Lovers Make Moan

blame.”

“He says not, but I do not think that is the truth.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“He was heard to say something to the effect that it was the mussels, but there was something else.”

“Interesting. Thank you very much for allowing me to visit you.”

“You think that the death of Mr Bourton was a strange one. So do I. Are you with the police? I know of your work, of course.”

“I am not with the police at present. I am inquisitive by nature, that is all, and I was present at the first performance of the play.”

“If you have any more questions at any time, I shall take pleasure in doing my best to answer them.”

“There is one more. Had either man, the one who ate the mussels or the one who killed himself, ever been a patient of yours?”

“The first, no; Mr Bourton, yes, he was on my list. He said he preferred a woman doctor, but I think he just preferred a woman. Oh, do not mistake me! His conduct was most correct, but—well, one received an impression.”

“Yes,” said Dame Beatrice, “I think Mrs Jonathan Bradley, my niece by marriage, had received the same impression.”

“She is very attractive,” said the dark goddess, displaying the generosity which one beautiful woman can afford to extend to another. “I have to attend the inquest, as I was the doctor who saw the body before the police surgeon arrived. Shall you be present?”

“As an interested onlooker, yes.”

“Mr Rinkley’s wife keeps an antiques shop in the old town,” said Jeanne-Marie. Her dark eyes met those of Dame Beatrice.

“So you thought that, too?” said the old woman. “It seemed to me likely that an extra dagger was involved.”

“It was a strange ending to the play. The dagger which killed will be produced in court, no doubt. The inquest should be very interesting,” said Dr Jeanne-Marie. “There is another thing. Mr Bourton was a turf commission agent. Somebody may have owed him money, don’t you think, and was not willing to pay?”

“You have enlightened me on what may be two important matters, but much remains merely speculative at present.”

“Yes,” said Jeanne-Marie. “It can be baffling to work in the semi-darkness, and, with your gifts, you should not be called upon to do so. Our conversation is completely confidential, of course?”

“You hardly need to ask. What makes you suspect that there was more to Mr Bourton’s death than appears on the surface?”

“Those daggers were used on three previous occasions; at the dress rehearsal, at Thursday’s performance, at Friday’s performance. At Saturday’s performance the man who has used the retractable dagger three times in perfect safety is taken violently ill—oh, yes, there is no doubt that the mussels and the whisky had played havoc and I know you suspect something more which the hospital did not check. The illness came at a point in the play when there was no time to be lost in putting on an understudy and—ciel!—that understudy is stabbing himself to death because he and everybody else would be in too much of a hurry to check the equipment and discover that the wrong dagger was in the belt.”

“You mean that if Mr Rinkley had been taken ill before the play opened, the dagger would have been checked? I wonder whether that is so? As you say, the harmless dagger had already been used three times. Would it have been checked each time?”

“I do not know whether it would have been, but I am quite sure that it should have been. Had all the daggers used in the play been fitted with retractable blades there might have been some excuse for not checking them, but when three out of the four are known to be lethal weapons, I am sure that any conscientious producer would have made certain that the only dagger which was to be used was the harmless one.”

“I cannot dispute that point.”

“However, the daggers were not checked, it seems.”

“One would have thought that Mr Rinkley himself would have checked to make sure that the dagger he was to use on himself was harmless.”

“Yes. It gives one to think, does it not? I wonder what Mr Rinkley had against Mr Bourton?”

“Or against my nephew Jonathan. But these are wild speculations which, for the present, we would be wise to keep to ourselves.”

Chapter 9

Coroner’s Court

“Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show.”

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It was significant that at the inquest on Donald Bourton the coroner sat without a jury.

“So it’s going to be a verdict of accident or misadventure,” muttered Tom Woolidge to Jonathan. “Thank goodness for that!”