Death of Jezebel

by Christianna Brand

  Chapter V

  THROUGH THE COLD HUSH that followed the thud of Isabel’s fall, the single scream of a woman in the crowd pierced the eardrums like the whistle of an engine. In the interminable moment that Cockrill stood, paralysed with horror and astonishment, the whole scene seemed to dwindle to the dimensions of a toy: a little brightly-lit garish stage with its tinselly castellated wall and its miniature tower, toy soldiers motionless on toy horses, arranged by a child’s hand into their careful pattern—the half-circle round the edge of the stage, the two rampant, one on either side of the tower. Even the white horse, rearing up on its haunches in the centre of the arch seemed caught for a moment into immobility. But the stillness broke: the toys were clockwork toys—the little round, painted heads of the riders turned on their pivots and were fixed again, staring: the white horse reared and bucked but would not step backwards on to the little heap of silver at its hind hooves—and suddenly took the bit between its teeth and bolted through the bead curtain hanging across the archway, and disappeared from view: and the red knight brought his horse’s feet down from their wooden block and jerkily dismounted and jerkily moved forward on his clockwork legs to the body; and jerkily knelt beside it. The long red velvet cloak flowing about him, hid the silver from Inspector Cockrill’s view. He began to force his way through the forward surging crowd, using his elbows, shoving his way desperately along. ‘Let me through! I’m a police officer! Let me through!’ As he heaved himself up through the banked flowers at its base, the Red Knight rose unsteadily to his feet, stood for a moment staring down at the body, and then turned and staggered off abruptly through the arch: Cockrill called out, but he did not seem to hear. His hand in the absurd gloves of knitted silver string was held against the forehead of his helmet, as a man in pain puts the back of his hand to his brow. By the time Cockrill had gained the floor of the stage, he was gone: but Brian Bryan and Miss Betchley came through the arch, Brian still in his armour but with his helmet under his arm. He looked rather dazed, staring about him almost blindly until his eyes lighted on the body lying at the foot of the tower: and he stood suddenly very still. Miss Betchley said: ‘For God’s sake what’s happened?’ And also looked at the body. She whispered: ‘Earl Anderson said she was dead.’

  Brian Two-Times took off his white cloak, slowly: and silently laid it over the dreadful form.

  Cockrill did not know quite what his position might be: but until the London police arrived on the scene, he supposed he had better take over. He went and stood over the covered body. ‘Don’t touch her. Leave her alone.’ But after all, the girl might not be dead. He glanced up at the balcony above him: fifteen feet or so—not very far to fall. He lifted the cloak away from her face. ‘Are you sure she’s dead?’

  ‘Earl Anderson said she iss dead,’ said Brian: the foreign accent came out very strong. He rubbed his palm across his face wearily, from the forehead down. He repeated: ‘Anderson said: “She iss dead”!’

  ‘Dead!’ said Susan Betchley. Her old-young face was haggard and grey beneath its summer tan; but her brown eyes blazed with something that was not entirely grief or horror: her voice was as deep and throaty as a man’s.

  Cockrill pulled back the cloak, leaving the lower half of the body still covered. It lay face-downwards, the legs bent, the arms at ugly, crooked angles. He knelt and gingerly turned it as it lay.

  Isabel was dead all right. Her face was honey-coloured no longer, but a dreadful, dusky purple, her tongue protruded from between blue lips and there was a trickle of saliva still dribbling from a corner of her mouth. He turned his head from the stare of the terrible, half-closed eyes. The crowding knights shuddered and moved back.

  Two policemen in uniform and a plain-clothes man had by this time struggled forward and up to the stage. Cockrill got up and faced them, one hand still holding back the velvet so that they could see the face and neck. The spangled chiffon veil was wound tightly round the plump throat. With his unoccupied hand he fished in his breast pocket for identification papers. ‘My name is Cockrill, Detective Inspector, Kent police. I—just happened to be on the spot.’ His voice trailed off uncertainly. He asked: ‘Whose show is this?’

  The plain clothes man said: ‘I’m Stammers, sir: Inspector, local police. I’m in charge at the Exhibition.’ He looked down at the body. ‘Looks as though she’d strangled herself. Caught her veil in a hook…’

  No. That slow, thrusting, toppling fall had been unimpeded by any veil caught in any hook. He let the velvet fall again, to cover the terrible face, and drew the inspector a little aside. ‘This is all no business of mine: but I think you’ll find the girl’s been murdered. I advise you to ring up your station and get a lot more help. A lot more help!’ He saw the polite incredulity on Stammers’ face, and, slapping his shabby old felt hat on the back of his head, moved abruptly away. What a town!

  ‘Inspector Cockrill!’ said Stammers. ‘Good lord, yes: that business at the hospital down in Kent…’

  ‘That is considered one of my less successful cases,’ said Cockie, coldly. But he felt better, all the same.

  The crowd, stricken immobile by the shock of the fall, was beginning to stir itself into life again. Stammers gave brief orders to his men: like well trained sheep-dogs they moved off in response, shepherding back the crowding knights now beginning to push their way through the bead curtains back into the Assembly room. ‘All remain ’ere, please. All remain on the stage, please…’ Others went off to man the exits to the hall: Stammers sent messages to his superintendent… And suddenly here was Mr. Port among them on the stage, appearing at a trot, panting, through the archway. ‘Isabel! My God!—I saw her fall…’ His feet faltered and were still: the down-drop of the velvet from Cockrill’s hand had not entirely covered the unseeing, up-rolled eyes. ‘Oh, God—this is horrible… Isabel!’

  Cockrill left Stammers to his job and went through the arch and into the Assembly room. An empty square, an unfurnished shell, save for its single suit of armour lolling drunkenly against the wall, its helmet askew on the peg above it. He glanced into the empty tube of the tower: the platform half-way up was flooded with light from the arc-lamps outside. A steep ladder-like flight of steps led to the platform: there was nothing and nobody there. He hurried across the big room and through the doorway opposite the arch. ‘I suggest you let nobody through,’ he said to the constable who arrived there for duty at about the same time. ‘Don’t touch locks and things: the finger-print people may be interested.’ It was none of his business but… He ran on down the straight corridor leading from the door of the Assembly room between the empty dressing rooms, and out to the improvised stables between the rooms and the yard. ‘Anderson! Hey—Anderson! Are you there?’ A little man, bowlegged and horsey-smelling appeared at last. ‘Cor, sir! What ’appened? I was aht front lookin’ on, and I see the young lady fall…’

  ‘Who are you?’ said Cockrill.

  ‘Groom, sir; in charge of the ’orses. I thought I’d better get back, sir, case anything was needed. Clever’s the name, sir: Bill Clever.’

  ‘Have you seen one of the knights? He came this way a couple of minutes ago: well, five minutes, perhaps—directly after the girl fell. Hey—Anderson!’

  But there was nobody there. Earl Anderson’s horse had been left standing uncertainly on the stage when he blundered away, the armour he had worn now lay in its single ridiculous piece with the helmet under the scarlet cloak on the floor of one of the stalls. Cockrill returned to the stage. Inspector Stammers was in a well-controlled flurry of activity and at Cockrill’s suggestion he sent a man out to the nearest official car park, to the nearest constable on point duty. But there was no news of Earl Anderson. Nor was he anywhere to be found in the hall.

  A Detective Inspector Charlesworth was on his way down from Scotland Yard. ‘Never heard of him,’ said Inspector Cockrill, with a gleam of pleasure.

  Meanwhile, loudspeakers blared out instructions to the crowds. The police would be grateful if anyone who c
ould give any information whatsoever which might help in the matter of the—er—accident—would report to the officer at such-and-such a gate… All entrances would be closed for an hour or so but anyone with a good reason to leave might apply at such-and-such a gate… The crowd, which would ordinarily have been content to linger on getting its money’s worth until late in the evening, was naturally much incensed at being asked to stay on for an hour, and besieged the officers on the gates with demands that justice might be done. As to information, several ladies fainted while describing the horrible faces they had seen at the window of the tower immediately before Isabel fell, one old gentleman who lived on grass seemed convinced that if only Isabel had done the same all this might never have happened, a lady had had her handbag stolen and considered Elysian Hall a den of vice, murder, robbery, and with any luck rapine, and seventeen young men had heard shots ring out at varying times before Isabel had fallen… The truth was that skill and care had been directed to attract all attention away from the window so as to prepare for the Queen of Beauty’s dramatic appearance there: the lights had been focused on the lower part of the stage, and nobody had been looking at the window at all, or seen anything whatsoever there. The police finally broadcast a message saying that everyone who cared to might now go home: and the taxpayers demanded indignantly what the Police Force thought they maintained it for if it didn’t know better than to let everyone go when, for all they knew, there might be a murderer walking calmly out of the main entrance at this very minute. For nobody paid the slightest attention to any suggestion but that of deliberate and fearful murder. And rightly so.

  Inspector Stammers meanwhile had been busy directing his reinforced troupe of sheep-dogs: had rounded up all those connected with the pageant—except for the missing Earl Anderson, and had chivvied them into an office set apart for them by the authority of Mr. Port, to await the arrival of Detective Inspector Charlesworth from Scotland Yard. Cockrill looked round upon them: Susan Betchley, grey-faced but smothering some odd inner excitement, Brian Bryan and George Exmouth and the eight other knights, still sweating in their absurd suits of armour with their helmets under their arms, Mr. Port, his chubby face puckered with anxiety… But… Cockrill said suddenly, and his voice was cold with a rising panic: ‘Where’s Perpetua Kirk?’

  Nobody knew.

  Detective Inspector Charlesworth was of the ‘Hendon’ school, a personable young man with a disarming smile and his hair brushed up into rather maddening little ‘moustaches’ over his ears. Stammers made a lightening report and explained Inspector Cockrill. Mr. Charlesworth’s favour in the eyes of the Inspector hung wavering in the balance.

  ‘Cockrill, Cockrill…’ said Charlesworth, thoughtfully biting upon his under lip. ‘Where have I…? Oh, yes! It was you who made such a muck of that hospital case down in Kent!’ Innocent of the slightest intention to wound, he shook the Inspector thoroughly by the hand. ‘Delighted to have you down here. Hang around!’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cockie austerely.

  Inspector Stammers outlined the case for an immediate search for Perpetua. ‘Well, get your chaps to see to it. Get in touch with her home, of course, and all that: in fact,’ said Charlesworth, frowning a little anxiously, ‘I think you’d better take over the search yourself. Inspector Cockrill, I’d like you to stay here, if you will.’ He perched himself on the edge of the black glass and chromium desk thought proper for a pageant master down at Elysian Hall, glanced round the scared rows of faces lining the little, glassed-in office, and said crisply: ‘Now!’

  ‘The girl was murdered,’ said Inspector Cockrill. He waved a packet of cigarette papers in Charlesworth’s direction. ‘Any objection if I smoke?’

  ‘None in the world,’ said Charlesworth. ‘You say you think this girl was murdered?’

  ‘I saw her fall,’ said Cockrill. His fingers fumbled in his pouch for tobacco. ‘She was—pitched over that railing. She didn’t faint, or trip, or lean too far forward and topple over: the rail of the balcony was too high for that. She was, in some way or other heaved up and pushed over.’

  ‘And you were watching her? And you saw nobody?’

  ‘I wasn’t watching her,’ said Cockrill. ‘I was watching the stage—like everybody else. The window was hardly lit up at all yet, and the girl wore a full skirt which would have hidden anybody who, say, lifted her from the knees, and pitched her over, and then dodged back into the darkness of the tower.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ said Charlesworth.

  ‘And she didn’t catch her veil in any nail,’ added Cockrill firmly: no nonsense about that.

  Charlesworth eyed him rather doubtfully. The little man seemed somewhat biased in favour of the sensational. ‘What makes you so frightfully certain that she was murdered?’

  ‘She was told a week before hand that she would be,’ said Cockie impatiently. (And so had Perpetua been told that she would be murdered: and Earl Anderson. And now Isabel was dead, and Anderson had walked off the stage and disappeared into the evening: and Perpetua—where was she? The pit of his stomach felt sick and cold.)

  Charlesworth considered, his behind propped against the black desk, his long legs stretched out, ankles crossed before him. ‘Well, if she was murdered, at least the threats have narrowed the field down very considerably.’

  ‘Amply assisted by the scene,’ said Cockrill.

  ‘The scene?’

  Cockie’s brown fingers played with his cigarette. ‘This is a projection of the “sealed room” mystery. The scene of the murder was bounded on one side by a stage, under the observation of several thousand pairs of eyes; and on the other by a locked door, with somebody sitting on guard on the other side of it. The murderer must have been within these confines. And the place is as bare as a biscuit box, so that there is nowhere where he can possibly have hidden, or remain hidden. With the exception of two people all the people who were on the scene of the murder, are here now. With the exception of those two people everyone who could have sent the threatening notes is here now. Eight of these people—’ he waved his hand towards the attendant knights—‘could not have sent the notes. Therefore the suspects are automatically reduced to the six who could. Miss Kirk and this man Anderson are missing: for the rest we have Miss Betchley, Mr. Port, Mr. Exmouth and Mr. Brian Bryan, coyly referred to by Miss Drew as Brian Twice.’

  ‘Brian Two-Times,’ said Brian, irritably.

  ‘Yes. So really,’ said Charlesworth, getting up and starting towards the door, ‘we may as well let the eight knights go.’

  ‘When we have heard their evidence,’ suggested Cockie, sweetly. Charlesworth returned to his desk, a trifle flushed.

  Susan Betchley looked up from the chair where she sat with her well-turned legs just a little ungracefully crossed. ‘Of course you can say that I didn’t stay on the door.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Cockie.

  ‘In which case, I could be the murderer.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Charlesworth, getting it in first.

  ‘You are either the murderer or you aren’t,’ said Cockrill. ‘If you are—we shall soon find out. If you aren’t—then you are one factor of the “sealed room”.’ It all sounded nice and simple.

  ‘In sealed room mysteries,’ said Charlesworth, interrupting this pleasant interchange with what was intended to be a dash of cold water, ‘the solution is never really anything to do with the room being sealed. The murderer has always gone into the room before it was sealed: and he gets away after it’s unsealed.’

  ‘Miss Betchley will tell us who may have got in and out of the room under those conditions,’ said Cockie. ‘But of course that theory would entirely disregard the clue of the threatening notes.’ He sat back and crossed his bony knees, comfortably: two up to the old man!

  Miss Betchley got down to business. ‘Nobody else ever went into the “sealed room”. At twenty-five to six I went out on to the empty stage. There is no sort or kind of place there where a fly could hide. I went through the arch a
nd stood in the doorway of the tower. I switched on the electric light and looked up towards the platform: there was definitely nothing and nobody in the tower. I came back through the empty assembly room and from then on I never moved away from the big door leading in to it. Nobody went in or out of that door except Mr. Port, Isabel Drew, Miss Kirk and the eleven knights.’

  ‘Somebody might have climbed up on to the stage,’ suggested Mr. Port, diffidently.

  Inspector Cockrill startled Mr. Charlesworth by suddenly asking permission to speak. ‘Of course, of course—go ahead. And say anything you want to, any time, Inspector: don’t mind me.’

  Cockrill tucked away the permission obtained by these shock tactics with a small, grim smile of satisfaction. ‘I was merely going to say that it was impossible for anyone to have got up on to the stage without its being noticed by a hundred people in the crowd. I did it myself later on. The air was thick with running commentary, “He’s climbing up through the ferns…” “He’s nearly on to the stage…” “Now he’s got right up…”’