Ngaio Marsh - Death of a Fool

“About the same height as his grandfather?”

“Just, I reckon.”

“Could we get hold of him?”

“Reckon so. Andrew Andersen’s farm’s up to Yowford. Matter of a mile.”

“Is Andy himself still down at the forge?”

“Went home for his dinner, no doubt, at noon. There’s been a great family conference all morning at the smithy,” Carey said. “My sergeant was on duty there. Obby. I don’t say he was as alert as we might prefer: not used to late hours and a bit short of sleep. As a matter of fact, the silly danged fool dozed off and had to admit it.”

The Yard men were at pains not to catch each other’s eyes.

“He came forward, however, with the information that a great quantity of money was found and locked away and that all the boys seem very worried about what Ern may say or do. Specially Chris. He’s a hot-tempered chap, is Chris Andersen, and not above using his hands, which he knows how to, having been a commando in the war.”

“Hardly suitable as a mild corrective technique,” Alleyn said drily.

“Well, no. Will I see if I can lay hold of young Bill, Mr. Alleyn? Now?”

“Would you, Carey? Thank you so much. Without anything being noticed. You’ll handle it better than we would, knowing them.”

Carey, gratified, set about this business.

They heard him start up his motor-bicycle and churn off along Yowford Lane.

“He’s all right,” Alleyn said to the Yard men. “Sound man, but he’s feeling shy about his sergeant going to sleep on duty.”

“So he should,” Fox said, greatly scandalized. “I never heard such a thing. Very bad. Carey ought to have stayed there himself if he can’t trust his chaps.”

“I don’t think it’s likely to have made all that difference, Br’er Fox.”

“It’s the principle.”

“Of course it is. Now, about this show — here’s where I want everyone to stand. Mr. Fox up, at the back by the archway through which they made their exits and entrances. Bailey and Thompson are coming off their specialists’ perches and keeping observation again: there” — he pointed on his sketch—“by the entrance to the castle, that is to say, the first archway that links the semicircular ruined wall to the new building, and here, by its opposite number at the other end of the wall. That’s the way Ralph Stayne came back to the arena. The bonfire was outside the wall and to the right of the central archway. I want three men there. The remaining two will stand among the onlookers, bearing in mind what I’ve said we expect to find. We may be involved with more than one customer if the pot comes to the boil. Carey will be there, with his sergeant and his P.C., of course, and if the sergeant dozes off at this show it’ll be because he’s got sleeping sickness.”

Fox said, “May we inquire where you’ll be yourself, Mr. Alleyn?”

“Oh,” Alleyn said, “here and there, Br’er Fox. Roaring up and down as a raging lion seeking whom I may devour. To begin with, in the Royal Box with the nobs, I daresay.”

“On the steps with Dame Alice Mardian?”

“That’s it. Now, one word more.” Alleyn looked from Fox, Bailey and Thompson to the five newcomers. “I suggest that each of us marks one particular man and marks him well. Suppose you, Fox, take Ernie Andersen. Bailey takes Simon Begg as ‘Crack,’ the Hobby. Thompson takes Ralph Stayne as the Betty, and the rest of you parcel out among you the boy in his grandfather’s role as the Fool and the other four sons as the four remaining dancers. That’ll be one each for us, won’t it? A neat fit.”

One of the newcomers, a Sergeant Yardley, said, “Er — beg pardon.”

“Yes, Yardley?”

“I must have lost count, sir. There’s nine of us, counting yourself, and I understood there’s only eight characters in this play affair, or dance, or whatever it is.”

“Eight characters,” Alleyn said, “is right. Our contention will be that there were nine performers; however.”

“Sorry, sir. Of course.”

“I,” Alleyn said blandly, “hope to keep my eye on the ninth.”

Young Bill Andersen might have sat to the late George Clauson for one of his bucolic portraits. He had a shock of tow-coloured hair, cheeks like apples and eyes as blue as periwinkles. His mouth stretched itself into the broadest grin imaginable and his teeth were big, white and far apart.

Carey brought him back on the pillion of his motor-bicycle and produced him to Alleyn as if he was one of the natural curiosities of the region.

“Young Bill,” Carey said, exhibiting him. “I’ve told him what he’s wanted for and how he’ll need to hold his tongue and be right smart for the job, and he says he’s able and willing. Come on,” he added, giving the boy a business-like shove. “That’s right, isn’t it? Speak up for yourself.”

“Ar,” said young Bill. He looked at Alleyn through his thick white lashes and grinned. “I’d like it,” he said.

“Good. Now, look here, Bill. What we want you to do is quite a tricky bit of work. It’s got to be cleverly done. It’s important. One of us would do it, actually, but we’re all too tall for the job, as you can see for yourself. You’re the right size. The thing is: do you know your stuff?”

“I know the Five Sons, sir, like the back of me yand.”

“You do? You know the Fool’s act, do you? Your grandfather’s act?”

“Certain-sure.”

“You watched it on Wednesday night, didn’t you?”

“So I did, then.”

“And you remember exactly what he did?”

“Ya-as.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Bill scratched his head. “Reckon I watched him, seeing what a terrible rage he was in. After what happened, like. And what was said.”

“What did happen?”

Bill very readily gave an account of the Guiser’s arrival and the furious change-over: “I ’ad to strip off Uncle Ern’s clothes and he ’ad to strip off Grandfer’s. Terrible quick.”

“And what was said?”

“Uncle Ern reckoned it’d be the death of Granfer, dancing. So did Uncle Chris. He’ll kill himself, Uncle Chris says, if he goes capering in the great heat of his rages. The silly old bastard’ll fall down dead, he says. So I was watching Granfer to see.”

Bill passed the tip of his tongue round his lips. “Terrible queer,” he muttered, “as it turned out, because so ’e did, like. Terrible queer.”

Alleyn said, “Sure you don’t mind doing this for us, Bill?”

The boy looked at him. “I don’t mind,” he declared and sounded rather surprised. “Suits me, all right.”

“And you’ll keep it as a dead secret between us? Not a word to anybody: top security.”

“Ya-as,” Bill said. “Surely.” A thought seemed to strike him.

“Yes?” Alleyn said. “What’s up?”

“Do I have to dress up in them bloody clothes of his’n?”

“No,” Alleyn said after a pause.

“Nor wear his ma-ask?”

“No.”

“I wouldn’t fancy thik.”

“There’s no need. We’ll fix you up with something light-coloured to wear and something over your face to look like a mask.”

He nodded, perfectly satisfied. The strange and innocent cruelty of his age and sex was upon him.

“Reckon I can fix that,” he said. “I’ll get me a set of pyjammers and I got a ma-ask of me own. Proper clown’s ma-ask.”

And then, with an uncanny echo of his Uncle Ernie, he said, “Reckon I can make proper old Fool of myself.”

“Good. And now, young Bill, you lay your ears back and listen to me. There’s something else we’ll ask you to do. It’s something pretty tricky, it may be rather frightening and the case for the police may hang on it. How do you feel about that?”