by Roger Keevil
“He'll be back downstairs in the Green Room if you want him, sir,” said Copper.
“I think I'll be wanting all of them,” replied Constable. “You've seen them – I haven't, and I'd quite like to form my own impressions. So we'll head back downstairs and see what else there is to be discovered.” As he re-entered the corridor, he noticed a further door, almost hidden in the shadows, at the opposite end to where they had entered. “And where does that go, I wonder.”
Copper opened it and poked his head through. “Top of another staircase, sir,” he reported, and descended a few steps. “Looks like it's the top of the stairs which the audiences use to get to the circle, but there's a rope barrier at the bottom of this flight to stop them coming up,” he called. “Oh, and there's another thing,” he said, reappearing in the doorway. “There's a keypad on the lock this side – obviously you need to know the code to get through. Keeps out the unauthorised. Oh, hello!” He bent to pick up a bright yellow item from the dusty corner at the foot of the door. “It's a cable-tie, guv – it looks as if they've put it though these brackets here on the door and the frame to stop the door being opened from outside anyway.”
“And,” noticed Constable, “two things – first, it's nice and clean, so it doesn't look as if it's been lying down there amongst all the muck for very long, and two, it's very neatly sliced through. Not so much of a security precaution, wouldn't you say? Well, bag it anyway – try not to get too many more of your prints on it, and we'll let SOCO have a look at it, just in case it means something. In the meantime, we'll go back down the way we came and see if there's any progress elsewhere.”
As the detectives passed back through the small door at the top of the backstage stairs, the sound of the sewing machine from the wardrobe department had been replaced by a rather shaky soprano warble in a rendering of a song almost recognisable as an Ivor Novello tune.
“Aha! The wardrobe mistress, no doubt,” deduced Constable. He listened for a moment. “And by the sound of it, no massive loss to the performance side of the business. But let's take the opportunity to pay her a call. It'll give the SOCO bods a few extra minutes to rootle out anything that may be lying around to be rootled.” He tapped on the door.
The singing stopped abruptly. “Yes?”
As Constable entered the room, it was to discover Angela Bailey sitting with an evening dress spread across her lap, busily wielding a needle and thread. Costumes on hangers were dotted about the room on rails, hooks on the wall, or hung over mirrors, while other items were piled haphazardly on chairs and an ironing board. Pairs of shoes, tied together by the laces, littered the floor. A tumble drier, its top stacked with a miscellany of hats, stood in one corner.
“Miss Bailey, isn't it?” Constable introduced himself. “And you've already met Sergeant Copper. And if I gather correctly from what he's told me, you may have some helpful information for us.”
“You'd better sit down, gentlemen – if you can find somewhere. Oh, just push some of those on to the floor.” Angela waved vaguely in the direction of some of the clothing heaped on chairs. “I'm sorry it's all such a mess in here – it's not usually like this. Normally I take the chance to get everything neatly sorted out and tidied away once everyone's safely on stage for dress rehearsal, but of course, what with all the horrible business of Stuart, I haven't had a chance. And I hope you don't mind, but I absolutely must get on and finish sewing this, or I shan't know where I am.”
The detectives obediently removed a pile of shirts and a box of mixed ties and scarves from two rather spindly bentwood chairs which had obviously seen better days, and cautiously lowered themselves on to them. “Now, Miss Bailey,” began Constable, “I'd obviously like your help in establishing the events of the day. And I was intrigued by the fact that apparently you mentioned something about 'washing dirty linen in public'. I wonder if you'd care to tell me exactly what you meant.”
Angela put a triumphant final stitch into her work and laid the dress aside. “Now the first thing I'll say, inspector, is that you won't get any idle gossip or tittle-tattle from me!” she asserted. “There's far too much of that sort of thing in theatre as it is. Mind you, not that some of them don't deserve it, the way they go on.”
“Oh?”
Constable's mild response seemed to encourage Angela to forget her intended discretion. “Now I'm not saying she had anything to do with anything, because you couldn't meet a nicer woman, but I'm surprised Elizabeth didn't put an end to Stuart Nelson years ago. And then there was the way he treated the backstage crew – you'd think they were something he'd stepped in. Even Delia sometimes, and they've known each other for years.”
“I remember she mentioned something to that effect, madam,” confirmed Copper. “Something about drama school.”
“Oh yes,” said Angela. “She trained to be an actress, you know, and they say she would have been really good, but for some reason she packed it all in. Heaven knows why. Well, some do. It's not a profession for the faint-hearted.”
“I'm rather more interested in the events of today, rather than the distant past, Miss Bailey,” commented Constable. “Perhaps you can tell us what you know about those.”
“Well, inspector, I can't tell you about the whole day, because I didn't get here until quite late. I got held up because I had to go to the cleaners to get Stuart's jacket. They'd tried out this gunshot business of Delia's yesterday ...” She broke off. “Oh, not a real shot, inspector – don't think that.”
“Mr. Mott has already explained to us about the shooting in the play, madam,” put in Copper.
“Oh. Good.” Angela seemed relieved. “Anyway, I think for some reason they'd put in an explosive charge that was too big, because there were stains all over the jacket front, as well as the pocket being almost blown off. So I had to rush down to the cleaners this morning first thing and get them to express-clean it, and it was all a panic, and they didn't really want to get it done by lunchtime but I managed to persuade them because it was for the theatre, and then I had to put a new pocket on the jacket, and fortunately I'd thought to take a spare with me so I was able to do it at the digs before I came out. But then it wouldn't go right, and I had to take it off and put it on again, so I didn't get here until just before they started technical rehearsal.” Angela's slightly breathless narrative created a firm impression of her somewhat chaotic existence.
“So, once you'd arrived at the theatre ...”
“I took the jacket straight up to Stuart's dressing room, and there he was on the stairs with Jessica backed into a corner, and he was saying 'I want you to give me a really good performance', and I thought 'Hmmm. That's not the first time he's used that line'.”
“And did Miss Davenport reply?”
“Not that I heard, inspector. She just looked at him. I was telling Don and David about it later, not that I'm one to talk, of course, and I said it's a wonder he doesn't get his face slapped, or worse. Anyway, I just dropped the jacket off in Stuart's room and came on up here to Wardrobe. And they started the tech soon after that.”
“Were you present for any of the events of the afternoon?” asked Constable. “I gather there may have been one or two incidents.”
“I spent most of the afternoon up here in my room, listening to everything on the loudspeakers while I was doing some odd bits and pieces of sewing,” replied Angela. “It's actually quite an easy show for me – not like some of these where I spend half my time in the wings getting people in and out of their costumes in a mad rush for their next entrance. No, there's only one quick change for Elizabeth in Act Two, and this afternoon wasn't a dress rehearsal anyway, so I wasn't going to go traipsing up and down all those stairs if I didn't have to. I just wish someone would tell me why it is they always put the Wardrobe right at the top of the theatre,” she remarked, in a slightly grumpy aside.
“So did you remain here the whole time?”
“Well, not the whole time, inspector. I sat up here most of the afternoon, list
ening with half an ear to what was going on – tech rehearsal isn't really that interesting, because it's mostly people shouting at other people about light and sound cues, or something happening with the scenery. Anyway, I could hear it was coming to an end, so I went down as they were finishing, just in time to catch the big row ...”
“Which we have already heard about from one of your colleagues,” said Constable.
“Oh, that's all right then – you won't need me to tell you what went on. But I thought, 'I'm not getting involved with all this nonsense', so I just quietly collected Stuart's jacket and brought it back upstairs to mend, ready for dress rehearsal.”
“But I assume you went back downstairs at some point, Miss Bailey?”
“Yes, of course, because I had to take Stuart's jacket back down to his dressing room. Now some people, especially the young ones, although you wouldn't think it, they'd take pity on my poor old bones and come up here and collect their costumes for themselves. Not Stuart Nelson. Oh no – far too grand, my dear.” A dismissive sniff. The detectives exchanged surreptitious looks. “Anyway, I went down just before half past six, just as Delia was coming out of the room with all her bits and pieces, which was perfect timing, because she said 'I've just put the new bullet pack in there ready for you', so I found it on Stuart's chair and put it into the jacket and plugged it in to the battery. And as soon as I'd done that, Stuart burst into the room holding the side of his face, and I was about to tell him that I'd sorted his costume out, but I thought 'Whoops! He doesn't look to me as if he's in the mood for a chat', so I nipped off double-quick just as Delia was going into Jessica's room along the corridor.”
Constable glanced across at Copper to see him busily scribbling. “Would that have been your last encounter, as it were, with Mr. Nelson?” he enquired.
“No, it wasn't, inspector. The last time I saw him was about a quarter of an hour later.”
“So around a quarter to seven?” asked Copper, beginning to look slightly fraught at the relentless flow of information.
“I suppose it must have been, sergeant. You see, I was taking Elizabeth Hamilton's costumes back to her room, because I'd had to do a few little alterations – silly me, really, because I could have taken them down at the same time as Stuart's and saved myself a trip, but you don't always think of these things at the time, do you? Anyway, just as I arrived outside her door, I heard her say 'You are responsible for that child', and then I knocked and she said 'Come in', and in I went and found Stuart standing there. I hadn't realised – I think I thought she was just going through some lines. But then there was a sort of heavy silence, and they were obviously waiting for me to go, so I just hung the costumes up and left.”
“And returned here?”
“That's right. And I'd just popped a batch of shirts and whatnot into the dryer about a quarter of an hour later when all the lights went funny, and I went through to David to see what was going on, and then we came downstairs together and found out what had happened. After that, I was down in the Green Room with all the others until you arrived, sergeant.”
*
“How's the writer's cramp coming along?” asked Andy Constable with a smile as the two detectives descended the stairs.
“Very nicely, thank you, sir,” responded Dave Copper with a mock grimace. “You know, there are times when I could do with being ambidextrous.”
“Taking a leaf out of Leonardo de Vinci's book, eh? Mind you, that probably wouldn't be the wisest course of action. He used to do mirror writing as well, and with your scrawl, it's difficult enough to read as it is. If you fell under a bus, it would be downright impossible for the rest of us to fathom out any of your notes.”
“I shall take great care crossing the road, sir,” grinned Copper. “I wouldn't want to make life any more difficult for you than I already do.”
“For this relief, much thanks,” quoted Constable. And in response to his junior colleague's quizzical look, “Don't worry – it's 'Hamlet', not The Scottish Play. I'm not trying to jinx the job. But no relief for you, I'm afraid. I think it's about time we caught up with all the other players – so to speak.” But his immediate intention was thwarted as, reaching the stage level, he was greeted by the head of the SOCO team who was just emerging through the door to the acting area.
“Oh, great, sir,” she said. “I was just coming to find you.”
“From which I deduce, Sergeant Singleton, that your time so far has not been wasted.”
“Not at all, sir.” she replied. “Far from it. In fact, if you'd like to come and take a look at what we've got to date, I've got things spread out on a table through here.” The officer led the way on to the stage where, in the wings, a pair of trestle tables stood. The former contents had been cleared into a heap to one end, leaving a clear space which bore several items encased in clear sealed plastic bags. “Apparently it's where the props are usually laid out.”
“Very appropriate,” commented Constable. “So, what props have been used in this particular drama?”
“We started out in the room where the dead man was found,” explained the Scene of Crime Officer. “Obviously, once the body had been cleared, we checked that mat in the shower tray. And it had definitely been rigged to impart an electric shock, so we've gathered up all the elements of that. There's the mat itself that was used to conceal the wiring, the wires themselves, and the plug that ran to the corridor outside. We'll check them all for source and traces of anything unexpected, of course, but to be honest, everything looks thoroughly ordinary to me, so I have my doubts as to whether the materials themselves will tell us anything.”
“Prints?” asked Constable, without much hope.
Singleton shook her head. “Nothing, sir. A few smudges on the plug and the socket it was fitted into, and a few fibres which I'm guessing probably came from a pair of electrician's gloves. I'll confirm later. But no sign of any such.”
“Fine. Well, so far, so bad. Got anything more encouraging?”
“Oh, I think so, sir,” smiled the officer. “I started with the worst first. But we can do much better than that.”
“Do tell.”
“Very interesting little collection of scraps of paper from the waste-bin in the victim's room. We've roughly placed them in position to reassemble the original in the bag for you to see, but nothing's fixed, so best not touch the bag. There.”
Constable leaned over the item indicated. In the bag, and loosely reconstructed, could be seen the torn fragments of a typed I.O.U. “Five thousand quid,” remarked the inspector. “Not an inconsiderable sum. And dated about a month ago. And, irritatingly, no names.”
“There's the remnant of some sort of scrawled signature, sir,” pointed out Singleton. “Just the very tag end of an odd letter – not really enough to make anything of. But the rest of it was nowhere to be found. Trust me, we checked very carefully. Perhaps whoever it was had the wit to take it to avoid any identification.”
“Hmmm. Well, we'll see if its existence tallies with any of our other information. Maybe the debt got paid off, and the whole thing is supremely irrelevant. So, moving on, what else do we have?”
“This nice little trinket, sir.” The officer held up a bag with a tiny item nestling at the very bottom. “A gold ring. Hallmarked nine carat – not your average Christmas cracker rubbish, so not the sort of thing you'd want to throw away.”
“But somebody had?”
“Couldn't say if it had been deliberately discarded, sir, but it was a little odd to find it where we did. One of my chaps was checking along the skirting edge where the wires were tucked away in the corridor, and he noticed it in one of the corners. Anyway, we thought it might be worth looking into. And there's an inscription.”
Constable inspected the ring more closely. “A signet ring, by the look of it. Engraved with a 'D'. And there's a date letter in the hallmark.” He read the details aloud. “Google that date letter, Copper. You never know, the age of the ring might turn out to be relev
ant.” He examined the object again. “And there's something engraved inside as well.” He squinted at the tiny characters.
“Looks like 'Forever', sir,” said Copper, peering over the inspector's shoulder. “Quite small, though, isn't it? I mean, it wouldn't fit me.” He held up a hand in illustration.
“That, sergeant, is because you were born with specially large hands for dropping on to the shoulders of evil-doers as you detain them,” commented Constable with a smile. “If you're talking about normal people, the thing could quite easily fit either a man's little finger or a woman's ring finger. Any chance of any prints on this one?”
“Slightly better luck, sir,” replied Singleton. “Two partials – one is smudged into unintelligibility, but I have hopes of the other.”
“And you will of course be checking everyone in the building?”
A slightly pained look was Constable's reward. “Give us a chance, sir – I don't think we've got on too badly so far. And as it happens, I was just about to despatch Darren here with his cunning little scanning machine to do just that.”
“Most of the people are downstairs still,” Copper told the young officer who stepped forward. “But there are a couple up at the top – one to the left, one to the right.”
“Don't worry, sarge – I'll find them.” Darren trotted off on his mission.
“And the next object is …?”
“This.” Singleton pointed to a photograph of a young baby.
“And what do we think this has to do with anything?” enquired the inspector.
“I honestly don't know, sir.” The SOCO officer shook her head in slight bewilderment. “I just got one of those feelings. You see, it was in the dressing room which I gather belongs to Jessica Davenport, and everything was lying around everywhere, open to the world, apart from one drawer, which was locked. Now if there's one thing which I always enjoy, it's the challenge of a locked drawer. No challenge at all, actually – it was the simplest kind of lock, and inside, there was just this one photo. No valuables, nothing else – just this. No reason, but I just felt it was a bit odd.”
