by Simon Brett
‘For months and months and months…’
‘In Morocco, of course. O’Rourke disgraced himself continually. So much to drink, my dear, it wasn’t true…’
‘And Bartlemas almost got arrested more than once…’
‘Oh, I didn’t. Not really…’
‘You did, dear, you did. I saw it all. This Moroccan policeman was watching you with a distinctly beady eye. And I don’t think it was your perfection of form that intrigued him…’
‘Well, be that as it may. We go off, we leave the collection and everything, miss all those divine first nights, just simply to have a holiday, to get away from everything…’
‘But everything…’
‘And we come back to hear this shattering news about Marius. Oh, it’s too sad.’
‘Too sad. We were just telling Jacqui here, we are absolutely desolated…’
‘I mean he was so strong. And such a chum too…’
‘I don’t know how we’ll survive without him, I really don’t.’
‘It’s terrifying. If someone like Marius who was so robust…’
‘So full of living…’
‘If he can just pop off like that…’
‘Then what chance is there for the rest of us?’
They both sat back, momentarily exhausted. Charles opened his mouth to speak, but missed the chance. ‘So of course,’ said Bartlemas, ‘as soon as we heard the ghastly news about Marius, we just had to rush round here…’
‘Immediately,’ said O’Rourke. ‘Because of our secret.’
They paused dramatically and gave Jacqui time to say, ‘Charles, they’ve got a new will. Marius made another will.’
Charles looked round at Bartlemas and O’Rourke. They were glowing with importance. ‘Yes,’ said Bartlemas, ‘we witnessed the will and he gave it to us to look after it…’
‘Which is a pity,’ said O’Rourke, ‘because that means we can’t inherit anything…’
‘Not that he had anything we’d really like to inherit. I mean, nothing to do with Edmund and William…’
‘No, but it would have been nice to have a little memento, wouldn’t it, Bartlemas?’
‘Oh yes. Yes, it would. You see, what happened was, we were in the South of France in the summer, when Jacqui and Marius were out there …’
‘At Sainte-Maxime…’
‘Yes. Marius’ villa. Lovely spot…’
‘Oh, lovely…’
‘And suddenly, one night, after Jacqui had gone to bed, Marius suddenly said he was going to make a new will, and there was someone on holiday down there who was a solicitor-’
‘Not his usual one?’ Charles managed to slip in.
‘Oh no, not dear Harold,’ said Bartlemas.
‘No, not Harold,’ echoed O’Rourke. ‘This was a rather sweet young man Marius found in a casino…’
‘And anyway, Marius said this boy was coming over and he was going to draw up a new will, and would we witness it?…’
‘So of course we said yes…’
‘Well, we were so intrigued. It was so exciting…’
‘And we’ve got it with us, and we were just about to show it to Jacqui when you arrived.’
‘Look,’ said Bartlemas, and, with a flourish, produced a sealed envelope from his inside pocket. At this gesture both he and O’Rourke burst out into riotous giggles. ‘I’m sorry,’ said O’Rourke when they had calmed down, ‘it’s just that that was the gesture Edmund Kean is supposed to have used on the “Is this a dagger?” speech in Macbeth at the New Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, in 1823.’
‘Oh,’ said Charles, as Bartlemas and O’Rourke went into new paroxysms of laughter. Again it took a little while for them to calm down and when they had, Bartlemas, with mock solemnity, handed the envelope to Jacqui. ‘Of course,’ he said conspiratorially, ‘we know what’s in it, don’t we, O’Rourke?’
‘Oh yes, Bartlemas.’ They both sat back with smug smiles on their faces and looked at Jacqui, like favourite uncles watching a child unwrap their Christmas present.
Jacqui opened the envelope, pulled out a document and looked at the sheet for some long time. Then she looked up, perplexed. ‘It’s all in funny English.’
‘That’s because it’s a legal document,’ said Charles. ‘They are always incomprehensible. It’s a point of honour among lawyers never to be understood.’
‘You read it, and tell me what it means.’ Jacqui handed the document over.
‘We could tell you what’s in it,’ said Bartlemas.
‘Yes, but we won’t,’ said O’Rourke coyly.
Charles read the will.
I, MARIUS LADISLAS STENIATOWSKI, commonly known as MARIUS STEEN, and hereinafter referred to as such, of 173, Orme Gardens, London, W2 and ‘Rivalon’, Streatley-on-Thames in the County of Berkshire, Theatrical Impresario, HEREBY REVOKE all wills and testamentary documents heretofore made by me AND DECLARE this to be my LAST WILL
1. I APPOINT WILLIAM DOUGLAS D’ABERNON BARTLEMAS and KEVIN CORNELIUS O’ROURKE to be jointly the Executors of this my WILL
2. In the event of my dying before remarriage, I DEVISE and BEQUEATH all of my real and personal estate whatsoever and wheresoever not already disposed of as to my freeholds in fee simple and as to my personal estate absolutely to the issue of my union with JACQUELINE MYRTLE MITCHELL, the property to be held in trust for the said issue, the trust allowing a monthly sum of not less than FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS to the said JACQUELINE MYRTLE MITCHELL to pay for the upbringing of the said issue, this arrangement to cease on his or her attaining the age of twenty-one years, whereupon a quarter of the remaining estate-whether in freehold property, stocks, shares or chattels shall be granted in perpetuity to the said JACQUELINE MYRTLE MITCHELL, and the remainder to be granted to the said issue. In the event of the said JACQUELINE MYRTLE MITCHELL dying before the child attains twenty-one years, all of the estate shall devolve upon the said child and be held for him or her in trust, as my executors and their appointees shall devise.
IN WITNESS whereof I the said MARIUS STEEN the Testator have to this my LAST WILL set my hand this fifteenth day of October One Thousand Nine Hundred and Seventy-Three.
SIGNED AND ACKNOWLEDGED by the above-named MARIUS STEEN the Testator as and for his LAST WILL in the presence of us both present at the same time who at his request in his presence and in the presence of each other have hereunto subscribed our names as witnesses:
William Bartlemas
17, Ideal Road,
Islington
Keanophile
Kevin O’Rourke
17, Ideal Road,
Islington
Macreadophile
Jacqui was looking at him eagerly. Obviously she had understood the gist of the will and just wanted confirmation. Charles grinned. ‘Basically you’ll be all right. You can afford to have that baby.’
‘What, and the baby’ll get everything?’
‘Not exactly, no.’ And Charles explained briefly about the gift inter vivos to Nigel. ‘So what we’re talking about is only 25 per cent of Marius Steen’s assets other than the houses. Mind you, it’s still more money than you’ve ever seen in your life.’
Bartlemas and O’Rourke had been silent too long and burst again into stereo action.
‘Ooh,’ said Bartlemas, ‘fancy all that going to little Arsehole
…’
‘Who?’
‘Nigel,’ said O’Rourke patronisingly. ‘Everyone calls him little Arsehole. Why on earth would Marius make all that over to him?’
‘It’s the family thing, isn’t it,’ said Bartlemas. ‘Marius always wanted to found a dynasty.’
‘But I thought he and Nigel didn’t get on.’ Charles was still rather puzzled by the whole gift business.
‘Well, it varied, didn’t it, O’Rourke?’
‘Oh yes, up and down all the time…’
‘I remember, there was a time when Nigel ran off to America…’
‘With some woman, ghastly actress…’
; ‘But ghastly. Marius was awfully upset. Nigel stayed away for two, three years…’
‘All of that, Bartlemas, all of that. Then he came crawling back
…’
‘Tail between his legs. Woman had left him…’
‘Who could blame her? Marius really did the prodigal son bit
…’
‘Oh yes, you couldn’t move in Orme Gardens for fatted calf. All the great reconciliation, my son, my son…’
‘It’s the Jewish character, you know. Love of the family. Terribly important to them.’
‘You’re right, O’Rourke. That’s what it is.’ This was pronounced with finality and followed by a breath pause. Charles, who was beginning to understand the technique of conversation with Bartlemas and O’Rourke, leapt in. ‘When was it this reconciliation took place?’
‘About five or six years ago,’ said Bartlemas.
‘Ah, that figures. It must have been then, in a final flush of family feeling, that he made everything over to Nigel.’
‘Yes.’
‘And, so far as one can tell, he regretted it ever after.’
‘Yes,’ said O’Rourke. There was a pause. ‘Jacqui,’ said Charles. ‘I didn’t know your middle name was Myrtle.’
XIII
Who Does the Slipper Fit?
The new will was passed over to Gerald Venables, who got in touch with Harold Cohn of Cohn, Jarvis, Cohn and Stickley, and the law began the grindingly slow processes on which it thrives. Charles thought that the whole affair was now out of his hands, and, though it was unsatisfactory that so many questions remained unanswered, at least some kind of justice had been done. Nigel got most of the estate, but would be more than a little embarrassed by estate duty; and provision for Jacqui and her baby would be sorted out in time. If the police persevered they were bound to crack Audrey Sweet’s defence and find out about the family blackmailing business. Then they had only to check through the photographs and the Sally Nash guest lists (which, as the case at the Old Bailey trickled on inexorably, were becoming public property anyway) to find their murderer. Charles even felt a twinge of pity for Mrs Sweet. She was a desperate woman, her incompetent attempts at blackmail motivated only by a desire to get as much money as possible in her new widowhood. It was now three days since Bill Holroyd had promised to bring her ten thousand pounds and by now she must realise the likelihood of his appearance was decreasing.
It was Saturday 15th December. Christmas was coming, but without much conviction in a darkened Britain. The cold shops with their sad gas-lamps were full of Christmas shoppers feeling sorry for themselves, and shoplifters having a field-day. The ever-present possibility of bombs made buying presents even jollier.
Charles rose late and managed to beat one of the Swedes into the bathroom. He returned to his room wrapped cosily in his towelling dressing-gown and sat in front of the gas-fire with a cup of coffee. Now that the excitements of the last fortnight were over, he would have to think again about getting some work. True, he’d got The Zombie Walks coming up, but that wasn’t going to make him a millionaire, and the old overdraft was getting rather overblown. Perhaps the answer was to write another television play. But, even if he could write the thing quickly, all the subsequent processes took such a bloody long time. Getting the thing accepted, rewritten, rewritten, rewritten, rehearsed, recorded, edited, scheduled, rescheduled, rescheduled, rescheduled ad infinitum. Not much likelihood of getting a commission either. Charles Paris wasn’t a big enough name these days. And no doubt, with the prospects of a three-day week and early closedown, none of the television companies would commit themselves to anything.
But as he tried to think of his work (Charles had long since ceased to grace it with the name of ‘his career’), his thoughts kept returning to the Steen situation. There was something fishy about the whole set-up. He tried to think himself into a detective frame of mind. What would Sherlock Holmes do in the circumstances? He would sit puffing on his pipe, Dr Watson goggle-eyed with admiration at his side, and suddenly, by a simple process of deduction, arrive at the complete solution. Somehow Charles Paris, sitting on his own in a towelling dressing-gown, hadn’t quite the same charisma. Or the same powers of deduction.
Reflecting sadly on his inadequacy, Charles rose to get dressed. He opened the dull grey wardrobe and pulled a pair of trousers off a hanger. As he did so, he noticed that there was a dark smudge on the seat. It smelled of petrol. He was about to put his trousers back and take out another pair, when a sudden thought stopped him in his tracks.
The trousers he was holding were the ones he’d been wearing at Streatley the previous weekend. And he must have got the mark on them when he slipped over in Steen’s garage. The scene came back to him with immediate clarity of detail. The enormous bulk of the blue Rolls illuminated by his torch, then suddenly his feet going from under him, slipping in a pool of petrol, landing on a spanner and a piece of tubing.
A piece of tubing. And the Rolls petrol gauge registered empty. Joanne Menzies’ words about the Datsun came back to him-‘It’s pretty good on petrol, but not that good. Might just about make it one way without registering, but certainly not both.’ But what was simpler than to drive the car to Streatley, siphon petrol out of the Rolls into it (possibly even siphon some into a can as well, to top it up near London) and then drive back? Charles decided that a visit should be paid to Mr Nigel Steen.
Joanne Menzies still looked drawn and strained when she ushered Detective-Sergeant McWhirter into Mr Steen’s office on the Monday afternoon. The policeman thanked her and stood deferentially until he was invited to sit down.
The man who made the invitation was very like his father, but without the vitality that had distinguished Marius Steen. Nigel had the same beak of a nose, but, without the dark eyes, its effect was comic rather than forceful. His eyes were blue, a legacy from the English rose whom Marius had married; and his hair was light brown rather than the black which his father had kept, only peppered with grey, until his death. The general effect was of a diluted Marius Steen, ineffectual and slightly afraid.
Nigel was ostentatiously smoking a big cigar to give an illusion of poise. He flashed Charles what was meant to be a frank smile. ‘Well, what can I do to help?’
‘I’m very sorry to bother you,’ said Detective-Inspector McWhirter slowly, ‘and I do very much appreciate your putting yourself out to see me. Particularly at what must be a very distressing time for you.’
‘That’s quite all right. What is it?’ With a hint of irritation, or was it anxiety?
‘I have already spoken to your secretary on the matter and she proved most helpful.’ Charles reiterated his lies about the theft in Pangbourne on the Saturday night.
‘But you see, since I spoke to her, we have had another witness’s account of having seen a yellow Datsun in the Goring area. And they identified your number plate. I mean, you can never trust members of the public; they are extraordinarily inaccurate in what they claim to remember, but I can’t discount anything. All I’m trying to do is to establish where your father’s Datsun was on that night, and then stop wasting your time.’
‘Yes.’ Nigel drew on the cigar and coughed slightly. He was clearly rattled. Not a man with a strong nerve, and certainly on the surface not one who could carry out a cold-blooded murder. He capitulated very quickly. ‘As a matter of fact, I was in Streatley in the Datsun on that Saturday night.’
Charles felt a great surge of excitement, but Detective-Sergeant McWhirter only said, ‘Ah.’
‘Yes. I’d phoned my father in the evening, and he didn’t sound too well, so I drove down to see how he was.’
‘And how was he?’
‘Fine, fine. We had a few drinks together, chatted. He seemed in very good form. Then I drove back to London.’
‘Still on the Saturday night?’
‘Yes. It’s not far.’
‘No, no, of course not.’ Charles was about to ask about the subterfuge of the full petrol tank, but decided
that Detective-Sergeant McWhirter might not be in possession of all the relevant facts for that deduction. As it happened, Nigel continued defensively without needing further questions.
‘You’re probably wondering why I didn’t mention this fact before. Well, to tell you the truth, your boys asked me when had I last seen my father alive and I said Friday instinctively, and then by the time I’d realised my mistake, it was all written down, and, you know, I thought if I changed it, that’d only create trouble.’
It sounded pretty implausible to Charles, but Detective-Sergeant McWhirter gave a reassuring nod. ‘Yes, of course, sir. And you’re quite sure that while the car was down in Streatley, the thieves who I’m after wouldn’t have had a chance to take it and use it for their break-in?’
‘No, that would be quite impossible. I put the car in the garage and I’m sure I’d have heard it being driven off. Anyway, I wasn’t down there very long.’
‘No. Oh well, fine, Mr Steen. Thank you very much.’ Detective-Sergeant McWhirter rose to leave. ‘I think I’d better start looking for another yellow Datsun.’
‘Yes. And… er… Detective-Sergeant…’
‘Yes?’
‘Will you have to mention the discrepancy in my story-you know, my confusion about when I last saw my father-?’
‘Good Lord, no. That’s quite an understandable mistake in a moment of emotion, sir. So long as an account’s written down somewhere, no one’s going to fuss about the details. After all, there wasn’t anything unusual about your father’s death. If there had been any grounds for suspicion, it’d be a different case.’ And Detective-Sergeant McWhirter laughed.
Nigel Steen laughed too, Charles thought a bit too heartily. But perhaps he was being hypersensitive and letting his suspicions race like Jacqui’s.
‘Anyway,’ the Detective-Sergeant continued, ‘I don’t have anything to do with your father’s death. Different department, you know.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Well, goodbye, Mr Steen. And thank you again for your help. If only more members of the public were as co-operative as you have been, our life would be a lot easier. They shook hands. Nigel’s felt like a damp face cloth.
