‘Isn’t that one of our Ugly Sisters?’ Clarke asked.
Rebus was already out of the car. ‘Mr Gloag, isn’t it?’ he was saying.
‘I know what he told you and it’s not true! Not one word of it!’ There were flecks of foam at the corners of the actor’s mouth.
‘Just calm down.’ Rebus held up the palms of both hands. ‘I know everyone’s a bit on edge …’
‘He told you I’d slept with Celia, didn’t he?’
‘Are we talking about your colleague Davie Clegg?’ Clarke inquired.
‘Last time I work with that wretched piece of …’ Gloag looked at his hands, willing them to stop shaking. ‘He told you about Earnest? It’s true, I was in the same play as her, but nothing ever happened. I mean … she flirted a bit. You know – all touchy-feely, and maybe I picked up the signals wrong.’
‘You’d have been accommodating?’ Rebus guessed.
‘But if you think that was going to make me jealous of Ed …’
‘You knew about them though?’ Clarke probed.
‘We all knew.’
‘But it didn’t make you angry?’ Rebus asked. ‘The same anger you’re feeling right now?’
‘I’m not angry.’ Gloag tried to laugh. ‘I just can’t believe Davie would have said anything.’
‘Rest easy then, Mr Gloag – Davie Clegg didn’t tell tales.’
Gloag looked as if he’d been hit. ‘Wh-what?’
‘He’s been winding you up, sir,’ Rebus confirmed. ‘Telling you he did something he didn’t.’
Colour rose to Gloag’s cheeks. ‘That does it!’ he spat. ‘If he thinks we’re working together again, he can bloody well whistle. That’s our divorce papers right there!’ He span away, hurtling down the pavement.
‘Think we should warn Clegg?’ Clarke asked, getting back into the car.
‘We need to be elsewhere.’ Rebus started the car. After a minute of silence, he asked about Oakes.
‘Shares a flat in the Grassmarket with Buttons. Though apparently they don’t see much of one another.’
‘Because Buttons is shacked up with the Wicked Stepmother?’
‘Reading between the lines, yes. Bit awkward, with both flatmates carrying on their little liaisons. Oakes’s actual home is in Glasgow but he hardly gets back there during the season.’
‘Officers have been to both?’
‘Camped outside through the night,’ Clarke confirmed.
‘We’ve also interviewed Prince Charming’s ex-wife plus our esteemed director’s partner – he’s gay, by the way. And the substance abuse?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t buy it – he’s just naturally hyper.’ She peered from the window. ‘Where are we headed?’
‘The Meadows.’
‘Is this your security guy again?’
‘He’s like a priest – they all tell him their story at some point.’
‘Stagehands mostly knew about Oakes and Celia Jagger.’ Clarke took another sip from her cup. ‘I mean, they knew or they’d had an inkling. Seems she had a bit of history in that department – every production she was in, she managed an affair with someone in the cast. Doesn’t seem to matter that she was old enough to be Oakes’s mother – actually, maybe even his grandmother.’
‘But she decides he’s not the one – maybe has her eye on someone else. So he burns the photo and then whacks her over the head.’
‘It’s a fairly classic set-up.’
‘You may be wiser than you know.’
‘How so?’
‘The relevant phrase is “set up”.’
She stared at him as he stopped the car kerbside. They were on Melville Drive. The Meadows was an expanse of playing fields criss-crossed by paths. A lot of students used it as a route to the university. In summer, they would host barbecues and games of Frisbee, but there was an icy wind today and the few pedestrians were well wrapped up.
‘I wish you’d tell me what’s in that head of yours,’ Clarke complained. Rebus just winked and got out of the car. She followed him to where he had come to a halt, next to a line of trees. There was a circuit of bare earth, the grass worn away by a generation of joggers. Two young women passed them, managing to hold a conversation while they ran. From the opposite direction came an older man, headphones on, steam rising from his singlet. And then, fifty yards or so back, a figure that seemed out of place. He was dressed in cream chinos and a zip-up jacket, below which was an open-necked shirt. Yes, because Edwin Oakes hadn’t felt able to return to his digs or to the theatre. He was wearing the same outfit as when he’d walked out of the police station. And Rebus guessed he hadn’t slept either. Despite which, he had come for his morning run.
A creature of habit, just as Willie Mearns had said.
Rebus stepped on to the trail, blocking him. Oakes came to a stop, leaning forward to catch his breath.
‘Morning, Mr Oakes,’ Rebus said.
‘You’re the police?’ Oakes guessed.
‘We need you at St Leonard’s, sir.’
Oakes straightened his back. ‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘You ran away,’ Clarke corrected him.
‘I knew you’d think …’ He broke off and shook his head. ‘I just needed some time.’
‘To come up with a story?’
‘To grieve.’ His eyes bored into Clarke’s. ‘I loved her. I mean, I knew her reputation and everything – once the show ended, we’d be history. But all the same …’
‘She gave you a photo,’ Rebus said. ‘We found it in the waste-bin in her dressing-room.’
Oakes frowned. ‘Nobody knew about that.’
‘You’re saying you didn’t set light to it?’ Clarke demanded.
‘I kept it in a drawer in my own dressing-room, tucked away where it wouldn’t be seen.’
‘Somebody found it,’ Rebus stated. He half-turned towards Clarke. ‘No raised voices from behind Celia Jagger’s door – someone from the crew would have heard an argument, they all seem to have pretty good ears.’
‘I could never have hurt her,’ Oakes was saying. ‘Never in a million years.’
‘Yet you did a runner.’
‘I knew you’d find out about us – either that or I’d have to tell you.’ Oakes rubbed at his hair. ‘I’ve a girlfriend – sort of – back in Glasgow. Someone I’m fond of. She’s got a daughter who dotes on me. It was the look on her face I couldn’t stand, finding out I’d cheated on her mum …’
‘You need to come back with us,’ Rebus said quietly. ‘We know you didn’t do anything. Talking to us means taking us a step closer to finding whoever did.’
Oakes nodded slowly. Clarke’s eyes were on Rebus. He knew what she was thinking: How can we be sure? As they escorted Oakes to the waiting car, she asked the actor when he had last seen the photo.
‘A few days back. Maybe longer than that. It actually hurt me a little.’
‘Why was that?’
‘It’s the sort of thing you hand to a fan at the stage door. I mean, the message was personal but not that personal. And that was actually the real message – none of this means anything except in the moment. Soon as the production ends, we go our separate ways.’ Oakes angled his head back, as if to stop the tears coming.
Just as well someone usually writes your lines for you, Rebus thought, before inquiring whether Oakes had ever walked into his dressing room and found someone from the cast or crew there.
‘All the time – it’s an open house. I’ve usually got chocolate biscuits or cans of cola. Jamie’s a demon for the sugar.’
‘Jamie meaning Buttons?’
Oakes nodded. ‘And John’s always wandering in with some sure-fire bet he wants to share. They’re like family …’ His face darkened. ‘It can’t be any of them. There must be someone else.’
‘Maybe so, Mr Oakes. Maybe so.’ Rebus pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it across for Siobhan Clarke to take.
‘See if you can track down this guy,’ he said. ‘He’s the
one we probably need to talk to now.’
She read the name. ‘Howard Corbyn? Who the hell is Howard Corbyn?’
‘You’re a detective,’ Rebus told her. ‘You’ll work it out.’
They installed Oakes in the back of the car. But before getting in, Clarke grabbed Rebus by the arm.
‘Maxtone needs to know you’re the one who did this.’ She gestured towards the actor.
‘I don’t mind you grabbing the good reviews, Siobhan.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘It’s not over, is it? There’s another act coming?’
Rebus nodded towards the slip of paper. ‘Depends what comes from that,’ he said, making his way round to the driver’s seat.
Rebus stood alone on the stage of the Theatre Royal. A stage-hand had raised the curtain and put on a few lights. The scene was still set for the opening of the panto’s second half – the kitchen of Baron Hardup’s castle. Close up, the set and props looked tired, paint fading or flaking, edges chipped – not unlike the building itself. He knew that council officials had ordered expensive modifications (yet to be carried out). The roof needed repairs and the carpets were fraying or threadbare.
None of which would have mattered to each day’s audience, primed with sugary snacks and drinks, pockets emptied in the purchase of glo-sticks, magic wands and glossy programmes. Each year’s twelve-week panto run just about made up for nine months of loss-making. The box office next door had been handing out refunds when Rebus arrived. The apology taped over the poster for Cinderella said that the show had been cancelled “until further notice”.
‘Is there any news?’ Alan Yates asked, coming on to the stage from the wings.
‘Isn’t that bad luck?’ Rebus said. Yates looked confused. ‘You entered stage left. Lighting director told me the show was cursed from the moment Celia Jagger made the mistake of entering stage left during the first rehearsal. Stage left is for villains. Goes back to the medieval mysteries or something.’
Yates forced a smile. ‘Stage left is hell, stage right heaven – I know the story, but it’s only actors who are superstitious that way. Theatre owners live in the real world – we’re even allowed to say the word Macbeth, as long as none of the cast is in earshot…’
‘You might have just jinxed yourself then, Mr Yates. You asked if there’s news and there is – we’ve got Russell Gloag in a cell at St Leonard’s.’
‘Russell?’ Yates sounded disbelieving.
‘He gave Davie Clegg a bit of a battering – so it looks like you’ve lost your Ugly Sisters, too. The real world you live in isn’t doing you any favours, eh?’ Rebus paused. ‘Bit of a blow to your ego, I dare say, when your Fairy Godmother decided on Edwin Oakes.’
Yates’s face creased. ‘I’m not sure I follow.’
‘She played here seven years ago in The Mousetrap. Then again three years later in an Oscar Wilde play …’
‘Yes?’
‘And both times you enjoyed what Wilde might have called “a dalliance”.’
Yates’s face was colouring. ‘We most certainly did not.’
‘Oh yes, you did. Crew at the time knew it. Everyone knew it. So you reckoned it would be the same again this year. Must have hurt your pride to be rebuffed.’ Rebus took a step closer. ‘In the lane outside the stage door – the lane covered by CCTV. Willie Mearns saw you. Trying for a clinch, being pushed away. A pointed finger, a slap, a few angry words.’
‘This is preposterous.’ Yates made to lean against the table, but it creaked, reminding him that it was not solid. ‘You’re suggesting I killed Celia because she was seeing Oakes?’
‘Not at all.’ Rebus paused again. ‘You killed her out of simple greed, more than anything. You’re like Baron Hardup with a castle that’s going to ruin you.’ Rebus gestured to the set. ‘Just the single solitary panto run each year keeping the creditors from your door. But all the renovations and improvements that need to be made … It’d be years before you saw any return. If the panto could be stopped from spinning gold, you’d have the perfect excuse to sell the place off – no one would blame you or paint you as the villain. That’s why you started talking to Howard Corbyn.’
‘Who?’
‘Howard Corbyn,’ Rebus repeated.
‘I’ve never heard of him.’
‘Is that right? Well, he’s a property developer.’ Rebus turned towards the auditorium and raised his voice a little. ‘Aren’t you, Mr Corbyn?’
He was seated in the front row of the Grand Circle, Siobhan Clarke next to him, the pair of them just about visible beyond the stage lighting. Corbyn nodded and waved, and Alan Yates swallowed a gulp. Perspiration made his face gleam.
‘Willie Mearns watched the pair of you,’ Rebus went on, turning towards Yates again. ‘Three visits when you knew the theatre would be empty. A handshake in the lane at the end of the third. Flats, commercial use, maybe a super-pub – Mr Corbyn wasn’t sure what he would do with the place, but he wanted it if the price was right. You just had to shut down Cinderella. A real-life tragedy would do the trick. You could get back at Celia Jagger for her snub, and maybe even put her lover in the frame – all you had to do was take that photo from his dressing-room and place it in hers – just singed enough to look the part. You think we can’t lift fingerprints from a half-burned picture, Mr Yates? You’d be surprised what we can do these days with anything less than cinders.’
Yates was looking at the floor, as if willing it to reveal an escape route.
‘No disappearing act for you,’ Rebus warned him. ‘But you might want to take one last good look around. Because you know where your reputation’s going to be from now on?’
‘Where?’ Yates couldn’t help asking, his voice cracking.
Instead of answering, Rebus looked up to where Siobhan Clarke was sitting.
‘Behind you!’ she called down.
‘Behind you,’ Rebus repeated quietly, leading Alan Yates from the stage.
Death on the Air
Ngaio Marsh
On the 25th of December at 7:30 a.m. Mr Septimus Tonks was found dead beside his wireless set.
It was Emily Parks, an under-housemaid, who discovered him. She butted open the door and entered, carrying mop, duster, and carpet-sweeper. At that precise moment she was greatly startled by a voice that spoke out of the darkness.
‘Good morning, everybody,’ said the voice in superbly inflected syllables, ‘and a Merry Christmas!’
Emily yelped, but not loudly, as she immediately realised what had happened. Mr Tonks had omitted to turn off his wireless before going to bed. She drew back the curtains, revealing a kind of pale murk which was a London Christmas dawn, switched on the light, and saw Septimus.
He was seated in front of the radio. It was a small but expensive set, specially built for him. Septimus sat in an armchair, his back to Emily, his body tilted towards the radio.
His hands, the fingers curiously bunched, were on the ledge of the cabinet under the tuning and volume knobs. His chest rested against the shelf below and his head leaned on the front panel.
He looked rather as though he was listening intently to the interior secrets of the wireless. His head was bent so that Emily could see his bald top with its trail of oiled hairs. He did not move.
‘Beg pardon, sir,’ gasped Emily. She was again greatly startled. Mr Tonks’s enthusiasm for radio had never before induced him to tune in at seven-thirty in the morning.
‘Special Christmas service,’ the cultured voice was saying. Mr Tonks sat very still. Emily, in common with the other servants, was terrified of her master. She did not know whether to go or to stay. She gazed wildly at Septimus and realised that he wore a dinner-jacket. The room was now filled with the clamour of pealing bells.
Emily opened her mouth as wide as it would go and screamed and screamed and screamed …
Chase, the butler, was the first to arrive. He was a pale, flabby man but authoritative. He said: ‘What’s the meaning of this outrage?’ and then saw Septimus. He went to the ar
mchair, bent down, and looked into his master’s face.
He did not lose his head, but said in a loud voice: ‘My Gawd!’ And then to Emily: ‘Shut your face.’ By this vulgarism he betrayed his agitation. He seized Emily by the shoulders and thrust her towards the door, where they were met by Mr Hislop, the secretary, in his dressinggown. Mr Hislop said: ‘Good heavens, Chase, what is the meaning –’ and then his voice too was drowned in the clamour of bells and renewed screams.
Chase put his fat white hand over Emily’s mouth.
‘In the study if you please, sir. An accident. Go to your room, will you, and stop that noise or I’ll give you something to make you.’ This to Emily, who bolted down the hall, where she was received by the rest of the staff who had congregated there.
Chase returned to the study with Mr Hislop and locked the door. They both looked down at the body of Septimus Tonks. The secretary was the first to speak.
‘But – but – he’s dead,’ said little Mr Hislop.
‘I suppose there can’t be any doubt,’ whispered Chase.
‘Look at the face. Any doubt! My God!’
Mr Hislop put out a delicate hand towards the bent head and then drew it back. Chase, less fastidious, touched one of the hard wrists, gripped, and then lifted it. The body at once tipped backwards as if it was made of wood. One of the hands knocked against the butler’s face. He sprang back with an oath.
There lay Septimus, his knees and his hands in the air, his terrible face turned up to the light. Chase pointed to the right hand. Two fingers and the thumb were slightly blackened.
Ding, dong, dang, ding.
‘For God’s sake stop those bells,’ cried Mr Hislop. Chase turned off the wall switch. Into the sudden silence came the sound of the door-handle being rattled and Guy Tonks’s voice on the other side.
‘Hislop! Mr Hislop! Chase! What’s the matter?’
‘Just a moment, Mr Guy.’ Chase looked at the secretary. ‘You go, sir.’
So it was left to Mr Hislop to break the news to the family. They listened to his stammering revelation in stupefied silence. It was not until Guy, the eldest of the three children, stood in the study that any practical suggestion was made.
Murder under the Christmas Tree Page 10
