemonade and a bun.”
“Merrie England,” said the Front-Gardens Councillor. “Stick the little ’uns in the first float, behind the band and that. The teachers ’ull have to see they’re all togged up right, and keep ’em in order, and stop ’em falling off the lorry. Part of their job.”
“Strewth!” muttered Mr Perse, who taught in the local grammar school, and genuinely pitied his colleagues in the primary and County Secondary schools.
“Then,” pursued the Front-Gardens Councillor, “I reckon as how the bigger boys could do the Romans for us. Again, their history master could vet. the dressing-up so we’d know it was all authentic.”
“And the bigger girls, or one of the pop groups who are intelligent enough to have long hair, could represent the Saxons, I suppose?” said Mr Perse, ironically.
“The bigger girls? Why, yes,” said the chairman, to Mr Perse’s astonishment. “That’s a very useful suggestion, Councillor. Save the hire of wigs, and, as to physiquew, well, the girls is as good as the boys these days, I reckon. Well, that takes care of that, then. Now, any other ideas?”
“The Crusaders could be done by Toc H, couldn’t they?” suggested the Councillor who had recommended the civic dinner.
“On that, we might be able to get a military band as well as the town band, provided they was able to play the same toon,” said the Councillor for the Children.
“That’s right. It would add a bit of uplift, and I reckon they wouldn’t hear each other if we put one in the lead of the procession and the other to bring up the rear,” said the Councillor for Open-air Dancing, “especially when you think of the row the spectators are bound to kick up. It would never notice if one was playing Annie Laurie and the other one Two Lovely Black Eyes, so far as I can see.”
Pageant of Murder mb-38 Page 1
