8. A BANG TO MY HEAD

THE FANCY DRESS BALL (8)

“What on Earth...” whispered Millie, who was clutching my arm as if clutching arms might be about to go out of fashion.

The scream, the very high pitched intensity of it, at first seemed to come from every direction at once, and then, through the crowds, I saw Dakota, hands clutching her head and mouth so wide open it looked as if it might dislocate, and she was running from an area behind the disc jockey, who, for some reason, had left his turn tables unattended.

Stranger on the Shore, the old Acker Bilk classic, was playing quietly as men and women dressed in all manner of weird and wonderful outfits still wandered in from the street and those already there were either standing in small groups, or dancing slowly.

I rushed towards Dakota, who was sobbing by then, her eyes moist and red with tears.

“What is it?” I asked, and then I saw.

Lying face down on the earth beyond the music station and as still as only a corpse can be was a Roman Soldier, dressed identically to myself, and the hilt of a dagger jutting from the back of his hauberk told its own story.

That Roman soldier was probably dead. Murdered. And in a place where murders never happen, surrounded by folk whose only notion of such crimes was via television repeats of Morse.

Dakota saw me and flung her arms round me, her eyes betraying a complete lack of understanding.

“It’s all right,” I whispered to her, knowing that it wasn’t, but what else could I say?

“He’s … dead...” she whispered.

“Someone phone for an ambulance, and the police!” I shouted, “and quick!” Half a dozen mobile phones appeared out of half a dozen pockets, and I turned my attention to the Roman soldier lying prone on the freshly dug soil.

“Police?” came a voice, “I’m here.”

It was Police Constable Oliver Crunch doing his best to look like a female scarecrow and not really succeeding. But that was beside the point.

“Quick, Crunchy,” I hissed, “get the folks to stand back and leave the area free for the forensic boys.”

He could see straight away what I meant because there was a general thrust of inquisitive and probably ghoulish onlookers moving towards the scene.

“Friends,” he called, using his gruffest and most threatening voice, “stand back, please. There’s nothing to see...”

That was a downright lie, but what else could he say? That someone had suffered the indignity of having a dagger thrust into his back? Of course not!

There was a rapid response from the emergency services as, distant at first and like a whisper in the air, but getting louder by the moment, the sirens of police cars cut through the air, followed swiftly by that of an ambulance.

There was a period of confusion as police officers took charge, and it was just as well that they were alert because one of them called out “I’ve got a pulse! Not much of one, but it’s here!”

A team of two paramedics from the ambulance took over and confirmed that the Roman soldier was still alive and in a huddle of practised activity they stabilized him and had him in the ambulance as swiftly as they could. Meanwhile, a powerful lamp was set up, illuminating the immediate vicinity of the crime as scene of crime officers began a microscopic search of the area.

“Any idea who it was?” asked Oliver, already out of his scaregirl costume and looking more like the policeman that he was. He looked at me and shook his head. “At first I thought it was you,” he confessed, “in that Roman outfit. Any idea who else was in the same get-up?”

I nodded. “Todd,” I said, “Todd Anderson, the bloke who does gardening on the gardens here.”

“Do you think it was him?” he asked.

“If there were only two of us, then probably,” I said, “but I got the impression from Jeffery there might have been a whole army of Romans when we were talking about it.”

“There’s Rosalind over there, pointed Millie, who’d never been more than a yard away from me, “look, in her wheelchair.”

Rosalind was Todd’s handicapped wife and I decided to make sure she was all right and discover whether the victim already on his way to hospital was Todd or not, and praying that it wasn’t. That’s the trouble with uniforms. They’re designed so that those wearing them are as close to being indistinguishable from each other as possible.

She looked up at me as I approached her, and I could tell from the expression on her face that she was troubled.

“Have you seen Todd?” she asked, “when I saw you coming towards me at first I thought you were Todd.

“Same outfit, different blokes,” I said, “but Rosalind, how long is it since you saw him?”

“There was a lass screaming,” she said, slowly, “and it was soon after that. He went off to see what was going on. Said he wouldn’t be a minute, but since then all hell’s been let loose, there are police and blue lights everywhere and I don’t know where he is.”

“So you saw him after Dakota screamed?” I asked.

She nodded. “That was why he left me right here,” she whispered, “what’s going on, Roger? What’s all the fuss about?”

“Someone’s been murdered,” I said, “someone dressed in a Roman get up like me.”

“And Todd,” she said, “dressed like Todd … oh Roger, it wasn’t Todd, was it?”

“I didn’t see his face, but no, it can’t have been if he was with you right here before he went away to see what the screaming was all about,” I assured her.

Sir Jeffery had decided that hiding away in his office was infra dig, and had emerged into the darkness of early evening. He’d heard the sounds of chaos from the luxury of his old arm chair, sighed to himself, and slowly made his way down the flights of stairs to investigate.

He came up to me, in the company, I’m happy to say, of the missing Todd Anderson.

“At first I thought Todd was you,” he said, “but then I heard that someone dressed like him had been attacked and I feared that it might be you! Thank goodness it isn’t, that’s all I can say.”

“It’s serious, Jeffrey,” I said quietly, “and young Dakota had quite a fright. You’d best see to her while I try to find out exactly who had that blade stuck in him, and why.”

“Okay,” he said, and he pulled his daughter close to him. “Tell me what happened, Dakota?” he said to her as he took her away from the noise of the crowds and towards the Manor House.

It was then that I saw them.

The two men who’d been at the station. The two who had drawn my attention to them because they reminded of some of the sleaze-bags I’d known during my career as an investigative journalist. And suddenly, in a burst of enlightenment I knew where I’d seen them before.

I looked around for the nearest policeman because this was important, these men were up to no good, but a sudden and very unexpected blow to my head stole my senses from me and for a few moments I knew no more.

© Peter Rogerson 24.07.20