Pageant of Murder

shut, up at Squire’s Acre, and the Colonel and his nephew are standing shoulder to shoulder.”

“A chain is only as strong as its weakest link, dear Robert, and the weakest link at Squire’s Acre, from one point of view, is Mrs Batty-Faudrey. But have you had any lunch?”

“Yes, thanks. I briefed the Inspector and the C.I.D. sergeant and pushed them off to the Hall, and then I lunched at The Hat With Feather, having told them to report to me there. That excellent pub kept back some lunch for them in a private room, so, when they’d had it, we got down to brass tacks.”

He took out some papers and looked them through. Dame Beatrice bestowed upon his dark and close-cropped head the benign smile of a well-fed python.

“The report,” he said, looking up at her, “is roughly this: on the night of the dress rehearsal of The Merry Wives of Windsor, the Batty-Faudreys dined with the Mayor, leaving Giles at home. This, of course, is at first-hand from the Mayor and Mayoress. While the Batty-Faudreys were out of the house, a man turned up and wanted to borrow a sword. The girl who opened the door to him confirms this and, having been shown a not-very-recent photograph of Luton—taken, unfortunately for us, completely surrounded by Sunday School teachers and scholars—says it might be the man who called, but she couldn’t be sure. The only thing she remembers is that he was short and thin and said he was sorry to call so late, but that his business was important.”

“Upon that, the girl went to consult Giles Faudrey, who was in the downstairs library.”

“Yes. Interviewed separately, Giles and the girl both state that she was sent back to the door to ask what his business was, was told about the sword, returned to Giles and was ordered to show the visitor up to the long gallery.”

“And, after that, Giles’ previous story breaks down, I venture to think.”

“How right you are! He confesses that he did go up to the long gallery, and that he not only spoke very cordially to the visitor, but that he invited him to take two swords so that, in the stage production, they matched.”

“What a pity that they did not match, then! If Laura says that one sword was a theatrical property and the other a genuine weapon, I am prepared to back her judgment.”

“Yes, so am I, but, apart from that, the Inspector got on to Page and Ford—Collis and Carson, you know—and they’re ready to take their oath that there was only the one real sword among their stage properties, and that they tossed up to see which one should wear it.”

“What had Giles to say to that?”

“He bluffed it out. He stuck to it that two swords were borrowed. He also declared that Luton did not give his name to the girl who answered the door, and the girl confirms that. Both say, most emphatically, that they had never set eyes on Luton before—and that, of course, may be the truth, in the case of the girl.”

“I think very likely it is. I wonder just how great a villain young Mr Faudrey is?”

“By which you mean that he may be blackmailing his uncle? Oh, I’m perfectly certain he is doing that, and that’s why it’s paying him not to give the old man away. My chaps did their utmost to break him down, but he fended them off. He stressed that he had nothing to do with the murders, insisted that they had another go at the members of the drama club, and told them that the criminal had hanged himself and that was that. They couldn’t shake him.”

“What had the Colonel to say?”

“He blustered, as you’d expect. Said that Giles had been sowing wild oats since he was sixteen and had been expelled from two schools for so doing. The inspector asked for the names of the schools, and the Colonel rather weakly said he couldn’t remember them. Then he was asked for the name of Giles’ college, and that he gave readily enough. I can find out whether Giles was sent down and, if so, for what, but it won’t really help us. Then my chaps sounded the Colonel about his movements on the Friday when Spey was killed. He said he had no idea what he’d done or where he’d been, and damned them to perdition for daring to question him. He asked them what the hell they thought they were playing at, and threatened to report them—he didn’t say to whom. Upon this, they apologised for troubling him and told him that, as it was now established (which it isn’t, of course) that Gordon did not commit suicide, but was murdered, the police had no option but to turn the borough upside down and question everybody who might have the slightest bit of information to give.”

“And this satisfied the Colonel?”

“They said he certainly seemed a bit happier, but blustered again when they said they’d like to speak to his wife, so they agreed that he should stay in the room while she was questioned.”

“But he did not do so?”

“Now how do you know that?”

“I was asking a question, not making a statement.”

“Well, you seem to have made a shrewd guess, then. Mrs Batty-Faudrey put on a grande dame act and became very haughty, so apparently the Colonel decided that she was more than equal to the situation, and slid out, leaving her to cope. This she did remarkably well.”

“Could she account for her movements on the evening of Spey’s death?”

“Yes, she could. She went to a Soroptimist meeting at which she introduced the speaker and acted as chairman.”

“So she cannot give an account of what Giles and the Colonel did at the time?”

“Not with any certainty. She thinks they watched television. She had invited the speaker and a couple of Soroptimist members to tea, a ceremony from which the Colonel and Giles had opted out, and she did not see either of the men again until she got back from her meeting. That, she thinks, was at about half-past ten, because, when the meeting was over, the Soroptimists threw a sherry party.”

“Where was the meeting held?”

“At the Town Hall, because the Mayoress, who is a member, gave the sherry party in the Mayor’s parlour.”

“Oh, well, all that must be true, because it would be so easy to check on it. Besides, whoever the guilty person