Pageant of Murder

“I wonder whether your thought was the same as mine?”

“Well,” said the caretaker slowly, “things being as they was that night—by which I mean no bookays, so no need to use that room at all—why shouldn’t Mr Luton ’ave been done to death in there, and the body locked up in there till the ’All was cleared and everybody gorn ’ome?”

“And then the murderer sneaked back and put the body and the basket in the river?”

“No, I reckon he hid in Bookays with the body. I’ve thought about it and that’s how I size it up, ma’am.”

“But wouldn’t somebody—probably you yourself—have done your last rounds and locked that side door which gives on to Smith Hill—the only door he could have used to get the body out of the Town Hall and down to the Thames?”

“He’d only have to turn the ’andle from inside. It’s a Yale lock, you see. And then, when he’d done the job, all he’d have to do would be to pull the door shut behind him. We don’t never bolt it for the simple reason it don’t have no bolts. It wasn’t never meant as nothing but an emergency door, you see, in case there might be a conflagration backstage like.”

“Which way did the people taking part come in?”

“Oh, by the front door and then down the passage to the dressing-rooms.”

“So this door on to Smith Hill wasn’t opened until the two comedians left the hall, and again when some of the actors went across to the pub, I suppose.”

She joined Kitty at Julian Perse’s rooms, and at a quarter past four Mr Perse came in, ate a great many sandwiches in an incredibly short time, drank a scalding cup of tea and then tore out again to superintend the revels in the Butts.

“I suppose we’ll have to go,” said Kitty, “Look here, Dog, don’t you bother. I’ll see the thing through on my own. You’ve done your whack this afternoon. I’ll give you the keys to my flat, although I think there’ll be somebody in…”

“I’m not going to miss an eighteenth-century election, Kay. I feel that Julian would be wounded were I not among those present.”

“You’ll probably be wounded if you are among those present. The whole thing will be a free-for-all for the local mods and rockers, you see if it isn’t. I still think Julian is absolutely mad! There’s sure to be no end of trouble.”

“It sounds like a melee of a sumptuous kind. Count me in on it. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. How long does he propose to keep it on?”

“I’ve no idea, but I suppose he’ll pack it up before sunset. It’s not the kind of thing you’d want to carry on in the dark.”

They reached the Butts at a quarter to six, Laura having indicated that they ought to give Julian time to “get the thing nicely warmed up” before they arrived on the scene to observe and criticise his efforts.

The Butts presented a very different spectacle from that which Laura and Kitty had seen on the morning of the first pageant. Instead of lorry-loads of milling children, a full turn-out of the pony club, a dozen or so gleaming cars, some self-conscious men and sumptuously-costumed women, the broad Butts this time contained nothing more spectacular than a couple of wooden platforms, one at either end of the street. Each platform supported a table and a backless bench and was flanked by roughly-made wooden steps, one set, as Laura remarked, on the O.P. and the other on the prompt side.

One platform was labelled Mr George Cooke; the other, Mr Fraser Honeywood. An audience mostly composed of schoolchildren filtered irresolutely between the two. The adult population of Brayne was represented by a smattering of bovine-faced women, a couple of policemen on duty, two coalmen, pausing after having delivered the last load of the day, three collarless dogs, a telegraph boy, a girl doing an evening paper round, Mr Giles Faudrey seated in his sports car, and one or two of the Butts residents who had come to their front gates to find out what was going on. Julian Perse was seated at one table, presumably acting as polling clerk for Mr George Cooke, and his headship-hunting friend lolled on the platform dedicated to Mr Fraser Honeywood. A succession of sheepish-looking boys took it in turn to mount each platform, mutter a name to the master in charge and cross over to leave the platform by the opposite flight of steps.

“Poor Julian!” said Kitty. “What a ghastly fiasco! Even some rough stuff from the yobs would be better than this!”

“More in keeping, too,” observed Laura. “If there was one thing more than another which these junketings provided, it was a glorious free-for-all, including the beer. We’d better attract Julian’s attention, so that he knows we’re here to support him. I’ll go up and vote, shall I?”

Kitty held on to her coat-sleeve.

“Don’t be an ass, Dog!” she said. “Look, I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll make sure that he’s seen us, and then we’ll walk about a bit and look interested…”

“How do we do that?”

“And look interested, and then we’ll go to The Hat With Feather. Their saloon lounge is most respectable, and it does quite decent snacks. What do you say?”

They returned from The Hat With Feather to find that, during their absence, the scene at the Butts had changed. The yobs had had their tea and were not yet ready for the coffee-bar, the breaking-up of the Youth Club, the Mods and Rockers brawl on the canal bridge or even a visit to The One-Eyed Pig, their chosen local. To fill in time before tasting these more delectable dishes, they had looked in on the eighteenth-century election in the Butts. The melee, so earnestly sought after by Laura, appeared to be in full swing. It was concentrated around the two hustings, the wide open spaces of the Butts being inimical to the use of broken bottles and flick-knives as giving too much opportunity to the Grammar School adversaries of employing evasive measures. Not that the Grammar School appeared to be in any mood for these. For too long, was the general feeling, had the school been compelled to put up with gibes, insults, stone-throwing and being pushed off pavements or having their school caps twitched off and flung in the path of heavy traffic. Now, out of school hours, forty or fifty strong (and armed, as part of their costumes, with cudgels in the form of rounders sticks borrowed privately by Julian from the girls’ school), they were giving a good account of themselves.

The two policemen had leapt into the fray, but were making little impact upon the milling youths. Julian,