Death of a Dancer

by Anthony Litton

  ‘We don’t want to intrude, sir. We could have asked our questions downstairs in your office,’ Calderwood demurred, as he was ushered into a small hallway, its wooden-floored space elegantly lined in white panelling and with a small Regency desk against its far wall.

  ‘It’s no trouble at all, Inspector. Besides, after a long day in the shop, I’m only too glad to get away from it!’ Edmund replied lightly, as they entered a large sitting-room painted entirely in soft blues and creams and furnished with an expensive, matching cream brocade three-piece suite. Obviously, a child-free zone, thought Bulmer, the father of two.

  ‘I was thinking of your wife, sir. She may not like two heavy-footed policemen traipsing through her home,’ Calderwood murmured.

  ‘Indeed she may not, if she were here!’ Edgar replied smilingly, as, his signalled offer of a drink refused by shakes of the head, he gestured for them to sit in two of the deep armchairs flanking the fireplace. ‘She’s away, however,’ he continued, as, having poured himself a small whisky, he came and sat down on the large settee facing them. ‘She was feeling a little unwell, so she decided to spend some time with friends in the country,’ he added.

  ‘Would that be the Woodlands Nursing Home, sir?’ Calderwood asked quietly.

  ‘Good heavens, Inspector! You have been busy!’ Edgar remarked, after the briefest of pauses and an almost unnoticeable, involuntary, tightening of the hand holding his glass. ‘It’s no big secret, but nor is it general knowledge. So, apart from how, I suppose I should ask why the interest in Yvette’s whereabouts?’

  ‘I’ll explain in a moment, sir, but I’m puzzled why you referred to your wife as staying with friends, rather than in a nursing home; there’s no embarrassment, surely?’ Calderwood asked in mild surprise.

  ‘I’m not embarrassed! I said she was staying with friends and that’s true. The Pargeters, who own the home, are long-standing friends of ours. Had I known you were remotely interested in our social lives, I would have happily told you all that you obviously want to know!’ he continued, his warm smile still beaming out at them.

  ‘I’m sorry, my comment was clumsily put,’ Calderwood apologised. ‘We ourselves have no interest, but last evening, the Lincolnshire force were in touch with us.’ Which was true, he reflected, watching shock tighten Edgar’s features, though the inference that the other force had initiated the contact was not. ‘They’ve asked us to speak to anyone in our “patch” who has relatives in the home, hence our questions. That’s all, sir.’

  ‘Oh, I see!’ Edgar responded, his relief not quite hidden. ‘Good Lord! Things must be serious!’ he went on, his voice level, but his expression now tight, guarded.

  ‘I’m just wondering why Mrs Turnbull went to the Woodlands? Lincoln’s a fair distance from here. Makes visiting a little difficult, I’d have thought,’ Calderwood remarked casually.

  Edgar nodded ruefully. ‘It does indeed, Inspector! There’s very little one can do for someone who suffers from this horrible, horrible illness,’ he continued sadly, ‘but, at least, I’ve the means to ensure that she has the best care available. Besides Patrick and Isabel being our friends, the Woodlands itself has a lot of expertise in MS and similar illnesses and an excellent reputation for patient care.’

  ‘That’s the problem, sir, the authorities locally don’t seem to share your confidence,’ Calderwood rejoined frankly.

  ‘That’s absurd!’

  ‘It may well turn out to be, sir,’ Calderwood agreed amicably. ‘As I said earlier, it’s the Lincolnshire force’s investigation, not ours; we’re merely acting as liaison. They tell us, however, that over the previous two years there had been five complaints against the nursing home and three more against Mr Pargeter personally; four of the eight centre round the deaths, the sudden and unexpected deaths, of reasonably healthy residents. All complaints are now being actively investigated,’ he added flatly.

  ‘Good lord! I’d no idea! Naturally not! I can’t believe it,’ Edgar said quickly. ‘I’ll speak to Patrick. I may have to consider moving Yvette... though our being friends would make that difficult, of course,’ he added, worriedly, his drink forgotten. ‘You’ve given me quite a dilemma, Inspector! The problem is,’ he continued, ‘Yvette needs absolute quiet, to conserve her strength, so, moving her could, in itself, be risky,’ he added, a look of concern on his features.

  ‘Quiet, sir? I would have thought that it must get a little boring, particularly with the restrictions the nursing home seem to have placed on her having visitors,’ Calderwood responded quietly.

  ‘What do you mean? There are no restrictions!’

  ‘No, sir? Ms Mancini has a brother, as you know. We understand from our colleagues that he visited his sister this morning. Mrs Pargeter seemed, as on previous occasions apparently, unwilling to give him access. It was only after a phone call to you that he was, at last and very reluctantly, allowed in.’

  ‘The scenario that’s being painted by your colleagues is overly dramatic, Inspector!’ Edgar snapped, almost spitting out the word, before reining himself in. ‘Ricardo and Yvette aren’t very close and he’s over-excitable, which distresses her; that’s why the Pargeters don’t want him visiting. There’s nothing sinister about it,’ he added in a quieter voice.

  Calderwood nodded. The local force had, as yet, nothing concrete to go on, but they were genuinely concerned and, having already visited the home on two occasions in the preceding two months, were seriously considering having it closed down, as he’d quickly discovered following his conversation with Desmond the previous evening...

  *

  ‘Are you a fan of hers, Robert?’ Desmond had asked, as he saw the CD case of an Yvette Mancini concert on Calderwood’s desk.

  ‘Oh yes, even more so now, having listened to that,’ the young DI replied, gesturing to the player.

  ‘A superb pianist and a lovely, lovely lady,’ Desmond replied.

  ‘You know her?’ asked Calderwood in surprise.

  ‘Did know her,’ corrected the other man.

  ‘Did?’

  ‘Yes, did. We first met her when she’d been playing professionally for only a couple of years. Despite her obvious talent, she was, like many young musicians, struggling even to make ends meet, let alone earn what any sane person would call a decent salary,’ he added ruefully.

  Like most in the arts, he and Gwilym themselves had had a number of years where money had been in considerably less supply than their youthful optimism and self-belief. They’d never forgotten their struggle and had sworn that if – when – they did make it, they’d make sure that some, at least, of those coming after them didn’t have to suffer the same wastefulness of their youthful talent just battling to survive. Although he made no mention of this to his friend, they had, recognising the young Yvette’s amazing ability, subsidised her living expenses for the two more years it took for her, through their contacts, to first get established and then to start on the upward trajectory her career then became.

  ‘We were very friendly with her, and her brother, Ricardo, to whom she was very close, despite both being totally different in temperament – he’s a barrister, of all things! – right through the days of her early fame. Then, six or seven years ago, things began to change,’ he added sadly.

  ‘Changed?’

  ‘Yes, she’d married, somewhat hurriedly, and from then on she started to perform less and less.’

  ‘Perhaps she found married life more satisfying?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what we thought, but then we began to hear the odd rumour that it was her husband who was behind it. We were never entirely sure, but, we heard that he simply couldn’t bear it, if attention was on anything, or anyone, but himself. Apparently, rumour again had it, he’d been the same with his first wife: an increasingly famous painter, I think. We heard much later, though, that the reason for Yvette’s increasing seclusion was that she had MS. We tried contacting her several times, to see if there was anything we could do, but never heard back
, so whether it was the illness or her husband, we didn’t find out.’

  ‘Did you ever meet the husband?’

  ‘Yes, on two or three occasions. He was a bookseller, as I recall, a very successful one, judging by their lifestyle,’ he added.

  ‘What were your impressions of him?’

  ‘Oh, we liked him; liked him tremendously... for about five minutes.’

  ‘Five minutes!’

  ‘I’m exaggerating, though not by much! Each time we met them together we liked him less, his warm smile and great charm notwithstanding.’

  ‘Really?

  Desmond nodded. ‘Yes. She’s almost thirty years younger than him and when they married, she was very successful, but not overly well-known. Then, after her appearing at the Proms a couple of times, things started moving. Obviously her increasing public profile was a talking point whenever we met, but we noticed that he got edgier and edgier, almost obsessively so, whenever the conversation centred on her for more than a few seconds. It was as though he felt he was being shunted sideways and resented it... ‘

  *

  After Desmond had left, the young detective had sat quietly mulling over what had been said and then reviewed the information that they already had, in the light of it. He didn’t like the picture that was emerging and, having solid grounds for trusting both partners’ intuition, and despite the late hour, quickly had Ricardo Mancini traced. After a very long conversation with him, he had then spent an equally long time on the phone to senior officers from the Lincolnshire police. What emerged, interested and disturbed him to such an extent that he’d made a further call, somewhat apologetically, to Bulmer, before he, at last, went home for some much needed sleep...

  Now, sitting opposite Edger, the young DI could see that the first two stages of his and Bulmer’s three-part strategy had worked. Their approach had been planned during their almost day-long meeting, where they’d exhaustively sifted and re-sifted every single fragment of information, every idea, even inference, however small and far-fetched. The picture that emerged, though convincing – and frightening – was, they were keenly aware, a flimsy structure based entirely on supposition; the investigatory equivalent of a house built almost entirely of straw. They needed much more, hence their decision to put direct pressure on Edgar, keep him off-balance, firstly by conducting the interview at his home and then hitting him hard and fast with questions concerning his wife. The approach having clearly unsettled the older man, Calderwood now moved onto the crucial third stage.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, if we’ve alarmed you. As I say, it’s not a case we’re involved in and it’s our colleagues in Lincoln who’ll, no doubt, want to see you at some point in the near future. As they will, of course, wish to see all relatives of the home’s residents,’ he added smoothly, while noting Edgar’s flash of unease. ‘For now, however, we’ve got some further questions surrounding your cousin’s murder. I know we went into everything when we interviewed you immediately after her death, but there are one or two points we’d like to discuss further.’ He paused and, for effect, pulled out his notebook.

  ‘As you know, Mrs DeLancy told us that in the days before her death, Arabelle was drinking even more than usual and kept saying repeatedly “N...no...never! N...n...never!”’

  ‘Yes, both curious, and meaningless; but then, poor Arabelle had been slowly pickling her brain with alcohol virtually all her adult life,’ Edgar replied, dismissively, almost coldly, before collecting himself. ‘Poor, dear, girl,’ he added perfunctorily, even as his expression quickly filled with warm concern.

  ‘Indeed, sir. Though one could ask what it was that set her on that path,’ Calderwood remarked.

  ‘But how would I know that, Inspector?’ Edgar enquired with a puzzled look, as he sipped his drink.

  ‘As we discussed previously, you and Miss DeLancy were particularly close, so it would be quite natural if you could shed some light on what caused her... illness, surely?’

  ‘I have no idea what caused it, if anything other than an excessive liking for “wines and spirituous liqueurs”, to quote somebody or other, was responsible,’ Edgar responded pettishly, his habitual, broad smile flickering, still struggling to re-establish its habitual presence, after his earlier shock. ‘Yes,’ he continued, taking a deep breath. ‘We were once quite close, but hadn’t been for several years. I did worry about her, of course I did. It’s a great shame her life was wasted, but I’m sorry, I really can’t help you with her nonsensical mutterings!’

  ‘Ah yes, but there we come to it, sir.’ Calderwood remarked. ‘We don’t think they were nonsensical.’

  ‘Really? Then pray enlighten me!’ Edgar responded, trying to strike a light-hearted note and not quite succeeding.

  ‘In a moment, sir. Before I do, I wonder if you could help us resolve a small discrepancy?’ Without waiting for the other man’s agreement, he continued. ‘Your mother, when we interviewed her originally, was very clear about a number of things. One was your supreme disinterest in anything to do with the theatre, even to the extent of never visiting it after you were a very young child.’

  ‘Your point, Inspector?’ Edgar asked, with a bewildered shrug of his shoulders.

  ‘My point, sir, is that you said exactly the opposite, very specifically so, when we discussed the issue during our first interview. You said that you loved helping the technicians and did so fairly frequently in your mid-teens. Which would be during the period just prior to the theatre’s sudden closure. Is that not substantially what you said?’

  ‘Indeed it is, and I explained my interest as a youthful flash in the pan – and I would suggest my memory is a little more reliable than that of a woman of almost ninety!’ Edgar replied, his warm smile now fully restored.

  ‘Yes, you’re probably right,’ agreed Calderwood amiably, suddenly changing the direction of the conversation, ‘and, anyway, such comparatively slight discrepancies scarcely matter, perhaps, in view of the horrors we found. It was one of the most unsettling sights we’ve ever seen, I think,’ he continued quietly.

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Edgar soberly, ‘It must have been appalling,’ he added sympathetically.

  ‘What were they really like?’ Calderwood asked suddenly. ‘We’re getting conflicting views about them both. You were close to Daniel, so perhaps you could help us clarify things?’

  Edgar nodded. ‘Indeed I was; and missed him dreadfully when he was no longer part of my life. The same with Ariana, though I only knew her for those few months, of course. What were they like?’ he continued, pursing his lips. ‘They were both pleasant young people, both with a degree of charm and a certain amount of talent and were committed to their respective careers. In Ariana’s case, it was the one she’d already started on. Daniel was still dabbling, searching to find his, but I feel sure he’d have done quite well, once he’d settled down a little,’ he added, smiling indulgently.

  ‘Yes, a number of people have remarked on their charm and talent,’ Calderwood replied. ‘In fact,’ he continued, opening his notebook, ‘someone went even further, saying it was almost a good thing that both died at the same time.’

  ‘A good thing!’

  ‘Yes, “good”, adding,’ Calderwood continued, apparently reading from his notes, ‘“that they were two people very much made for each other, so evenly matched in terms of looks and talent.”’ He paused and turned a page. ‘Someone else told us that had one survived, the other would never have found anyone their equal and would’ve had to settle for second best.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Edgar, with a restless movement, his voice sharpening.

  ‘Someone else,’ the young DI continued, turning yet another page, ‘speaking of Ariana, said that “her dancing was magical, like quicksilver and fire, but off-stage she was the gentlest, kindest person one could wish to meet”.’

  Calderwood nodded, as though to himself, but carefully monitoring Edgar’s increasing restiveness. After a moment he continued in the same soft voice. ‘A
nother person said that Daniel was head and shoulders above all his peers, but despite having great charm and also discovering a breathtaking musical talent in himself, he still retained a genuine kindness and concern for others, unusual in a teenager.’

  ‘I think, Inspector, that the passing of so much time has allowed myth-making on a monumental scale! That’s not how I remember them at all!’ Edgar replied, his smiling face now a contrast to the increasing edginess in his tone.

  ‘But you said something similar only moments ago, sir.’

  ‘Yes, something similar, but I didn’t blunder into hyperbole! My affection didn’t blind me to his – or her – faults; neither then, nor now!’

  ‘Faults, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector, faults! They both had a great number!’

  ‘Forgiveable surely, sir; perhaps even inevitable. After all, they were still very young, just coming into adulthood and having to learn how to handle the grown-up world and their immense talent, at the same time,’ pushed Calderwood. ‘But their faults weren’t serious ones, surely?’

  ‘That depends what you call serious, Inspector, does it not?’ Edgar retorted, waspishly. ‘But why, for heaven’s sake, are we discussing them! It all happened half a century ago – and it’s my father you should put these questions to, if you ever catch him!’ he added, tauntingly.

  Calderwood nodded slowly, locking eyes with the other man. ‘To return to your cousin’s murder, then. ‘We don’t believe that your father did kill her – and it’s her death we’d now like to talk to you about.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Edgar, said, with an almost perfect show of outraged surprise. ‘Why me? I don’t know anything that can help you. And, obviously,’ he added, with a small laugh, ‘I didn’t kill her, I’d no reason to! ‘

  ‘That’s not true, though, is it, sir?’ Calderwood responded slowly, ‘You see, we think that, due to her partial deafness, your mother misheard what your cousin was muttering to herself. It wasn’t: “No…no…never! No...no...never!” It was: “No...no, Edgar! N...no Edgar...!”’