by TP Fielden
But sturdy Inspector Topham was nothing if not diligent.
‘I’m going over to the Grand,’ he announced.
‘Not again, Stanley!’ came the ragged chorus from his underlings, a response which might be deemed humorous but only if you knew that Frank Topham took his beer of an evening in the private bar there.
‘Very funny,’ snapped Topham. ‘Going to see Prudence Aubrey.’
And off he went, leaving behind a vacuum of envy and discontent among his officers, all of whom had, in their time, enjoyed private dreams about this most desirable of silver-screen stars.
Miss Aubrey had been looking forward to Topham’s visit. A Londoner at heart, she was incredibly bored by Temple Regis, its Grand Hotel, the seaside and the messy business of her husband’s death. Radford was making slow progress in unravelling Gerald’s affairs and she wondered whether as he pursued unpaid residuals he was cutting himself too large a slice of the cake. But there was nothing she could do, because as a film star she knew how to write a cheque and that is where her comprehension of the laws of getting and spending stopped. Meanwhile, time stood still.
She answered his knock after a dramatic pause, so dramatic in fact that the inspector was about to turn on his heel and walk away. Her demeanour, heavily borrowed from her part in The Chilly Wife, was withdrawn, inaccessible. She wore cream, with a thin black chenille scarf thrown around her neck almost like a hangman’s noose.
‘Inspector.’
‘Miss Aubrey.’
‘I’m so glad you have come, Inspector, it’s so reassuring to have the police on one’s side at a time like this, a real comfort.’
‘Thank you, Miss Aubrey. We do like to—
‘It is so bothersome being hounded by the press.’
Topham looked startled. ‘The press?’ he said. ‘Have they been giving you trouble?’
‘There’s a particularly obnoxious woman, Miss Dimmer or something, who won’t leave me alone. She tackled me the moment I stepped off the train last afternoon, and then there she was again last night – bothering me. Here in the hotel!’
‘Well, I expect she—’ started Topham.
‘Gutter press,’ said Miss Aubrey, angrily. ‘They ought to be locked up!’
‘I’ll see if I can have a word, madam,’ said Topham, untrained in the protocols of combating undercover reportage.
‘Would you?’ said Prudence appealingly, smiling now. ‘Do have a cup of coffee over here by the window. It’s so delightful to be in your gorgeous town looking out over the . . .’ She made a gracious gesture which somehow managed to embrace all of Temple Regis’s finer points.
Topham settled in an armchair and allowed himself the tantalising luxury of being served coffee by one of the most famous women in the land. He caught a whiff of her perfume as she bent forward to place the cup in front of him and briefly wondered if he was in paradise.
‘Now, madam,’ he said, finally coming to, ‘may I ask you a few questions? Just for form’s sake?’
Miss Aubrey drew up her silk-clad legs under her on the sofa and eyed the detective over the rim of her cup. She was enjoying this already.
‘Your full name and address, just for the record.’
‘Janine Murgatroyd Hope-Simpson Hennessy,’ purred Miss Prudence Aubrey conspiratorially, ‘but do not tell another soul.’
Topham caught his breath. ‘Prudence Aubrey’ was an invention! To share such secrets of the rich and famous!
‘Er, address, Mrs, er . . .’
‘Call me Prudence,’ said Prudence, sighing. ‘I have learnt to live with the name over many years.’ She frowned. ‘And you have no idea what it was like being called Murgatroyd at school.’
‘Address?’
‘Regent’s Lodge, Regent’s Park, London. Such a divine little house. Do you know London, Inspector?’
‘Very well, madam,’ he replied stoutly. ‘I was in the Grenadier Guards.’
Miss Aubrey glanced at Topham’s heavy shoes – boots, really – and took in their mirror-like shine. ‘You didn’t know a Colonel ffrench-Blake, by any chance?’
‘My commanding officer, madam,’ said Topham happily. This was going terribly well.
The conversation swerved into personal reminiscence and the inspector laid down his notebook. He admired the flowers in the room, accepted another cup of coffee, and at the same time an invitation to drop in to the Lodge at any time he happened to be passing. Miss Aubrey was so wonderfully unaffected.
Half an hour passed, little of note was said and, despite a number of invitations, Miss Aubrey gracefully sidestepped the matter of when she had last seen Gerald. She rang the bell and soon this harmonious couple were sharing a thimbleful of dry sherry before Inspector Topham, with regret, picked up his hat and prepared to take his leave.
‘One last thing,’ he said genially, as he stuffed his notebook in his pocket.
‘Yes?’
‘When did you last see Mr Hennessy?’
The beautifully rouged lips froze together, and a wild look came into Miss Aubrey’s eye. ‘I thought you had finished,’ she said, almost pleadingly.
‘Just routine,’ said Topham who, despite his teak-like exterior, was no fool. ‘You last saw him when?’
Were she a stage actress, the pause which followed before Miss Aubrey spoke again might be described by a critic as ‘climactic’. Inspector Topham knew he’d got what he came for.
‘I have something to tell you,’ whispered Prudence. ‘It must be in confidence. It will be in confidence, won’t it?’
Not again Stanley, thought Topham. They all say that.
He pulled out his notebook again but Prudence Aubrey was having none of it. ‘Really, Inspector!’ she said. ‘My husband dies of a heart attack on a train, and you are treating me as if I were a criminal!’
She has a point, thought Topham, and laid down the offending article. ‘What, then, were you going to tell me in confidence, Miss Aubrey?’
‘Marion Lake,’ hissed Miss Aubrey. ‘Marion . . . Lake.’
‘The actress, madam?’
‘You might call her that, Inspector. I would not. I happen to know that she can take up to twenty attempts to deliver a single line – think of all that wasted studio time! All that film which has to be thrown away! The disastrous effect on the budget! All those poor fellow-actors dying to go home to their loved ones while she stumbles and bumbles and dumbles! I deliver my lines word-perfect every time, and if there’s a retake it’s for technical reasons, and technical reasons alone.’
Topham was no cinema-goer but he read the newspapers. Once, Prudence Aubrey was front-page material, her glittering presence an essential adjunct to every film premiere, and her latest film always the subject of frenzied gossip. But that had been some years ago. Still she looked like a star, talked like a star, and acted as if she were a star; but by comparison with Marion Lake, well, her day had come and gone. Her contribution to cinema history was unassailable, but the wheel of fame turns inexorably, and now it was very much Miss Lake’s time for the limelight.
These things Inspector Topham instinctively knew, indeed could intuit from Prudence Aubrey’s rasping tone, and so he waited.
‘What I’m concerned about,’ went on the actress, smoothing her hair, ‘is that there should be no scandal.’
‘Well of course we’ll do what we—’
‘Scandal, Inspector, just at the moment when I have lost my husband.’
Topham nodded. No need for words, the floodgates were about to open.
‘It is not easy living a legend,’ said Prudence, eventually. ‘There are . . . pressures.
‘My husband and I were married for twenty-one years and as far as the world was concerned we were the golden couple. But—’ she pulled in her skirt more tightly round her legs ‘—time moves on, things change.
‘We had no children – he couldn’t. And there comes a time in a man’s life when . . . when he needs to feel young again. This film business – it’s not wha
t it seems. It tears the heart out of you, destroys your values, creates false priorities. Allows you to behave in a certain manner which is not the norm. And after a while you take it all for granted, and you become a different person.’
Inspector Topham nodded. At one level this was leading to an important revelation, he felt, with no need for any assistance from himself. At another, it was a gripping sidelight on the lives behind the cameras, in the dressing rooms, on the Côte d’Azur or wherever film stars played these days.
‘Gerald had . . .’ went on Miss Aubrey, her voice trailing, ‘had the notion that he would stay younger in himself if he were around younger people. There are huge pressures on you when you’re a star to remain as youthful as you were in your last picture, and the one before that. Age does not exempt us from its depredations just because we are famous. Gerald sought out the company of young people in an attempt to deny his years and to maintain his popularity with the . . . fans.’ She spat out the last word with some vehemence. ‘They can be so fickle!’ Her voice was rising again. ‘Do you know they have polls in the newspapers as to who’s the most popular star? I’m certain it’s all made up – just look at the state of the newspapers these days, it’s all trash! – but these inventions carry weight with the producers.’
She was not talking about Gerald now.
‘Because of these ridiculous articles your name can go up and down the screen credits with no reference to the quality of your performance, or the loyal following you have built up over the years. That affects how much you earn. Ultimately, it affects what scripts you get offered – and one bad script can smash your reputation overnight.’
‘So Mr Hennessy . . .’ murmured Topham hoping for swift resumption of the main theme, away from this nonetheless fascinating glimpse into the slow descent of a star.
‘Mr Hennessy,’ said Prudence crisply, ‘spent time away from home with his young friends. There were very many friends, and they were often very young.’
‘Miss Lake?’ prompted Topham.
‘Well what do you think?’ came the scalding response. ‘They came down on the same train. They shared the same compartment. She was booked in at the Grand Hotel – here – just across the corridor from this suite.’
She looked the detective straight in the eye. ‘I do not know where my husband was for the twenty-four hours before he boarded the Riviera Express. There – does that answer your question?’
Topham gently nodded his head in acknowledgement.
‘We had a . . . we had an exchange of views about the way he was conducting himself. He left the house and did not return. He may have gone to his club or . . .’
Or spent the night with Marion Lake.
Whatever his limitations the inspector was a man of the world and it came as no surprise. He allowed himself the thought that of all the women in the country most men would like to dally with, Marion Lake had to top the list. It was all very absorbing but hardly altered anything. Topham had set himself the task of collating Gerald Hennessy’s last movements in case there should be questions from the coroner on Friday. He would say that the actor had come down on unspecified business and that he had stayed the previous night at his club. That covered things nicely.
‘One thing remains unexplained,’ said Topham. ‘Why did Mr Hennessy choose Temple Regis to bring Miss Lake? Do you have any idea?’
Prudence Aubrey’s clear blue eyes turned to mud, and her gaze fell to the carpet.
‘One of my sergeants understands he was considering doing a summer season at the Pavilion Theatre.’
‘Are you mad?’ shouted the actress, getting up from the sofa and leaning over him. ‘Gerald? Here – here?’ The gesture with which she had greeted the policeman was repeated but with quite another interpretation. Gone was the praiseful appreciation of Temple Regis’s many charms and in its place a contemptuous dismissal of its funfair and toffee apples, its donkey rides and all the primary-coloured gewgaws splattered along the seafront. What looks magical one minute can look, well, tawdry the next.
‘Whatever you may think of him as a person,’ hissed the actress, ‘he was at the top of the tree. Top of the tree! Why on earth would he want to come to . . . this . . .?’ The words failed her.
Topham looked at her. ‘In his pocket,’ he said in measured tones, ‘there was a card from Raymond Cattermole. Do you know Mr Cattermole, by any chance?’
‘Of course,’ said Prudence testily. ‘A second-rater. Actor without a future even before he got started. Why they ever bother to enter the profession . . .’
‘So they knew each other well?’
‘I wouldn’t say well. They were in the West End together before the War. Wilde. The Importance of Being Earnest. They swapped parts after Cattermole broke his arm. They didn’t get on. Why would Gerald want to come here to see him?’
‘Mr Cattermole manages the Pavilion Theatre. Puts on two alternating shows in the summer season.’
‘Well, what does he say was the reason for Gerald coming down here?’
‘We have not yet been able to ascertain that,’ said Topham, an official tone creeping into his voice.
‘He seems to have gone missing.’
NINE
Miss Dimont hummed and swung her raffia bag as she wandered back to the Express offices. Such a stimulating morning in the Magistrates’ Court!
Once the bread-and-butter cases had been cleared away they came to the matter of Mrs Symington, a bleach-blonde of a certain age with a lumpy figure and a pugnacious expression. At a glance you could tell what a thoroughly dislikeable person she was, though evidently not Mr Symington, who sat next to the dock and whose adoring eyes never left his wife.
Mrs Symington was up before Mrs March for having lied, at her recent marriage, about her age. This deception may not have mattered to Mr Symington – one had only to look at the rapt expression on his foolish face – but it mattered very much to the registrar who had joined them in matrimony, and who had reported her transgression to the authorities.
‘Eloise Mary Symington,’ intoned Mr Thurlestone, adjusting his disreputable wig, ‘you are charged that on the ninth of March of this year you entered into a marriage contract with Herbert Trefusis Symington by making a false declaration, contrary to the Marriages Act 1949. How do you plead?’
‘Ridiculous,’ spat Mrs Symington.
‘How do you plead?’
‘Complete waste of time,’ said Mrs Symington, and sat down abruptly.
This was an encouraging start for those who measured out their life in the cups of dreary coffee they swallowed in the Mag Ct canteen over the years. Everybody perked up.
‘Stand up,’ said the Hon. Mrs Marchbank, looking over her gilt pince-nez. Mrs Symington sulkily obliged.
‘The magistrates’ clerk has read out the charge to you. Do you understand this is a serious offence? You must enter a plea, or alternatively you can apply for an adjournment so you may be represented by a solicitor. How say you to the charge?’
‘Don’t know what all the fuss is about,’ said Mrs Symington. You could see there was a strange gleam in her eye.
Mrs March looked at her clerk and they nodded to each other. ‘We’ll take that as a not guilty plea,’ she announced. ‘Sergeant Smith?’
The prosecuting officer rose to his feet. ‘Your Worship, this is a simple case of a woman who persuaded a man to marry her by pretending to be ten years younger than she was. It was his first marriage and her second. She said she was fifty-three when in fact she is sixty-three.’
All eyes shot to the dock for a closer scrutiny of this imposter. She certainly looked sixty-three, and then some. How could Mr Symington be so easily fooled?
‘Her husband had been a lifelong bachelor. He lived alone at Enderby Manor. They were introduced and, Mr Symington has said in a statement, she entranced him. He was unfamiliar,’ explained the sergeant, clearing his throat, ‘er, unfamiliar with the opposite sex.’
Mrs Symington stuck out her bulky ches
t in what might be interpreted as an offensive manner. Her husband gazed up longingly.
‘Mr Symington has further said that he took in Mrs Symington and her elderly mother after they were made to leave their previous home after an . . . incident. He felt sorry for both women.’
Mrs Marchbank did not like the sound of this. ‘Are you saying the accused found refuge in this gentleman’s home and then – er, sought out his affections?’
‘He had never had his breakfast in bed before, Your Worship.’
The magistrate evidently felt a sense of disgust at such blatantly opportunistic behaviour. Old fool, large house, sitting target, she summarised to herself. ‘Yes, Sergeant?’
‘The offence was uncovered when the defendant applied for a new passport in her married name. The authorities alerted the registrar, who in turn informed the police. Mrs Symington was interviewed under caution but refused to acknowledge the offence. She maintains she is fifty-three, Your Worship. She will be sixty-four next week.’ He sat down.
Mrs Marchbank looked towards the person in the dock. ‘Stand up,’ she said, those two words carrying the heavy weight of Temple Regis’s moral outrage in them.
Mrs Symington ambled to her feet, stuck her nose in the air and looked unconcernedly around the court. To Miss Dimont, a veteran of many years on the press bench, this was a thrilling moment. If there was one thing Mrs March did not tolerate, it was a challenge to her authority.
‘We have entered a plea of not guilty on your behalf since it would appear from the evidence that you do not accept the charge,’ she said stonily. ‘This is now your opportunity to tell the court why you made an unlawful statement with regard to your age. You are sixty-three, are you not?’
The accused stared back insolently. ‘None of your business,’ she said.
Mrs Marchbank had never been spoken to like this before. It took a moment for her to rally.
‘A copy of your birth certificate shows you were born on the eighteenth of September 1895.’
The accused did not turn a hair. ‘It’s a woman’s right to present herself as best she can,’ she said. ‘That’s why we spend money on make-up, the hairdresser, the clothes we wear. That’s what men want.’
