by Roger Keevil
“Are you sure you wouldn't like that cup of tea now, inspector?” Delia Armstrong materialised unexpectedly at Constable's shoulder. “It'll only get cold otherwise, and you must be parched with all this talking.”
“Oh … er, thank you, Miss Armstrong,” said Constable, taking the proffered mug.
“And your sergeant said you don't take sugar.”
“No, that's right.” He sipped.
“Poor Stuart,” said Delia into the silence. “I still can't believe he's dead.”
“Am I right in thinking that you'd known Mr. Nelson for some time?”
“Oh yes. Since drama school – goodness, we were just eighteen. I wish everyone had known Stuart when I first met him,” she said wistfully. “So popular with everyone. He was young and handsome and absolutely charming – he really swept me off my feet.” She shook her head. “But of course, that was thirty years ago, and a lot of things can change in that time. You never know what's going to happen in this business. But now I suppose we're all going to have to make a new start. Especially the youngsters.”
“Why them in particular?”
“It's never a bed of roses when you're young, inspector. The rest of us, we've all been around long enough to know how to cope. But with Jessica … well, you know the situation there. But she'll be all right, I'm sure of it. Even though nothing is ever easy for a young actress.” A faint smile. “I should know.”
“I believe you started out as an actress yourself?”
“Oh goodness, yes, but that was long ago, as they say, and in another country, and besides ...” She tailed off. “Anyway,” she resumed with a bright smile, “that was then, and this is now. I've never really regretted not becoming an actress – you just have to do what you feel is right for you at the time. The theatre can be cruel. And having seen how it changed Stuart, I'm sure I did the right thing.”
Constable felt that the personal reminiscences were leading the investigation astray. “There is one thing I would like you to do for me, Miss Armstrong, if you would.”
“Of course, inspector.”
“We have discovered various items around the theatre which may or may not have some bearing in this case. I'd be grateful if you would come with me up to the table where I understand you keep the items used in the action of the play, and confirm for me whether they are in fact part of your own equipment, or whether we have to look further into them. So if you'd like to go ahead with Sergeant Copper for a moment ...” The other two, Copper ushering Delia before him, headed for the door as Constable held back. “Just one small matter before I go, ladies and gentlemen. I wonder if you'd mind letting me have a look at your hands.” A puzzled murmur arose. “If you would just hold them out for me, palms up, then the backs, that would be very helpful.” As those present exchanged looks of bafflement, Constable swiftly circled the room, surveying the hands held out for his inspection. “Thank you, everyone. Please remain here – I shall try not to keep you too long.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.
*
“Firstly, is there anything missing?”
“It's rather difficult to tell, inspector,” replied Delia rather huffily. “Everything's been moved – I like to keep all my props neatly laid out so that everything is in its right place when the actors need it.”
“And these all stay here all the time?”
“Mostly. Unless there's anything valuable like … well, like this necklace, for example.” Delia held up a piece of jewellery which sparkled dully in the dim light of the working lamps. “I mean, it's not really worth a great deal, but it looks as if it is, so it might prove a temptation to somebody light-fingered. So that gets locked away between performances in my little den.” She pointed to a small dark door a few feet away which, when opened, revealed a small room lined with shelves holding a miscellany of objects and dusty cardboard boxes, and barely furnished with a battered bentwood chair and a small table with a desk lamp. “I go and sit in there sometimes when I'm not needed, or if I've got a little job to do.”
“Like the shooting effect?” suggested Copper.
“That's right, sergeant,” smiled Delia. “How clever you are.”
“But the gun – a replica, you say? So not practical at all?
“No, sergeant – that's why we don't need to lock it away. But anyway, it's here where it should be.”
“But as far as you can tell, there's nothing gone astray?” Andy Constable brought the questioning back to the point.
“Not that I can see, inspector. Why do you ask?”
“Because we are slightly puzzled as to how to account for these things here, Miss Armstrong.” Constable indicated the plastic evidence bags. “If they are part and parcel of the action of the play, we need to answer the question of why they were found where they were. If they aren't, then the question is a different one. So are you able to confirm for me that these items do not feature on your list of props?”
Delia examined the bags one by one. Her face held an expression of mild curiosity as she surveyed each in turn, and finally she turned back to the inspector. “No, inspector. Nothing here relates to our play at all. Are all these things really so important?”
“They may well be.”
“Then I'm very sorry I can't help you, Mr. Constable.”
“Not to worry, Miss Armstrong.” Constable appeared to dismiss the matter. “We shall just have to keep thinking. But thank you anyway. And if you'd like to rejoin your colleagues downstairs, I'm sure you'll be more comfortable.” The dismissal was subtle and graceful, and Delia turned and made for the stairs without a backward glance.
“So, does that get us any further forward, guv?” enquired Dave Copper.
“It's ruled out some possibilities,” said Constable. “That's always helpful.”
“And I don't understand that business with the hands, guv. The SOCO chap's going around scanning everyone's prints, and it's not as if you can tell anything from just looking at people's fingers in the raw anyway.”
“And that, sergeant, is just where you're wrong. And as it happens, I wasn't interested in the tips of the fingers anyway – more the other end.”
“Sorry, sir?”
“Come on, Copper – think it through. We have here, in one of our little bags, a ring. Have you never noticed that, if someone wears a ring for any length of time, it leaves a mark on the finger – a sort of narrowing of the girth where the ring usually sits. Not noticeable usually, of course, because the ring is in place, but when the ring is left off, the mark is plain to see, even after some time.”
“Gotcha!” Copper caught on. “So if our mysterious ring was usually worn by one of the company, and had been removed for whatever reason, you would be able to tell.”
“Exactly.”
“Well? Had it?”
“Sadly, not.” With a smile, Constable punctured his junior's growing excitement. “No indication at all that any of our participants ever wore a ring. Well, except for Miss Hamilton, who had an engagement ring and a wedding ring safely in place on the appropriate finger.”
“So we're nowhere?”
“Again, sergeant, eliminating possibilities is never a bad thing. And remember what Sherlock Holmes said about eliminating the impossible. Don't forget, also, there's a so far unexplained print on this ring. With luck, we will be able to eliminate some people from our list of candidates for handling it. That is, when young Darren has finished his circuit. Which surely he should have done by now. Look, see if you can track him down, would you, and get him to report to me.”
“Righty-ho, sir. Will you be here?”
Constable glanced over to the far side of the stage, where a subdued murmur arose as the SOCO team could be seen continuing their work. “No – I fancy another look at where it all happened. Let me have your book – I want to go through your notes to see if anything jumps out. I'm going up to Stuart Nelson's dressing room. Tell Darren to come and find me there.”
*
The Nu
mber 1 Dressing Room did not live up to its title. As Andy Constable stood in the doorway scanning the room slowly, various things caught his eye. A couple of crumpled tissues stained with make-up lay on the bench in front of the actor's place at the mirror. A pair of brown shoes, polished to a surprising shine, stood neatly placed together in immaculate order, oddly out of kilter with the general dishevelled appearance of the room. A threadbare hand towel had slipped from the back of a nearby chair to lie in an untidy heap on the floor. A cheap paperback crime thriller by an author Constable had never heard of lay open, face-down, its spine cracked at the point where Stuart Nelson had evidently broken off reading. Constable found this last unexpectedly poignant. Well, he thought to himself, he'll never find out whodunnit, will he? The question is, will I?
So, let's go back to basics, he mused – the old mantra of means, motive, and opportunity. Well, the means are pretty self-explanatory. And although the mechanics of the murder tend to point in one obvious direction, the booby-trap could have been set by anyone with even a slight knowledge of do-it-yourself, according to David Winston. Not that that rules him out, of course, but it could easily rule everyone else in. Everyone? Anyone? Does that imply that I could be looking for more than one person, working together?
And the answer to that could lie with the question of motive. Plenty of food for thought there, he reflected. The old tried-and-testeds are all present in one form or another – we've got jealousy, revenge, fear, money all swirling around in the mix. Is any one of those sufficient on its own to provide a motive for murder? Or could it be that two or more of them dovetail together to make something more complex? Plus there's the mystery of the things which SOCO found which nobody seems to know anything about. If something's been hidden, or discarded, or its ownership can't be accounted for, then surely there's a relevance there.
Opportunity? Again, plenty of chances for practically everybody to have seized the moment to put that wiring in place – I don't suppose it would have taken more than a few minutes. And in the period between the end of the technical rehearsal and the scheduled start of the dress rehearsal, everybody seems to have been off in different directions at various times, with nobody fully accounted for all the time. Which make any talk of alibis totally pointless. Typical!, he snorted. Only one thing for it – I shall just have to plough through all Copper's notes and see if any inconsistencies pop up. Constable lowered himself gingerly into the rather creaky armchair, opened his colleague's notebook, and began to browse.
It was some little while later that there came a tap on the door, and Dave Copper poked his head into the room. “Oh, you're still here, sir.” He reacted to the fact that his senior officer was sitting relaxed, head back, with his eyes closed. “Sorry, guv … didn't mean to wake you.”
“I was not asleep, Sergeant Copper,” replied Constable calmly, opening his eyes. “While you have no doubt been charging around, I was reflecting quietly on certain aspects of the case. You should try it – it helps. And you will be pleased to know that many things have made themselves considerably clearer as a result. Now, I assume you have managed to track down Darren and his fingerprint machine ...” The inspector glanced at his watch. “... after what seems to be an unconscionable length of time.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. He was up with Will Mott talking motor-bikes, and I got sort of drawn in. But he's outside now.”
“He's no good to me out there, is he, sergeant?” pointed out Constable as he rose to his feet. “Wheel him in.”
A muttered instruction brought the young SOCO officer into the dressing room. “Sorry I've been so long, sir. I got sort of distracted.”
“I hope it's been worth the wait. Well, what have you got?”
Darren's face split in a triumphant grin. “A result, sir. At least, I hope it's a result. That partial print on the ring that you were interested in, sir – I've got an identification. Take a look.” He held up the device he carried, on whose small green screen was displayed the print in question. “And now this one.” He pressed a few keys, and another fingerprint came into view alongside the first. “And if I do this ...” Another button was pressed, and the two prints slid together, coinciding almost perfectly.
“Very impressive,” commented Constable. “The miracles of modern technology. And the print belongs to …?”
“Jessica Davenport, sir.”
There was a lengthy pause. Constable took a long deep breath, and then gave a profound sigh of satisfaction. “You know, gentlemen, the ancient Greek tragedians had it right all along. And it's oddly appropriate, seeing that we're in a theatre.”
“You what, sir?” Copper struggled to see the relevance of the remark.
“The Romans too,” continued Constable. “They called it deus ex machina, but the Greeks thought of it first. I can't offhand remember the Greek expression.”
“Thank the lord for that,” muttered Copper under his breath. And after the two junior officers had exchanged glances of bewilderment, he continued, “Sorry, sir, but I'm afraid you've lost us completely.”
The inspector smiled. “And that, gentlemen, is where the benefit of a grammar school education comes in handy. You see,” explained Constable patiently, “the expression deus ex machina comes from the classical theatre. It means 'the god from the machine'. In Greek and Roman plays, you would very often find yourself with an impossibly tangled problem with no obvious solution. Now, what you couldn't do was leave an inconclusive ending – the audiences wouldn't stand for it, and you'd end up with riots on the streets of Epidauros or wherever. So, in order to resolve the situation, you would suddenly have one of the gods from Mount Olympus come flying in – probably on some monster mechanical crane designed by Archimedes – to provide the metaphorical final piece of the jigsaw. Which is what Darren's useful little device has just done.”
“Has it really, sir?” asked Darren, pleased but clearly still slightly confused.
“It has, although I suggest you don't rush off down the stairs crying 'Eureka!'. Instead, I recommend you report back to Sergeant Singleton – you can give her the glad tidings that, in my opinion, there may not be that much of any relevance left to find, and that I will look forward to reading her report in the wake of the arrest which Sergeant Copper is about to make.”
“I am, sir?” Copper was startled.
“You are indeed, sergeant. I always like to let the junior ranks have their moment of glory,” responded Constable. “But first, you can go and ask Miss Bailey and Messrs Mott and Castle if they would be good enough to join us in the Green Room. Then we can ring down the final curtain on this particular production.” He led the way through the dressing room door.
*
“Ah, inspector.” Don Abbott was the first to speak as the two detectives entered the Green Room, followed by the other members of the company, who took seats around the room amidst an exchange of puzzled looks and mute shrugs. “Do you suppose you will be letting us go any time soon?”
“Very shortly, sir,” was Constable's brief reply.
“Thank heavens,” remarked David Winston. “Many more cups of Delia's tea and I shall explode.”
“I'm sorry if you all feel that I have been keeping you waiting, ladies and gentlemen,” said Constable. “I assure you, it's been no longer than necessary. And considerably less time than it might have been.”
“But you say that we can go soon?” intervened Elizabeth Hamilton.
“Most of you, madam. I'm afraid not all.”
“So ...” Elizabeth realised the import of Constable's words. “Do you mean that you know who was responsible for the death of my husband?”
“I believe I do, Miss Hamilton. And I am sure that you will agree that it will be in the interests of all of you to understand what happened.
“One of my first considerations was, who had most reason to want Stuart Nelson dead? Right from the start, it seemed that there were plenty of motives. Mr. Abbott, despite your denials, it is clear that you had financial wo
rries, and it surely can't be a coincidence that you came straight out of a betting shop and started talking to Mr. Nelson about money. You mentioned a number of bad choices – I wonder how many of those choices had four legs. Mr. Winston, you had very public differences which had already boiled over into violence, and you had been humiliated in front of the whole company by the dead man. As had you, Miss Armstrong – your old friendship with Stuart Nelson seems to have given you no protection. And as for you, Miss Davenport, we had to ask ourselves whether Mr. Nelson's persistent and unwanted attentions drove you to take drastic action to rid yourself of him. Or did you, Mr. Edwards, carry out the murder to protect the girl you seem so fond of? And finally, Miss Hamilton, one might well wonder if, despite what you yourself said to me, you finally reached breaking point at your own humiliation after years of flagrant infidelities?”
“And did I, inspector?” asked Elizabeth calmly. “Is that the conclusion you have reached?”
“All in good time, Miss Hamilton.”
“Here, what about these others?” butted in David Winston. “Will and Angela and so on? You haven't said anything about them.”
“For the very good reason, Mr. Winston, that I can see no trace of a motive for any of them,” replied Constable. “Granted, Mr. Mott is no doubt completely at home with matters electrical. And I would imagine that, in the various aspects of her job, Miss Bailey has acquired a considerable degree of deftness. As for Mr. Castle, I'm sure that he knows the ins and outs of this theatre probably better than anyone, and would have a very good idea of how to undertake a project such as this which has led to Mr. Nelson's death. But from all that I have gathered from my conversations with all three of them, I can't see a factor which would lead any one of them to commit this crime. Unless you can tell me any different.” There was no response. “So it looks as if we are left with just the six of you.
