Agatha Christie Investigates Omnibus

by Alison Joseph

  ‘Of course, ma’am,’ the clerk had said. ‘What shall it say?’

  Agatha prepared the words. ‘Accept kind offer of view of body stop. Research stop.’

  The words were taken. The clerk, a short, grey haired man in a stiff white collar, eyed her but said nothing.

  ‘…I expect you’re always viewing dead bodies, Mrs Christie…’

  On this occasion, the chairman of the Driscoll Institute was right.

  And even after all that, she was still early for her train.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Agatha peered down at the clay-grey skin, the eyes not quite shut, now ghostly slits of white.

  ‘You can see the contusions,’ the mortuary technician said.

  Agatha straightened up, her eyes still fixed on the trolley, the incomprehensible stillness of death.

  ‘Dead bodies,’ the technician said. ‘Some people can’t stand it. As from dust did you come…’ His voice was cheery. He flicked his thatch of blond hair away from his round, young face. ‘I’ve always found those words rather comforting.’ He looked down at Alexei. ‘We’ll all end up like this one day.’

  ‘But not having been bashed on the head.’

  He tapped his cheek. ‘Ah, you’re right there, Mrs Christie.’ He pointed downwards. ‘The bruising’s still very clear.’

  She could see patches of red on the skin, discoloured into faded blue. She bent to look at his right temple, then his left.

  They stood under a strip of bright white light. Beyond them, the chill, clean shelves threw angular shadows.

  ‘He still looks like he did in life,’ Agatha said.

  The young man looked down again. ‘They do, sometimes. Depends how they died. But this was pretty sharpish I’d say. Both the bruises are pretty clear.’

  ‘Both?’

  ‘One where the rail landed, see, on the right-hand side of his head there, and then of course, here, where he hit the floor, there’s bruising there too. It’s difficult to see, with all this discoloration where the blood has drained downwards.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have suffered. We always say that to the relatives, but in this case it’s true. An instant death. And anyway, there aren’t any relatives. No one seems to have missed the poor blighter. Only one who cared about him is in the next fridge. And there’s nothing to say she’d have missed him either, from what the inspector says.’

  Agatha thought about the theatre troupe, their range of responses to the deaths. Stefan with his company loyalty and sense of injustice. Alicia, maternal but professional. Georgie oddly detached, hardly caring at all, although his rage at Alexei seemed to be only just beneath the surface. Sian Harries had been genuinely upset, the only one to shed tears. She had also had that tendency to giggle, Agatha had noted, but perhaps that was nerves, a response to the shock and tragedy of the two killings. And then there was Luca Belotti, who seemed to have only one concern, and that was his own act onstage.

  ‘Seen enough, have we?’ The technician interrupted her thoughts.

  ‘Oh, er – yes, of course.’ She hesitated, gazing down at the smooth, discoloured face.

  ‘Obviously, there’ll be a more detailed report ready for the judiciary,’ the technician said.

  She turned towards the door. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said.

  ‘Not at all, Mrs Christie. Only too happy to help a writer in their work.’ He pulled the sheet over Alexei’s face, signalled to a colleague that the body was ready to go back in the fridge.

  They walked back side by side to the reception.

  ‘The name’s Booth,’ he said.

  ‘Oh—’

  ‘For the acknowledgments,’ he said. ‘Daniel Booth.’

  ‘For—’

  ‘In your novel. That’s what people do isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh – I’m not sure this will go directly into the next book…’

  ‘Whenever you like, Mrs Christie. I’ll look out for it. And here’s the inspector – he’d better go in too or there’ll be trouble.’

  ‘Trouble, Mr Booth?’

  ‘I was just saying, Inspector, how these writers ought to put the likes of us into the acknowledgements, don’t you know?’

  Inspector Joyce laughed. ‘Mrs Christie here sees no relationship between fact and fiction, she tells me. Despite her extensive knowledge of poisoning…’

  ‘I wanted to ask you,’ she began. ‘Talking of poisoning.’

  Mr Booth doffed his cap and went back into the mortuary.

  ‘What did you want to know?’ The inspector paused by the large swing door with its heavy brass rail. He lit a cigar, puffing slowly as it began to glow.

  ‘I gather that Cosmina was drugged and then strangled.’

  He gave a nod.

  ‘Do you have any idea about the timing of the drugging?’

  He sighed. ‘Our tests are inconclusive. The post-mortem showed a sedative had been administered, some kind of opiate, and the strangulation marks concur with this, in that she doesn’t appear to have put up much of a fight.’

  ‘She was offered a cocktail,’ Agatha said. ‘Of which she took a few sips.’

  His gaze was sharp. ‘A cocktail, you say? When was this?’

  ‘It must have been about twenty minutes before curtain up, maybe half an hour. The girls came to join our party briefly, before they went backstage.’

  He took a notebook from his breast pocket and scribbled into it, his cigar balanced at the corner of his lips. ‘We have another lead.’ He tucked the notebook into his pocket. ‘A cup of tea was brought to her in the interval by Mr Belotti,’ he said. ‘He told us it was his habit to bring tea to some of the cast, and he’d brought a cup to Cosmina. He said he knew that she liked to have three sugars in her “curtain-up cup”, as she called it, when usually she took no sugar at all.’

  ‘Mr Belotti?’ Agatha considered this.

  ‘It’s a question of how long an opiate such as this would take to work. My view is, it would have had to be administered quite late on.’

  Agatha gave a nod. ‘You mean, not at the start of the performance?’

  ‘She’d have been too sleepy to dance,’ he said.

  ‘They were on first, remember,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’ His cigar had gone out. He took it from his mouth, studied it. ‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘And of course, the problem is, anyone present in the theatre at the time would have had the opportunity to administer the poison, should they have wanted to. Well…’ he looked up at her with a brief smile. ‘You and I might both have our theories, Mrs Christie. All I can say is, my team is hard at work. We’ll have to see what they say.’ He held the door open for her. ‘I bid you good morning.’ He raised his hat and went on his way.

  *

  She sat on the bus, thinking about poisons. ‘People want to be fooled,’ Mr Belotti had said.

  Luca Belotti, who had carried a carefully sugared cup of tea to Cosmina’s dressing room.

  Or was it earlier on, a laughing Isabella, passing her a martini?

  The inspector may agree that the fictional world bears no relation to real life. But even real life can turn out to be rather unlikely, with parrots who sing regimental songs and American lawyers called Hiram J. Beckenbauer.

  The bus stopped at Piccadilly Circus. She joined the lunchtime crowds, made her way to the theatre. As she walked through the sunlit streets, she was aware of a thought taking shape, a niggling doubt at the back of her mind. A new layer to dig, as Patrick might have said.

  She wondered how he was. She hoped they were treating him well.

  A man like that, locked away in a cell, with the very real likelihood that he would be charged with murder. To believe he had really killed Alexei, one would have to believe that his passions were capable of carrying him so far that he would want the man dead.

  It is not beyond the bounds of possibility, she thought.

  *

  Georgie was standing in the foyer. ‘Mrs Christie. How
good to see you. How was the show in Cardiff?’

  ‘It was a literary dinner, Mr Carmichael.’

  ‘It’s all show business, Mrs Christie.’ He smiled, performed his little two-step dance. She was once again struck by his good humour. ‘Full house tonight,’ he said. ‘Though I might be able to squeeze you in.’

  ‘I don’t need tickets for tonight,’ she said. ‘But there is one thing you might do for me.’

  ‘Oh, and what’s that?’

  ‘I wondered if we might go onstage and have a look at the drop rail, and see where Alexei fell.’

  He threw her a sharp glance, then seemed to collect himself. ‘By all means, Mrs Christie.’ His voice was warm. ‘Now’s a good time, they’re all having lunch. Come with me.’

  At the stage door he turned to her. ‘Research for a book, perhaps?’

  She smiled at him. ‘Perhaps,’ she said.

  He gave a bow, opened the door, ushered her through in front of him.

  *

  ‘So—’ Georgie was gazing upwards into the distant heights of the roof. ‘The batten was between those two there, you can see the gap.’ He pointed.

  Agatha craned her neck, stared into the shadows.

  ‘And Patrick would have had to loosen these ropes here—’ He strode to the side. They were alone on the stage, Georgie’s voice echoing across the bare boards, into the deserted wings. ‘And then, as Alexei was standing – here—’ Georgie took up a position just left of the centre stage – ‘he’d have let the cords out.’ Something caught his eye, and he took a few steps to the back wall. ‘Now this—’ He appeared holding Luca’s ventriloquist’s dummy in a ballroom hold, twirled a few steps with it. ‘We can use this to show the position of the deceased—’

  ‘Oh no you don’t.’ The voice was loud, male and London-accented. Luca had appeared from nowhere, and was now crossing the stage, holding out his hands to retrieve his Paco.

  ‘Mrs Christie here wants her re-enactment,’ Georgie said, with a broad smile. ‘Don’t you worry, Belotti, we’ll whisk your friend away at the last minute—’

  ‘Is this a joke, Carmichael? Because it ain’t a very good one.’ Luca was standing, pent with anger.

  Georgie stood his ground. Then, after a moment, he handed Paco to Luca.

  ‘Thank you.’ Luca was unsmiling, holding the dummy to his chest. ‘You want to experiment with death, you can do it yourself.’ He turned and crossed the stage.

  Georgie stared after him, his face still fixed with rage.

  ‘Mr Carmichael,’ Agatha began. ‘I’m sure we can get a sense of things without risking any harm to anyone, dummy or not.’

  Georgie suddenly strode over to the ropes, unhooked one of them and let go. With a swishing, rushing noise, the drop batten crashed to the floor.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘That’s where our friend met his end.’ He pointed at the middle of the stage.

  Agatha gazed downwards at the heavy brass rail which now lay across the wooden boards.

  Luca was staring at the rail. He raised his eyes. A glance of pure hatred flashed between the two men.

  ‘Could—’ she began, walking around the stage. ‘Could the rail have landed any other way?’

  Georgie looked at her. He shook his head. ‘If he was standing here, poor love… then – no. Look – it came loose just there – and landed bang on there.’

  She glanced at the stage, then looked out front towards the stalls.

  ‘It’s just—’

  ‘Just what?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said.

  Luca had gone to sit on the steps, still cradling his dummy on his lap.

  ‘Well…’ She took a step towards the stairs.

  Georgie gazed at the fallen rail. ‘We are but cogs in the machine,’ he said. ‘We are but players, acting out our own fragmented destinies. After all, this is real life. It has none of the neatness of make-believe.’

  She wondered if she was being teased, but he had stepped towards the fallen rail and was now busy hoisting it back into its ropes.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘As if it hasn’t happened.’ He turned to her and offered his arm. ‘Allow me, madam. The steps are treacherous from here.’

  She leaned on his arm as he led her down from the stage and into the stalls. Behind them, Luca stroked Paco’s head. She glanced back to see him jump to his feet, still cradling the dummy. He walked slowly to the wings, sat Paco back on his chair.

  *

  Out in the foyer, Agatha turned to Georgie. ‘I have another question,’ she said.

  He was holding the door open for her. ‘Madam, I am all ears.’

  ‘When you argued with Alexei – in Wales…’

  ‘Oh, these fights, this temperament, these emotional beings that are dancers…’ he gave a theatrical sigh.

  ‘It was about his citizenship,’ she said.

  His smile died on his lips.

  ‘About the fact he’d come from New York—’

  ‘He’d lied.’ Georgie’s tone was aggrieved. ‘He could have been from anywhere – but it was the pretence that ruffled my feathers, madam. Wasn’t it, Sian?’ He turned to Sian and Stefan who’d appeared in the foyer. ‘Hiram J. Beckenbauer,’ he said.

  Agatha stared at him. ‘Did you say—?’

  ‘Hiram J. Beckenbauer,’ Georgie said again, and Sian giggled.

  ‘He’d told me he was American,’ Georgie said. ‘And then it turned out he’d not managed to sort out the papers. He was stateless.’

  ‘But—’ Agatha leaned one arm against the door frame. ‘Hiram J. Beckenbauer…? How on earth did you…I mean, that name…’ She caught her breath.

  Georgie looked at Sian. ‘It was her idea.’

  Sian laughed. ‘It was just a name I’d heard of when I was a kid,’ she said. ‘It was a joke, wasn’t it? Only lawyer I’d ever heard of, and that’s just because my aunt would go on about him, back in Pontypridd, how he was in New York, how he would see her right after her sister stole her money or something. It was a joke between me and my sister, going back years. I only suggested it to Alexei ’cos he was the only American lawyer I’d ever heard of. And then it turned out he only knew about wills and couldn’t help him anyway.’ She gave her little giggle. ‘But Mr Carmichael, you were that angry with him, weren’t you?’

  Georgie’s face had clouded. ‘He’d told me he was American. And it wasn’t true.’

  ‘So—’ Agatha was still leaning against the door frame. Her mind was racing. ‘So…’ she began, turning to him again. ‘The question of Alexei’s American citizenship was never resolved?’

  Georgie gave a shrug. ‘Madam, I didn’t give tuppence where he’d come from. He could have been from Skegness, from Kazakhstan, from the moon – it was the fact he didn’t trust me with the truth.’

  ‘But you kept his secrets,’ Agatha said. ‘His statelessness. And his wedding.’

  Georgie looked at her. His expression darkened. Sian and Stefan also glanced at him, then at each other.

  ‘A wedding?’ Stefan began.

  ‘They were married?’ Sian stared at her.

  ‘There were rumours,’ Stefan said. ‘That day they disappeared, do you remember?’ he turned to Sian.

  Agatha faced Georgie. ‘You knew,’ she said.

  He found his voice. ‘A company manager has to keep his children’s secrets—’

  ‘You knew?’ Sian turned to Georgie.

  ‘But—’ Stefan was staring at the boards at his feet, and now raised his eyes to Agatha. ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘When I was in Cardiff,’ Agatha said. ‘I had a look at the register of marriages in the Public Record Office there.’

  ‘Ah, the novelist’s taste for research, Mrs Christie.’ Georgie smiled with his showman’s pretence.

  Stefan’s gaze was fixed on Agatha. ‘But it’s still difficult to believe,’ he went on. ‘Given how much Cosmina hated him.’

  Agatha faced them all. ‘The thing is – he didn’t marry Cosmina
. He married Alicia.’

  All three of them stood stock still, stunned into silence.

  ‘Alicia…’ Sian’s voice was a whisper of shock.

  ‘Surely not—’ Stefan was frowning.

  ‘Look—’ Agatha drew out of her bag the marriage certificate that the clerk had so carefully written out for her.

  Georgie snatched at it, read it, showed it to the others.

  ‘Alicia…’ Sian whispered, again.

  Georgie held the certificate. ‘All I knew was that Alexei had told me he’d got married. I assumed—’ Georgie’s smile had faded altogether – ‘I assumed it would have been Cosmina.’

  ‘But – but why?’ Sian was pale, her hand resting on the back of a chair.

  ‘Presumably—’ Stefan stroked his chin, ‘to get the right to stay in this country.’

  ‘But it makes no sense,’ Sian said. ‘Alicia’s made it quite plain she wants to marry Hywel.’

  Stefan was standing still and upright, and now gave a graceful turn of his head as realization dawned. ‘You mean – now she’s free to marry Hywel.’

  They all looked at each other.

  A hush settled between them.

  ‘What shall we do?’ Sian looked at Stefan.

  ‘Do?’ Georgie’s voice was assertive again. ‘Why, dear children, we do nothing. This company is shaky enough at the moment. There is nothing to be done.’

  Sian looked at him but said nothing.

  ‘They could both have killed him. Loosened that rail,’ Stefan said. ‘If they really wanted him out of the way, and they knew suspicion would fall elsewhere.’

  ‘But…’ Georgie was frowning, tapping the floor with his foot. ‘That man, that friend of Miss Maynard’s—’

  ‘Patrick,’ Agatha said.

  ‘He was the only one there,’ Georgie said.

  ‘This wedding. Who else would know about it?’ Stefan looked at Sian. ‘Would Madlen know?’

  Sian shook her head. ‘She’d gone by then. And anyway, she’d have told me.’

  ‘When she comes,’ Stefan said. He looked around the group. ‘When she gets here, we can ask her.’

  Georgie turned to Sian. ‘When does that ship of hers dock?’

  Sian’s face brightened. ‘Tonight,’ she said.