Upon this, he left them, and Kitty led the way through swing doors to a corridor which led to the dressing-rooms and the back of the stage.
“Of course,” she said, “these rooms are used for different purposes at different times. Sometimes they’re used for meetings of sub-committees, because there aren’t always shows on, although the place is pretty well booked up by amateurs for most evenings, so I’m told. Anyway, I can tell you how the rooms were allotted for my evening.” She opened the doors and left Dame Beatrice to look round. “This was the room the men had. The women, there being only two of them, were given this small room next door. And that’s all they actually needed for the play. The Tots had this room, the ballet this one, and the formation team were in here.”
There were three rooms which needed no introduction from Kitty. They were clearly marked, in black paint on a primrose yellow surface, Toilets, Bouquets, Refreshments.
“Bouquets?” commented Laura, amused. Kitty opened the door, disclosing long wooden tables of the old-fashioned, well-scrubbed, kitchen variety, a sink with a water-tap, two nylon overalls on pegs and a collection of enamel jugs of all sizes on the floor.
“Well,” said Kitty, “I suppose it’s a good idea to have a special room fitted up for flowers. If the amateur shows I’ve been to are anything to go by, not only do all the women who actually have a speaking part or sing solos get a floral tribute, but so do most of the chorus. Those who don’t expect to be given one, buy it for themselves, so it’s a jolly good idea to have somewhere to put the stuff until it’s wanted at the end of the show.”
“Was this particular room needed on your night?” Dame Beatrice enquired.
“No, they didn’t use it, so far as I know. It was agreed no flowers, being Shakespeare, you see.”
“I don’t see,” said Laura. “What’s Shakespeare got to do with it?”
“I didn’t think it would be reverent to let them have bouquets, Dog, after they’d had the privilege of speaking his words, so I put an advertisement on all the posters and in the local paper, saying, No floral tributes will be handed on to the stage. I knew that would mean there wouldn’t be any.”
“Yes, I see. Floral tributes must not only be given, they must be seen to be given. Quite so. But didn’t your Mrs Page and Mrs Ford kick?”
“Oh, no, far from it. They were afraid their bouquets (if we’d had any) might be different from each other in number, size and price. You’ve no idea, Dog, of what goes on in people’s minds once they set foot on a real stage in front of a real audience.”
“What about the other acts? As I remember it, didn’t you have a ballet and so forth?”
“Oh, but they’re serious people, Dog! They wouldn’t dream of accepting bouquets from their friends. Anyway, their ballet mistress wouldn’t let them. She charges them the earth for their lessons and rules them with a sort of jack-boot fearfulness which is absolutely petrifying. I don’t know how on earth they stick it. My theory, having seen and heard the old dragon in action, is that, having joined, they simply don’t dare to leave.”
“There is that, of course. What happens if she chucks them out?”
“Oh, she never chucks anybody out, Dog. She’s got her living to earn. Just tells them they’re not ready to perform in public. Anyway, as I’ve just pointed out, this is the room the ballet had, and next door we put the Tots.”
“Weren’t they too noisy to be put next-door to anything cultural?”
“Oh, well, the signora screeches at her company all the time, without ever letting up, so I didn’t think an extra bit of yelling would matter. This, again as I said, and sorry to repeat myself but I do want Dame Beatrice to get it clear, is the room we gave the formation team. They came ready dressed, but we had to give them somewhere to hang about until it was their turn to go on, and this room has a little annexe where the girls could restore their make-up, so we didn’t need to separate them from their partners. They spend the whole time practising steps, you know. Formation dancing is…what’s the word I want?”
“Obsessional?”
“Yes, that’s it. It’s a sort of bug.”
“You mean it’s a sort of dedication.”
“Do I? Oh, well, anyway, we didn’t give the school choirs a room because we’d had them in the gallery until the interval, so we just showed them the toilets and lined them up in the corridor where they got biscuits and soft drinks to keep them happy until we wanted them.”
“Yes, I see,” said Dame Beatrice. “And now may we go on to the stage?”
“One thing,” said Laura, as Kitty showed the way to the stairs which led up to the wings on the O.P. side. “What about your two comedians? Didn’t they need a dressing-room?”
“Not one of their own. We pushed them in with the drama club. There was plenty of space, and theirs was the second act, so they left the building as soon as they had finished their turn. And was I glad to see the back of them!”
“Are you sure they left the building?” asked Dame Beatrice.
“Oh, yes. They packed their traps and went across the road for beer. I saw them off and warned them about Smith Hill and the river.”
“They could not have come in again by the front entrance?”
“Not without a ticket. Why, you don’t suspect them of killing Falstaff, do you?—although we did wonder, their being tight, you know.”
“No, most emphatically I do not, but it is as well to eliminate as many people as possible as soon as possible.”
The three went on to the stage and Kitty pointed out that there were three entrances—from the Prompt Side, from the O.P. side and, in addition, a cunningly concealed one in the middle of the back-drop.
“Just in case you want to have the Demon King burst in with a clap of thunder, or the ballet suddenly erupt from somewhere unexpected,” she explained.
“And which of the entrances or exits was used for carrying Falstaff off the stage?” Dame Beatrice enquired.
“Oh, they dragged him off on the Prompt Side. It was nearest to the dressing-room, you see. And as the two men-servants had to come on again in Scene Two—not that we had it, of course—they wanted as much time in the pub as they could get, I suppose. Oh, and that’s another thing. I suppose they could swear—and probably did—to the comedians having been in the pub.”
“That can be established, I suppose,” said Laura, “unless the comedians had left the pub by then.”
“Not they,” said Kitty, in a confident tone. “If ever I saw a couple of men who intended to make a night of it, they were the ones. We’ve talked about this already.”
“Yes, we agreed they might have done a pub-crawl. Where now, Mrs Croc., dear?”
“Now for the door which opens on to Smith Hill,” said Dame Beatrice. Smith Hill proved to be a short, steep, cobbled slipway which began at the High Street and ended at the muddy borders of the Thames opposite a small, willow-fringed eyot. There was a street-lamp at the High Street end and a yard or so of green and slippery stones at the edge of the river. The slime showed the high-tide limits.
“I wonder what the state of the tide was that night,” said Laura, studying the uncompromising and unbeautiful little passage.
“I’ve no idea,” said Kitty. “As I said, we warned people leaving by the side door to be sure to walk uphill, that’s all I know.”
“Well, they’d naturally aim for the street-lamp, wouldn’t they?”
“I should have thought so. Anyway, the water affected nobody but poor Falstaff, and he, presumably, didn’t choose the way he went.”
“Did you get anything important from our tour of the Town Hall?” asked Laura, when dinner was over and she and Dame Beatrice were travelling back to Wandles Parva and the Stone House.
“Well, I noted one possibility,” Dame Beatrice admitted. “I can’t, of course, tell who the murderer was, but I have an idea that I know where the deed was done.”
“Yes, something to do with that room labelled Bouquets. That struck me, too
. I deduce three nylon overalls, one of which has either been destroyed by the murderer or impounded by the police. I expect the murderer wiped the sword on it, you know, and then probably washed the blood off the floor with it, too. He’d have access to plenty of water in that particular room.”
“I think you have made a reasonable deduction.”
“Well, there’s no doubt in my own mind that Bouquets is where the deed was done, and, if so, it throws the thing wide open again. You remember old Kitty’s telling us she’d placarded the town? Anybody—but simply anybody—could have known that the room would be empty.”
“There is still the vexed question as to whose hand wielded the sword. It does not seem possible, if the sword was the weapon used, that the killing took place before the interval, because the sword would still have been on the stage, and yet it seems highly unlikely that the killer would have been undetected if the interval itself was the time when the deed was done. It is extremely puzzling.” She looked expectantly at Laura.
“Well,” said Laura, “I can’t get any further. We’re not even officially concerned, and that means we can’t question the Town Hall staff with any hope of getting them to tell us anything they may know. Anyway, I’m sure that, from the very beginning, the police knew it was murder. You could tell they did, from the way the detective questioned old Kitty.”
“That is not proof in itself. The verdict was Death by Misadventure. It seems to me that the police would attempt to find out how that misadventure was caused.”
“Like deaths in motoring accidents, you mean? I suppose there is that, of course.”
“And now for Henry VIII,” said Dame Beatrice. “Here there seems no possible reason for doubt.”
“Murder most foul,” agreed Laura.
“Of course,” said Dame Beatrice, “the sword used to kill Mr Luton was wiped on the linen in the clothes basket. There would be no other reason for putting the basket into the Thames.”
“Oh, in the hope that the blood would be washed away. Yes, I see.”
“The door on to Smith Hill has a Yale lock,” said Dame Beatrice thoughtfully. Laura looked expectantly at her, but Dame Beatrice added nothing to this statement.
CHAPTER NINE
The Death of Henry VIII
“One of the most popular games, however, was what may be called chasing the ox.”
« ^ »
As I see it,” said Laura, “there must be all sorts of permutations and combinations, any one of which could lead to the right answer. Let’s just see what we’ve got, shall we?—beginning with the death of Falstaff, whether murder or not.”
“I am all attention.”
“Wouldn’t you like to speak first?”
“Not at all. I shall be most interested to hear your views. I confess that, so far, I can see only one ray of light, and that, to my mind, is not sufficient to journey by.”
“I wonder whether you’re thinking the same as I am?”
“It is not unlikely. Pray proceed.”
“Would it help us to find out when the other property sword got lost or mislaid?”
“It might. It was not used at the dress rehearsal, you tell me, and that is all we know.”
“Perhaps we could find out at which rehearsal it was used.”
“I don’t suppose it was used at any rehearsal, child. You have some experience of amateur theatricals, and I am not entirely without knowledge of them myself. It is customary for the costumes and properties to be hired only for the week of the performance, I believe. But it is idle for us to speculate. We need precise information. I wonder whether the Brayne company has a wardrobe mistress?”
“Well, they’ve got a stage-manager. I expect he’d know about the props. I’ll get his address and number from old Kitty.”
She did this forthwith and immediately telephoned the stage-manager, mentioning Kitty’s name and requesting the favour of an interview.
“Are you connected with the police?” was the cautious query in a woman’s voice.
“Not directly, no.”
“Are you a reporter, then?”
“Oh, no, certainly not.”
“Do you wish to join the club?”
“No. We wanted to see the Brayne stage-manager about hiring costumes and props.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I can give you the address of the people they hire from. Won’t that do?”
Laura gave in and agreed that that would do. She took down the address as the woman dictated it, thanked her, and rang off.
“The answer’s a lemon,” she informed Dame Beatrice. “It was obvious that his wife, or whoever she is, wasn’t going to extend an invitation to us to visit him.”
“She has my sympathy. I expect they have had a surfeit of visitors since these mysterious deaths were first reported in the newspapers.”
“If we briefed old Kitty, I wonder whether she would muscle in?”
“I daresay she would, but, as I said before, apart from taking a purely academic interest in what has occurred, I do not think we have any right to involve ourselves in the business.”
“But you said you had a ray of light, and it seems pretty certain that the police haven’t even got that. I mean, there can’t be any doubt now, as we’ve agreed, but that Falstaff was murdered. You said yourself that the death of Henry VIII proves that, if any proof was needed. I’ll get on to old Kitty, then, shall I?”
“Go and see the costumiers first. It may strengthen your hand.”
“Are you coming with me?”
“No. You will manage better on your own.”
The costumiers lived in south-east London. The house consisted of two floors and a basement and the place was crammed with theatrical costumes and accessories of all descriptions. The atmosphere was claustrophobic and depressing, but there were several eager customers and the woman who admitted Laura informed her that she would be attended to as soon as possible and invited her, in the meantime, to “have a good look round, dear, and see if there’s anything you fancy.”
After about a quarter of an hour, during which Laura studied a long stand whose coathangers held samples of the costumes of every period from Roman to Early Victorian, a man in a frock coat of 1895 vintage and wearing a luxurious toupee of silver-grey, came up and asked what he could do for her.
“The costume of an Elizabethan gentleman,” said Laura.
“Just the one, madam?”
“No, I shall need two.”
“Just so. I will give you a form to fill in.”
“Oh, yes? What for?”
“Well, madam, we shall need to know chest and leg measurements.”
“Oh, I see. I wonder whether you could show me one or two of the costumes? I should like to have some idea of colour.”
“Certainly, madam, although you’ll appreciate we cannot guarantee that the colour you select will necessarily be the size the gentlemen require in the costumes. Come this way, madam.”
There was a pretty fair selection and the clothes were in good condition.
“I believe you recently fitted out a production of a Shakespeare play,” said Laura, casually.
“We are always fitting out Shakespearian productions, madam. They are extremely popular with amateurs. No royalties to be paid, you see.”
“Oh, yes, I suppose that’s so.” She wondered just how far she should go, and decided to hold back for a bit. She would gain nothing by a direct enquiry if these people had already been visited by the police. She busied herself by closely inspecting the Elizabethan costumes.
“Is your enquiry on behalf of young or rather older gentlemen, madam?” enquired the man, at last.
“As a matter of fact, one of them is for me and the other for my brother.”
“Then, if I might make a suggestion…” he eyed Laura’s generous proportions, “…would you not consider an Elizabethan lady’s costume for yourself? Then you and the gentleman would make a pair, would you not?”
“If it was for a fancy dress ball, ye
s, we would. But it seems impossible to get enough men to fill the parts in an amateur dramatic society, so you see…”
“Oh, perfectly, madam.”
“Well, so far as colour goes, there doesn’t seem anything in it. I’d rather like blue for myself, but it wouldn’t really matter. The costumes would have to be different colours, of course. It wouldn’t do for both to be alike. Oh, I suppose the hire of the costumes includes hats and shoes and swords?” said Laura, as though this was an afterthought.
“Hats are included. Shoes and swords would be extra.”
“I see. I should have thought shoes would be included as an essential part of the costume.”
“We used to include them, madam, but were forced to discontinue the custom, since so many times we got back either no shoes at all, or merely the one. Swords also either did not come back at all, or were bent and damaged.”
“Now that you charge, do you have the same trouble?”
“No, madam. A deposit equal to the value of the shoes and sword is payable upon hire and is returnable, less the charge for hiring.”
“So you never lose anything now?”
“Not since we introduced the new system, madam.”
“Not even a sword?” asked Laura, pressing her point.
“No, we have never lost a sword, madam, but some weeks ago we lost two valuable costumes. A group had ordered them from a place called Brayne. You may have read about the unhappy event there in which a young gentleman lost his life in some rough horseplay during a performance?”
“Oh, I believe I did read something about it,” said Laura carelessly. “Didn’t they do The Merry Wives of Windsor?”
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