by Simon Brett
His undecided pause was agony for Juanita. ‘Oh, well,’ he said eventually, ‘I suppose it’s too long ago now for my telling you to do any harm . . . The boy’s fees at Whittinghams were paid by his natural mother.’
‘You don’t happen to remember what the mother’s name was, do you, Mr Breen?’
‘Oh yes,’ the man said with self-righteous pride. ‘I remember everything about Whittinghams.’
Juanita Rainbird gazed at him eagerly through her little round glasses.
‘The mother’s name was Phyllis Townley.’
‘I baint abaht to tell you no lies,’ the booking clerk confided. ‘’Taint my hoccupation to tell lies, no way, guv’nor. I done hissued eight tickets for the 3.27 to Lancaster – three third singles, two third returns, and three first returns.’
‘So if our birds did catch that train,’ Wenceslas Potter mused, ‘they’d have been in time to catch the 4.03 from Preston, joining up at Godlings Halt with the 5.17 fast from Wolverhampton, which should have passed the 3.02 Glasgow Pullman Express going in the other direction in the Fairgrave Cutting at 6.13, though the unscheduled stop to take on water at Hulkiston Yard would have made it 6.21 before—’
‘No objections to this bit?’ asked Tilson Gutteridge.
‘No.’ Juanita Rainbird looked at him curiously. ‘Why? There’s nothing wrong with it.’
A silence.
‘What do you think’s wrong with it?’
‘Just a bit boring, that’s all.’
‘Boring’s all right. That’s not unacceptable.’ She hastily qualified this generalization. ‘That is – it could be unacceptable if a person were described as “boring”. It could be offensive to say that a person is attentiveness-challenging – particularly in a case where you were discussing a person of alternative, but nonetheless viable, ethnicity.’
She spoke the words automatically. Her mind was elsewhere, full of her forthcoming meeting with Peter Crabbett. On the off chance, she’d rung Equity, the British actors’ union, to see if they had a ‘P. Crabbett’ registered as a member, and she had struck gold. They had been unwilling to release his address and phone number until she fabricated the line that she was a Hollywood casting director. With the rare prospect of potential work for one of its members, the union became suddenly more forthcoming.
Pete – he insisted on ‘Pete’ – Crabbett had sounded mild and amiable on the phone, and readily agreed to meet up with her. By coincidence, he too lived in the Dulwich area, and their rendezvous had been fixed for that evening at the same pub.
Juanita Rainbird’s feverish anticipation made the line-by-line editing with Tilson Gutteridge more tedious than ever. Now she knew for certain the man was an impostor, she could hardly wait till she had the solid evidence with which she would be able to denounce him.
Her frustration mounting, Juanita returned to Eunice Brock’s manuscript.
‘. . . would have made it 6.21 before the trains passed each other, so it was then that the poisoned dart from the blowpipe must have been projected into the Vicomte de Fleurie-Rizeau’s first-class compartment.’
The booking clerk was lost in admiration. ‘Blimey, Mr Potter, guv’nor, you’re a whale on detection, and no mistake. How come you can work out difficult hinvestigations so easy while the likes of me’s in a real pea-souper of a fog about ’em?’
The aristocratic sleuth laughed lightly. ‘Sorry, old chap,’ he commiserated. ‘Simple matter of breeding.’
Juanita Rainbird ground her teeth.
Pete Crabbett was probably about the same age as Tilson Gutteridge, but whereas Tilson was revolting the actor was all charm. Not aggressive, sexist charm, just a laid-back quiet integrity, and an engaging honesty.
He made no demur about accepting a drink from Juanita. ‘Never refuse a free drink,’ he said with a rueful grin. ‘Never in a position to, I’m afraid.’
‘Not much acting work around?’
‘Not for me, it seems. Not much writing work either.’
‘You’re a writer too?’
‘Well, I try. Without marked success.’
From the bar Juanita Rainbird looked back at the table, as she had done the previous week. Pete Crabbett wore jeans and a floppy navy jumper. He had thick grey hair. Not unattractive. The pub was evidently his local; he kept smiling and nodding at people.
In the time since Juanita had met Horace Breen, the bar had been decorated for Christmas. Every surface was tinselled and frosted. For the first time, Juanita began to think she might even enjoy Christmas. The Tilson Gutteridge nightmare was about to end.
Pete Crabbett raised the pint of Guinness gratefully to his lips. ‘Wonderful,’ he said after a long swallow. ‘Now what can I do for you?’
Juanita Rainbird took a prim sip of Perrier before launching into her latest prepared falsehood. ‘Well, Mr Crabbett—’
‘Pete, please.’
‘Pete. As I mentioned on the phone, I’m an editor for Krieper & Thoday, the publishers, and I’m exploring the possibility of commissioning a book on changing attitudes to illegitimacy in the twentieth century.’
‘Uhuh.’
‘And this is . . . I hope you don’t mind my asking you about this, Mr Crabbett . . .?’
‘No problem.’ He grinned ingenuously. ‘I knew I was a little bastard from the moment I could understand anything. I don’t have any problems with it.’
‘Good. In fact, I was put on to you by a Mr Horace Breen . . . from Whittinghams School . . .’
‘Good God, “Sniffer” Breen! I’m surprised to hear the old boy hasn’t popped his clogs yet.’
‘I don’t think it’ll be long. He looks pretty decrepit. I actually met him last week in this very pub, and he mentioned that you were one of the few, er . . .’
‘Bastards?’ he offered helpfully.
Juanita Rainbird smiled. It was comforting to find that all men in their sixties were not as repellent as Tilson Gutteridge.
‘Exactly . . . that you were one of the few, er, bastards at Whittinghams.’
‘Hm. I’m actually surprised the school knew.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, I was adopted at a very early age. The Crabbetts always treated me as their own.’
‘But they didn’t pretend to you that you were theirs?’
‘No. As I said, I knew I was a bastard. Just lucky they took pity on me.’
‘But you did know who your birth mother was . . .?’
‘What?’ Pete Crabbett grinned again and shook his head.
A surge like an electrical current ran through Juanita Rainbird as he said, ‘Good heavens, no. It never really interested me. If she’d showed such a lack of taste as not to want me, why should I want her?’
‘So you’ve never been curious?’
He gave another life-affirming shake of his head. ‘Never once.’
‘And your adoptive parents – the Crabbetts – paid your fees at Whittinghams?’
He looked a little puzzled by the change of direction. ‘Well, I assume so. I wasn’t chucked out, so I guess they must have done.’
Oh, it was marvellous. He was so innocent, so ingenuous. It was only with restraint that Juanita Rainbird could stop hugging herself. Everything had turned out better than she’d dared hope.
It was the dream scenario. Tilson Gutteridge could be exposed as an impostor. The genuine claimant to Eunice Brock’s estate was totally unaware of his good fortune. He could be kept for ever in blissful ignorance. Krieper & Thoday could continue to rake in the profits on the Eunice Brock books without paying any royalties. Keith Chappick would be pleased, and Juanita Rainbird would keep her job.
Just one more thing to check, then she could relax and enjoy chatting to this rather amiable actor. ‘Tell me, Pete, have you ever met anyone called Tilson Gutteridge?’
He looked surprised. ‘Well, yes, I have actually. But what connection do you have with him?’
‘He wasn’t at school with you, was he?’
‘Good
heavens, no. I’ve only met him once.’
‘When was that?’
‘Three or four months ago, I suppose.’
‘How did you meet him?’
‘He just came and knocked on my door. Said he was a collector of old books and manuscripts – had I got anything around? Well, there was some stuff in the loft that I’d inherited when my father – that’s Mr Crabbett – died. I said he could have a look at it if he liked. He seemed to see something there that interested him, so he made me an offer.’
‘How much?’
‘Fifty quid. I was dead chuffed, I can tell you.’
I bet Tilson Gutteridge was too, thought Juanita grimly.
‘Well, it can’t have been worth that much. Just some old typescripts, no doubt way out of copyright.’
Juanita Rainbird once again curbed her excitement. Could he really be as naive as he appeared? ‘What do you mean – “out of copyright”?’
‘Well, doesn’t copyright go on for fifty years after something’s written . . .?’ he said vaguely and without much interest.
Better and better. Not only did he not know he had any connection with Eunice Brock, he also had no understanding of copyright law. And he certainly didn’t know that the fifty-year limit from an author’s death or a posthumous publication was about to be extended to seventy.
‘Yes,’ said Juanita Rainbird calmly. ‘That’s right.’
‘The unutterable sweep who did this has forgotten every decent thing,’ opined Wenceslas Potter, as he gazed down at the body on the floor of the ice-house.
‘But how did he do it?’ queried Lady Cynthia, from whose cheeks the roses had fled to leave a snowy pallor. ‘Mr Weinberg looks as though he has been frozen to death.’
‘He has,’ the aristocratic sleuth confirmed grimly. ‘But, if we had not come in here by chance, nobody would ever have known that.’
‘Elucidate, Wenceslas,’ Lady Cynthia begged. ‘I’m a simpleton when it comes to deduction. My feminine mind does not proceed as speedily as yours.’
Even in the presence of death, the noble detective could not let by an opportunity for a compliment. ‘When a lady is as beautiful as you are,’ he offered gallantly, ‘let her feminine mind move at whatsoever speed it chooses.’
Juanita Rainbird sucked her teeth, but still deferred the inevitable confrontation. She felt nervous, knowing she could not put it off for ever. Downstairs the office Christmas party that Keith Chappick had decreed would be coming to its end, the Perrier by now flowing like water. Soon Juanita would be alone in the building with the odious Tilson Gutteridge.
‘No,’ Wenceslas Potter continued, ‘our murderer did not wish the body to be discovered like this.’ He knelt down and sniffed at the Hebrew financier’s thick, frozen lips. ‘As I thought.’
Lady Cynthia’s eyes engaged his interrogatively.
‘You see,’ the sleuth expatiated, ‘our homicidal friend required the sturdy Semite to die of natural causes – so far as the world was concerned. I recognize on Mr Weinberg’s lips the smell of a nerve-deadening drug – almost unknown in Harley Street – whose paralysing properties last exactly an hour and then cease, leaving no trace in the victim’s bloodstream. Having immobilized the Israelite with that and dragged him out here, our murderer then filled the man’s insensiate, gaping mouth with water which, in the cold of the ice-house, froze solid and clogged the poor fellow’s windpipe.’
‘How ghastly,’ murmured Lady Cynthia. ‘How beyond everything ghastly.’
‘His intention then was to take the defunct Ishmael to his bedroom where, the paralytic drug having worn off and the water melted, he would have appeared to have died of natural—’
Juanita Rainbird could stand it no longer. ‘God, I hate this stuff! It’s so unrealistic! It treats the readers like complete idiots. A murder could never happen like that.’
‘No?’ asked Tilson Gutteridge.
‘No. And, since we’ve stopped, I think the moment has come for me to say what I’ve been putting off saying to you all day.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘You’re an impostor, Tilson Gutteridge!’
‘What?’
‘You are not who you claim to be. I have absolute proof of that.’ Juanita Rainbird reached suddenly into her desk drawer and pulled out a bound sheaf of typewritten pages. ‘It’s all in here. My boss has a copy. Your little game is up, Mr Gutteridge.’
Meekly, with apparent puzzlement, the elderly man took the dossier and started to read. He showed no reaction as, with great concentration, he devoured every word. At the end, he placed it down on Juanita’s desk.
‘So . . . you’ve found out the truth?’
‘Yes.’
‘This document proves, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that the rightful heir to Eunice Brock’s estate – and to all royalties deriving from it until the new copyright expiry date of 2009 – is Peter Crabbett.’
‘Exactly.’ Juanita Rainbird looked defiantly at Tilson Gutteridge, glad that at last the pretences were over and she could let her hatred for him show. ‘And what do you propose to do about that?’
He moved so quickly, she had no chance to protect herself. In an instant the syringe was out of his jacket pocket and stabbed into her upper arm. The plunger was deftly pressed home.
Juanita Rainbird’s eyes widened, and her mouth twitched, but the paralysing drug took effect before any words could emerge.
‘Thank God for that,’ said Tilson Gutteridge, with feeling. ‘For once you’ll keep your bloody mouth shut!’
She was still conscious as he opened the fridge. Still conscious, but unable to resist, as he crammed the contents of the ice-tray into her mouth. There was awareness in her eyes as he laid her down with her head on the floor of the fridge. She seemed aware too of his turning the dial to its lowest setting, of his closing the door against her neck, and of the gradual, drop-by-drop way he poured the Perrier to congeal with the ice cubes in her throat.
Then the awareness faded from Juanita Rainbird’s eyes.
Tilson Gutteridge waited until the drug – still almost unknown in Harley Street – released its hold and the girl’s body slumped in death. Then he sat Juanita Rainbird in the swivel chair behind her desk.
By the time she was found after the Christmas holiday, the building’s central heating had melted the obstruction in her throat. Except for a small needle puncture in her upper arm and the symptoms of asphyxiation, there seemed no obvious explanation for Juanita Rainbird’s death. Many of her colleagues put it down to overwork. Keith Chappick was happy to go along with this diagnosis; it made the rest of his staff even more paranoid.
The managing director did not mind about the death. Once Juanita had sorted out the Eunice Brock copyright trouble, he’d been intending to sack her anyway. Thwarted in this ambition, on New Year’s Eve he sacked the publicity director instead. That cheered him up enormously.
And Keith Chappick remained cheerful, until he got a call from Pete Crabbett’s solicitor, staking his client’s claim to the estate of Eunice Brock.
In the event the case didn’t go to court, but if it had, Juanita Rainbird’s meticulously detailed dossier would certainly have ensured that the verdict went in Pete Crabbett’s favour. Realizing this and unwilling to add legal costs to the amount they already owed him in back royalties, Krieper & Thoday grudgingly accepted the actor’s claim.
With his rights thus established, Pete Crabbett settled down to enjoy his good fortune. He could afford as many pints of Guinness as he wanted now. He even had enough to pay an upmarket nursing home to look after his beloved ninety-year-old natural mother.
And of course he’d long since destroyed the costumes and make-up he’d worn as Tilson Gutteridge and Horace Breen.
He couldn’t help feeling rather pleased with himself for how well it’d all worked. The invention of the public school ‘Whittinghams’ was one of the details that gave him most satisfaction.
And he couldn’t really feel much regret for
the fact that Phyllis Townley’s illegitimate son Terence had been killed in the Blitz.
Peter Crabbett might, at some point, be moved to ‘discover’ more Eunice Brocks. But he decided, at the risk of anachronism, he’d make any subsequent typescripts a bit more politically correct than the first one. It’d probably save time in the long run.
LETTER TO HIS SON
Parkhurst
16th June, 1986
Dear Boy,
I am sorry to hear the Fourth of June celebrations was a trial. I’ve used that agency before and they never give me no trouble, but I will certainly withdraw my future custom after this lot, and may indeed have to send the boys round. Honest, Son, I asked them to send along a couple what would really raise you in your fellow-Etonians’ esteem when they saw who you got for parents. I had to get Blue Phil to draw quite a lot out of the old deposit account under the M23/M25 intersection, and I just don’t reckon I got value for my hard-earned oncers.
OK, the motor was all right. Vintage Lagonda must’ve raised a few eyebrows. Pity it was hot. Still, you can’t have everything. But really . . . To send along Watchstrap Malone and Berwick Street Barbara as your mum and dad is the height of naffness so far as yours truly is concerned. I mean, doesn’t no one have any finesse these days? No, it’s not good enough. I’m afraid there’s going to be a few broken fingers round that agency unless I get a strongly worded apology in folded form.
For a start, why did they send a villain to be in loco parentis? (See, I am not wasting my time down the prison library.) Are they under new management? Always when I used them in the past, they sent along actors, people with no form. Using Watchstrap, whose record’s as long as one of Barry Manilow’s sounds, is taking unnecessary risks. OK, he looks the toff, got the plummy voice and all that, but he ISN’T THE GENUINE ARTICLE. Put him in a marquee with an authentic Eton dad and the other geezer’s going to see he’s not the business within thirty seconds. Remember, in matters of class, THERE’S NO WAY SOMEONE WHO ISN’T CAN EVER PASS HIMSELF OFF AS THE REAL THING (a point which I will return to later in this letter).
