by James Runcie
Inspector Keating commandeered the theatre manager’s office and went through the list of official suspects on a blackboard.
Marcus Brutus: Simon Hackford, auctioneer and art dealer
Cassius: Frank Blackwood, engineer
Decius Brutus: Hector Kirby, butcher
Metellus: Stan Headley, blacksmith
Cinna: Michel Morel, le patron, Le Bistro Bleu Blanc Rouge, Mill Road
Casca: Clive Morton, solicitor
Ligarius: Tom Rogerson, stationmaster, British Rail
Trebonius: Mike Standing, businessman
Inspector Keating briefed his men. ‘According to the coroner’s preliminary examination Lord Teversham was stabbed between the chest and the stomach with a single blow which twisted first to the left and then to the right. He suggests a short blade, three or four inches in length. It must have been sharp as the wound was clean and deep. To disguise a stage dagger and conceal its sharpness would take skill. All the knives used in the production were put back on the prop table after the murder. There are no missing stage weapons and they are all blunt, retractable and safe. The real weapon has disappeared. We need to find it.’
PC Roger Wilson asked a question. ‘An additional knife?’
‘Possibly disguised as a stage weapon.’
Wilson continued. ‘We are assuming, then, that the murderer would be some kind of expert . . .’
‘It seems likely but . . .’
‘Which means the butcher, the chef and the blacksmith?’
‘They would be obvious suspects. At the same time we must establish a motive. Why would Hector Kirby, for example, a butcher, want to kill Lord Teversham? Why would a French chef? It doesn’t make sense. We need to ask each man where he struck his blow, find out any inconsistencies and proceed from there . . .’
‘Can we rule any of them out?’ Sidney asked. ‘We know that the actors playing Ligarius and Trebonius did not stab Caesar at all and were nowhere near his body. Furthermore, Clive Morton, who played Casca, stabbed Lord Teversham in the back.’
‘Very well, but he still had a weapon, Sidney.’
‘I do think that after we have taken their statements we can probably discount Mike Standing and Tom Rogerson.’
Inspector Keating took out his blackboard duster and rubbed the names away. ‘Very well. That would still leave six main suspects, all of whom were known to the victim. Clive Morton was his lawyer, Simon Hackford dealt with his art, Stan Headley sorted out his horses, Hector Kirby provided his meat, Le Bistro Bleu Blanc Rouge was his favourite restaurant, and Frank Blackwood was father to his personal assistant. They all knew the victim, and any one of them could have had a grievance. We have to find out what that was, and who had the nerve to risk committing such a public crime.’
The interviewing strategy was agreed, tasks were allotted and the actors were asked for their statements. Those who had not been on stage at the time of the murder were questioned first and allowed to leave. Actors playing the conspirators were given a more thorough investigation.
The police began with Derek Jarvis. He was attempting to remain calm. ‘If I’d known they were going to start murdering each other I would have put them all in togas,’ he complained. ‘There would be so much more evidence. I should have thought about it in advance, I suppose, but you can hardly expect something like this to happen.’
‘Was there any tension between members of the cast in rehearsal?’ Inspector Keating asked.
‘There’s always tension. Lord Teversham certainly made a meal of everything and he never listened to what anyone else was saying. It’s a pity I cast him but I thought he had the right gravitas.’
‘Did you witness the death?’
‘Of course. I was watching from the front. It was as if I had directed the whole thing.’
‘And you saw nothing unusual?’
‘No. It unfolded like a nightmare:
“Between the acting of a dreadful thing
And the first motion, all the interim is
Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream . . .”
Who would have thought the play should be so apt? You could almost think I had chosen it deliberately.’
‘I’m sure it’s not your fault.’
‘I provided an opportunity. It will be on my conscience.’
‘Then let us help ease it by finding the person responsible. I am going to need all your help on this, Jarvis.’
‘We’re going to need each other,’ the coroner replied, looking at Sidney. ‘And we’ll have to be at the top of our game because I think whoever did this must have been planning it for weeks.’
Keating leaned forward, with both hands resting on the table. ‘You mean he could have joined the cast specifically in order to murder Lord Teversham?’
‘It is a possibility.’
Sidney thought this through. ‘Someone who has never appeared in amateur theatricals before?’
Keating snapped. ‘I don’t think he means you.’
The coroner left to make preparations for the post-mortem and the investigators turned their attention to Clive Morton, the local solicitor, who had played Casca. He had changed into his usual blazer and flannelled trousers. ‘I don’t know why you need to ask me any questions,’ he began. ‘I stabbed him in the back. Lord Teversham fell forwards and the others did the rest. I can hardly be a suspect.’
‘We are not saying that you are,’ Keating replied. ‘But perhaps you saw something else?’
‘It’s hard to think. We are all shocked. It must have happened so fast. We were at it hammer and tongs. Derek Jarvis told us that in order to get into the mood we should remember the war and imagine that Lord Teversham was a Nazi who had killed our children. That certainly did the trick.’
‘Did you get carried away?’
‘I admit that I stabbed him a couple more times for effect. I wanted to be seen to be doing something.’
‘And did you notice anything else? A real blade, blood, anyone acting suspiciously?’
‘We were all acting suspiciously, Inspector, if you can call it acting. That was the point.’
‘And can you think of anyone who might want to kill Lord Teversham?’
‘No one at all.’
‘You were his lawyer?’
‘I was.’
‘And you have heard or seen nothing untoward; either on stage or off?’
‘I am afraid I have not. I suppose, when the time comes, you will probably want to have a look at the will.’
‘The time has come, Mr Morton.’
‘Then I will bring it to you first thing tomorrow morning, which is almost upon us. Do you think I could go?’
‘Provided you come to the station in the morning.’
‘I am at your service.’
Inspector Keating summoned Michel Morel, the French chef, a thin, vain man who was wearing a black polo-necked jumper under his suit. ‘In France this does not happen,’ he began. ‘We are careful in our passions. When people are angry they drink some wine and they find another woman. We do not kill each other like this. It is not good. Have you discovered the correct knife?’
‘All the stage weapons have been returned. They are blunt.’
The chef was unsurprised. ‘Of course. They would be of no use in a murder.’
‘Could any of them have been modified or replaced?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because you deal with knives every day. Have any of yours gone missing recently?’
‘I do not think so.’
‘Have you trained anyone in the use of knives?’ Inspector Keating asked.
‘No one who was in the play. I have a sous-chef, Gavin, but he is Scottish and he hates the theatre. He was cooking that night. We had many customers. But, of course, we always need more. It is one reason why I was taking part. I have to persuade more people to come and eat at my restaurant.’
‘What did you think of the stage knives you were given?’
‘They were to
ys. They were short and no good. We painted them black.’
‘You did not see the flash of a blade under the lights?’
‘I thought it was a reflection or a mirror.’
‘So you might have seen something?’
‘In the middle of it all I saw a glint, I think. Is that the word?’
‘In the middle of the assassination? You are sure? Not at the beginning or the end?’
‘No. It was before my turn. Not after.’
‘And who was holding the knife?’
‘I cannot tell. It was quick – like the back of a fish in a river. You see it and it is gone.’
‘But it was not at the very beginning?’
‘No. I do not think so. Not the first or the second person.’
‘You are sure?’
‘It was very fast. But I think so.’
‘You could not have imagined it?’
‘I always tell the truth. I am a man of honour.’
The inspector turned to Sidney. If what Michel Morel was saying were correct, then that would rule out Clive Morton.
‘How well did you know Lord Teversham?’ Sidney asked.
‘He was one of my best customers.’
‘How often did he come and who did who did he come with?’
‘They were business meetings. First with Mr Hackford but not recently not so much; they argue, I think.’
‘You saw them do this?’
‘Of course.’
‘What were they arguing about?’
‘They talk about paintings and money. It was last year. Then Lord Teversham comes with a different man.’
‘Ben Blackwood?’
‘Bien sûr. Now they include me more. Lord Teversham is happier. They talk to me about art. We have a little joke. I say the French are always best; David, not Gainsborough, Poussin not Constable, Rodin not Henry Moore. They were amused that I know so much. But most of the time, you must remember, I am in the kitchen. I say hello and goodbye. I do not have the time to listen. Mr Blackwood came once with your beautiful friend, Canon Chambers.’
‘My friend? You mean Miss Kendall?’
Inspector Keating interrupted. ‘Where did you stab Lord Teversham?’
‘I was to the left. I stab him in the guts. I ask if I can do this. More passionate.’
‘I don’t think this murder is about passion.’
‘You do not think so?’
‘These were all men.’
‘You do not think men can have passions with each other?’
‘It’s not considered decent in this country.’
‘Sometimes passion is deeper than we think, Inspector. People have feelings. Even in the police, I am sure . . .’
Inspector Keating was in no mood for insinuation and cut short the interrogation. ‘That will be all, thank you very much. We are not here to discuss the feelings of my officers.’
Once Michel Morel had left, Keating rose from his chair and started to pace around the room. ‘I think that chef saw more than he was letting on . . .’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Sidney. ‘I rather liked him.’
‘We’ll have to sound him out again. Perhaps you could go to his restaurant.’
‘He must wonder why he ever came to England.’
‘He’s never going to make any money,’ Keating continued. ‘I looked at the menu in the window. Who is going to eat snails? Or artichoke? As soon as you’ve peeled the leaves off there’s nothing left. We don’t like waste in this country, and I don’t like him wasting my time.’
‘He was teasing you, Inspector, but I can’t believe he is a murderer. Who have we got next?’
‘Frank Blackwood.’
‘Ben’s father?’
‘Not the most restful of people to be interviewing in the middle of the night. We had better call him in. Offer him some tea while you’re at it.’
Such thoughtfulness was not appreciated. ‘I’m sick of bloody tea,’ Frank Blackwood began. Sidney had always thought that he had been miscast. He was too bulky to have the lean and hungry look the part of Cassius demanded. In fact, thought Sidney, his son might have been better. ‘I’ve had nothing but bloody tea all night,’ Frank complained. ‘What do I have to do to get a decent drink round here?’
‘I saw you giving your son some brandy,’ Sidney observed.
‘He’s taken my hipflask and drunk the lot, most likely. I needed it for a bit of Dutch courage, not that the Dutch make any brandy as far as I am aware.’
‘You were nervous?’ Sidney asked.
‘Of course. I’ve never acted in a play before.’
‘Then why did you agree to take part?’
‘Ben was in it and I thought it might be a lark. I quite fancied meeting an actress. Although I didn’t realise how few women were in it. They should have done a musical.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Keating. ‘Or a panto.’
‘The woman playing Calpurnia’s all right. I’ve had a few chats with her, even if she is more crackers than biscuit. What do you want to know?’
Inspector Keating began. ‘Can you tell me how you killed Lord Teversham?’
‘I didn’t. Or is that a trick question?’
‘At the moment we are trying to establish who stabbed Lord Teversham when, where and in what order. Could you remind us of your movements leading up to the murder?’
‘I was on stage. Lord Teversham was on my left . . .’
‘And you stabbed him with your right hand?’ Keating asked. ‘Whereabouts?’
‘In the chest. That’s where I was told to do it. I was to go second so the old man fell forward before Hector did the stomach so the blood came out. Then the others followed.’
Sidney joined in once more. He wished he had more of a photographic memory. ‘And what did you do with your knife afterwards?’
‘I threw it on the floor. We all did.’
‘And then you stood back?’ Keating asked.
‘That was the idea. It’s terrible that it took us so long to notice that something was wrong but that’s what happens when you all wear black. Someone might have been able to save him.’
‘You weren’t shocked when you realised what had happened?’
‘Of course I was shocked. It’s murder.’
‘And you saw nothing suspicious?’
‘Nothing. No one can believe what’s happened. You don’t expect this kind of thing, do you?’
Inspector Keating began writing down a few notes but Frank Blackwood had had enough. ‘Do you think I can go now?’ he asked. ‘I’ve got a seven o’clock start and I need to be at the factory for the men. You can always find me at the works.’
Sidney stood up to open the door and stretch his legs. He wondered how much longer they were going to take. There were just a few people left to interview. The situation had been so confused and it was difficult to think it through when everyone was so tired. He needed to sleep, wake refreshed and then make some notes, recalling everything he had seen during rehearsals. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the movements of everyone on stage during the performance.
‘Last one for now, I think,’ Inspector Keating announced. ‘Simon Hackford of Willows Farm. Art dealer, auctioneer and former business associate. I hope you’re not falling asleep, Sidney?’
‘Not at all. I was thinking.’
‘I hope productively?’
Sidney was not sure that he was. His thoughts had roamed from the question of dignity and status in the play – ‘Set honour in one eye and death i’the other’ – to the idea of reputation in general. Could there be a clue here?
The presiding ethic of the aristocracy was to be noble; and yet, perhaps Lord Teversham, in some aspect of his life, had lacked nobility and fallen short? But where? Could it be in his financial dealings, in his personal relationships, or in the management of his estate? Where might such a gentle man have behaved dishonourably? Sidney would have to talk to those who had been closest to him.
S
imon Hackford, Lord Teversham’s former business associate, had been waiting for three hours and was in no mood for a close examination. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he began. ‘How can I possibly have committed this crime?’
Inspector Keating looked to Sidney to calm the situation. ‘You were playing the part of Brutus. The last man to strike,’ he said, ‘and therefore the most important. Can you remember how much stage blood there was on his costume before you struck the blow?’
‘It was all over the place . . .’
‘So you did not need to puncture the sachet?’
‘I did not.’
‘And where did you strike him?’
‘In the heart. I had to pull Dominic’s head back from his slumped and stabbed position with my right hand. Then he was to look me in the eye and say: “Et tu, Brute?” I stabbed him on the nearside left, the same side as his heart, so the audience could see us both. After I had done this he was to say “Then fall, Caesar”; but by the time I lifted him up he was already limp and half-dead and I couldn’t keep him upright.’
‘You think he was already wounded?’
‘I do now: although I didn’t think so at the time. I thought he was just over-acting. The director told him that he should be as passive as Jesus and that this would be a Christ-like moment. I was supposed to hold him by the hair at the back of his head and let him stand centre-stage with the conspirators in a semicircle around him. It was a version of the Last Supper, I suppose, and Caesar was then meant to open his arms, as if he had the stigmata, and fall forward, only turning on to his side at the last minute. But as soon as I let go of his body he just crumpled.’
‘Why did it take people so long to realise what had happened?’
‘Because we thought that Dominic was having his great moment. It didn’t occur to any of us that he was paying for the performance with his life.’
