by L. C. Tyler
So, Tim was now in the same camp as Ethelred. So, I realised, was I. Only Cynthia seemed determined to hold out, but she had a lot of cash to lose. She was staring ahead, not looking at any of us.
‘It can’t be him,’ she said.
‘Look,’ I said to her, ‘perhaps Tim’s right. Perhaps we should at least consider the possibility that we were mistaken – that this man is who he says he is. Tim says the stuff on Thailand is conclusive. For me, it’s that photo up on the wall – identical even down to the smallest detail. And in your case you said that the box—’
Cynthia stood up. She wasn’t interested in conclusive anything. ‘He isn’t my uncle,’ she said. ‘He may be able to take you in, but he doesn’t fool me. I’ll find a way of proving who he is, then both of you, and he, will look pretty silly.’
She stood up. We watched her go. My front door slammed and then, a little later and further off, the street door did the same. That was all the doors I had, but we still sat there in silence for a long while afterwards.
‘I really need my drawing table back,’ said Tim eventually. ‘I’ve got my graphics tablet, but I can’t do everything on that. You’ll have to ask Roger. I’m not going to. Not if it really is him.’
‘I’ll get it shipped back in a taxi,’ I said. ‘Now, go and write that bloody biography. And be careful not to libel him, because he can sue us.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
‘And you can wipe that smug expression off your face,’ said Elsie.
‘I’m phoning you. You can’t see my face. You’ve no idea what sort of expression I have.’
‘On the contrary, Tressider, I know all your looks by now and when and where you use them. Your being at the far end of a telephone line is no impediment. You are currently employing look 72B – extreme pleasure at being proved right, in spite of having arrived at that conclusion entirely by luck.’
‘If you could see me, you would also notice that my look concedes there is still a possibility that Vane could be a fake.’
‘Really? The scar proves it for me,’ she said. ‘Precisely the same in the photo and in the flesh. I had them side by side. Just for a moment it occurred to me he might have faked it. But even if he would have cut his lip like that on purpose, it was clearly an old scar, not something he’d done yesterday or even last week.’
‘You did well to spot it,’ I said. ‘I’d never noticed it myself and I’ve seen loads of pictures of him.’
‘It was just seeing him and the photo side by side,’ said Elsie, with a hint of pride.
‘He also had a scar on his shoulder,’ I reminded her, ‘so he’d have been quite busy with his knife if he was faking it all.’
‘There you are,’ she said. ‘I am conceding you were right all along. I am also upgrading your expression to 75G – smile so broad your head may drop off – with immediate effect.’
‘Not quite,’ I said. ‘Let’s not forget there’s a lot of money involved in this – enough to endure a little pain for. No pain, no gain, as I believe the expression is – and, as for the age of the scar, who’s to say he hasn’t been planning it for some time? My guess is that a scar a couple of months old and one twenty years old won’t look that dissimilar.’
‘You’re saying he could be a fake after all?’
‘Cynthia clearly thinks so.’
‘And the account of the last day in Thailand? How do you explain that? Tim says he’s told nobody.’
‘Again, you might care to cross-examine your witness a little more closely. I bet Tim’s told somebody in strict confidence. When you have something like that on your conscience, you must feel you have to confess …’
‘Possibly,’ she said. ‘But who?’
‘There’s a missing piece of the jigsaw,’ I went on. ‘Roger clearly had a number of partners in Laos – he’s told us that. But we’re expected to believe Tim has been single for twenty years?’
‘You have,’ said Elsie.
‘On the contrary,’ I said. ‘There have been several women in my life—’
‘… who simply imposed on your good nature,’ said Elsie. ‘They weren’t serious about you, Ethelred. You do know that now, don’t you? You’ve been really lucky to have me around to get rid of them for you. Or at least, to get rid of the ones who didn’t dump you.’
‘Returning to Tim,’ I said, ‘my guess is that there have been various partners, one or other of which he may have decided to tell.’
There was silence as Elsie thought about this.
‘And the Father Christmas thing?’ she asked.
‘Cynthia’s parents knew.’
‘She says not.’
‘How would she know that for certain? Roger probably showed them the box. They probably told all sorts of people: guess what our cute little Cynthia did? Margery might still tell the story around the village.’
‘So, do you still have genuine reservations? Or are you being irritatingly even-handed?’
‘Neither,’ I said. ‘I’ll come clean. I’d begun to feel that the most interesting thing about Roger Vane’s reappearance was whether it really was him or not. It would have been good to publish the book with the public in genuine confusion. So, I wanted to examine the evidence again. But sadly I think Cynthia is the only genuine doubter left amongst us. Let’s run through the facts. This person, if he wasn’t Roger Vane, would have to have had the foresight to cut his lip some months ago at least – to imitate a scar that was too insignificant to show up anywhere but in a high-quality professional photo from the studio that nobody else knew existed – as I say, I’d certainly not noticed it on the snapshot I supplied for the memorial service. So that isn’t something you’d easily get from the Internet: you’d have to know and see it first-hand. As for the scar on his shoulder – it was quite a large wound – a simple cut with a sharp knife wouldn’t do it. Likewise we have to assume that this false Roger Vane then tracked down a former boyfriend of Tim’s, who both knew and was willing to tell what had happened in Thailand. Moreover, he also ran into Margery or alternatively some friend of the family who happened to have been told about the Father Christmas Box and still remembered it and thought it a story worth telling to this total stranger. If this was a Golden Age crime novel and the author had a couple of chapters to spare at the end of the book, then maybe we could envisage a plot of that complexity. But real life’s not like that. The simple explanation is that the man in the flat in Canonbury Square is Roger Norton Vane, who didn’t need to fake anything or run into anyone.’
‘As you say, that’s what everyone seems to think except Cynthia,’ said Elsie. ‘Tim says even the bank has now accepted that Roger Vane is who he says he is and has given him access to his bank account.’
‘Really?’ I asked.
‘Really. He apparently managed to gather together all of the documentation they needed. Even found his old driving licence somewhere.’
‘He said he’d lost it in the jungle.’
‘Well, Ethelred, he’s clearly found it again. I’m afraid that’s about it. Roger Vane was never declared dead, so he doesn’t need to get himself declared undead. He’s back in residence in his flat and is in funds. As you say, it’s only Cynthia who seems ready to hold out in the face of all of the evidence. And she arguably has good sound financial reasons for doing so.’
‘In short, I don’t even get to speculate in my biography that it might be somebody else.’
‘Neither you nor Tim. The whole thing will have to be squeaky clean. How is the research going?’
‘I’m off to the studios tomorrow morning. It seemed worth having a tour of the Gascoyne set and a chat to one or two people there.’
I heard Elsie yawn at the other end of the phone.
‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Well, at least we know the truth now. I rather think the excitement is over.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
‘I probably shouldn’t say this, but the first series was rubbish,’ said Gloria. ‘I’ve been here all the way thr
ough – series one to series fifteen, and counting. Haven’t missed any of them. First on the set every morning with my clipboard. Last to leave most evenings. It’s why I never got a dog, I think. Or a cat. Or a boyfriend. One of these days I’ll go on Mastermind with Roger Norton Vane as my specialist subject.’
‘I’m sure you’d do very well,’ I said.
She paused then said: ‘You’re not planning to do that yourself, are you, Ethelred?’
‘Heaven forbid,’ I said.
Gloria looked relieved. ‘You could have it as your specialist subject if you really wanted to,’ she offered. ‘I mean, you’re writing the book about him.’
Just for a moment her patent insincerity tempted me to claim it as my own.
‘No, it’s all yours,’ I said after a wicked pause.
‘Well, I probably do know more about it than you do,’ she said. ‘I probably know more about it than anyone in the world. Not that I’m boasting or anything. It’s just that it’s true. I’m the world’s leading expert on Gascoyne.’
We were in an office at Oaklawn Studios, where the company that produced Vane’s Gascoyne series was based. I was about to be shown round one of the sets by Gloria, whose precise role was still unknown to me, other than that it allowed her to use a clipboard and to have her good nature exploited by her employer. But, before I was permitted to go anywhere, it appeared that I had to submit to a period of instruction. Gloria had started talking when I walked into the office and had not yet paused properly for breath.
‘We do most of the filming in villages around the M25,’ Gloria continued. ‘But we do some here – especially interiors. The police station, for example. I’ll show you that. There’s still a dent in the wall, if you look closely, from where Inspector Gascoyne threw a stapler at Sergeant Jacobs in series 4, episode 7. You’ll remember that, of course. Everyone does. Then in series 4 episode 9, Gascoyne and Jones are having an argument and the camera pans in for a moment on the dented wall – so clever. “Show us the dent!” people say when I take them on a tour – the real fans, I mean. The ones who’ve watched every episode half a dozen times. “That dent should get an acting credit,” somebody said to me recently. Laugh? We all fell about.’
I wondered whether to pretend that I found it funny. There was probably no need. I had already been made aware that I was not in the front rank of fans. I had no recollection at all of the scene in question.
‘Often we’ll use as many as four or five locations, maybe miles from each other, as the same village – it depends what we need – a watermill, a blacksmith, a cottage hospital. One of my jobs is to keep track of where we have filmed and where we haven’t. Viewers can be quite harsh if you offer them the same farmhouse twice as different places in different episodes. They remember little details – a funny-shaped inglenook, say, or a stained-glass window. I use a card index with different coloured inks for each series. You’d think I’d have run out of colours by now, wouldn’t you, but I found some beige ink the other day. You can’t read it that easily but it’s very distinctive. Somebody said to me: why not put them all on a spreadsheet? But it’s not the same, is it? We’re a very traditional show. I told the producer: “Spreadsheet! What would Gascoyne say to that?” He couldn’t think of a reply! And we get crowds of people volunteering to be extras. But again, we can’t use the same people too many times – not now. Fans stop the video recorder, wind back, then they say: “Didn’t we see him as a drunk in series 7, episode 3? Why is he a vicar now?” It’s a bit of a cult following, you see.’
I looked at her for a moment to see if she had intended ‘vicar’ and ‘cult’ as some sort of wordplay, but she hadn’t.
‘Roger Vane was an extra in series one,’ I said. I expected some credit for knowing this obscure fact, or at least a look of recognition on Gloria’s face, but there was none.
‘Really?’ she said rather resentfully.
‘According to my agent. Roger told her that – he’s got a photograph of it.’
‘A photograph?’ Gloria looked personally offended. ‘It’s not possible. I’d know about it. Something like that.’
‘She’s seen it,’ I said.
‘Well, nobody ever told me,’ Gloria replied. I could see that tonight she would have the coloured inks out, scowling as she revised her records with savage swathes of Tipp-Ex.
‘Elsie said he was a bit embarrassed about it. It was just series one.’
‘Well, that might explain it,’ said Gloria, slightly mollified. ‘Series one wasn’t a great success. Nobody wants to admit they had anything to do with series one. The scriptwriters tried to stick as much as possible to Roger’s books – he was co-author of most of the scripts. But what works on the page doesn’t always work on the screen. It was only once we got to the second series of Gascoyne and had some totally original scripts commissioned that we really started to get a following. Yes, it was when we began writing our own episodes with a proper television scriptwriter that it all took off. Sorry – you’re a book writer yourself, of course – but you must have found the same thing with your own series?’
‘My books? They’ve never been filmed,’ I said. ‘They’ve never even been optioned for filming.’
Gloria patted me on the arm. ‘I’m sure they will be one day,’ she said. ‘Maybe in your own lifetime. It’s surprising which books they choose to make into films. Sometimes you’re watching television and you think – why did they choose this rubbish? So, you never know.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘That’s kind. But Roy Johnston was just in the first series?’
‘Yes, that’s right. I think he was unfairly criticised – I shouldn’t say this, but a lot of people blamed him for the standard of the first series. I mean, you can only work with the script you have. Though he never did much afterwards, either. So it could have been him and the scripts.’
‘He and Roger were good friends?’
‘Much of the time. They were very much alike in so many ways.’
‘Equally argumentative?’ I enquired.
‘Oh, nobody was as argumentative as Roger. That’s why he was eased out of his co-author role and became a consultant. Then he was eased out of the consultant role too …’
‘Really?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes, that too. Of course, he kept his name in the credits – “based on the books by” – but nobody wanted to work with him. It didn’t surprise anyone that he and Roy fell out. But once they had – well, I shouldn’t tell you this, but Roy had to go. You couldn’t have had both of them on set, and Roger was still a consultant then. It must have been terrible for Roy – he’d taken all the flack for the first series, got almost nothing in royalty payments, then had to sit by and watch the success of the second one. That’s why he went to Australia. He got tired of watching all of the repeats over here. Even living in Australia was better than that. Then we sold it over there, of course – except series one; they didn’t want that. They’d seen the UK ratings. Never showed it in Australia.’
‘You don’t ever hear from him now?’
‘Roy? No, he’s happy enough, I imagine. Sun. Sand. Booze. Whatever. Who wouldn’t be?’
‘No hard feelings on his part?’
‘Oh no, I wouldn’t say that. He hates Roger’s guts. Wrote me a long letter from Brisbane one Christmas. In fact, if Roger were ever found murdered, I’d have Roy at the top of the list of suspects – though maybe I shouldn’t say so, just in case he does it. Would you like to see the studio now? You must be dying to see the dent in the wall.’
As I’d said to Elsie – the excitement was well and truly over.
It was at a service station on the way home that my phone buzzed again.
‘Ethelred? It’s Roger Vane here. I need your help. Somebody has just tried to kill me.’
‘Are you sure?’ I asked. It seemed unlikely.
‘Of course I’m sure. I think I’m in a better position to know than you are.’
I decided to ignore the contempt in
his voice. ‘But you’re not actually hurt?’ I asked.
‘Thank you for getting round to asking that. No, I’m fine. I managed to get the better of them.’
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘No time for that. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you and you can apologise then for doubting me. There are also some things I’ll need you to do. I’ll let you know what when we meet up.’
I wondered whether to explain that I was his biographer, not his PA.
‘I’m not planning to come up to London for a few days,’ I said.
‘You don’t need to. I’m travelling down to Sussex to stay with you.’
‘Are you? When?’
‘Tonight. I’ll call you from the train once I know which one I’ll be on, and you can come and pick me up at Chichester Station. I should be in well before twelve. If you could be there ten minutes or so beforehand, I won’t have to hang around in the cold if the train is early.’
It was perhaps this final piece of presumption that sealed his fate.
‘I’m out to dinner this evening,’ I said. ‘I’ve no idea what time I’ll be back. If you come down in the morning there’s a good bus service from Chichester to West Wittering. Ask the driver to tell you when you get to the Old House at Home. That’s the closest stop.’
‘Can’t risk leaving it until then. I need to do something straight away. If you won’t help I’ll find a hotel for the night. There are hotels in Chichester, I assume?’
Well, if he wanted to waste his money hiding from imaginary assassins … I named a couple of perfectly good places to stay within walking distance of the station.
‘I’ll phone you in the morning,’ he said and rang off abruptly.
But he didn’t phone me. Because by the following morning he was already dead.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The knock at my front door came early. I looked at my watch – seven-thirty. A little too soon for the post. Much too soon for any of my neighbours to be paying a social call. I placed my cup of coffee on the kitchen table, tightened the belt of my dressing gown, unlocked the door and opened it cautiously.
