Pageant of Murder

about hides and carucates and virgates, or how many ploughs make five.”

“And does that end the open-air part of the proceedings?”

“Yes, for the morning. In the afternoon he takes his boys to the Town Hall for the next bit of history. He wanted to use The Hat with Feather, because that’s where the event is supposed to have taken place—in an earlier building, of course, but on the same site—but his headmaster and the hotel manager joined forces in turning the project down. The headmaster refused to allow his boys to enter licensed premises, and the manager thought the said licence might be jeopardised if they did.”

“And this particular act?—a Chapter of the Garter held in 1445 by the sixth Henry, one surmises.”

“Quite correct, and I gather that Julian has very much gone to town on the costumes. Oh, and he had an anonymous letter about the sacred oak. He’s sure it came from some of the boys—Middle School, he thinks.”

“I venture to guess the contents.”

“And I wouldn’t be surprised if you were right. Yes, they said they were sorry the Head Boy had felt obliged to turn down the idea of the dancing because they understood that the tree had also been used as a gallows…”

“And they saw no objection to hanging one of the masters on it, I presume?”

“Yes. Saucy little devils! They did not specify which master, though. Rather restrained of them, I thought. Well, there’s a lot more to take place in the Town Hall, of course, but, in the early evening, directly after tea, comes Julian’s real masterpiece. He’s going to stage an eighteenth-century election in the market square at the canal end of the Butts—hustings, horseplay, torches—everything to be included except the beer.”

“That should take some stage-managing. Are you proposing to go along and take part in the revels?”

“Well, if you could spare me, I’d rather like to go, if only in support of old Kitty, whose family feeling impels her to make one of the party, highly though she disapproves of the whole project. She says it’s asking for a spot of mayhem, and I don’t mind betting she’s right.”

“Go, by all means. I shall await with interest your account of the affair.”

Laura set out for Brayne with mixed feelings. She was interested to see whether young Mr Perse’s pageant was as good as his script, and she wondered whether it would serve to throw any fresh light on the aftermath of Kitty’s own attempts to illuminate the history of Brayne. On the other hand, she had a superstitious dread that tragedy might stalk in the wake of the second pageant as it had done during and after the first.

Kitty, dressed with her usual combination of “good taste slightly emphasised,” (in Laura’s own words), and a particularly noticeable hat and accessories, met her, by arrangement, at Julian’s lodgings. The young man himself opened the door and Kitty’s voice floated towards them from his sitting-room.

“That you, Dog?”

“Here, in all my glory.”

“Come right in. Julian,” explained Kitty, when Laura presented herself, “has to push off in about ten minutes’ time to round up his squad, so we’ll drink his sherry until it’s time to start. He says we’d better walk. Do you mind?”

“If we’re going to drink his sherry, it might be as well if we do walk. How are you feeling, Julian?”

“That death would be preferable to running this pageant.”

Kitty blenched.

“Don’t use that word,” she said.

“Beg pardon. Just an expression. Aunt Kay, dear, why not remove that expensive-looking lid? You don’t need to start for at least three-quarters of an hour. I’ve got to get to school and pile my yobs into motor-coaches and then we’ve got to sort ourselves out at the end of Ferry Lane before we can do our stuff.”

“This hat,” said Kitty, “is on right, and I’m not going to touch it. You ought to wear a hat, Dog. Why don’t you?”

“Wouldn’t be seen dead in one,” said Laura. Kitty recoiled.

“Do you mind?” she asked faintly.

“Eh? Oh—I see. Sorry, and all that. Just slipped out. A manner of speaking, that’s all.”

“Well,” said Julian, “I’m off. See you later, if I survive.”

“Julian and I seem fated to lacerate your feelings,” Laura remarked. “Cheer up, old soul. Nothing else is going to happen.”

“There’s still Edward III at large, Dog. I wish I’d never promised Julian I’d come along today. Oh, well, we may as well drink to his success.”

To reach Ferry Lane they took the road to the Half Acre and then turned left along the high street. They passed the Town Hall and the police station and turned down by the fire station after they had crossed the road.

Ferry Lane was a narrow, cobbled thoroughfare which boasted (“thank goodness,” said Kitty, conscious of high-heeled, expensive, fashionable shoes) a narrow pavement on the left-hand side of the way. Kitty leading, she and Laura walked in single file towards the river, and were approaching the final bend in the lane when a sudden, unexpected sound rent the air and was followed by cheering, whistling and other excited and approving noises.

“Good heavens!” cried Kitty, stopping so dead in her tracks that Laura nearly fell over her. “He’s done it, after all!”

“Good old Aulus Plautius!” said Laura. “I’m all for an elephant or two.”

“But we’ll be trampled to death in this narrow lane! Come on, Dog! I’m going back!”

“They won’t come up here,” said Laura. “Anyway, you go back, if you like, but I’m going to march breastforward. Anyway, you’ve scotched the hoodoo. You’ve used the ghost-word yourself.”