Then here is the question. Did you after the end of the first Morris leave the courtyard for some reason and not return to it until the beginning of the solo dance? Did you, Mrs Bünz?’
‘No,’ said Mrs Bünz very loudly.
‘Really?’
‘No.’
Alleyn said after a pause: ‘All right. That’s all. You may be asked later on to sign a statement. I’m afraid I must also ask you to stay in East Mardian until after the inquest.’ He went to the door and opened it. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
When she reached the door, she stood and looked at him. She seemed to collect herself and, when she spoke, it was with more composure than she had hitherto shown.
‘It is the foolish son who has done it,’ she said. ‘He is epileptic. Ritual dancing has a profound effect upon such beings. They are carried back to their distant origins. They become excited. Had not this son already cut his father’s hand and shed his blood with his sword? It is the son.’
‘How do you know he had already cut his father’s hand?’ Alleyn asked.
‘I have been told,’ Mrs Bünz said, looking as if she would faint.
Without another word and without looking at him again, she went out and down the passage.
Alleyn said to Fox: ‘Don’t let her talk to Begg. Nip out, Fox, and tell him that, as we’ll be a little time yet, he can go up to his garage and we’ll look in there later. Probably suits him better, anyway.’
Fox went out and Alleyn grinned at Dr Otterly.
‘You can go ahead, now,’ he said, ‘if you want to spontaneously combust.’
‘I must say I feel damn’ like it. What’s she up to, lying right and left? Good God, I never heard anything like it! Not know when we rehearsed. Good God! They could hear us all over the pub.’
‘Where did you rehearse?’
‘In the old barn at the back, here.’
‘Very rum. But I fancy,’ Alleyn muttered, ‘we know why she went away during the show.’
‘Are you sure she did?’
‘My dear chap, yes. She’s a fanatic. She’s a folk-lore hound with her nose to the ground. She remembered the first and last parts of your programme with fantastic accuracy. Of course, if she’d been there she’d have watched the earthy antics of the comics. If they are comics. Of course. She’d have been on the look-out for all the fertility fun that you hand out. If she’d been there she’d have looked and she’d have remembered in precise detail. She doesn’t remember because she didn’t look and she didn’t look because she wasn’t there. I’d bet my boots on it and I bet I know why.’
Fox returned, polishing his spectacles, and said: ‘Do you know what I reckon, Mr Alleyn? I reckon Mrs B. leaves the arena, just after the first dance, is away from it all through the collection and the funny business between young Mr Stayne and daft Ernie and gets back before Dan Andersen does a turn on his own. Is that your idea?’
‘Not altogether, Brer Fox. If my tottering little freak of an idea is any good, she leaves her observation post before the first dance.’
‘Hey?’ Fox ejaculated. ‘But it’s the first dance that she remembers so well.’
‘I must say –’ Dr Otterly agreed and flapped his hands.
‘Exactly,’ Alleyn said. ‘I know. Now. Let me explain.’ He did so at some length and they listened to him with the raised eyebrows of assailable incredulity.
‘Well,’ they said, ‘I suppose it’s possible.’ And: ‘It might be, but how’ll you prove it?’ And: ‘Even so, it doesn’t get us all that much further, does it?’ And: ‘How are you to find out?’
‘It gets us a hell of a lot further,’ Alleyn said hotly, ‘as you’d find out pretty quickly if you could take a peep at Mrs Bünz in the rude nude. However, since that little treat is denied us, let’s visit Mr Simon Begg and see what he can provide. What was he up to, Fox?’
‘He was talking on the telephone about horse-racing,’ Fox said. ‘Something called Teutonic Dancer in the 1.30 at Sandown. That’s funny,’ Mr Fox added, ‘I never thought of it at the time. Funny!’
‘Screamingly. You might see if Bailey and Thompson are back, Fox, and if there’s anything. They’ll need a meal, poor devils. Trixie’ll fix that, I dare say. Then we’ll take a drive up the road to Begg’s garage.’
While Fox was away Alleyn asked Dr Otterly if he could give him a line on Simon Begg.
‘He’s a local,’ Dr Otterly said. ‘Son of the ex-village shopkeeper. Name’s still up over the shop. He did jolly well in the war with the RAF. Bomber pilot. He was brought down over Germany, tackled a bunch of Huns single-handed and got himself and two of his crew back through Spain. They gave him the DFC for it. He’d been a bit of a problem as a lad but he took to active service like a bird.’
‘And since the war?’
‘Well – in a way, a bit of a problem again. I feel damn’ sorry for him. As long as he was in uniform with his ribbons up he was quite a person. That’s how it was with those boys; wasn’t it? They lived high, wide and dangerous and they were everybody’s heroes. Then he was demobilized and came back here. You know what county people are like: it takes a flying bomb to put a dent in their class-consciousness, and then it’s only temporary. They began to say how ghastly the RAF slang was and to ask each other if it didn’t rock you a bit when you saw them out of uniform. It’s quite true that Simon bounded sky high and used an incomprehensible and irritating jargon and that some of his waistcoats were positively terrifying. All the same.’
‘I know,’ Alleyn said.
‘I felt rather sorry for him. Neither fish, nor flesh, nor stock-broker’s tudor. That was why I asked him to come into the Sword Wednesday show. Our old Hobby was killed in the raids. He was old Begg from Yowford, a relation of Simon’s. There’ve been Beggs for Hobbies for a very long time.’
‘So this Begg has done it – how many times?’
‘About nine. Ever since the war.’
‘What’s he been up to all that time?’
‘He’s led rather a raffish kind of life for the last nine years. Constantly changing his job. Gambling pretty high, I fancy. Hanging round the pubs. Then, about three years ago his father died and he bought a garage up at Yowford. It’s not doing too well, I fancy. He’s said to be very much in the red. The boys would have got good backing from one of the big companies if they could have persuaded the Guiser to let them turn Copse Forge into a filling-station. It’s at a cross-roads and they’re putting a main road through before long, more’s the pity. They were very keen on the idea and wanted Simon to go in with them. But the Guiser wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘They may get it – now,’ Alleyn said without emphasis. ‘And Simon may climb out of the red.’
‘He’s
