by Simon Brett
‘Thank you very much.’
Silence punctuated with gasps from the other end of the line showed that Maurice was roaring with laughter at his own witticism. He always laughed noiselessly, his jaw snapping up and down as he took in great gulps of air. Charles waited until he’d recovered sufficiently to continue.
‘Sorry, just a little joke. But really, it is that sort of part. They seemed quite keen when I mentioned you. Said “Yes, we like using the old fifties stars everyone’s forgotten.”’
‘Thank you again. What would it involve?’
‘Two weeks’ filming early January-if this three-day week nonsense doesn’t interfere. At some stately home. Forget where exactly, but within reach of London.’
‘Hmm. What’s the film called?’
‘The Zombie Walks!’
‘Oh God. Who’s directing?’
‘Never heard of him. Some name like Rissole. It’s being set up by Steenway Productions.’
‘Oh really. I’ll take it. Check the dates.’
‘Your diary’s not exactly crowded, is it?’
‘Money good?’
‘Goodish. I’ll ask for double.’
‘Good lad. Thanks for that.’
‘My pleasure. If I don’t do things for you, you’re clearly not going to do anything for yourself.’
‘Cheerio, Maurice. Keep smiling.’
‘What, with my worries? Cheerio.’
Work, too. And dressing-up. Charles was beginning to feel unaccountably cheerful. He rather relished the idea of secret investigations. With a jaunty step he went upstairs to his room to continue making-up.
Disguise is a matter of presenting oneself to the person deceived in an unexpected context. Then come tricks of stance and movement. Actual changing of colouring and features are less important. And Charles was quite pleased with his disguise. Certainly Joanne Menzies appeared not to recognise him, although he’d rather regretted choosing the character of Detective-Sergeant McWhirter of Scotland Yard when she revealed that she’d been brought up near the Kyles of Bute. But she seemed to accept the Glaswegian accent and his story of having left Scotland for London in his teens.
He had phoned her at Milton Buildings, saying that he had a routine enquiry to make about the Datsun, would have asked for Mr Marius Steen but, owing to the recent regrettable happening, wondered if she could help. She was efficiently affable, and invited him to come round straight away. So there he was, on the Friday morning, sitting opposite her, in the same chair that, only a week before, Charles Paris had occupied.
Detective-Sergeant McWhirter wore a nondescript brown and green suit, a Marks and Spencer pale yellow shirt and brown knitted tie. His shoes were stout brown brogues, suitable for the tramping from place to place which takes up most of a detective’s time. When he entered the room he had hung up a pale mackintosh and a trilby hat. His hair was dark brown and slicked back with Brylcreem. He had thick horn-rimmed glasses, a heavy shadow and rather bad teeth. On his wedding finger was a worn gold band. He was the sort of man nobody would look at twice. No doubt a conscientious worker; no doubt a good husband and father; but totally unremarkable.
Miss Menzies couldn’t be very helpful about the Datsun, though she answered all his questions very readily. Detective-Sergeant McWhirter explained that he was investigating a robbery in Pangbourne on Saturday night. An eye-witness claimed to have seen a yellow Datsun in the area at the relevant time, and McWhirter was painstakingly investigating all of the local Datsun-owners. The local police had told him that Mr Steen possessed such a vehicle, and he was just making a routine check on the whereabouts of the car at that time.
Miss Menzies felt certain it was in the garage at Mr Steen’s Orme Gardens house all over the weekend. When Mr Steen rang on Friday afternoon to say he wasn’t certain whether or not he was returning to London at the weekend, she had checked the petrol in the car in case he might want it.
‘This was Mr Marius Steen who rang?’
‘No. This was his son Nigel. He rang to say that he was coming up to town that evening…’
‘The Friday?’
‘Yes. But that his father was still deep in his scripts, and wasn’t sure of his movements. So I thought I’d better get some petrol in case Mr Marius Steen did come up to town over the weekend. You know what it’s like getting petrol at the moment.’
Detective-Sergeant McWhirter nodded sagely, imagining his eleven-year-old Morris Traveller and the increasing difficulties of driving the wife and kids around. The foam rubber pads in Charles Paris’ cheeks were beginning to feel acutely uncomfortable.
‘I was lucky,’ Miss Menzies continued. ‘I managed to get a full tank. It’s the garage I always go to.’
‘And the tank still registered full on the Monday?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it wouldn’t have done that if it had been driven down to Streatley and back?’
‘Good heavens, no.’ Miss Menzies looked at him as if he was mad.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Detective-Sergeant McWhirter stolidly. ‘I do have to check all the details. Some cars have a petrol gauge that stays on full for a long time. If it’s not properly adjusted.’
‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry. The Datsun’s does actually. It stays on “full” for quite a while and then drops rather fast.’
‘But it wouldn’t stay on full all the way to Streatley and back?’
‘No. It’s pretty good on petrol, but not that good. Might just about make it one way without registering, but certainly not both. Anyway, nobody could have got into the garage at Orme Gardens. It’s always locked.’
‘Of course. Sorry about all this. We have to check. I’m afraid a detective’s life is mostly spent chasing up blind alleys and wasting people’s time.’
‘That’s quite all right.’
‘Good.’ Detective-Sergeant McWhirter rose to leave and then paused. ‘That was very good of you, to look after the petrol. Part of your normal secretarial duties?’
‘I am more of a personal assistant to Mr Steen than a secretary. I mean, I was.’
There was just a slight chink in her armour and he pressed a little further. ‘Yes. A sad loss.’
‘Yes.’ He noticed how strained she was looking, much older than a week before. Though she was still immaculately groomed, there seemed somehow less poise about her, as if appearances remained, but the will had gone.
‘So I suppose it’s all up to the son now.’
‘I suppose so.’ She couldn’t disguise the contempt she felt.
‘Always sad for the family, this sort of thing. Is his wife still
… er…’
‘She died years ago.’
‘Ah. And he never thought of remarrying?’
‘No, he didn’t.’ She pronounced the words with sudden emphasis, and Charles saw clearly the situation which Jacqui’s words-’ She liked Marius’-had hinted at. Joanne Menzies had loved Marius Steen. Whether the love had ever been reciprocated or consummated he didn’t know-though Steen’s reputation made it likely-but the new fact opened interesting avenues of thought. She loved Steen, and she was passionately against his remarriage. The controlled force of her emotion when speaking of it had been frightening. A woman with feelings of that intensity might be capable of any action if she thought the man she loved was seriously in love with someone else. It added a new dimension to the picture.
XII
The Ugly Sisters
When Charles got back to Hereford Road, there was a Swedish scrawl on the note pad-JERRY VENERAL RING. After a few moments’ deciphering he rang Gerald Venables’ number.
‘Charles, look, we can’t talk on the phone.’ Gerald was obviously taking all the detective bit to heart, and entering into it with the spirit of a child’s game of Cops and Robbers. ‘Listen, I’ve found out about the “you-know-what”. We must meet somewhere and talk.’
‘OK. Where and when?’
‘Two o’clock. The back bar of the Red Lion in Waverton Street.’
‘Why? Is it quiet there?’
‘No, but you can be overheard in quiet places. The Red Lion’s so noisy, nobody’ll hear a word,’ said Gerald with complete seriousness.
‘All right, Peewit.’
‘What do you mean-Peewit?’
‘Code-name. I’ll be wearing a carnation. What’s the password?’ Charles put the phone down, imagining the expression on Gerald’s face.
He was out of costume and looked like Charles Paris when he arrived in the back bar of the Red Lion. Squeezing past the milling lunch time crowds he found himself pressed closely between Gerald and a rather busty Australian. ‘Who’s she?’ he hissed.
‘No idea. Where’s your carnation?’
‘That was a joke.’
‘Oh.’ Gerald sounded genuinely disappointed.
‘Well, you recognise me, don’t you?’ Gerald was forced to admit he did. ‘So, what gives?’ Charles shouted above the din.
‘Ssh.’
‘What gives?’ Softer.
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’
Eventually, as the lunch time crowds subsided officewards and the pub was left to a few loud tourists, they found a quiet corner and sat down with their drinks. Charles had a pint and Gerald a dry martini (Charles almost expected him to ask for it ‘shaken not stirred’). The solicitor looked round with conspicuous caution.
‘The will is very interesting,’ he hissed. ‘Well, not so much the will as the whole situation. Basically, Nigel gets everything, but he’s got a lot of it already.
‘Marius Steen made over his three houses and about 75 per cent of his other assets to his son some years ago. You know, the old gift inter vivos dodge, to avoid estate duty.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know the old gift inter vivos dodge. I’m very stupid about the law.’
‘So’s everyone. That’s what lawyers thrive on. What it basically means is that if someone makes a gift during his lifetime and doesn’t die for a given period, that gift is free of estate duty, or partly free. There’s a sliding scale. If the donor dies more than seven years after the gift, there’s no duty at all payable. If he dies in the seventh year the whole duty is reduced by 6o per cent, if in the sixth by 30 per cent, and in the fifth 15 per cent.’ Gerald was talking very fast and fluently, as he always did on the subject of money, but Charles reckoned he had got the gist. ‘When was the gift made, Gerald?’
‘Nearly six years ago.’
‘So Nigel had absolutely no motive to kill his father. In fact, it was in his interests that the old man stayed alive.’
‘Ah. That’s it, is it?’ Gerald’s eyes narrowed in the manner of a thousand television thrillers. ‘I think you’d better tell me the whole story, Charles.’
So he got the whole story, and when it was spelled out, the catalogue of suspicions and circumstantial evidence did sound pretty feeble. Gerald was clearly disappointed. ‘That all hinges on Nigel Steen having a financial motive to kill his father, and, as you just observed, he very positively didn’t have such a motive.’
‘And it wouldn’t have made any difference even if Marius Steen remarried?’
‘It would have made a difference in the disposition of that part of the estate which hadn’t been given away. But the gift of the rest couldn’t be revoked. He had given away all rights in the property. You know, the freeholds were made over by deeds of gift by way of conveyance, and the-’
‘Please talk English.’
‘All right. Basically, all of the property is Nigel’s-exclusively. Marius could not have any beneficial interest in any part of it. In other words, he couldn’t benefit from the property or the dividends on the shares, or any part of the gift.’
‘So what did he live on?’
‘Interest from the remaining shares. Still quite a substantial amount, but only a tiny part of the whole.’
‘And how could he still live in the houses?’
‘He actually paid rent.’
‘So if Nigel had wanted to, he could have turfed his father out of his own houses.’
‘Yes. Because they weren’t his own houses. They were Nigel’s.’
‘And what about the business? He still seemed in charge there.’
‘Only in an advisory capacity. He made no profit from any of it.’
‘Good God. So there again Nigel could have ousted him.’
‘Could have done, but wasn’t daft. He knew the business depended completely on his father’s skill and instinct. No, Steen had organised it all very meticulously to avoid death duties. Nigel has been an incredibly wealthy young man for years.’
‘How wealthy?’
‘Certainly worth more than a million.’
‘Shit.’ Charles was impressed. ‘And if none of this had been done what sort of death duties would have been charged?’
‘80 per cent.’
‘Blimey. The Government gets its pound of flesh, doesn’t it. But Steen didn’t go the full seven years.’
‘No, he died just before the six came up. So estate duty is only going to be reduced by 30 per cent. Makes a nasty hole in Nigel’s assumed possessions.’
‘And certainly rules out any motive for murder.’
‘Yes. The only motive for killing Marius Steen could he sheer bloody-mindedness on somebody’s part-a desire to make things really difficult for Nigel. Is there anyone around who hates him that much?’
Though everyone seemed to despise Nigel, Charles hadn’t met anyone whose feeling seemed strong enough to amount to hatred. It was Marius Steen who inspired violent emotions, not his son. ‘And there’s no mention of any legacy to Jacqui in the will?’
‘None at all.’
‘Hmm. I wonder what Marius Steen’s letter meant.’
Charles felt depressed as he walked through Soho to Archer Street that evening. For a start there was the gloomy news he had to pass on to Jacqui. And then London itself was depressing. It was cold and dark. Display lighting was out, as Edward Heath began his schoolmasterish campaign of mass deprivation, keeping the whole country in until the miners owned up that they were in the wrong. Time would show that the campaign had misjudged the reactions of the British public. Shops were dark, cold and uninviting. Familiar landmarks, like the neons of theatres and cinemas, disappeared. It was like the blackout, which Charles could suddenly remember with great clarity. A fifteen-year-old in grey flannel wandering around London in school holidays with an adolescent’s apocalyptic vision, praying that he would lose his virginity before the bombs came and blasted him to oblivion.
He took a couple of wrong turnings in the gloom and was angry when he reached Jacqui’s flat. He prepared an account of the will situation to break to her brutally. There was no point in kid gloves; she had to know sooner or later.
But he didn’t get the chance to drop his thunderbolt. Jacqui opened the door in a state of high excitement, more colour and animation in her face than he had seen since the Steen affair started. ‘Charles, come in. Bartlemas and O’Rourke are here!’
William Bartlemas and Kevin O’Rourke were a legend in the world of British theatre. They were a middle-aged couple, whose main activity was the collection of memorabilia of the two great actors, Edmund Kean and William Macready. Bartlemas had an enormous private income, and the pair of them lived in a tall Victorian house in Islington, which was filled to the brim with play-bills, prints, prompt copies, figurines and other souvenirs of their two heroes. They identified with them totally. Bartlemas was Kean, and O’Rourke Macready. In theory they were writing a book on the actors, but long since the fascination of collection for its own sake had taken over and work on the collation of evidence ceased. They spent all their time travelling round the British Isles, visiting auctions and antique shops, following hints and rumours, searching for more and more relics of their idols. But they always rushed back to London for the first night of every West End show. It was a point of honour that, if they were in the country, they’d be there, sitting in t
he middle of the fifth row of the stalls, both resplendent in Victorian evening dress, clutching shiny top hats and silver-topped canes. Quite what their role in British theatre was, was hard to define, but they knew everyone, everyone knew them and managements even came to regard their presence on a first night as an essential good luck charm. In the camper and more superstitious regions of the theatre world you’d often hear the sentence, ‘My dear, Bartlemas and O’Rourke weren’t there. The notices’ll be up within the week’.
In appearance they fell rather short of their ideals. William Bartlemas was not tall, probably only about five foot seven, but his angular body gave the illusion of height and his knobbly limbs moved with adolescent awkwardness. His head was crowned with an astonished crest of dyed hair. It had that brittle crinkly texture born of much hairdressing, and was ginger, of a brightness to which nature has always been too shy to aspire. Kevin O’Rourke was tiny, with the pugnacious stance of a jockey and all the aggression of a butterfly. He was balding, and had countered the problem by combing what remained forward in a Royal Shakespeare Company Roman Plays style. The dyed black hair was as tight as skin over his head, except at the front where there was a curly fringe like the edge of a pie-crust. The two always dressed identically-a grotesque pair of Beverley sisters. Today they were in oyster grey velvet. Meeting Bartlemas and O’Rourke was an unforgettable experience, and a fairly exhausting one. They talked non-stop in an elaborate relay race, one picking up the thread as soon as the other paused for breath.
They were delighted to see Charles. He had only met them once briefly at a party, but they remembered him effusively. ‘Charles Paris,’ said Bartlemas, ‘lovely to see you. Haven’t talked since that marvellous Bassanio you did at the Vic’ — that had been fifteen years before-‘lovely performance.’
‘Yes,’ said O’Rourke, ‘you always were such a clever actor…’
‘Sensational,’ said Bartlemas. ‘What are you up to now? My dear, we’ve just been on the most shattering binge in North Africa.’
