“The daggers were changed over before the third performance began,” said Dame Beatrice. “I am sure about that. There were far too many people within sight of all the properties for any undetected substitution to have been possible, even after Mr Rinkley was taken ill.”
“Then who was the lethal dagger meant for? Rinkley’s illness couldn’t have been faked. Dr Jeanne-Marie would have spotted a malingerer at once.”
“Whoever changed over the daggers may not have bargained for Dr Delahague. All the same, you are quite right to raise doubts. All would be clearer if we knew which of three men was supposed to use the dagger on himself.”
“Three men?”
“Certainly. The original suggestion was not that Bourton, but that Jonathan, should understudy Rinkley.”
“And Jonathan had thumped Rinkley in the stomach and made him sick, and Rinkley had eaten mussels and no doubt washed them down with strong waters and made himself sick—oh, but there’s a flaw in that. Everybody would have known that Bourton was to be the stand-in and not Jonathan.”
“I doubt whether the changeover had been broadcast. Nobody, least of all the understudy, ever thinks a principal will be laid low. I doubt whether either Jonathan or Mr Bourton ever gave the matter another thought.”
“And nobody could have known that Rinkley was going to make himself ill on the third night and be unable to play Pyramus.”
“Nobody except Rinkley himself, perhaps. He may have had his own reasons for opting out.”
The medical practitioners, Dr Fitzroy and Dr Jeanne-Marie, his wife, had a surgery in the old part of the town, but lived in a large modern bungalow facing the bay. The bay was almost an inland sea and it covered a vast area bounded on one side by marshy tracts of flat land through which a broad river meandered from its water-meadows into the lake-like harbour, and on the opposite side by an opening to the English Channel not more than a fifth of a mile across. A ferry service connected both arms of the bay and led to a waste of low-lying country divided from the open sea by the only road across what was virtually a large island. On this side, heavy loose sand gave way in time to steep chalk cliffs which ran inland to form a long, low range of hills from which a view of the entire bay could be obtained.
The Delahagues’ bungalow was one of a number of widely spaced dwellings which had an uninterrupted view of the harbour and only its own front garden, the road, and another stretch of sand, which was covered at high tide, to separate it from the flotilla of yachts and small cruisers which were anchored in the shallow waters.
Dr Jeanne-Marie, apprised of a visit from Dame Beatrice, welcomed her with regal courtesy and then said, with inconsequential naivety, “I have to attend surgery in half an hour. Will you be staying long?”
“No, I assure you. I would like to ask one question, if I may. You remember the man, a Mr Rinkley, who was taken ill at the third performance of last Saturday’s play, A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”
“Of course I remember. When he said he had eaten mussels I thought maybe he had been poisoned by myelotoxin and I got him to hospital.”
“And was he poisoned by myelotoxin? I believe not.”
“You are right, but one always takes precautions. If he was poisoned at all, it was by an excess of alcohol. As for the other, it is always as well to be on the safe side, although I have not come across a case of myelotoxin which was fatal. They will keep him under observation for a few days and he will suffer no permanent ill-effects from his collapse.”
“Did he think he had been poisoned by the mussels? I think there was more than that and alcohol to blame.”
“He says not, but I do not think that is the truth.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“He was heard to say something to the effect that it was the mussels, but there was something else.”
“Interesting. Thank you very much for allowing me to visit you.”
“You think that the death of Mr Bourton was a strange one. So do I. Are you with the police? I know of your work, of course.”
“I am not with the police at present. I am inquisitive by nature, that is all, and I was present at the first performance of the play.”
“If you have any more questions at any time, I shall take pleasure in doing my best to answer them.”
“There is one more. Had either man, the one who ate the mussels or the one who killed himself, ever been a patient of yours?”
“The first, no; Mr Bourton, yes, he was on my list. He said he preferred a woman doctor, but I think he just preferred a woman. Oh, do not mistake me! His conduct was most correct, but—well, one received an impression.”
“Yes,” said Dame Beatrice, “I think Mrs Jonathan Bradley, my niece by marriage, had received the same impression.”
“She is very attractive,” said the dark goddess, displaying the generosity which one beautiful woman can afford to extend to another. “I have to attend the inquest, as I was the doctor who saw the body before the police surgeon arrived. Shall you be present?”
“As an interested onlooker, yes.”
“Mr Rinkley’s wife keeps an antiques shop in the old town,” said Jeanne-Marie. Her dark eyes met those of Dame Beatrice.
“So you thought that, too?” said the old woman. “It seemed to me likely that an extra dagger was involved.”
“It was a strange ending to the play. The dagger which killed will be produced in court, no doubt. The inquest should be very interesting,” said Dr Jeanne-Marie. “There is another thing. Mr Bourton was a turf commission agent. Somebody may have owed him money, don’t you think, and was not willing to pay?”
“You have enlightened me on what may be two important matters, but much remains merely speculative at present.”
“Yes,” said Jeanne-Marie. “It can be baffling to work in the semi-darkness, and, with your gifts, you should not be called upon to do so. Our conversation is completely confidential, of course?”
“You hardly need to ask. What makes you suspect that there was more to Mr Bourton’s death than appears on the surface?”
“Those daggers were used on three previous occasions; at the dress rehearsal, at Thursday’s performance, at Friday’s performance. At Saturday’s performance the man who has used the retractable dagger three times in perfect safety is taken violently ill—oh, yes, there is no doubt that the mussels and the whisky had played havoc and I know you suspect something more which the hospital did not check. The illness came at a point in the play when there was no time to be lost in putting on an understudy and—ciel!—that understudy is stabbing himself to death because he and everybody else would be in too much of a hurry to check the equipment and discover that the wrong dagger was in the belt.”
“You mean that if Mr Rinkley had been taken ill before the play opened, the dagger would have been checked? I wonder whether that is so? As you say, the harmless dagger had already been used three times. Would it have been checked each time?”
“I do not know whether it would have been, but I am quite sure that it should have been. Had all the daggers used in the play been fitted with retractable blades there might have been some excuse for not checking them, but when three out of the four are known to be lethal weapons, I am sure that any conscientious producer would have made certain that the only dagger which was to be used was the harmless one.”
“I cannot dispute that point.”
“However, the daggers were not checked, it seems.”
“One would have thought that Mr Rinkley himself would have checked to make sure that the dagger he was to use on himself was harmless.”