by Simon Brett
The director must have been in contact with Asphodel, so that he knew they wanted to work with him. Then he just tipped the wink to Tottie, and she got Gavin Scholes out of the way. Vividly the picture came back to Charles of the dining hall at Chailey Ferrars, and the actress forcing a mushroom tartlet into Gavin’s mouth.
Then perhaps Alexandru had intimated that he was getting tired of Charles Paris’s intransigence about how Sir Toby Belch should be played . . .? Which had led to the poisoning in the Indian restaurant . . .
Unless . . . A new thought came to Charles. The scene at the restaurant was suddenly very clear to him. When John B. Murgatroyd had received his wrong order, he had called out down the table, ‘Anybody fancy swapping a Chicken Dupiaza for something stronger?’
And amongst the raucous responses, someone had shouted back, ‘I’ve already got one.’ Now, suddenly, Charles knew that that voice had been Sally Luther’s.
In other words, the poisoning of John B. Murgatroyd had not been aimed at Charles Paris. It had been the first attempt on the life of Sally Luther.
It had failed; but the second, the injection of poison at Chailey Ferrars, had succeeded. Probably all Alexandru had said was, ‘Wouldn’t it be great if I could actually have Russ Lavery playing both parts?’ And Tottie Roundwood, unhinged by her infatuation, had taken the hint.
Another detail fell into place. Amidst all the upheaval that followed Sally Luther’s death, Charles had forgotten the woman he had seen hurrying through the rain when he was on his way from Moira Handley’s Portakabin to the stage. But now that image too was crystal clear to him.
It must have been the murderer he had seen. Vasile Bogdan immediately left the reckoning. Even if he had been disguised in women’s clothes, he was far too tall.
But the height and the gender were absolutely right for Tottie. True, Charles’d caught a glimpse of blond hair spilling from the anorak hood, but what actress doesn’t have access to a range of wigs? She must have committed the crime only moments before, stabbed Sally through the hessian, and be running away from the scene.
And if that was the case, then – But his thought processes were suddenly halted. With no warning at all, he was seized by violent nausea.
And as the entire contents of his stomach – and what felt like most of the stomach itself as well – spurted out of his mouth on to the pavement, one of Olivia’s lines from Twelfth Night resonated in his head.
‘How now!
Even so quickly may one catch the plague?’
But quotation immediately gave place to one appalling, heretical thought in Charles Paris’s mind.
Somebody’s poisoned my Bell’s!
Chapter Twenty-Two
HE WAS LUCKY. The violence of his vomiting saved him from worse harm, flushing his body out as effectively as a stomach pump.
But it left him drained and feeble, slumped on the pavement. He was glad the good burghers of Great Wensham kept sober hours. They would not welcome dust- and puke-covered strangers littering their tidy streets.
The desk sergeant at the police station to which he staggered wasn’t very welcoming either. The sight of a dust- and puke-covered stranger presenting him with a half-bottle of Bell’s, a jar of powder and some garbled story about a serial poisoner brought out his highest level of scepticism.
And DI Dewar, the bored-looking detective to whom Charles was passed over, looked equally disbelieving.
‘So let me get this right, Mr . . . Parrish was it?’
‘Paris.’
‘Paris, then. You are saying that the contents of this bottle have been adulterated with some fungoid poison?’
‘So I believe.’
‘And that it was done deliberately by someone trying to kill you?’
‘Yes.’
‘When would they have had the opportunity to put the poison in the bottle?’
‘It was in my jacket pocket hanging in the dressing room right through the performance.’
‘And you weren’t there all the time?’
‘No, I was acting, for heaven’s sake.’ Surely that’d be obvious even to someone who didn’t know anything about the theatre.
The detective gave him a look that suggested raising his voice hadn’t been a good idea. Charles didn’t care that much what the detective thought. He felt ill and weak; all he wanted to do was crawl into a warm bed.
The detective tapped his pencil on the desk tetchily. ‘You implied you had an idea who this person who’s trying to kill you might be . . .?’
Charles gave an ambivalent shrug.
‘But you’re not going to share your suspicions with me?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
A good question, and yet Charles didn’t yet feel certain enough to point a finger at Tottie Roundwood. In spite of the chain of logic he had worked out, she might still somehow prove to be innocent, and it can prove tricky to mend fences with someone you’ve accused of murder.
No, it would be better to go one step at a time – first get the whisky tested for the poison, then look for the culprit.
‘I’m not absolutely sure who it is,’ Charles replied evasively.
‘You mean there are a lot of people it could be?’
‘Well . . .’
The detective had his little joke. ‘Have a habit of making yourself unpopular with your workmates, do you, Mr Parrish?’
‘Look, I’m sure there is something criminal going on. And I think it’s related to Sally Luther’s death.’
‘Really?’ Now he had got the detective’s attention. ‘That case is currently under investigation, Mr Parrish.’
‘You mean you’ve got proof that she was poisoned too?’
But Charles’s eagerness was quickly slapped down. ‘Listen, if you think I’m about to give you information on the state of an investigation, then you have a very false idea of how we in the police force go about our business. Miss Luther’s death was unexpected, so a post-mortem was required. We will be kept informed of any developments that may concern us.’
And that was all the detective would give. His attitude remained wary. There was a strong chance he was dealing with a crank. He had an instinctive distrust of theatre people, which Charles’s appearance and unlikely story had done little to dispel.
DI Dewar did grudgingly say, however, that he’d arrange for the contents of the bottle and jar to be analysed. He took the address of Charles’s digs, confirmed how long the company was going to be in Great Wensham, and said he’d be in touch.
Charles felt so weak he called a cab to take him back to his digs. When he got there, he lay on the bed in his clothes and instantly passed out.
He stayed in the following morning. For one thing, he was still feeling very battered after the poisoning. His throat burned and his stomach muscles felt as though they had been pulled inside out.
He was also not keen to get back among the Twelfth Night company until he had to. Whoever had poisoned the whisky – and he was assuming it had been Tottie Roundwood – was going to realise that he had escaped, and might well be moved to make another attempt on his life.
And he was hoping to hear something from the police before he had to go out to Chailey Ferrars for the evening’s performance. Once the poison in the whisky had been identified, then the whole machinery of official criminal investigation could be set in motion, and Charles Paris would cease to be under threat.
He tried to read a book, and toyed with the crossword, but his thoughts kept slipping past the words. He wanted to talk to someone. Frances. But he didn’t feel up to the inevitable recriminations such a call would involve.
He couldn’t concentrate; he kept coming back to Tottie Roundwood. How much of what had happened had she planned? Had she known from the start that Alexandru wanted to direct Twelfth Night with Russ Lavery playing the double role, or had the elements of her plan come together piecemeal? How had she got into the company in the first place?
Well, that at least was a
question he could get answered. And it would give him something to do. He went to the phone and dialled Gavin Scholes’ number.
The new wife answered. In an appropriately hushed voice, she said, ‘Yes, I’m sure he’d like to talk to you. But not for too long. Be careful you don’t tire him. Phone for you, Gavin,’ she called out.
Another extension was picked up. ‘Hallo?’
‘Morning, Gavin, it’s Charles Paris.’ Then, unthinking, he asked, ‘How are you?’
‘Not so bad, all things considered,’ the director replied nobly. ‘It’s quite a relief, actually, to have had it confirmed.’
‘Had what confirmed?’
‘Oh, didn’t you know?’ Then, with considerable pride, he announced, ‘I’ve got cancer.’
‘Oh. Gavin. I’m so sorry.’ The condolence came out automatically, but Charles’s mind was already racing with the implications of the news.
‘That’s very kind of you, Charles.’ A great complacency came into Gavin’s voice. ‘I was pretty certain that’s what it was from the start, but my consultant just wasn’t convinced. Goodness, the barrage of tests I’ve been through – you just wouldn’t believe it. I mean, first I had to –
‘Gavin, are you saying that it was cancer you were taken ill with after that day at Chailey Ferrars?’
‘Yes, of course I am. Stomach cancer. That’s what I told my consultant straight away. But would he listen? Now of course he’s very apologetic and says he should have paid more attention to me from the start, and he’s moving heaven and earth to get the radiotherapy under way but . . .’
Charles did not manage to get off the phone for half an hour. For a hypochondriac like Gavin Scholes the diagnosis of a life-threatening disease was a vindication of his entire life. No one could doubt him any more. He really was ill.
In the event, Charles didn’t ask about how Tottie Roundwood had come into the Twelfth Night company. It didn’t seem relevant.
Because if Gavin Scholes had been ill with cancer from the start, then he hadn’t been poisoned at Chailey Ferrars. His inability to continue as director had been purely accidental.
And the logic of the case Charles Paris had been building against Tottie Roundwood totally fell apart.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘MR PARRISH?’
‘Paris.’
‘Yes. This is Detective Inspector Dewar from Great Wensham. We met last night.’
‘Right.’
‘I’m calling because we’ve had the lab results on the items you brought in.’
‘Yes?’ Charles was very tense. After the collapse of all his previous thinking about Tottie Roundwood’s involvement in the case, he was fully prepared to be dismissed as a self-dramatising crank. The sceptical tone from the other end of the phone was not encouraging:
‘Well, let’s start with the powder in the jar. That was indeed a preparation made from a vegetable substance . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘. . . though not in fact from a fungus . . .’
‘Oh. But aconite is a poison, isn’t it?’
‘Can be. What was found in that jar, however, would have purely medicinal applications.’
‘Oh.’
‘Something to do with homeopathic medicine. Not a subject on which I’m an expert, Mr Parrish.’
‘Nor me.’ Though he knew that Tottie Roundwood was. He shivered at the thought of how close he’d come to making public accusations against her.
‘No. However, Mr Parrish, it appears that while the plant from which this powder originated is potentially poisonous, at the concentration in which it appears here, it is completely harmless. Or even, I suppose, beneficial, if you happen to be one of those weirdos who believes in homeopathic medicine.’
The scepticism had given way to downright contempt. ‘Now we come on to the contents of the whisky bottle . . .’
Charles prepared himself for a serious dressing-down about wasting police time and being a hysterical theatrical crackpot. But, to his surprise, DI Dewar continued, ‘Traces of poison were found there, Mr Parrish.’
‘A vegetable-based poison?’
‘No, no. A chemical poison. Mercuric chloride.’ There was a silence. ‘It seems you had a very lucky escape, Mr Parrish.’
‘Yes. And it also seems pretty definite that we have a poisoner in the Twelfth Night company, doesn’t it?’
The detective was too canny to commit himself to an opinion on the subject. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Well, when you put what’s happened to me – or nearly happened to me – together with Sally Luther’s death . . .’ DI Dewar did not react. ‘Come on, the two must be connected, mustn’t they?’
‘Must they?’ He was not giving anything away. ‘Clearly, Mr Parrish, we need to talk to you further.’
‘Yes. When?’
‘Right away.’
‘The problem with that is . . .’ Charles Paris looked at his watch ‘. . . it’s now five forty-five. I have to be at Chailey Ferrars in three-quarters of an hour to get ready for tonight’s performance of Twelfth Night.’
‘Mr Parrish, if you’re suggesting that a play,’ the word was larded over with distaste, ‘should take precedence over a police investigation . . .’
‘I’m not. I’m fully aware of how serious this is. All I’m saying is that if I’m not there for the performance because I’m being interviewed by the police, it will cause very considerable disruption – and will also provide a warning to any guilty person in the company that your investigation is drawing close.’
There was a silence before DI Dewar conceded, ‘You may have a point, Mr Parrish.’
‘So that means you do think someone in the company is guilty?’
But again the detective wouldn’t be drawn. ‘What time does your play finish?’
‘It comes down at ten-thirty.’
‘And at that time all of the company members will be around Chailey Ferrars?’
‘Yes. Why, are you thinking of questioning everyone then?’
‘Mr Parrish.’ The detective’s stock of patience was quickly becoming depleted. ‘We are in the habit of conducting investigations in our own way. And we are not in the habit of providing information to irrelevant members of the public on how our investigations are going. We will speak again soon, Mr Parrish.’
And the phone was put down with some force.
Charles hadn’t eaten anything since his poisoning of the night before. To his surprise, when his landlady suggested some scrambled eggs before he went out to the show, the idea appealed.
She was a good landlady, with that quality that more landladies should manifest – unobtrusiveness. She brought his scrambled eggs into the dining room and left him on his own to eat them. From a rack by the fire he picked up a copy of one of the previous day’s broadsheet newspapers.
It was, inevitably, full of Sally Luther, but provided a less hysterical assessment of her importance than the tabloids had. Her death prompted a feature on the nature of media celebrity, in which one paragraph in particular caught Charles’s attention.
Sally Luther also suffered from the disadvantages of being public property. She received a disturbing sequence of letters from an obsessed male fan, whose infatuation for her soured into violent fantasies. She also inspired the attentions of a young woman, who took to following her around at a distance for some months. Though Sally frequently tried to engage her in conversation, the girl always ran off when approached.
This was a nuisance, but little more. However, the harassment became more worrying when Sally’s pet cat was found poisoned. And then the mysterious girl began to stake out Sally’s block of flats. The actress was justifiably unnerved by the sight every night of ‘a young blonde woman, her face hidden by the hood of her anorak, standing immobile under the street lamp opposite.’ Sally had been unwilling to call in the police before, but the new development changed her mind. Though the police never managed to catch the stalker, their presence ensured that the nuisanc
e quickly ceased.
I wonder, thought Charles Paris. I wonder . . .
The image was vivid in his mind of a young woman hurrying through the rain, and a straggling wisp of blond hair escaping from a Mutual Reliable anorak.
Chapter Twenty-Four
TALYA Northcott was sitting with a cup of coffee at a table in the shade of one of the fine old oak trees at Chailey Ferrars. Now the weather had improved, the Green Room – literally green amidst the trees – had moved into the open air. Evening sunlight dappled through the oak leaves, sparkling on Talya’s fine blond hair and the silver brocade of her Olivia’s Handmaiden costume.
Charles Paris, in his Toby Belch gear, took a seat beside her. ‘Lovely evening, isn’t it?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Twenty minutes till beginners . . .’
‘Mm . . .’
‘You enjoying doing the show?’
Her mouth twisted into annoyance. ‘Not as much as I should be.’
‘Ah. Yes, of course.’ He had momentarily forgotten about her being the passed-over understudy for Sally Luther. ‘No, that was rotten luck. Don’t worry, everyone in the theatre’s had bad breaks from time to time.’ He grinned. ‘Me more than most maybe.’
She gave him a look which suggested bad breaks for someone like him might be justified, but not for her. Mummy’s solicitude had certainly produced one very spoilt and self-obsessed young lady.
‘Also, Talya, I mean, you must recognise that Russ Lavery is a name, and I’m afraid names count for a lot in this business.’
‘That’s not the point. I was contracted to play Handmaiden to Olivia and to understudy all the female parts.’ She sniffed irritably. ‘I’m going to get on to my agent. I reckon Asphodel’s in breach of contract.’
‘I don’t know that making a fuss will do much good.’
‘Perhaps not, but it’ll make me feel better,’ she said with considerable venom. ‘And what’s so great about Russ Lavery, anyway? All right, he’s in the telly series, and he plays that one part OK – not that it’s very hard. But it’s daft having him playing Viola. It goes absolutely against the text of Shakespeare’s play.’
