CHAPTER TEN
Mistress Ford and Mistress Page
“The Butts Common was frequently used for sports of this description.”
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So that’s it, Dog, is it?” asked Kitty earnestly. They were just finishing lunch at Kitty’s Knightsbridge flat.
“So that’s it,” Laura agreed. “And now, old school friend and college chum, what about it?”
“What about what?”
“Who did in those two blighters, and why?”
“You shouldn’t call them blighters, Dog.”
“Oh, yes, I should. I’ve just been reading a book* about all this. The victim almost always contributes to his own death. It’s all rot to think that the victim is always innocent. Unless the killer is a madman, the victim is as guilty as the chap who killed him. Look at Neary and Howard.”
*
“How can I, Dog? I didn’t know either of them.”
“Be yourself,” said Laura, sternly. “What was it about this Falstaff and this Henry VIII that should have made some person or persons (unknown) decide to murder them?”
“But, Dog, how on earth should
“Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood. You must have seen something, or heard something…
“Look, Dog, I didn’t see or hear a thing. I grant you there was the usual give and take in that drama club, but there was nothing that could possibly lead to murder. You’ve got a bee in your bonnet, as usual.”
“I never have a bee in my bonnet. I see things steadily and I see them whole.”
“But you don’t, Dog. You’re too imaginative. Now I,” said Kitty smugly, “am a practical working woman.”
“Granted. Now tell me what you suspect. I shan’t do anything about it. I shall simply refer it to Mrs Croc., so be of good cheer, brave heart.”
“That’s all very well, Dog, but you can’t just count on a hunch.”
“Why not? I always do. What hunch did you have?”
“Well, I’m not exaggerating, Dog, when I tell you that I always had a feeling.”
“What sort of feeling?”
“I’ve told you before. I never have liked the idea of this pageant. I don’t really know why I took it on. I was talked into it by Julian. He said it was my bounden duty. Well, you know how it is, Dog. You’re sitting pretty, minding your own business, and raking in a certain amount of well-earned cash, and then comes along some persuasive nephew and tells you there are people worse off than yourself, which of course, you readily agree that there are—most of them their own fault, but some of them not—and he talks you into doing something about it, which you don’t want to do, and can’t do, anyway, not to your own satisfaction, and where does it get you?”
“Into producing a pageant, but where’s this leading us?”
“Into these murders, of course. Where did you think I was leading you?”
“I don’t know. Carry on, then. Let’s have it all.”
“Don’t rush me, Dog. My mills grind slowly…”
“Well, but do they have to grind so exceedingly small?”
“You wouldn’t know it, Dog, but that remark is blasphemous.”
“And this from the woman who thought Saint Lawrence was a former parish priest of Brayne?”
“Well, I still don’t see why he shouldn’t have been,” said Kitty, sturdily. “Anyway, back to what I was saying.”
“And that was?”
“These rows, Dog. Oh, nothing that could possibly lead to murder, as I’ve already said, but, well, there were difficulties.”
“How, exactly? And what kind of difficulties? Be specific, dear heart.”
“Well, there was this row about Falstaff.”
“Oh, there was, was there? What was the trouble? Everybody wanted the part?”
“No, that’s just it. Nobody wanted the part. They all saw themselves as Romeo, or Henry V, or something. Nobody wanted to be a fat old knight in a basket of stinking washing. Not that the drama club let it stink, of course.”
“Why on earth did they fix on
