Death of Jezebel

by Christianna Brand

  Charlesworth recited the poem through to himself again. ‘H’m, yes. So it does, doesn’t it?’ He lifted the sheet away from the body and looked down, pitifully, at the dreadful face and the little crook’d, plump hands. ‘She looks like a dead canary, doesn’t she, poor little thing? Lying on the bottom of its cage with its pathetic bent claws…’ In the centre of her breast there gleamed among the silver, her only jewellery, a diamond brooch. ‘We found the paper tucked down the front of her bodice.’

  ‘What there is of it,’ said Cockie severely. He glanced at the cellophane envelope. ‘Is there a—pinhole in the paper?’

  Charlesworth looked at him alertly. ‘Two pinholes. In fact they tore it badly taking it out of her bodice.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Cockie.

  If he found it so interesting, why couldn’t the maddening little man say why? Charlesworth, all unconscious of the slightest antagonism, permitted himself a quizzical lift of the eyebrow. ‘You think it’s important?’

  ‘I think it may be vital,’ said Cockie.

  Charlesworth grinned outright. ‘You think it tells us who the murderer is?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cockie, eyeing him steadily back. ‘I think that, read properly, it could tell us who the murderer is. And how, when he was more than fifteen feet away from her, he could have strangled Isabel Drew with both hands round her throat. It certainly tells us who the murderer isn’t. And I think it might suggest new methods in the search for Earl Anderson.’ He bent down and absently pulled up the sheet again, to cover the dead girl’s face. ‘I don’t say it would necessarily be right,’ he said. ‘There are more ways than one in which this poor girl may have been killed—at random one can think of, let’s see—one, two, three… But the ropes, and the sheet and the brooch, and above all the poem—they do suggest one of them: and especially if there was a pinhole in the paper. So I do think that it’s—well—mildly important.’ He slammed his old felt hat sideways on his magnificent head and marched away. Young jackanapes!

  A constable, galloping down the main corridor, met him half-way to the dressing rooms. ‘We think we’ve found her, sir. Mr. Stammers sent me for you.’ He started to run back down the echoing passages, and thrust open the door of a dark little room…

  Stammers was there with a couple of men, employed in heaving aside the heavy stage scenery stacked against the further wall. ‘Look out… Be careful you don’t drop it back on her… Look out, you fool!’ In the cobwebby angle of the wall lay what looked like a large bundle, covered by a cloak of bottle green velvet.

  The hiding place had been carefully chosen. You might look there a dozen times before you would notice the thin white hand protruding from beneath the dark cloth.

  Chapter VI

  MISS BETCHLEY, MR. PORT and Motherdear sat patiently on the shiny round chairs of Mr. Port’s little office, waiting to be allowed to go home. Brian Two-Times paced up and down like a lion caged. ‘These English police! How true they are vonderful! Two hours now passes and nothing done. Whole thing is idyotic!’ Even Miss Betchley was beginning to feel that if Brian Two-Times said just once more that the whole thing was idyotic she would go mad. ‘Stuck in here, prevented from going out, not knowing what iss going on…’ For the hundredth time he poked his head out of the door and appealed to the constable. The constable replied for the hundredth time that he was Only Obeying Orders.

  Charlesworth arrived carrying Perpetua easily in his strong young arms, with Cockrill rather sourly bringing up the rear (muscle isn’t everything!) ‘Put her down here,’ said Cockie, pulling forward the only armchair. He shoved aside the eager questioners. ‘She’s all right. Only fainted. Muffled up in a damn great cloak and nearly stifled, poor girl.’ He dipped his brown fingers into the water jug and smartly patted her face. ‘Come along, child. Pull yourself together.’ As she rolled her weary head, laying it with a little gesture of exquisite relief and trust against his arm, he put the other arm about her shoulder and gave her a little shake. ‘She’s been locked up in one of the dressing rooms, poked away behind a lot of lumber, poor little devil.’ He added to Brian Two-Times in a conversational tone of voice: ‘She says you put her there.’

  ‘I?’ said Brian staring wildly about him. He looked absurdly handsome, still in his shining tin armour, his helmet, with the white cloak thrown over it, under one arm, the other hand clutching at his own bright hair. ‘What for I should put her there? What for I should lock her up?’

  Perpetua rolled her head against Cockrill’s arm. ‘It was him: it was him! He pushed me in and—and threw the cloth over my head, and tied it round, and then he sort of dragged me over and pushed me down into that awful corner, wherever it was. And he said—he said, “I com back!” He doesn’t say “come back” he says “com”. It was him! He lured me into that horrible place and I’ve been locked up there all this time…’ She shuddered and closed her eyes again: sick and dizzy with the very memory of her terror.

  Brian looked as if he would blow up at any moment. ‘I lure her into som room? I tell her, “I com back!” I have not seen her since—since she was speaking to Isabel Drew in the Assembly room: I was waiting on my horse and I saw her then. I have not been since off my horse till the pageant is over.’

  ‘I went back to the corridor,’ she said, ignoring him. ‘I went along to the various dressing rooms to chivvy up any of the knights that still weren’t ready. His voice called to me from one of the rooms…’ She broke down, gulping wretchedly.

  Charlesworth tenderly passed her a glass of water. Cockie said brusquely: ‘Come along now—pull yourself together.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Well, so his voice called out to me. He called out, “Oh, Perpetua”, or “Miss Kirk”, or whatever it was—“please come and help me with this armour: I’m stuck!” Well, of course I didn’t hesitate for a moment: they were always getting stuck—I thought his visor had probably jammed: his voice did sound rather muffled—and that was the sort of job I was there for. So I just ran down the corridor and into the dressing room… Well, it wasn’t one of the usual dressing rooms, I just had time to take that in—there was a lot of stuff stored there as far as I could see; but there he was, just as I expected to see him, in his armour, with his visor down. So I went up to him, to help him to unstick it, as I thought: and he—he caught me by the arm and threw the dark thing over me…

  ‘Ah!—so you did not then see my face?’ said Brian.

  ‘How could I see your face when you had your visor down? But you said: “I com back”! Do you think I don’t know your voice?’

  He looked at her, dumbfounded. He said at last: ‘My voice I suppose is easy to imitate. I say fonny things. But who then can want to imitate my voice?’

  She ignored him again. There seemed a compulsion upon her to tell everything now, to get it all out of her system, as if she would go mad if she kept one detail of the whole terrifying experience for one moment longer bottled up in her breast. ‘I didn’t hear him move away: I suppose I was so dazed by the whole thing and by being thrown down… And there was the cloth over my head. I tried to wriggle free but I couldn’t. But I could hear one of the knights riding by, and then I think another: I tried to call out to them, but my voice was all muffled by the cloak. And I was afraid he was outside the door: I was afraid he would come back. Then everything was silent, and I could just hear somebody whistling very softly: and then there was a sort of muffled banging and then I—I heard his voice again… I didn’t hear what he was saying, I didn’t hear anything… But it was his voice…’ She shrank back against Cockrill’s shoulder. ‘I was so horrified by the very sound of it that I—I think I must have fainted. I can’t remember anything more at all.’

  Cockrill thought Brian Two-Times would certainly go off his head with the impotence of his rage and bewilderment. ‘Thiss iss idyotic! I—why should I do this to her? I do not want to hurt her!’ He looked like a wounded teddy-bear, desperately hurt and angry. His blue eyes blazed, his hair stood up in crisp c
urls as though electrified by his excitement. ‘Anybody can imitate my voice.’

  ‘And you say yourself that it was rather muffled,’ said Susan Betchley to Perpetua. She could not take her eyes from Brian Two-Times’ anxious face.

  Charlesworth was developing a slightly frantic air. ‘Supposing for the sake of argument that this was someone imitating Mr. Bryan’s voice?’

  ‘Then it could have been any of the knights,’ said Susan Betchley eagerly. ‘Any of them. By that time there would be a hopeless muddle in the Assembly room, Inspector: the place was crammed with knights—after all, eleven men on horses take up quite a bit of room. And the horses were restless, waiting to go on, and moved about and stamped and tossed their heads: most of the riders couldn’t manage them at all—some of them used not to mount till the last moment, but stood at their horses’ heads, holding the reins. The place was just packed tight with men and horses: you couldn’t tell who anybody was.’

  ‘Except by the colour of his cloak?’

  Something pricked at Inspector Cockrill’s subconscious, as though trying to prise out a winkle of relevant memory: something about colour, something about recognizing the knights… But it slithered back into its shell. Miss Betchley was hurrying on.

  ‘Except by the colour of the cloaks, of course. Each rider knew which cloak to follow, and as the leaders went through the arch and made more space, they all sorted out and fell into their places. All the cloaks were different.’

  Charlesworth spun round on Peppi. ‘Did the knight in the dressing room wear a cloak?’

  ‘He had one thrown over his shoulder,’ said Perpetua. She looked at Brian defiantly. ‘It was white, and yours is white.’

  For just one moment it was as though a balloon had been pricked and was slowly collapsing. But the puncture mended itself, the balloon reinflated. ‘Thiss cloak perhaps was folded outside-in. All the linings of all the cloaks are white.’

  Brian Two-Times turned round on Motherdear, who had sat very quiet and miserable all this time, gazing with a sort of stupefied pity at Perpetua. ‘You do not say anything! And yet—there iss only you and me. Earl Anderson has disappeared—but, if we count him in too, then iss you and me and Anderson. Your cloak is blue, his woss red: but all have white linings.’

  ‘And of course the cloak thrown over Miss Kirk was bottle green,’ said Inspector Cockrill thoughtfully. If he added that that was most illuminating, thought Charlesworth, this would be the end!

  Isabel’s body had been removed at last: the fingerprinting and footprinting and photographing and measuring were done. ‘I think I’d like you to all come on to the stage,’ said Charlesworth. ‘I want Miss Betchley to reconstruct for me exactly what happened after Miss Drew fell.’

  Miss Betchley’s little stool still stood outside the big door of the Assembly room. ‘I saw all the knights in: then I bolted the door from my side and sat down to wait. I heard the bugles blow and then the jingling as the knights rode off: I couldn’t hear much after they all got on to the stage. After about—well, actually it was twelve minutes, wasn’t it?—I heard the music change for Miss Drew’s appearance, and then stop and I knew she must be coming out to make her speech. And then suddenly I heard the faint sound of a scream…’

  ‘A woman in the crowd,’ said Cockrill. ‘I remember.’

  ‘And then I heard the sound of a horse’s hooves in the Assembly room, and then a sort of thud. And a bit more moving about. I—I was just going to open the door and find out what was going on, when Mr. Bryan came and opened it from the inside. He had his helmet off and his hand up to his forehead and he looked rather dazed. He said: “Something fell over the balcony. My horse bolted.” He hardly seemed to know what he was talking about…’ Brian made an impatient gesture but Charlesworth waved her on, and she continued rapidly, not looking at either of them. ‘I said, “What fell?” and I think he said could it have been Isabel, or it must have been Isabel or something like that. He seemed quite vague and stupid. I went into the Assembly room and bolted the door behind me on the inside. We crossed the room: and on our way we met Mr. Anderson—the Red Knight. I suppose we said: “What’s happened?” or something like that; he just said, “She’s dead”, and went on past us: he had his hand up to his face. We went on towards the arch. I didn’t quite know whether we should go through or what, so instead I turned aside for a minute, and went into the tower, and looked to see if Miss Drew was there. She wasn’t. I ran half-way up the ladder, so that I could see on to the platform, but there was nobody there. So then I knew that she must have fallen. Mr. Bryan was waiting for me, just leaning sort of helplessly against the side of the tower doorway. He pulled himself together and we went through on to the stage.’ She spoke very quickly but carefully: as though watching her step. She avoided Brian’s eye.

  But Brian Two-Times was not to be silenced any more. His eyes were brilliant, his throat a clear column above the rigid circular shining neck of his armour. He faced Susan Betchley with his alert, challenging, slightly quizzical glance. ‘What is this? Why this fonny talk? “I woss just going to open the door…” “Mr. Bryan com and open the door…”? You know quite well you are banging and rattling at the door, and I com and the inside is bolted and I pull back the bolt and let you in.’ He said to Charlesworth: ‘My horse is jomping with fright on the stage. I was well under the balcony, the body must have fallen right on his tail: he is frightened, he bucks and jomps, he bolts forward. I am used to riding; but I am in this silly armour, I am like a sardine in a tin: I topple as he jomps forward through the arch. I suppose I must have fallen off. When I remember, I am sitting on the floor outside the Assembly room with a big bomp on my head, and the horse is standing quietly, asking: “What are you doing there, you fool?” There iss hammering on the door. I do not exactly know what I am doing, but if there is hammering on a door you go and open. I went to the door. It is bolted from inside. I open, and she comes in saying, “What iss it?”’ He tucked in his chin, looking at her from beneath wrinkled brows. ‘Why does she say now, “I woss just going to open the door”? The door wass bolted. She could not open it.’

  Susan Betchley answered obliquely. ‘Well—who bolted it?’ she said.

  He shrugged his shoulders extravagantly. ‘I did not!’

  ‘But that door never used to be bolted from the inside,’ she said to Charlesworth.

  ‘It seems to have been this time,’ he said. The whole thing was absolutely hay-wire.

  Inspector Cockrill looked thoughtfully at Miss Betchley. ‘You say you bolted the door after you on the inside, when you went into the Assembly room to investigate?’

  ‘I thought it would be safer: something seemed to have happened, and we didn’t want unauthorized people swarming in.’

  Cockie swung round on Mr. Port. ‘Then how did you get in?’

  What little colour there was, drained right away from the flaccid cheeks. ‘I? Well, I was… I was out in the crowd watching, and I saw Isabel fall…’

  ‘I suppose Anderson unbolted the door as he went out,’ said Charlesworth. ‘Mr. Port didn’t come in till after that.’

  Cockrill gave him a glance that would have annihilated a less resilient spirit. ‘Thank you: I had worked that out for myself. I was just wondering if Mr. Port would have the same explanation.’

  Mr. Port rubbed his hands drearily together. He repeated dully: ‘I was out in the crowd, watching the pageant. I saw her fall. I ran round as quickly as I could to the back-stage regions, and along the corridors to the Assembly room. The door wasn’t bolted then. I just pushed it and it opened and I went through and on to the stage.’

  ‘You didn’t meet Anderson on his way out?’

  ‘I didn’t meet anyone,’ said Sugar-Daddy, drearily. ‘I didn’t see anyone.’ And he rubbed his hands together again and said sadly: ‘Poor Isabel!’

  And suddenly Miss Betchley’s calm deserted her. Her brown eyes flashed, her brown hands clenched into tight fists, her brown jaw was aggressively out-thrust
: there was something extraordinarily masculine about the strength of that jaw, the firm line of her handsome mouth, the hard clench of the lean brown hands. She said: ‘Poor Isabel? Poor Jezebel, more like! That’s what Earl Anderson used to call her; and he was right. What good did she ever do, that you should pity her now, when she’s met with her just deserts? What good did she do to you, Mr. Port, a man of your age, fooling around with a woman like her? What good did she do you, George Exmouth, flaunting her vulgar charms before you, and you a young boy with a—a decent heart and a clean mind…? What good did she do to you, Perpetua Kirk, leading you into the ways she did, thrusting you into the arms of that Anderson creature…? What good—what good did she do any of us? What good did she do to Johnny?’ Her voice died away almost into tears: but she raised it again and said, loudly and fiercely, with a harsh and ugly intonation, and yet with something in it of great pain and great dignity: ‘She was rotten: vulgar and greedy, and heartless, and immoral… How can you say, “Poor Isabel”? Jezebel, I say: and good riddance to her, however it was she died.’ She turned and walked apart from them a little: and stood very still with her back to them, her hands up over her face.

  ‘Jezebel!’ said Inspector Cockrill. He raised his head and stared up at the foolish narrow window and the little balcony. ‘And she went up into a high tower,’ he recited. ‘And she painted her face and tired her head, and she looked out of the window…’ He paused, glancing about him brightly.

  Sergeant Bedd’s eyes shone. ‘And they threw her down—three eunuchs it was, sir, threw her down: and her blood was sprinkled upon the wall: and the horses trod on her, and the dogs came and licked her up, every bit: all but her skull and the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet…’

  ‘Such peculiar bits to leave, I’ve always thought,’ said Charlesworth. ‘How does one eat a person up, all but the soles of their feet?’