Pageant of Murder

“Oh, well, be that as it may,” said young Mr Perse, airily brushing aside criticism, “what about going and having a look at the spot where the body was found? The simplest, quickest and nicest way from here is to walk along the towing-path. It’s only about a mile, and quite easy going at this time of year. I’ll give your man directions where to pick you up, shall I?”

A lane bordered by trees and a hawthorn hedge led by the side of the public park to a river in which children were bathing. The party, led by Perse, walked along its bank until they came to an iron bridge where the river, at a sharp bend, flowed into the canal. The towing-path was broad and the going was firm. On the water’s edge there were meadow-sweet and purple loosestrife, and on the side next to the park were herb robert, common St John’s wort, bush vetch, silverweed and knotgrass. Quite a country scene, as Laura remarked.

A stroll of just over a quarter of a mile brought the party to a very high, stone-built, narrow, iron-railed bridge, where the towing-path came to an end on the north bank and continued on the opposite side of the canal. An overgrown but obvious path continued, however, along the north bank, and a tiny, rather spiritless weir carried some of the water alongside it. Laura stood and gazed. The overgrown lane looked far more attractive, she thought, than the towing-path they were about to follow on the opposite side of the canal.

“That bit of the stream runs past the lower end of Squire’s Acre, the wooded part,” explained Perse, halting by Laura and following her gaze. “Squire’s Arm they call it. It’s got a bend half-way along it, rather the shape of a slightly-bent elbow, if you’re fanciful. It’s no good going that way if you want to get back into Brayne, though. It joins the canal again, further on, it’s true, but there’s no way of getting back to the towing-path because there isn’t another bridge, so you have to retrace your steps.”

“Is that overgrown path on Batty-Faudrey land? Is it private, I mean?”

“If it is, they don’t bother about it any longer. The Batty-Faudrey woods are railed off against kids because some of them play along the path and pick the wild irises and the dog-roses. It’s true that there is an old picture in Brayne library showing a broad ride down through Squire’s Acre woods to a wooden footbridge, and there’s a stretch of open ground on the opposite side of the river with just a few oak trees and an elm or two. This seems to show that the estate was a lot bigger before the canal was cut than it is now.”

“Talking of oaks,” said Laura, as they crossed the towing-path bridge, “why on earth don’t the Council take down that tree which stands bang in the middle of the public park? It must get horribly in the way when you’re fielding at cricket.”

“Take down the Sacred Oak?—or Hangman’s Oak, as some call it? My darling Auntie Laura, it’s more than our lives would be worth. We’d all be slung out, lock, stock and barrel, at the next Council election! The thing’s holy! Besides, I need it for my pageant.”

“I thought your pageant was going to be held in the Town Hall.”

“So it is, some of it, but before that we’re going to do our Hocking and then dance round the oak to the music, played on recorders, of Mage on a Cree.”

“You mean Sellenger’s Round, a dance obviously intended to be offered to a sacred tree,” said Laura.

“Yes, but the other’s a better tune. Anyway, I can think that over later.”

The narrow road-bridge which carried Brayne high street over the canal was reached a short time later. They crossed the high street opposite a small public house called The Faudrey Arms and a walk of five minutes’ duration brought them to the private road they sought. It was bordered on one side by a house with a brick-walled garden and on the other side there was another and a higher brick wall. The road was not gated and was wide enough to take a large car. It was only about sixty yards long and did not lead directly to the ducal mansion, but to a kissing-gate which, in its turn, gave on to a public footpath leading down to the Thames.

“Well, that’s your lot,” said Julian Perse. “It’s no good asking me exactly where the body was found—the spot marked with a cross, I mean—because I don’t know.”

“It is immaterial,” said Dame Beatrice. “One may assume, I think, that the body was brought along the high street and not out from the ducal mansion. It would be helpful to know where the murder took place and where the head is hidden. However, as the police, with all their resources, have so-far failed to discover these things, it is in the highest degree unlikely that we shall succeed. Still, it is a pleasant evening and quite early, and our time is our own. I should wish to continue our walk. Where did you instruct George to meet us?”

A respectful note on a horn saved Mr Perse from answering this pertinent question. George was backing the car towards them along the narrow road. He pulled up alongside and got out.

“Ah, George,” said Dame Beatrice, “we are enjoying our walk and propose to extend it. Mr Perse will tell you where to wait for us.”

“Very good, madam.”

“Turn left at the top of this road, then left again at the traffic lights and keep straight on until you get to the river. Turn right and you’ll see a biggish pub called More Fish in the Sea. We shall call in there for a drink and then you can pick up the ladies and go home. All right?” said Mr Perse.

“Very good, sir.” The stocky, stolid, eminently respectable chauffeur climbed back into the driver’s seat and started up the car. Mr Perse held the kissing-gate open for the ladies and Dame Beatrice and Laura, followed by the young man, threaded their way through it and found themselves on a gravel path fenced on both sides by iron railings. There were trees, and some cows were grazing behind the railings. A little further on there was a large, shallow lake.

“Freezes over very readily in sharp weather,” said Julian. “People come from all over the place to get some free skating. Otherwise, the park, as you see, is kept inviolate. You can, however, on payment of half-a-crown, enter and view the mansion and use the woods behind it for picnics. It’s one of our nicest school outings and well worth while, in other ways, too,—history and so forth, I mean. Henry V founded a convent here and, when it was dissolved, all sorts of important people came along. At different times it housed Catherine Howard as a prisoner before her execution, and also Lady Jane Grey, who was living here at the time when she accepted the crown. Charles I visited his children here, when he was a prisoner at Hampton Court, and Queen Anne made it her home before she came to the throne. The interior is a magnificent job by Adam, and Capability Brown did the landscaping. Then there are fine portraits and period furniture…”

“And once,” said Laura, “the body of Henry VIII. The real one, I mean.”

“These murders are very odd,” said Julian, side-tracked, from his own point of view, but brought back on to the highroad, in Laura’s estimation. “I am very glad you have interested yourself in the matter, Dame Beatrice. I suppose you don’t want a working partner?”