‘I was the knight on her right,’ protested George, uneasily. ‘The poem said the knight upon the left.’
Inspector Cockrill glanced at Charlesworth with a gleam in his eye. ‘As I said at the time—an “e” or a “y” makes such a difference.’
Mr. Port’s eye shifted to him. He declaimed the last couplet of the poem: ‘“And so the donor of this little gift, Is who?—the Mystery Knight upon the left”.’
Cockie stood facing the tower. ‘The left might mean either side of the archway—according, as I said earlier, to the point of view. ‘Thy left would have meant Isabel’s left; then we should have been certain that the Red Knight was the Mystery Knight and not…’
But Charlesworth was staring at Mr. Port’s little round face. He said: ‘How do you know the words of the poem?’
There was a moment of absolute silence. You could see Mr. Port’s heart go cold within him. He stammered at last: ‘We all knew a poem had been found…’
‘The wording of it has not been made public. Well, never mind,’ said Charlesworth, waving it to one side, ‘carry on with the reconstruction. We’ll come to that later.’
But the reconstruction had fallen flat. ‘I merely suggested that the girl might be already dead,’ said Mr. Port, sullenly. ‘And young Exmouth had the ropes arranged and pulled her down.’
‘Why?’ said Cockrill.
‘To create just the sort of mystery that was created: to prove that Miss Betchley couldn’t have done it, when in fact she could.’
‘Except,’ said Miss Betchley, coldly, ‘that I happened to be on the other side of the door all this time: the door being bolted on the inside.’
It shook Mr. Port for a minute: but he waved a pudgy hand at Brian Bryan. ‘So he says!’
Brian’s eyes shone with the light of battle. ‘Ha! Am I now also having collusions? With Miss Betchley and with—him?’ He looked George over from head to foot, as though Mr. Port had dragged in and laid at his feet a small, furry rabbit, infinitely harmless, really rather sweet. Charlesworth said hurriedly: ‘There is not the slightest suggestion that either Miss Betchley or Mr. Bryan had ever set eyes on Mr. Exmouth before the rehearsals for the pageant started: and moreover, whatever their individual reasons may be for wishing Isabel Drew dead, he and they have absolutely nothing in common. I think we must keep this thing within the bounds of common sense. If Miss Betchley and Mr. Exmouth are in collusion, Mr. Port, then Mr. Bryan’s testimony is reliable. And he says that the door was bolted.’
The rain of the previous evening had been a last effort before the sun took over and a heat wave set in. It was very hot in the hall. All about them, the noise of the exhibition drummed, the chatter of a thousand voices merged into a continuous high-pitched drone, the fatuous sentiment of the songs of the day blared out from loudspeakers in a tinny torrent of treacle. Beneath their feet the stale air beat up from the dirty boards of the stage. Perpetua stood at Brian’s shoulder in her narrow flowered summer frock. Life was very strange. A week ago—three days ago—it had been but a dusty dream: a dream that she had endured because she had not the courage nor the interest left to put an end to it, a dream in which she had lived in the company of Johnny, dead, and Earl Anderson rather earthily alive. But now Earl was gone: and—strange, half-terrible, half-happy realization—Johnny was going too. The memory of Johnny and of the sin against Johnny was fading into a gentle regret: remorse always, regret always—but no longer the death in life that remorse and regret had been. She thought: ‘I am beginning to find peace again.’ Peace. Not happiness—not yet. But in the last terrible days there had been a gleam, through the stark terror of the scene in the dressing room, through the shock of Isabel’s death and the fantastic horror of Earl’s dead face staring up at her from the depths of a cardboard box—through the personal fear that had dogged her ever since the first of the threatening notes had come—still something forced its way which could not be mistaken: the glimmerings of happiness once more. She knew that she was in deadly danger. She knew without telling, that the telegram which Brian had pretended not to accept in her room that morning, had been a new threat to her. But, nevertheless—there it was. Somewhere in the nightmare of mystery and fear was the first faint gleam of the dawn of happiness. She stood at Brian’s side and from him seemed to flow security and strength. She did not love him, she loved nobody, she would never love again… And yet…
Brian Two-Times was unconscious of her presence beside him. He fought Miss Betchley’s battle, blue eyes blazing. ‘Here is nonsense! First, Miss Betchley kills Isabel and afterwards Mr. Exmouth pulls her down: but Isabel died at the time she fell or was thrown—not ten minutes before! No need, therefore, for collusions. Very well, then, Miss Betchley killed her and threw her down. But she could not have got out of the Assembly room, bolting the door behind her. So! Idyotic!’ He stood with the black felt hat pushed on to the back of his head, the inevitable mackintosh hanging loosely about him, his hands thrown out, his shoulders almost up to his ears in a shrug of despair at the folly of Mr. Port. Susan Betchley fixed on him a gaze of passionate gratitude. Inspector Cockrill twiddled his thumbs.
Mr. Port fired his final shot. ‘It all depends upon that door being bolted. Nothing to prevent Miss Betchley and Mr. Bryan from being in collusion.’
Brian took off his black hat with one hand and with the other solemnly tore his bright hair. ‘We keep asking ourselves why the body was thrown down,’ said Mr. Port, disregarding this exhibition, as the idea grew and took fire in his brain. ‘Supposing it was thrown down for this very reason: to give Mr. Bryan the chance to urge his horse through to the Assembly room and to give Miss Betchley an alibi about that bolt.’ The colour had come back into his face, he was alight with excitement and relief at his own escape. And yet… He knew what it was to be terribly near to—discovery… He said, apologetically: ‘I’m sorry, but there it is.’
Brian Two-Times replaced his hat and gave it a sharp slap down upon his head. He said sharply: ‘You do not flatter me, Mr. Port. We plan this murder: and I confine myself to a few raw lies, and allow my partner to do the killing. And that partner—a woman!’ He made Miss Betchley a comic little, foreign little bow.
George Exmouth said thoughtfully, almost to himself: ‘A woman!’
Inspector Charlesworth turned away from them and walked a few steps, deep in thought, and returned. He shook off Brian Bryan’s protestations. ‘No, no, of course I don’t believe such nonsense. I know you wouldn’t let any woman do a job like that. But—you were rather dazed by your fall, Mr. Bryan, weren’t you? Can you be absolutely certain that that door was bolted?’
‘Certainly I can be certain,’ said Brian, immediately.
‘Because if it wasn’t…’ He was suddenly galvanized into action. ‘Let’s try it.’ He ran off through the arch and reappeared at the window in the tower, leaning perilously over the fragile balcony to call down to them. ‘The knights have all ridden through on to the stage. Miss Betchley has waited till the assembly room was empty, and then come through and into the tower. I’ll be Miss Betchley. What I propose to do is to wait till Isabel’s big moment, and then creep up on her from behind, and throttle her—I’ve got rather strong hands. Then I’m going to scoot back to my post outside the door and when the fuss subsides a bit, I shall come out on to the stage and be ever so surprised at what has happened to poor dear Isabel…’
Inspector Cockrill stood with his hat on the back of his head as he stared up at the tower, his hands loosely clasped behind the swinging tails of his shabby old mackintosh. He listened only vaguely to what Charlesworth was saying. For now the first piece of the puzzle had suddenly settled itself into its place on the board. Something that had been said—something that had been said in the past half hour, had placed the piece there: and oddly enough the first piece was the most important piece of all—was a figure in armour—the figure of a murderer! Usually, one filled in the background, settled the other figures into their proper places: came at las
t, by elimination to the final piece. But in this case, the last piece came first: because the clue given could point to only one person. There were a hundred pieces still to be fitted in, and until they all found their places nothing could be done, nothing should be said: the ropes, the bolt, the brooch and the note, the brown eyes of the Red Knight, the head of Earl Anderson wrapped up in a pair of bathroom curtains in a box: the voice that had said to Perpetua, ‘I com back!’, the voice that had promised Earl Anderson a meeting with ‘Micky Balcon’ at the Golden Golliwog… In his mind, Inspector Cockrill picked up a piece of the puzzle, and turned it over in his fingers, and after a little while replaced it where he had taken it from. Mr. Port had brown eyes, and Mr. Port would have had access to the Red Knight’s armour, and Mr. Port might have been closer to Johnny Wise than he now revealed… But at the time that the voice in the telephone box was speaking to Earl Anderson, Mr. Port had been at home in his hotel: for Isabel Drew had put through a call to him there… Perpetua said that Isabel had told her she would ring up Sugar-Daddy and get some comfort from him—and now the hotel confirmed putting through a call…
Charlesworth broke in upon his reflections, gaily declaiming from the balcony above their heads. ‘Now—I’m Miss Betchley. I wait till the lights are concentrated on the knights down below, and then I take two hands to Isabel’s throat. And I pitch her dead body over the balcony, so that the knights will stand frozen with horror and astonishment long enough for me to make my getaway out through the Assembly room…’
Cockie decided it was time to stop all this nonsense. He called up crossly: ‘It couldn’t have been done.’
‘Why not?’ said Charlesworth, slightly taken aback.
‘The knights didn’t stand still frozen with horror and astonishment. The body fell almost on top of the white horse, which reared and bucked and then bolted through into the Assembly room. There wouldn’t have been time for Miss Betchley to have got across and out of the door. The White Knight would have seen her.’
Charlesworth was slightly dashed. He said, hopefully, however: ‘Of course he was rather dazed.’
But Brian Two-Times was not timing his stupors for the benefit of Mr. Charlesworth. ‘He was dazed by the fall from the horse,’ said Cockie firmly. ‘He was well into the Assembly room before he fell—I was watching the whole thing, remember, and he didn’t actually tumble off until he was right through the arch. In that bare room he must have seen anybody trying to make their way across.’
‘Oh,’ said Charlesworth. He stood with one foot on the rail of the balcony, leaning forward to look down at them, his elbow across his knee. They stared back up at him, with craning necks. Now and again Motherdear glanced uneasily at Miss Betchley, and then gazed up at the balcony again. Perpetua stood close to Brian: he seemed to have forgotten her, but there was something about his very presence that gave her comfort; it was like standing in the glow of a fire. The back of Mr. Port’s neck was creased into a little fat roll; he avoided looking at Miss Betchley’s set mouth and resentful eyes. They were all silent.
Charlesworth straightened himself at last. ‘Well—let’s try it anyway. Let’s just prove that it couldn’t have been done. Let’s see, at any rate, how far she could have got… How long would you say, Inspector, was Mr. Bryan’s horse bucking about?’
Cockrill considered. He said, his eyes consulting Brian’s ‘Half a minute?’
‘Half a minute. Right. Well, now, I’m Miss Betchley. Inspector, perhaps you’d be Mr. Bryan, would you? and cut out Mr. Port with a nice equine impersonation, bucking about for half a minute and then galloping through into the Assembly room. O.K.? Good. Right, now—one two, three…’ He disappeared from view.
Inspector Cockrill did no bucking about, but he stood stoutly in the archway for thirty seconds by his watch and then let the rabble through. Charlesworth was legging it halfway across the Assembly room. He threw up the sponge immediately. ‘It’s getting down the ladder that takes the time. I don’t think you were more than half a minute bucking about, Horse, were you?’
‘On the night, you mean?’ said Cockie. ‘No. Half a minute. And even that’s generous.’
Around them the twelve suits of armour grinned down, their visors gaping above the long necks that were not really there. ‘It couldn’t have been done,’ said Cockrill, with an air of finality. ‘She couldn’t have got down those steps and across this room in the time, and closed the door behind her. He would have seen her.’ He put his hands behind his back and stumped off through the archway on to the stage again. Waste of time!
Charlesworth followed him, irresolutely. ‘Let’s just try it once again. It’s so frightfully important. Because if it could have been done…’ He left the air filled with unspoken menace, and went back through the arch. After a little while, his voice called from the window: ‘O.K. Half a minute from now.’ As Cockie stood grumpily counting they heard his feet clattering down the ladder within the tower. Twenty seconds. Twenty-five seconds. Half a minute… They pushed aside the bead curtain and looked through into the Assembly room.
There was nobody there.
Cockrill went to the tower doorway: there was nobody in the tower. George Exmouth said in a half whisper: ‘He’s done it! It could have been done.’ He confronted Susan Betchley, his white young face staring with frightened eyes into hers. ‘He’s proved that it could have been done. You could have killed her and flung her down, and got across the room: and just pretended to rattle at the door so that Mr. Bryan thought that it was bolted…’
George Exmouth with his young, white, peering face: Edgar Port, little and round, dapper hands beaded with nervous sweat: Perpetua, cool and gentle, with anxious grey eyes: Brian—Brian standing beside Perpetua with his hand on her arm, comforting and strong—as if it were she, Perpetua, who needed strength… Susan Betchley closed her aching eyes against the pain and fear and bewilderment of it all. She said: ‘Supposing that I could have done it—for God’s sake why should you think that I would do such a thing. I—I didn’t care two hoots about Isabel Drew. I thought she was bad, I thought she was cruel and selfish and immoral, but all that was nothing whatever to do with me. I hardly knew the woman. I met her because Johnny Wise had written to me about her: when I got here, I found that it was true that she had—well, caused his death. I think she did. And I think she deserved to die for that. But it wasn’t for me to kill her. Johnny was nothing to me: nothing but a nice, good, charming—casual friend. And one doesn’t commit murder for one’s casual friends.’
Mr. Port said: ‘He may have been a greater friend than you say. He may have been your lover, for all we know… He was just your age, after all.’ He repeated it more slowly, staring… ‘He was just—your—age…’
‘And Johnny Wise had a twin,’ said George. His frightened eyes looked into the steady brown eyes, looked at the strong square jaw and strong hands, at the swarthy skin. His voice went high. He said: ‘I knew it! She’s a man!’ And he put out his hand and caught at the fastening of her blouse.
A suit of armour detached itself from the wall against which it dangled; and came forward in two strides and knocked away his hand.
Chapter X
ANOTHER PIECE OF THE puzzle clicked into its place, dovetailing neatly with the figure in armour already in the centre there. Charlesworth through the raised visor cast at Inspector Cockrill one glance of exquisite, unalloyed triumph. He held George Exmouth by the wrist, and after a moment, flung back the hand with a vicious force that almost knocked the owner backwards. He said. ‘These dramatic disguises—they don’t work in real life. A man who has been a normal man for years can’t suddenly look and talk and walk and behave like a woman.’ He put the backs of his knuckles for a moment against Miss Betchley’s brown cheek. ‘This skin has never been shaved.’
Motherdear stood scarlet with mortification. He mumbled wretchedly: ‘I’m sorry.’
Perpetua supposed that it would be ‘womanly’ to go and stand beside Miss Betchley, to rally to her ow
n sex in some way: but it seemed rather dramatic and self-conscious. She looked uncertainly at Brian for guidance. Brian had no inhibitions about drama. He left her side and strode forward and you could see immediately that idyotic was simply not the word for it. ‘So! She is not a man. Everybody can know that—except this foolish boy. And also I may tell you—she iss not a murderer. The door was bolted. Even if she could have got across the room she could not have bolted that door behind her. When I went to the door, I woss not dazed. The door was bolted. So!’ He challenged Charlesworth with his bright blue eyes.
‘She is not a man,’ said Charlesworth. ‘But that doesn’t mean that she is not a murderer.’ He unfastened the latches of his helmet and wriggled his head free; it was made in one piece and hinged down the back, so that, closed, it formed a sort of metal pot. ‘You say that the door was not bolted: but after all, though I don’t believe in your collusion with Miss Betchley, there’s such a thing as accessory after the fact. You’d have protected anyone who killed Isabel Drew by way of revenge for the death of Johnny Wise. Wouldn’t you?’
‘Certainly, I would,’ said Brian coolly. ‘But if this is so—why then the nonsense with the armour? My horse comes bolting through the arch, I see Miss Betchley running across the room, making for the door. I say: “What you are doing here?” She says: “I have just killed this Jessabel who killed poor Johnny.” I say: “You have my help. Go now through the door and I lock it on this side.”’ He smiled at her. ‘I would not give her away.’
Death of Jezebel Page 14
