Death of a Fool ra-19 Page 12

  “I believe you,” Alleyn said.

  “As for his Will,” Dan went on with great simplicity, “we can’t tell you, sir, what we don’t know our own selves. Maybe he made one and maybe not.”

  Carey said, “You haven’t taken a look round the place at all, then?”

  Andy turned on him. “It’s our father what’s been done to death, Mr. Carey. It’s his body laying out there, not as an old man’s did ought — peaceful and proper — but ghassly as a sacrifice and crying aloud for — for—” He looked round wildly, saw his youngest brother, hesitated and then broke down completely.

  “— for justice?” Alleyn said. “Were you going to say?”

  “He’s beyond earthly justice,” Nat put in. “Face to face with his Maker and no doubt proud to be there.”

  Superintendent Carey said, “I did hear tell he was up to Biddlefast on Tuesday to see lawyer Stayne.”

  “So he was, then, but none of us knows why,” Chris rejoined.

  “Well,” Alleyn said, “we’ll be off. I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid we’ll have to leave somebody here. Whoever it is will, I’m sure, be as considerate as possible. You see, we may have to poke back into the past. I can fully understand,” he went on, talking directly to Andy, “how you feel about your father’s death. It’s been — of course it has — an appalling shock. But you will, no doubt, have a hunt round for any papers or instructions he may have left. I can get an expert search made or, if you’d rather, can just leave an officer here to look on. In case something turns up that may be of use to us. We really do want to make it as easy for you as we can.”

  They took this without much show of interest. “There’ll be cash, no doubt,” Dan said. “He was a great old one for putting away bits of cash. Proper old jackdaw, us used to call him.” He caught back his breath harshly.

  Alleyn said, “I’m sorry it has to be like this.” Dan was the one nearest to him. “He’s an elderly chap himself,” Alleyn thought, and touched him lightly on the shoulder. “Sorry,” he repeated and looked at Fox and Carey. “Shall we move on?”

  “Do you want me again?” Dr. Otterly asked.

  “If I can just have a word with you.”

  They all went out through the forge. Alleyn paused and looked round.

  “What a place for a search! The collection of generations. There’s the door, Fox, where Ernie says the note was pinned. And his room’s beyond that.”

  He went down a narrow pathway between two heaped-up benches of litter and opened the door in the end wall. Beyond it was a tiny room with a bed that had been pulled together rather than made and gave clear evidence of use. The room was heaped up with boxes, piles of old newspapers and all kinds of junk. A small table had evidently served as a desk and bore a number of account books, files and the Guiser’s old-fashioned copper-plate bills. In Dr. to W. Andersen, Blacksmith, Copse Forge, South Mardian. A pencil lay across a folded pile of blotting-paper.

  “Hard lead,” Alleyn said to Fox, who stood in the doorway. “The message was written with a hard point. Wonder if the paper lay here. Let’s have a look.”

  He held the blotting-paper to the light and then took out his pocket lens. “Yes,” he grunted, “it’s there all right. A faint trace but it could be brought out. It’s the trace of the note we’ve already got, my hearties. We’ll put Bailey and Thompson on to this lot. Hullo!”

  He had picked up a sheet of paper. Across it, in blue indelible pencil, was written, Wednesday, W. Andersen. Kindly sharpen my slasher at once if not all ready done do it yourself mind and return by bearer to avoid further trouble as urgently require and oblige Jno. MacGlashan. P.S. I will have none but yourself on this job.

  “Carey!” Alleyn called out, and the Superintendent loomed up behind Fox. “Who’s Jno. MacGlashan? Here, take a look at this. Will this be the slasher in question?”

  “That’ll be the one, surely,” Carey agreed. “MacGlashan’s the gardener up along.”

  “It was written yesterday. Who would the bearer be?”

  “His boy, no doubt.”

  “Didn’t they tell us Ernie sharpened the slasher? And took it up late yesterday afternoon? And whiffled the goose’s head off with it?”

  “That’s right, sir. That’s what they said.”

  “So the boy, if the boy was the bearer, was sent empty away.”

  “Must of been.”

  “And the slasher comes to a sticky end in the bonfire. Now, all of this,” Alleyn said, rubbing his nose, “is hellish intriguing.”

  “Is it?” Fox asked stolidly.

  “My dear old chap, of course it is. Nip back to the coach-house ünd tell Bailey and Thompson to move in here as soon as they’re ready and do their stuff.” Fox went sedately off and Alleyn shut the door of the bedroom behind him. “We’ll have this room sealed, Carey. And will you check up on the slasher story? Find out who spoke to the boy. And, Carey, I’ll leave you in charge down here for the time being. Do you mind?”

  Superintendent Carey, slightly bewildered by this mode of approach, said that he didn’t.

  “Right. Come on.”

  He led the way outside, where Dr. Otterly waited in his car.

  Carey, hanging off and on, said, “Will I seal the room now, sir? Or what?”

  “Let the flash and dabs chaps in first. Fox is fixing them. Listen as inconspicuously as you can to the elder Andersen boys’ general conversation. How old is Dan, by the way? Sixty, did you say?”

  “Turned sixty, I reckon.”

  “And Ernie?”

  “He came far in the rear, which may account for him being not right smart.”

  “He’s smart enough,” Alleyn muttered, “in a way. Believe me, he’s only dumb nor’-nor’-west and yesterday, I fancy, the wind was in the south.”

  “It shifted in the night,” Carey said and stared at him. “Look, Mr. Alleyn,” he burst out, “I can’t help but ask. Do you reckon Ernie Andersen’s our chap?”

  “My dear man, I don’t know. I think his brothers are determined to stop him talking. So’s this man Begg, by the way. I could cheerfully have knocked Begg’s grinning head off his shoulders. Sorry! Unfortunate phrase. But I believe Ernie was going to give me a straight answer, one way or the other.”

  “Suppose,” Carey said, “Ernie lost his temper with the old chap, and gave a kind of swipe, or suppose he was just fooling with that murderous sharp whiffler of his and — and — well, without us noticing while the Guiser was laying doggo behind the stone — Ar, hell!”

  “Yes,” Alleyn said grimly, “and it’ll turn out that the only time Ernie might have waltzed round behind the stone was the time when young Stayne had pinched his sword. And what about the state of the sword, Carey? Nobody had time to clean it and restain it with green sap, had they? And, my dear man, what about blood? Blood, Carey — which reminds me, we are keeping the doctor waiting. Leave Bailey and Thompson here while you arrange with Obby or that P.C. by the castle gates to take your place when you want to get off. I’ll bring extra men in if we need them. I’ll leave you the car and ask Dr. Otterly to take us up to the pub. O.K.?”

  “O.K., Mr. Alleyn. I’ll be up along later, then?”

  “Right. Here’s Fox. Come on, Foxkin. Otterly, will you give us a lift?”

  Carey turned back into the forge and Alleyn and Fox got into Dr. Otterly’s car.

  Dr. Otterly said, “Look here, Alleyn, before we go on I want to ask you something.”

  “I bet I know what it is. Do we or do we not include you in our list of suspects?”

  “Exactly so,” Otterly said rather stuffily. “After all, one would prefer to know. Um?”

  “Of course. Well, at the moment, unless you can explain how you fiddled unceasingly in full view of a Superintendent of Police, a P.C., a Dame of the British Empire, a parson and about fifty other witnesses during the whole of the period when this job must have been done and, at the same time, did it, you don’t look to be a likely starter.”

  “Thank y
ou,” said Dr. Otterly.

  “On the other hand, you look to be a damn’ good witness. Did you watch the dancers throughout?”

  “Never took my eyes off ’em. A conscientious fiddler doesn’t.”

  “Wonderful. Don’t let’s drive up for a moment, shall we? Tell me this. Would you swear that it was in fact the Guiser who danced the role of Fool?”

  Dr. Otterly stared at him. “Good Lord, of course it was! I thought you understood. I’d gone out to start proceedings, I heard the rumpus, I went back and found him lugging his clothes off Ernie. I had a look at him, not a proper medical look, because he wouldn’t let me, and I told him if he worked himself up any more he’d probably crock up anyway. So he calmed down, put on the Fool’s clothes and the bag-mask, and, when he was ready, I went out. Ernie followed and did his whiffling. I could see the others waiting to come on. The old man appeared last, certainly, but I could see him just beyond the gate, watching the others. He’d taken his mask off and only put it on at the last moment.”

  “Nobody, at any stage, could have taken his place?”

  “Utterly impossible,” Otterly said impatiently.

  “At no time could he have gone offstage and swapped with somebody?”

  “Lord, Lord, Lord, how many more times! No!”

  “All right. So he danced and lay down behind the stone. You fiddled and watched and fiddled and watched. Stayne and Ernie fooled and Stayne collared Ernie’s sword. Begg, as the Hobby-Horse, retired. These three throughout the show were all over the place and dodged in and out of the rear archway. Do you know exactly when and for how long any of them was out of sight?”

  “I do not. I doubt if they do. Begg dodged out after his first appearance when he chivvied the girls, you know. It’s damn’ heavy, that gear he wears, and he took the chance, during the first sword-dance, to get the weight off his shoulders. He came back before they made the lock. He had another let-up after the ‘death.’ Ralph Stayne was all over the shop. In and out. So was Ernie during their interlude.”

  “Right. And at some stage Stayne returned the sword to Ernie. Dan did a solo. The Sons danced and then came the denouement. Right?”

  “It hasn’t altered,” Dr. Otterly said drily, “since the last time you asked.”

  “It’s got to alter sometime, somehow,” Fox observed unexpectedly.

  “Would you also swear,” Alleyn said, “that at no time did either Ernie or Ralph Stayne prance round behind the stone and make one more great swipe with the sword that might have done the job?”

  “I know damn’ well neither of them did.”

  “Yes? Why?”

  “Because, my dear man, as I’ve told you, I never took my eyes off them. I knew the old chap was lying there. I’d have thought it a bloody dangerous thing to do.”

  “Is there still another reason why it didn’t happen that way?”

  “Isn’t it obvious that there is?”

  “Yes,” Alleyn said, “I’d have thought it was. If anybody had killed in that way he’d have been smothered in blood?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But, all the same, Otterly, there could be one explanation that would cover that difficulty.”

  Dr. Otterly slewed round in his seat and stared at Alleyn. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, you’re right. I’d thought of it, of course. But I’d still swear that neither of them did.”

  “All the same it is, essentially, I’m sure, the explanation nearest to the truth.”

  “And, in the meantime,” Mr. Fox observed, “we still go on believing in fairies.”

  Chapter VII

  The Green Man

  Before they set off for the Green Man, Alleyn asked Dr. Otterly if he could arrange for the Guiser’s accommodation in a suitable mortuary.

  “Curtis, the Home Office man, will do the P.M.,” Alleyn said, “but he’s two hundred-odd miles away across country, and the last time I heard of him he was held up on a tricky case. I don’t know how or when he’ll contrive to get here.”

  “Biddlefast would offer the best facilities. It’s twenty miles away. We’ve a cottage hospital at Yowford where we could fix him up straightaway — after a fashion.”

  “Do, will you? Things are very unsatisfactory as they are. Can we get a mortuary van or an ambulance?”

  “The latter. I’ll fix it up.”

  “Look,” Alleyn said, “I want you to do something else, if you will. I’m going now to talk to Simon Begg, young Stayne, the German lady and the Guiser’s grand-daughter, who, I hear, is staying at the pub. Will you sit in on the interviews? Will you tell me if you think anything they may say is contrary to the facts as you observed them? Will you do that, Otterly?”

  Dr. Otterly stared at the dripping landscape and whistled softly through his teeth. “I don’t know,” he said at last.

  “Don’t you? Tell me, if this is deliberate homicide, do you want the man run in?”

  “I suppose so.” He pulled out his pipe and opened the door to knock it out on the running-board. When he re-appeared he was very red in the face. “I may as well tell you,” he said, “that I disapprove strongly and vehemently of the McNaughton Rules and would never voluntarily bring anybody who was mentally a borderline case under their control.”

  “And you look upon Ernie Andersen as such a case.”

  “I do. He’s an epileptic. Petit mal. Very rare attacks, but he had one, last night, after he saw what had happened to his father. I won’t fence with you, but I tell you that, if I thought Ernie Andersen stood any chance of being hanged for the murder of his father, I wouldn’t utter a syllable that might lead to his arrest.”

  “What would you do?”

  “Bully a couple of brother-medicos into certifying him and have him put away.”

  Alleyn said, “Why don’t you chaps get together and make a solid medical front against the McNaughton Rules? But never mind that now. Perhaps if I tell you exactly what I’m looking for in this case, you’ll feel more inclined to sit in. Mind you, I may be looking for something that doesn’t exist. The theory, if it can be graced with the title, is based on such slender evidence that it comes jolly close to being guesswork and, when you find a cop guessing, you kick him in the pants. Still, here, for what it’s worth, is the line of country.”

  Dr. Otterly stuffed his pipe, lit it, threw his head back and listened. When Alleyn had finished, he said, “By God, I wonder!” and then, “All right. I’ll sit in.”

  “Good. Shall we about it?”

  It was half past twelve when they reached the pub. Simon and Ralph were eating a snack at the bar. Mrs. Bünz and Camilla sat at a table before the parlour fire, faced with a meal that Camilla, for her part, had been quite unable to contemplate with equanimity. Alleyn and Fox went to their private room, where they found that cold meat and hot vegetables awaited them. Dr. Otterly returned from the telephone to say he had arranged for the ambulance to go to Copse Forge and for his partner to take surgery alone during the early part of the afternoon.

  While they ate their meal, Alleyn asked Dr. Otterly to tell him something of the history of the Dance of the Five Sons.

  “Like most people who aren’t actively interested in folklore, I’m afraid I’m inclined to associate it with flushed ladies imperfectly braced for violent exercise and bearded gentlemen dressed like the glorious Fourth of June gone elfin. A Philistine’s conception, I’m sure.”

  “Yes,” Dr. Otterly said, “it is. You’re confusing the ‘sports’ with the true generic strain. If you’re really interested, ask the German lady. Even if you don’t ask, she’ll probably tell you.”

  “Couldn’t you give me a succinct résumé? Just about this particular dance?”

  “Of course I could. I don’t want any encouragement, I assure you, to mount on my hobby-horse. And there, by the way, you are! Have you thought how many everyday phrases derive from the folk drama? Mounting one’s hobby-horse! Horseplay! Playing the fool! Cutting capers! Midsummer madness! Very possibly ‘horn mad,’ though I
recognize the more generally known application. This pub, the Green Man, gets its name from a variant of the Fool, the Robin Hood, the Jack-in-the-Green.”

  “What does the whole concept of the ritual dance go back to? Frazer’s King of the Sacred Grove?”

  “Certainly. And the Dionysian play about the Titans who killed their old man.”

  “Fertility rite-cum-sacrifice-death and resurrection?”

  “That’s it. It’s the oldest manifestation of the urge to survive and the belief in redemption through sacrifice and resurrection. It’s as full of disjointed symbolism as a surrealist’s dream.”

  “Maypoles, corn-babies, ladles — all that?”

  “Exactly. And, being a folk manifestation, the whole thing changes all the time. It’s full of cross-references. The images overlap and the characters swap roles. In the few places in England where it survives in its traditional form, you get, as it were, different bits of the kaleidoscopic pattern. The lock of the swords here, the rabbit-cap there, the blackened faces somewhere else. Horns at Abbots Bromely, Old Hoss in Kent and Old Tup in Yorkshire. But always, however much debased and fragmentary, the central idea of the death and resurrection of the Fool, who is also the Father, Initiate, Medicine Man, Scapegoat and King. At its lowest, a few scraps of half-remembered jargon. At its highest —”

  “Not — by any chance—Lear?”

  “My dear fellow,” Dr. Otterly cried, and actually seized Alleyn by the hand, “you don’t mean to say you’ve spotted that! My dear fellow, I really am delighted with you. You must let me bore you again and at greater length. I realize, now is not the time for it. No. No, we must confine ourselves for the moment to the Five Sons.”

  “You’re far from boring me, but I’m afraid we must. Surely,” Alleyn said, “this particular dance-drama is unusually rich? Doesn’t it present a remarkable number of elements?”

  “I should damn’ well say it does. Much the richest example we have left in England and, luckily for us, right off the beaten track. Generally speaking, traditional dancing and mumming (such of it as survives) follows the line of the original Danish occupation, but here we’re miles off it.”