‘Reverend sir,’ cried Angus, standing still, ‘are you raving mad, or am I?’
‘You are not mad,’ said Brown, ‘only a little unobservant. You have not noticed such a man as this, for example.’
He took three quick strides forward, and put his hand on the shoulder of an ordinary passing postman who had bustled by them unnoticed under the shade of the trees.
‘Nobody ever notices postmen, somehow,’ he said thoughtfully; ‘yet they have passions like other men, and even carry large bags where a small corpse can be stowed quite easily.’
The postman, instead of turning naturally, had ducked and tumbled against the garden fence. He was a lean fair-bearded man of very ordinary appearance, but as he turned an alarmed face over his shoulder, all three men were fixed with an almost fiendish squint.
Flambeau went back to his sabres, purple rugs and Persian cat, having many things to attend to. John Turnbull Angus went back to the lady at the shop, with whom that imprudent young man contrives to be extremely comfortable. But Father Brown walked those snow-covered hills under the stars for many hours with a murderer, and what they said to each other will never be known.
Cinders
A Rebus Story for Christmas
Ian Rankin
The Fairy Godmother was dead.
Rebus had had to fight his way through the throng of rubber-neckers outside the Theatre Royal. It was early evening, dark and drizzling, but they didn’t seem to mind. He showed his warrant card to a uniformed officer at the cordon, and then again as he entered the red-carpeted foyer. The doors to the auditorium were open, the remaining audience members grumbling in that Edinburgh way as they queued to give their contact details before being allowed to leave. The curtain had been raised for the show’s second act, revealing the kitchen of some grand house or castle, all fake stone walls and glowing fireplace.
‘Apparently,’ a voice next to Rebus announced, ‘there’s a bit of slapstick with Buttons as he tries baking a cake.’
‘Shaving-foam in the face?’ Rebus guessed.
‘That sort of thing.’ Detective Inspector Siobhan Clarke managed a thin smile.
The youngest members of the audience were setting up cries of protest, their annual panto treat ruined. Parents looked numbed, some of the mothers dabbing away tears.
‘They know?’ Rebus said.
‘Second half doesn’t start, police arrive – I’d say they’ve guessed there’s no happy ending.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Easier if I show you.’ She turned back into the foyer and pushed open a door marked Private. Stairs up, a narrow corridor, then another door, more stairs, and turns to left and right.
‘Should we be leaving a trail of breadcrumbs?’ Rebus inquired.
‘Wrong story,’ Clarke answered.
She had to knock at a final door. It was opened by a uniformed officer. They were in another corridor with doors off.
‘Make-up, wardrobe, dressing rooms,’ Clarke intoned.
‘The business of show.’ Rebus peered into some of the rooms as they passed them. Rails festooned with gaudy clothing, strip-lit mirrors, props and wigs. There were loud-speakers set into the walls, broadcasting the sounds from the auditorium. The Scene of Crime crew were bagging and tagging.
‘We’re not worried about contamination?’ Rebus checked.
‘Twenty or thirty people pass this way a dozen or more times per show. Maxtone doesn’t think we’d be adding much to the mix.’
‘Doug Maxtone is in charge?’
‘How do you not know that?’ Clarke stopped in her tracks.
‘I was just passing, Siobhan.’
‘Just passing?’
‘Well, maybe I heard something at the station …’
‘But you’re not on the team?’ She rolled her eyes at the stupidity of her own question. ‘Of course not – Doug Maxtone’s hardly in your fan club.’
‘I can’t understand it – we’ve got badges and everything.’
‘This is a murder inquiry, John. You don’t just walk in.’
‘Yet here I am.’ Rebus gave a shrug. ‘So why not show me where it happened?’
She sighed as she made up her mind, then led the way. ‘We can’t go in, not without being suited up.’
‘Understood.’
So they stood at the threshold instead. The interior seemed frozen in the moment. Vases of flowers and good luck cards. Bottles of water and blackcurrant cordial. A bowl of fruit. A small suitcase, lying open. A chair tipped over. A dark stain on the pale blue carpet.
‘I smell smoke.’
‘Not quite enough to set off the alarm,’ Clarke said. ‘A metal waste-bin.’ She nodded to where it had once sat. ‘Off to the lab.’
‘Was she a smoker?’
‘It was paper of some kind – plus sandwich wrappers and who knows what else.’
‘A blow to the head, I heard.’
‘Probably when she was seated, facing the mirror. She didn’t have the biggest of roles – pops up with the gown and glass slippers, then the coach. Comes on again near the end – or would have.’
‘So it’s the interval and she’s changed out of her sparkly gown and wings?’ Rebus mused. ‘Meaning the costume department would have been lurking.’
‘We’re interviewing them.’
‘How long is the interval?’
‘Twenty minutes.’
‘Lots of people backstage?’
‘Lots.’
‘She would have seen them.’ He nodded towards the mirror. ‘She’d have seen whoever walked in.’
‘Baron Hardup has the next dressing room along. Didn’t hear any screams. Then again, he had the radio on, listening to some horse race.’
‘And through the other wall?’
‘Stairwell.’
‘No security cameras?’
‘Not here, no.’ Clarke paused. ‘Did you know her?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘She was on TV in the 70s and 80s. A couple of sitcoms, even a few films.’
‘I saw her face on the poster outside. Didn’t ring any bells.’
‘And the name? Celia Jagger?’ She watched Rebus shrug. ‘You’ve not asked about the weapon.’
Rebus scanned the dressing room but came up empty. ‘Enlighten me,’ he said.
‘The glass slipper,’ Clarke said. ‘The one left behind at the Ball …’
Not that it was a real glass slipper. It was Perspex or something similar. And it wasn’t the one from the performance. The production kept two spares. One of these had been removed from the props department and used in the attack, its stiletto heel piercing Jagger’s skull and killing her instantly.
The props department was basically a large walk-in cupboard with shelves. The door had a lock, but was always open during performances. There were storage boxes bearing the name of each character along with a list of contents. Rebus held one of the remaining slippers in his hand. It was heavier than he had anticipated. Nicely made, but scuffed from use. Not that an audience would notice, not with a spotlight making it shine.
Clarke had gone off somewhere, with a warning that he should ‘keep his head down’. Some of the chaos had subsided. Fewer headless chickens as the inquiry found its rhythm. Twelve dressing rooms, three of them to accommodate the chorus (who doubled as dancers). The theatre had no orchestra pit – the music was pre-recorded. Two technicians ran everything from a couple of laptops. Everyone would be asked about their movements during the interval. Statements would have to be verified. As yet, no one seemed to be asking the most basic question of all: who would want Celia Jagger dead? Her killing was the end of a story, and for stories you went to people. Which was why Rebus placed the shoe back in the box marked Cinders, and walked towards the exit.
The sign said Stage Door, and that was where he eventually found himself. There was an antechamber of sorts, with a list of actors and crew fixed to its wall. Like clocking in to some old-fashioned factory job, when you ar
rived you slid a wooden slat along to show you were IN. From behind a glass partition, the man in the security booth watched Rebus.
‘I like this,’ Rebus said, pointing to the wall.
‘It’s been here almost as long as the building.’
‘And what about you?’
‘I used to build the sets. Everything was custom-made in those days.’
‘And now?’
‘Mostly from stock. Newcastle or somewhere does Cinderella one year, we’ll take what we need from them the next, while our Aladdin might head to Aberdeen. We built the tram from scratch, mind.’
‘The tram?’
‘Director’s idea – instead of a carriage. Big puff of smoke and there’s an Edinburgh tram. Pretty clever really – means we don’t need any horses. Couple of the stage hands use a pulley and Cinders is off to the ball.’ The man’s smile faded. ‘How long will we be closed?’
‘Hard to say.’
‘Theatre can’t go on without it. Same for a lot of these old places – a full house for a few months means you can afford to run the rest of the year.’
‘Is that what happens?’
The guard nodded. He was in shirt-sleeves, a mug of tea on the desk next to him. CCTV screens showed the alleyway outside, empty auditorium, and front of house.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Rebus, by the way,’ Rebus said.
‘Willie Mearns.’
‘How long have you been doing this job, Mr Mearns?’
‘Fifteen years.’
‘Ever since you retired from the workshop?’ Making Mearns seventy-five, maybe even eighty. He looked sprightly though. Rebus reckoned the man’s memory would be sharp. ‘Have you been questioned yet?’
‘Not formally – just asked if I’d seen anyone suspicious.’
I’m guessing you said no.’
‘Quite right.’
‘And Celia Jagger – did you know her to talk to?’
‘Oh aye. I had to remind her that I built the set when she appeared in a play here back in her heyday.’
‘Did you use the word “heyday”?’
‘I’m not that daft.’
‘She had a bit of an ego then?’
‘Most of them do. Don’t get me wrong – they’re lovely with it. But Celia was miffed she didn’t get one of the big dressing rooms.’
‘They all looked much the same to me.’
‘A few inches can make all the difference.’
‘You say she was “miffed” – is that as far as it went?’
‘More or less.’
Rebus studied the man for a few seconds. ‘There’s a pub across the street. Do you know it?’
‘I might have passed through its door on occasion.’
Rebus smiled. ‘Well, tonight we’ve got half a dozen of Police Scotland’s finest keeping watch on the Theatre Royal. I think you can maybe call it a day, Mr Mearns.’
The man made show of considering his options, then started rising to his feet. ‘I’ll drink to that,’ he said.
The interviews were taking place at St Leonard’s police station. Rebus found Clarke pacing a corridor, scanning transcripts.
‘Who have we got?’ he asked her.
She nodded in turn towards four doors. ‘Tracy Sidwell, John Carrier, Robert Tennant, Jamie Salter.’
‘So that’s Cinderella, Baron Hardup, Prince Charming and Buttons.’
‘You’re well informed.’
‘I just spent an hour in a pub with a man who likes to talk. Hardup’s a bit too fond of the horses apparently. Always needing to borrow a few quid to tide him over.
‘Meantime, Prince Charming left his wife and two kids for Cinderella – not quite a fairy tale.’
Clarke stared at him. ‘Anything else?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘There are whispers about Buttons and the Wicked Stepmother. Giggles and whispers behind closed dressing-room doors. Who else have we got?’
‘They’re waiting in the office until we’re ready for them.’ They walked together to the MIT suite. The Ugly Sisters – panto stalwarts Davie Clegg and Russell Gloag – had changed out of their costumes but still bore traces of make-up. They were seated alongside the show’s writer/director Maurice Welsh, who was visibly trembling as he spoke with another man. Rebus guessed this would be Alan Yates, producer and owner of the Theatre Royal. Seeing the two detectives, Yates leapt to his feet. He was in his sixties and looked to have dined out for most of them.
‘Any news?’ he asked.
‘Not yet, sir,’ Clarke assured him.
‘We need to offer refunds … prep an understudy. The show must –’
‘Sorry to disillusion you, sir,’ Rebus butted in. ‘But the theatre remains a crime scene. It doesn’t open again until we say so.’
‘And even then, Alan,’ Welsh added tiredly, ‘who’s going to be in the mood? I mean the audience rather than the cast. We’ll have nothing but ghouls …’
‘Run’s finished,’ Davie Clegg agreed. ‘Can’t sit in that dressing-room and not think of Celia.’
Yates ran a hand through what hair he had left. ‘But without the panto there is no Theatre Royal! It’s our banker!’
‘Sorry, Alan.’ Clegg offered a shrug of sympathy.
‘Ruined,’ Yates muttered, falling back on to his seat. Maurice Welsh patted his arm.
‘That’s all very well,’ Russell Gloag piped up, ‘but it doesn’t tell us who killed poor Celia. And if I find out it was any one of you.’
‘Actually that’s our job,’ Clarke informed him. She broke off as an exhausted-looking detective filled the doorway. He checked his notepad.
‘Maurice Welsh?’ The director stood up, looking as if a gust might topple him. ‘If you’ll follow me, sir.’ The detective locked eyes with Clarke and shook his head: nothing to report.
Rebus gestured for Clarke to follow him into the corridor. He checked they were out of earshot. ‘Where’s everyone else? The crew and chorus, plus Dandini and the Stepmother?’
‘One of the other offices. Otherwise they’d have been like sardines.’ She studied him. ‘What else did your friend in the pub tell you?’
‘Bits and pieces. I’m not sure yet what they –’
‘What in God’s name is he doing here?’
They both turned in the direction of the approaching voice. DCI Doug Maxtone seemed to fill the corridor as he strode towards them.
‘I was just passing,’ Rebus explained slowly. ‘Happened to bump into DI Clarke and she was just singing your praises.’
Maxtone ignored Rebus, his attention fixed on Clarke. He brandished a sheet of paper ripped from a pad. ‘Forensics played a blinder,’ he told her.
‘The waste-bin?’
‘Salient contents: one promotional photograph of Celia Jagger. Not quite done to a cinder …’
‘And?’
‘It was signed.’ Maxtone checked his note. “To my darling Ed with all my love”.’
‘Ed?’ Clarke narrowed her eyes. ‘Edwin Oakes?’
‘AKA Dandini. Is he inside?’ Maxtone was gesturing towards the MIT room.
‘He’s with the chorus and crew.’
Maxtone’s face hardened. ‘I’ve just come from there.’
Clarke’s lips formed an O. ‘No Dandini?’ she surmised.
‘They thought he must be here.’
Rebus made show of clearing his throat. ‘Maybe he found the trap-door.’
‘You’re as useful as last year’s turkey,’ Maxtone snarled, before barrelling his way back along the corridor, Clarke at his heels.
Rebus stayed where he was. Then he took out his phone and a scrap of paper, reading Willie Mearns’ number from it as he got busy on the keypad.
‘I need everything there is to know about Edwin Oakes,’ he said. As he listened, his eyes began to narrow and his brow furrow. Curiouser and curiouser…
* * *
The following morning, Rebus was at St Leonard’s early. He went through the interview transcripts, gleaning bi
ts and pieces. There was no love lost between the Ugly Sisters apparently – they worked together for the sake of the pay cheque, each privately confiding his loathing of the other to various stagehands. Wardrobe department, make-up, deputy stage manager … all had sung for the detectives. The show’s director had a history of substance abuse, as did Prince Charming. Buttons was notoriously lazy, and had almost come to blows with both director and producer while attempting to cut back on his lines so he wouldn’t have to remember them. He would also ad lib weak jokes, meaning more arguments after each and every performance.
But there was plenty of gossip about the crew, too. Assignations and affairs, minor misdemeanours and fallings-out. As the show’s director had said: it’s a pressure cooker, but if you try turning the heat down sometimes the production suffers. And in the end, it was all about the show, its run sold out weeks before opening.
‘Quite the drama,’ Siobhan Clarke said, reading over Rebus’s shoulder. She was carrying a cardboard coffeecup and a leather satchel. ‘Maxtone not in yet?’
‘Think I’d be here if he was?’
‘Fair point.’ She put down her things and started removing her long woollen coat. ‘I meant to ask you – what are you doing for Christmas?’
‘Probably not going to the panto.’
‘I mean the day itself – you know you’d be welcome at mine.’
‘Thanks, Siobhan, but I have my own traditions to stick to.’
‘Meaning finding a pub that’s open? Maybe a meal from the freezer after?’
‘I’m old-fashioned that way.’
‘I feel bad about us shutting down Cinderella.’
‘We’re not the villains here, remember that. Though sometimes all Doug Maxtone lacks is a moustache to twirl.’ Rebus looked at his watch. ‘Shouldn’t have bothered taking your coat off.’
‘Is the heating playing up or something?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘But we’re going out again.’
‘We are? Why’s that?’
‘Because Edwin Oakes is a creature of habit,’ he said, rising to his feet.
They decided on Rebus’s car so Clarke could continue drinking her coffee, but as they turned out of the car park, they were blocked by a man, his arms outstretched. He wore a flapping coat and was wide-eyed and unshaven.
Murder under the Christmas Tree Page 9
