Inspector Alleyn 3-Book Collection 7: Off With His Head, Singing in the Shrouds, False Scent

Dr Otterly said: ‘Possibly.’

‘This lock, or knot, of swords, now. Five swords, you’d expect it to be six.’

‘So it is everywhere else that I know of. Another element that makes the Five Sons unique.’

‘How do they form it?’

‘While they dance. They’ve got two methods. The combination of a cross interwoven with an A or a sort of monogram of an X and an H. Both of them take quite a bit of doing.’

‘And Ernie’s was as sharp as hell.’

‘Absolutely illicit, but it was.’

‘I wonder,’ Alleyn said, ‘if Ernie expected this particular Old Man to resurrect.’

Dr Otterly laid down his knife and fork. ‘After what happened?’ He gave a half laugh. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’

‘What’s their attitude to the dance? All of them? Why do they go on with it, year after year?’

Dr Otterly hesitated. ‘Come to that, Doctor,’ Fox said, ‘why do you?’

‘Me? I suppose I’m a bit of a crank about it. I’ve got theories. Anyway, I enjoy fiddling. My father, and his before him and his before that have been doctors at Yowford and the two Mardians and we’ve all fiddled. Before that, we were yeomen and before that tenant farmers. One in the family has always been a fiddler. I try not to be cranky. The Guiser was a bigger crank in his way than I. I can’t tell you why he was so keen. He just inherited the Five Sons habit. It runs in his blood like poaching does in Old Moley Moon’s up to Yowford Bridge or hunting in Dame Alice Mardian’s, or doctoring, if you like, in mine.’

‘Do you think any of the Andersens pay much attention to the ritualistic side of the thing? Do you think they believe, for instance, that anything tangible comes of the performance?’

‘Ah, now! You’re asking me just how superstitious they are, you know.’ Dr Otterly placed the heels of his well-kept hands against the edge of his plate and delicately pushed it away. ‘Hasn’t every one of us,’ he asked, ‘a little familiar shame-faced superstition?’

‘I dare say,’ Alleyn agreed. ‘Cosseted but reluctantly acknowledged. Like the bastard sons of Shakespearian papas.’

‘Exactly. I know, I’ve got a little Edmund. As a man of science, I scorn it, as a countryman I give it a kind of heart service. It’s a particularly ridiculous notion for a medical man to harbour.’

‘Are we to hear what it is?’

‘If you like. I always feel it’s unlucky to see blood. Not, may I hasten to say, to see it in the course of my professional work, but fortuitously. Someone scratches a finger in my presence, say, or my own nose bleeds. Before I can stop myself I think: “Hallo. Trouble coming.” No doubt it throws back to some childish experience. I don’t let it affect me in the slightest. I don’t believe it. I merely get an emotional reflex. It’s –‘ He stopped short. ‘How very odd,’ he said.

‘Are you reminded that the Guiser cut his hand on Ernie’s sword during your final practice?’

‘I was, yes.’

‘Your hunch wasn’t so far wrong that time,’ Alleyn observed. ‘But what are the Andersens’ superstitious reflexes? Concerning the Five Sons?’

‘I should say pretty well undefined. A feeling that it would be unlucky not to do the dance. A feeling, strong perhaps in the Guiser, that, in doing it, something is placated, some rhythm kept ticking over.’

‘And in Ernie?’

Dr Otterly looked vexed. ‘Any number of crackpot notions, no doubt,’ he said shortly.

‘Like the headless goose on the dolmen?’

‘I am persuaded,’ Dr Otterly said, ‘that he killed the goose accidentally and in a temper and put in on the dolmen as an afterthought.’

‘Blood, as he so tediously insists, for the stone?’

‘If you like. Dame Alice was furious. She’s always been very kind to Ernie, but this time –’this begg

‘He’s killed the goose,’ Fox suggested blandly, ‘that lays the golden eggs?’

‘You’re in a bloody whimsical mood, aren’t you?’ Alleyn inquired idly, and then, after a long silence: ‘What a very disagreeable case this is, to be sure. We’d better get on with it, I suppose.’

‘Do you mind,’ Dr Otterly ventured, ‘my asking if you two are typical CID officers?’

‘I am,’ Alleyn said. ‘Fox is a sport.’

Fox collected their plates, stacked all the crockery neatly on a tray and carried it out into the passage where he was heard to say: ‘A very pleasant meal, thank you, Miss. We’ve done nicely.’

‘Tell me,’ Alleyn asked. ‘Is the Guiser’s granddaughter about eighteen with dark reddish hair cut short and very long fingers? Dressed in black ski-ing trousers and a red sweater?’

‘I really can’t tell you about the fingers, but the other part’s right. Charming child. Going to be an actress.’

‘And is young Stayne about six feet? Dark. Long back. Donegal tweed jacket with a red fleck and brown corduroy bags?’

‘That’s right, I think. He’s got a scar on his cheekbone.’

‘I couldn’t see his face,’ Alleyn said. ‘Or hers.’

‘Oh?’ Dr Otterly murmured. ‘Really?’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Camilla Campion.’

‘Pretty,’ Alleyn said absently. ‘Nice name.’

“Isn’t it?’

‘Her mum was the Guiser’s daughter, was she?’

‘That’s right.’

‘There’s a chap,’ Alleyn ruminated, ‘called Camillo Campion, who’s an authority on Italian primitives. Baronet. Sir Camillo.’

‘Her father. Twenty years ago, his car broke an axle coming too fast down Dame Alice’s drive. He stopped at Copse Forge, saw Bess Andersen, who was a lovely creature, fell like a plummet and married her.’

‘Lor’!’ said Fox mildly, returning from the passage. ‘Sudden!’

‘She had to run away. The Guiser wouldn’t hear of it. He was an inverted snob and a bigoted Nonconformist, and, worst of all, Campion’s a Roman Catholic. ’

‘I thought I remembered some story of that kind,’ Alleyn said. ‘Had he been staying at Mardian Castle?’