“Yes, that’s true,” said Laura. “And, of course, if it
“I wouldn’t have thought so. He had strong religious convictions, but he wasn’t morbid and he wasn’t fanatical.”
“Did you think it odd that the Sunday School secretary-treasurer was playing sunbeams when all the time he knew that Luton was dead?”
“I didn’t think about it in that way, but I suppose it
“He could bear a bit of watching if it
“Well, the world must keep turning,” said Perse.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Exit a Poor Player
“One is compelled to admit that there is some suspicion attaching to Eadmund’s death.”
« ^ »
Laura was to return to her duties on the Wednesday, and did not anticipate further mystery and excitement, but on the Tuesday evening, at just after half-past six, young Mr Perse turned up again at his aunt’s flat.
“Oh,
“If it’s chops or cutlets or anything else that has to be counted, I haven’t come to dinner,” her nephew assured her, “so there’s no need for dismay. I just looked in to bring you a bit more news.”
“They haven’t arrested anybody?”
“Not so far as I know. The police are still busy grilling people.”
“How do you mean? They haven’t been here again, anyhow.”
“Well, of course they haven’t,” put in Laura. “There’s nothing you can tell them that’s of any use, and they know it.”
“They’re still keeping up this fiction of an accident while people were skylarking about with those swords,” went on Perse, “but they’re making honest citizens jump through hoops, all the same.”
“I don’t believe you know anything about it,” said Kitty. “Anyway, as it’s chicken, you can stay to dinner if you like.”
“Coo, ta, dear (as my landlady’s daughter says). I won’t say no. Chicken, eh? Free-ranging and country bred, I trust.”
“Yes, from Froggett’s farm. What’s this news with which you’ve baited your hook?”
“Only that the chap who took the part of Henry VIII in your pageant seems to have disappeared.”
“Disappeared? There’s been nothing about it in the papers.”
“They don’t usually put mere disappearances in the papers, unless it’s a kid or a Ward of Court, or something. I only happen to know about it by what you might call accident.”
“Sit down, and in a minute you can have a drink. I hear your uncle in the hall. When he comes in you can tell us all about it.”
“Well,” said Perse, when the company was settled down, “it may hardly surprise you to be told that the school meals at our place are so lousy that some of us have formed a sandwich and drinks club. We go twice a week to the local. There are six of us altogether—myself, Bob Lyttleton, Corney Thomas, Teddy Granger and a couple of chaps from the local Primary School.”
“I thought Grammar School masters didn’t mingle with the
“That point of view, if it ever existed, is outmoded, Auntie Laura. Anyway, we began by passing the time of day with them in the pub and then we gradually teamed up. It must be rotten for these chaps, the only fellows on an otherwise all-women Staff, and with a woman boss into the bargain. Anyway, we fixed up to meet them on Tuesdays and Fridays, when neither they nor we are on dinner duty, and they’ve proved to be very nice people. Their names are Gordon and Spey. You know them, Aunt Kay, I believe.”
“Gordon and Spey?” said Kitty. “Yes, I do seem to know those names. Oh, yes, I remember. Weren’t they the two menservants in
“They were.”
“But you mentioned Henry VIII.”
“Yes, Spey was that in your pageant. Gordon was Edward III.”
“Oh, I see. I never knew any of the pageantry by name. I suppose those two looked different on the float from what they did in the play. They would have to, of course.”
“Yes. Spey wore a beard, of course, as Henry VIII and I suppose he was clean-shaven on the stage. Gordon had an even bigger beard for Edward III, and I imagine he also was clean-shaven on the stage.”
“Yes, I see. Well, do go on.”
“Right. Well, today being Tuesday, we had our usual get-together at the boozer, but found ourselves one short.
