Lovers, Make Moan (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “Because, of course, it should never have happened,” he said, before the inquest opened. “Some slip-up, some crass carelessness somewhere, you know, and somebody will have to take the rap. I suppose it will rest between Lynn and Yorke. Once the props had been sorted out and apportioned at the dress rehearsal, nobody else handled any of the things except us with our own bits and pieces, but those were laid out on the tables in the wings. Any of us could have had access to them.”

  “Yes,” said his brother, “but you know what people are. They’re as jealous as kids when it comes to keeping an eye on their own property and not giving a damn about anything which belongs to other people. If a dozen substitutions of daggers had been made, I bet nobody would have noticed, not even Bradley and yourself. So long as each of you was satisfied he’d got his own dagger, he wouldn’t have given a thought to the weapon that was in Bourton’s belt.”

  “I know. The tragedy is that if Rinkley had been playing the part on the Saturday instead of making himself ill with all those loathsome, indigestible mussels, he would have known at once that he’d got the wrong dagger.”

  “Funny the right one should have got kicked under the trestle table in that way and got lost in the shadows. I wonder whether that will be mentioned?”

  “The only effective floodlighting from that point of view is the powerful stuff they use on professional soccer pitches or to light an open-air boxing-ring. The lighting we had in Bradley’s garden cast shadows all over the place. It’s difficult to understand, though, how a dangerous weapon got into the only belt from which the dagger was actually going to be used.”

  The conversation had been terminated by the coroner’s opening remarks followed by Barbara Bourton’s identification of the body and the calling of the medical evidence. The first doctor called Jeanne-Marie Delahague. She explained that she had been called backstage towards the end of the play, had been shown the body of Donald Bourton and had had no difficulty in deciding that he was dead.

  “It was the second time that evening that a doctor had been called for,” she said.

  “The second time, Doctor?”

  “Oh, yes. You see, this dead man should not have been playing the part, but this other actor had been taken ill and I took the precaution of ordering him to hospital, so a substitute had to be found and this man who so unfortunately stabbed himself to death was that substitute.”

  She then testified that it was by her orders that neither the body nor anything connected with it was touched until authority took over.

  “You mean you suspected foul play?”

  “Certainly not. I was in the front row of the audience and saw exactly what happened. There was nothing whatever to cause suspicion. The deceased died by his own hand. Nobody was near him. He took the centre of the stage and in the background were eight other people, four seated, the others standing behind them or slightly to the side, but there was a gap of at least three yards between them and Mr. Bourton.”

  “Will you describe exactly what happened, Doctor?”

  Jeanne-Marie gave a bald, unemotional account of what she had seen.

  “What was the dead man wearing?”

  “A simple, white tunic. He had removed the breastplate which had formed part of the costume.”

  “Did you realise that he had actually stabbed himself with a lethal weapon?”

  “No. I saw the dagger sticking up from his body, but I concluded that it had a retractable blade as used in theatricals.”

  “Surely the blood from the wound would have shown up on a white tunic?”

  “No, because he was almost recumbent when he stabbed himself, so there would be an internal haemorrhage. This has been shown to be the case.” As she was speaking, every eye was directed at the exhibits which had been brought into the courtroom.

  “Can you identify the dagger in question?”

  “I can speak only of the appearance of its hilt. When the body was removed to the mortuary the dagger was still in position and I had not touched it.”

  “I see. Now, Doctor, five sheathed daggers will be put before you. I must ask you not to handle them. You will see that they are numbered. Will you please write (on the paper the clerk will give you) the number of the weapon which killed Mr. Bourton?”

  The daggers were placed on the ledge which surrounded the witness-box. Dr. Jeanne-Marie surveyed them, but made no attempt to write anything down. The coroner prompted her, but she said, “It cannot be a joke that we play here?”

  “A joke? Certainly not, Doctor.”

  “You ask me that I shall write down the number which is on the dagger which killed Mr. Bourton?”

  “Yes, if you please.”

  “But I cannot do it. I saw only a hilt, as I am telling you. Also you will realise that I saw it in floodlighting which made many dark shadows. I did not touch the weapon and I do not propose to make any attempt to identify it, as it is similar to another which you show me.”

  The coroner accepted this without comment and called the police surgeon. That official was also consultant to the local hospital and had been present when the dagger had been removed from Bourton’s body. He confirmed that the victim had suffered an immense internal haemorrhage and he made no bones about identifying the lethal dagger. The number he wrote down was handed to the coroner by the clerk. The coroner looked at it and asked sharply:

  “Did you handle the dagger at the hospital, Doctor?”

  “No. I supervised its removal and then examined the deceased.”

  “You at no time handled the dagger?”

  “I believe not. In fact I am sure not.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. It seems that Doctor Delahague’s reluctance to identify the dagger she saw was founded on sound judgment.”

  Dame Beatrice saw the police inspector, who was seated next to Marcus Lynn at the witnesses’ table, suddenly stiffen. Then he wrote something down and beckoned to the coroner’s officer. That official received the slip of paper and passed it to the coroner’s clerk who handed it to the coroner. Dame Beatrice, seated in the public gallery next to Deborah, murmured:

  “The consultant surgeon has identified the wrong dagger.”

  The coroner returned to the witness and asked for a further description of the injury which had resulted in Bourton’s death “with as few technicalities as possible, please.” Keeping this last request in mind, the consultant explained that the wound had been delivered from the front, had slanted backwards and downwards and had made a large slit from which blood had poured internally into the cavity of the chest.

  “Were there no signs of external bleeding?”

  “None.”

  “Did you find that surprising?”

  “No. I was told that the body was in a prone or semi-prone position when the blow was struck. All the bleeding was internal, a really massive haemorrhage in the cavity of the chest. There is a case in Professor Keith Simpson’s autobiography—”

  “Thank you, Doctor. Call Jonathan Bradley.”

  After Jonathan, Tom Woolidge was called. Each was asked to identify the dagger he had worn during the performances. These two daggers were then removed, leaving three which, in their sheaths, looked very much alike. Yorke was called.

  “You produced the play?”

  “And directed it, pretty much.”

  “Where were the theatrical properties kept when they were not in use?”

  “Our performances were held out of doors in a private garden. All the costumes and the bits and pieces were kept up at the house.”

  “So how many people had access to them?”

  “Nobody but our sponsor who, incidentally, had renewed the licence which permitted us to charge for seats at the play.”

  “Very proper, but that is not the concern of this enquiry. What the court would wish to know is how a dangerous weapon was substituted for the theatrical dagger which we assume had been used with perfect safety at the previous performances.”

  “At the dress rehearsal, to
o,” said the witness. “Rinkley tried it out on the table before he trusted it enough to use it on himself and, when he did, he struck himself with it so gingerly that I had to encourage him to make the blow look a bit more like the real thing. The way he used the dagger, it wasn’t even going to stay upright and, although the play was a comedy, I didn’t want laughs in the wrong place.”

  “In the wrong place, Mr. Yorke?”

  “Yes. I didn’t want the audience giggling as the dagger teetered slowly to the floor. For one thing, it would have spoilt Thisbe’s entrance and we should have lost the bit of by-play where she plucks the dagger out of Pyramus and sticks it in her own tummy.”

  “Perhaps we could return to the point at issue. How did the lethal dagger get substituted for it?”

  “That’s just what I myself would like to know. Also, who kicked the theatrical dagger under the table instead of picking it up and putting it back into its belt.”

  “You can offer no explanation?”

  “None at all. I helped Lynn and his son to carry the things down after we had dished out the costumes to the actors, and I helped them carry the oddments back at the end of each performance. I waited with him while the actors returned their costumes and then the room we used as a wardrobe was locked up. The props were locked up in a cupboard in the same room and Lynn held both keys, the ones to the cupboard and the room.”

  “Were there no duplicate keys?”

  “No,” said Jonathan, from his seat. “As the present occupier of the house I can assure you that there were no duplicate keys.”

  “What’s more,” said Marcus Lynn, also from the witnesses’ part of the court, “the two keys mentioned were never out of my possession.”

  The coroner accepted these interjections without comment and then turned to the circumstances which had led to the installation of Bourton as Pyramus.

  “For the benefit of those whose knowledge of the play is not exhaustive,” said the coroner, “I should explain, perhaps, that the character in question takes part in a burlesque version of a tragic story in which the hero is supposed to commit suicide, a theatrical weapon with a retractable blade having been provided for this purpose.”

  “And used harmlessly at the other performances,” Yorke reminded the gathering.

  “Now, there arises a question of the deceased having taken over the part. This must have been at short notice,” the coroner went on.

  “Yes, indeed, at very short notice. It meant he had to change his costume in a great hurry. The actor whose place he took became ill and could not continue in the part.”

  “Is that actor in court?”

  “No, sir, he is still under observation in hospital,” said the inspector of police.

  “I see. Well, it would hardly seem that he could help us. Now, Mr. Yorke, under what circumstances could the daggers have been changed over?”

  “I have no more idea than anybody else.”

  “Let us recapitulate. Will you tell the court how many daggers were used in the play?”

  “There was the theatrical dagger which should have been in Bourton’s sword-belt, but apparently wasn’t, then Bradley and Woolidge each had a real one, as you have heard, and the court page had a dagger, but I believe she took her belt off when she was not on stage, and wore the dagger in only one short scene.”

  “She?”

  “Yolanda, my daughter, a child of nine.”

  “Is she in court?”

  “No.”

  “Could she—playfully, of course—have changed over the daggers?”

  “Certainly not. All the properties were laid out on trestle tables in the wings and were under constant surveillance from members of the cast. All the children were also under constant supervision. There is no way that Yolanda could have substituted one dagger for another and, in any case, she would never dream of doing such a thing.”

  “Then can you not suggest any way in which the weapons could have got changed over?”

  “No, I can’t. It is a mystery to me. The theatrical dagger wasn’t found until all the properties had been returned to the house and the trestle tables taken down to be stored in the summerhouse until the workmen who were to dismantle the floodlights and amplifiers could collect everything on the Monday. The day following the play was a Sunday, of course. The dagger would have been in shadow under the table. That is why neither Bourton nor anybody else spotted it and it was not found until everything was cleared away.”

  “Call Marcus Lynn.”

  Lynn went into the witness box and glanced at the daggers which remained on the ledge. Before the coroner could question him he said, pointing:

  “Hey! One of these is the retractable dagger, and I recognise that one, but the last one I’ve never seen before. It does not come from my collection. What jiggery-pokery is this? If that’s the dagger which killed Bourton, I’ve no knowledge of it whatever.”

  The inspector of police got to his feet.

  “If you’ll refer to the note I sent up, Mr. Coroner,” he said, “the police would like an adjournment at this point.”

  But at this point there was another interruption. “I want to say something else. If the police or anybody thinks there is any chance that my husband knew he had picked up the wrong dagger and deliberately committed suicide with it,” said Barbara Bourton, standing up and taking, as it were, the centre of the stage, “I assure you that nothing could have been further from his mind. He was a happy, lighthearted man in a good financial position, enjoying excellent health and with no worries of any kind. I want that placed on record.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bourton. The inquest is adjourned sine die,” said the coroner, gathering up his papers.

  “Well, that was a turn-up for the book,” said Jonathan, when he had settled his wife and Dame Beatrice in the car. “The coroner hadn’t bargained for an adjournment. Did you tip the police any winks, Aunt Adela?”

  “No. The evidence we heard spoke for itself, I thought.”

  “You mean that cuckoo in the nest, the extra dagger. Of course, Lynn may have been lying when he said it wasn’t one of his. I’ll tell you what, though: that dagger was so much like the theatrical one to look at that I wish I could have picked up the pair of them to compare the respective weights.”

  “It wouldn’t really help,” said Deborah. “Donald would not have known the difference since, until he had to act as Rinkley’s understudy, he had never handled either dagger. He had a sword when he was Oberon. Marcus was most particular that nobody should handle the props except the people who actually used them and, once he had locked them away each time, nobody could fool about with them because he had the only key to the cupboard. The only people who could have got at them by picking the lock were Jon and myself and, of course, we wouldn’t dream of doing anything so frightful.”

  “Even if you had dreamed of doing it, I don’t believe you know how,” said Dame Beatrice. “Do you know how, Jonathan?”

  “Every schoolboy knows how. But another thought has been on my mind. I haven’t mentioned it to you, but, as it happens, I could have been Rinkley’s stand-in instead of poor Bourton. When the question of understudies came up fairly early on in the rehearsal periods, it was suggested that we should leave the final court scene to Yorke, his missus, Tom Woolidge, Emma Lynn, and Barbara Bourton, and that I should double up as Pyramus if necessary, leaving my one or two speeches as Demetrius for Tom to make. I believe we told you about that. My looks were thought unsuitable for farce.”

  “It was so obvious that it would be better to cut the last fairy scene and leave what had to be said to young Peter Woolidge as Puck. Oberon was to take on Pyramus instead of you, leaving you in your original part,” said Deborah.

  “And did the whole cast know that this was the final arrangement?” asked Dame Beatrice.

  “No reason why they shouldn’t have known,” replied Jonathan. “There was no secret about it.”

  “The change was decided upon at our little cocktail par
ty,” said Deborah, “and I don’t think anybody bothered about it, or even remembered it until Rinkley was taken ill on the third night. After all, Rinkley was the last person we expected would give up his part. He was dead keen on it, especially the Pyramus bit. It was very bad luck on him to have to fall by the wayside and miss all the applause.”

  “You interest me,” said Dame Beatrice. “Supposing the producer had kept to the first arrangement, do you think, Jonathan, that, as Pyramus, you would have known you had the wrong dagger?”

  “Can’t be sure. I did handle the retractable one when it was produced for rehearsals, but I expect I would have taken the props for granted, just as poor Bourton seems to have done.”

  “All the same,” said Deborah, “it would be interesting to know whether that dangerous dagger was already in the belt when Donald put it on, or whether he found the pocket was empty, spotted an extra dagger on the table and took it, thinking it was the one with the retractable blade and had got itself disassociated from its belt. I think I agree with the police that there will have to be more enquiries.”

  “Bad luck on us, then. They may be crawling all over the house and grounds for days,” said Jonathan.

  “When do you expect Simon and Penelope back?” asked Dame Beatrice.

  “Oh, in about a fortnight, I suppose.”

  “Well, Laura and I are perfectly willing to keep the children with us. You will be glad to have them out of the way of the police. Perhaps you would prefer my company?”

  Deborah picked up Dame Beatrice’s yellow hand and pressed it gratefully.

  “You’ll be a tower of strength against the police,” she said.

  “We shall have the reporters, too! We’ve had quite a bucketful of those lads already, and now that the inquest has been adjourned, with all the sinister overtones caused by that sensational proceeding, they’ll be round us like flies round a honey-pot,” said Jonathan.

  “Yes, I’m afraid they will,” Dame Beatrice agreed. “It was indeed a sensational ending to what, at first glance, seemed a straightforward case of accidental death.”