Death of a Fool

It was a dark place filled with every imaginable kind of junk, but a space had been cleared in the middle and an improvised bier made up from boxes and an old door covered by a horsecloth.

A clean sheet had been laid over the Guiser. When Dr. Otterly turned this down it was a shock, after the conventional decency of the arrangements, to see an old dead man in the dirty dress of a clown. For collar, there was a ragged bloodstained and slashed frill and this had been pulled up to hide the neck. The face was smudged with black on the nose, forehead, cheek bones and chin.

“That’s burnt cork,” Dr. Otterly said. “From inside his mask, you know. Ernie had put it on over his black make-up when he thought he was going to dance the Fool.”

The Guiser’s face under these disfigurements was void of expression. The eyes had been closed, but the mouth gaped. The old hands, chapped and furrowed, were crossed heavily over the breastbone. The tunic was patched with bloodstains. And above the Guiser, slung on wooden pins, were the shells of his fellow mummers. “Crack,” the Hobby-Horse, was there. Its hinged jaw had dropped as if in burlesque of the head below it. The harness dangled over its flat drum-shaped carcass, which was propped against the wall. Nearby hung the enormous crinoline of the Betty and, above it, as if they belonged to each other, the Guiser’s bag-like and dolorous mask, hanging upside down by its strings. It was stained darkly round the strings and also at the other end, at the apex of the scalp. This interested Alleyn immensely. Lower down, caught up on a nail, was the rabbit-cap. Further away hung the clothes and sets of bells belonging to the Five Sons.

From the doorway, where he had elected to remain, Carey said, “We thought best to lock all their gear in here, Mr. Alleyn. The swords are in that sacking there, on the bench.”

“Good,” Alleyn said.

He glanced up at Fox. “All right,” he said, and Fox, using his great hands very delicately, turned down the rag of frilling from the severed neck.

“One swipe,” Dr. Otterly’s voice said.

“From slightly to the right of front centre to slightly left of back centre, would you say?” Alleyn asked.

“I would.” Dr. Otterly sounded surprised. “I suppose you chaps get to know about things.”

“I’m glad to say that this sort of thing doesn’t come even our way very often. The blow must have fallen above the frill on his tunic and below the strings that tied the bag-mask. Would you say he’d been upright or prone when it happened?”

“Your Home Office man will know better than I about that. If it was done standing I’d say it was by somebody who was just slightly taller than the poor Old Guiser.”

“Yes. Was there anybody like that in the team?”

“No. They’re all much taller.”

“And there you are. Let’s have a look at that whiffler, Fox.”

Fox went over to the bench. “The whiffler,” Carey said from the door, “is rolled up separate. He didn’t want to part with it, didn’t Ernie.”

Fox came back with Ernie’s sword, holding it by the red cord that was threaded through the tip. “You can see the stains left by all that green-stuff,” he said. “And sharp! You’d be astounded.”

“We’d better put Bailey on it for dabs, though I don’t fancy there’s much future there. What do you think, Dr. Otterly? Could this be the weapon?”

“Without a closer examination of the wound, I wouldn’t like to say. It would depend — but, no,” Dr. Otterly said, “I can’t give an opinion.”

Alleyn had turned away and was looking at the garments hanging on the wall. “Tar over everything. On the Betty’s skirt, the Sons’ trousers and, I suppose, on a good many village maidens’ stockings and shoes, to say nothing of their coats.”

“It’s a cult,” Dr. Otterly said.

“Fertility rite?”

“Of course.”

“See old Uncle Frazer and all,” Alleyn muttered. He turned to the rabbit. “Recently killed and gutted with head left on. Strings on it. What for?”

“He wore it on his head.”

“How very undelicious. Why?”

“Helped the decapitation effect. He put his head through the lock of swords, untied the strings and, as the Sons drew the swords, he let the rabbit’s head drop. They do it in the Grenoside sword-dance too, I believe. It’s quite startling — the effect.”

“I daresay. In this case, rather over-shadowed by the subsequent event,” Alleyn said drily.

“All right!” Dr. Otterly ejaculated with some violence. “I know it’s beastly. All right.”

Alleyn glanced at him and then turned to look at “Crack’s” harness. “This must weigh a tidy lump. How does he wear it?”

“The head is on a sort of rod. His own head is inside the canvas neck. It was made in the smithy.”

“The century before last?”

“Or before that. The body too. It hangs from the yoke. His head goes through a hole into the canvas tube, which has got a sort of window in it. ‘Crack’s’ head is on top again and joined to the yoke by the flexible rod inside the neck. By torchlight it looks quite a thing.”

“I believe you,” Alleyn said absently. He examined the harness and then turned to the Betty’s crinoline. “How does this go on? It’s a mountain of a garment.”

“It hangs from a kind of yoke too. But, in his case, the arms are free. The frame, as you see, is made of withies, like basket-work. In the old days, there used to be quite a lot of fairly robust fun with the Betty. The chap who was acting her would chase some smaller fellow round the ring and pop the crinoline thing right over him and go prancing off with the little chap hidden under his petticoats, as it were. Sometimes he collared a girl. You can imagine the sort of barracking that went on.”

“Heaps of broad bucolic fun,” Alleyn said, “was doubtless had by all. It’s got a touch of the tar brush too, but not much.”

“I expect Ralph kept clear of ‘Crack’ as well as he could.”

“And the Guiser?” Alleyn returned to the bier and removed the sheet completely.

“A little tar on the front of the tunic and” — he stopped — “quite a lot on the hands,” he said. “Did he handle the tar barrel do you know?”

“Earlier in the day perhaps. But no. He was out of action, earlier. Does it matter?”

“It might,” Alleyn said. “It might matter very much indeed. Then again, not. Have you noticed this fairly recent gash across the palm of his right hand?”

“I saw it done.” Dr. Otterly’s gaze travelled to the whiffler, which Fox still held by the ribbons. He looked away quickly.

“With that thing,” Alleyn asked, “by any chance?”

“Actually, yes.”

“How did it happen?”

“It was nothing, really. A bit of a dust-up about it being too sharp. He — ah — he tried to grab it away from — well, from —”

“Don’t tell me,” Alleyn said. “Ernie.”

The shutters were down over the private bar and the room was deserted. Camilla went in and sat by the fire. Since last night she had felt the cold. It was as if some of her own natural warmth had deserted her. When the landlord had driven her and Trixie back to the pub from Mardian Castle, Camilla had shivered so violently that they had given her a scalding toddy and two aspirins and Trixie had put three stone hot-jugs in her bed. Eventually, she had dropped into a doze and was ru