Pageant of Murder

“One of the most popular games, however, was what may be called chasing the ox.”

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As I see it,” said Laura, “there must be all sorts of permutations and combinations, any one of which could lead to the right answer. Let’s just see what we’ve got, shall we?—beginning with the death of Falstaff, whether murder or not.”

“I am all attention.”

“Wouldn’t you like to speak first?”

“Not at all. I shall be most interested to hear your views. I confess that, so far, I can see only one ray of light, and that, to my mind, is not sufficient to journey by.”

“I wonder whether you’re thinking the same as I am?”

“It is not unlikely. Pray proceed.”

“Would it help us to find out when the other property sword got lost or mislaid?”

“It might. It was not used at the dress rehearsal, you tell me, and that is all we know.”

“Perhaps we could find out at which rehearsal it was used.”

“I don’t suppose it was used at any rehearsal, child. You have some experience of amateur theatricals, and I am not entirely without knowledge of them myself. It is customary for the costumes and properties to be hired only for the week of the performance, I believe. But it is idle for us to speculate. We need precise information. I wonder whether the Brayne company has a wardrobe mistress?”

“Well, they’ve got a stage-manager. I expect he’d know about the props. I’ll get his address and number from old Kitty.”

She did this forthwith and immediately telephoned the stage-manager, mentioning Kitty’s name and requesting the favour of an interview.

“Are you connected with the police?” was the cautious query in a woman’s voice.

“Not directly, no.”

“Are you a reporter, then?”

“Oh, no, certainly not.”

“Do you wish to join the club?”

“No. We wanted to see the Brayne stage-manager about hiring costumes and props.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I can give you the address of the people they hire from. Won’t that do?”

Laura gave in and agreed that that would do. She took down the address as the woman dictated it, thanked her, and rang off.

“The answer’s a lemon,” she informed Dame Beatrice. “It was obvious that his wife, or whoever she is, wasn’t going to extend an invitation to us to visit him.”

“She has my sympathy. I expect they have had a surfeit of visitors since these mysterious deaths were first reported in the newspapers.”

“If we briefed old Kitty, I wonder whether she would muscle in?”

“I daresay she would, but, as I said before, apart from taking a purely academic interest in what has occurred, I do not think we have any right to involve ourselves in the business.”

“But you said you had a ray of light, and it seems pretty certain that the police haven’t even got that. I mean, there can’t be any doubt now, as we’ve agreed, but that Falstaff was murdered. You said yourself that the death of Henry VIII proves that, if any proof was needed. I’ll get on to old Kitty, then, shall I?”

“Go and see the costumiers first. It may strengthen your hand.”

“Are you coming with me?”

“No. You will manage better on your own.”

The costumiers lived in south-east London. The house consisted of two floors and a basement and the place was crammed with theatrical costumes and accessories of all descriptions. The atmosphere was claustrophobic and depressing, but there were several eager customers and the woman who admitted Laura informed her that she would be attended to as soon as possible and invited her, in the meantime, to “have a good look round, dear, and see if there’s anything you fancy.”

After about a quarter of an hour, during which Laura studied a long stand whose coathangers held samples of the costumes of every period from Roman to Early Victorian, a man in a frock coat of 1895 vintage and wearing a luxurious toupee of silver-grey, came up and asked what he could do for her.

“The costume of an Elizabethan gentleman,” said Laura.

“Just the one, madam?”

“No, I shall need two.”

“Just so. I will give you a form to fill in.”

“Oh, yes? What for?”

“Well, madam, we shall need to know chest and leg measurements.”