by Simon Brett
The second chapter assembled a house party of suspects at Wainscott Hall, in the time-honoured style of its genre. One of them, a foreign gentleman called Mr Akbar, did not endear himself to the rest of the guests . . .
The presence of this last personage was an unaccountable mystery. Neither his appearance nor his manners qualified him as a likely social acquaintance of Lord Wainscott, and yet the peer seemed ready, nay, eager, to welcome the foreigner into that proverbial castle of the Englishman, his home. Mr Akbar did not commend himself to the Ratcliffes by appearing at dinner in a silken cummerbund of the hue favoured by Romish cardinals and diamond studs of such ostentatious size that they might have looked less out of place amongst the regalia of a Babylonian Coronation! And Maltravers Ratcliffe, in front of whom the newcomer pushed as they proceeded to dinner, was not a little shocked to feel his nostrils assailed by a distinct whiff of perfume!
All that the book needed now, apart from a plan of the ground floor of Wainscott Hall (which soon appeared duly printed in the text), was a crime. After dinner Maltravers and Eithne Ratcliffe repaired to the billiard room . . .
‘You know, my love, there’s something deuced rummy going on here,’ mused Maltravers as he chalked his cue. ‘Deuced rummy. Something that makes my flesh creep. Do you feel it too?’
His wife answered in the affirmative.
‘It’s something to do with that gigolo, Akbar. I’ve a feeling he’s out to spoke somebody’s wheel. And what’s more . . . I’ve a feeling I’ve seen the bounder somewhere before.’
At that moment Maltravers Ratcliffe froze, his face suffused by a ghastly pallor, his eyes transfixed by some object on the floor.
‘Oh no, ‘he breathed. ‘Oh no, oh no, oh no!’
He moved forward and picked up a monocle, whose silver setting was curiously wrought in the shape of a coiled snake. ‘See, he has left his visiting card.’
‘Are you sure?’ murmured Eithne, unwilling to accept the sheer ugliness of the truth.
‘Sure, ‘her husband confirmed with unearthly calmness. ‘Yes, it’s von Strutter!’
Eithne Ratcliffe gasped. Their arch-enemy! Here, at Wainscott Hall!
‘What’s behind there?’ Maltravers demanded, pointing to a door in front of which the monocle had lain.
‘That’s where Lord Wainscott keeps his collection.’
‘Quick!’
He tried the door. It was locked, and there was no sign of a key. Fortunately he always carried a set of pick-locks, fashioned for him by the versatile Podd, and to open the door was a matter of moments.
One look inside sufficed to tell him all!
‘Don’t look, my love, don’t look!’ he commanded Eithne as he entered the room.
The walls were hung with many splendours of the Orient, but he had eyes for none of these. All he saw was the ghastly spectacle staining the fine Turkey carpet in the middle of the room.
It was the offensive Mr Akbar, destined never more to give offence! He lay face down on the floor. Upright from the back of his coat rose the bloody blade of a Japanese samurai sword!
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE EFFECTS OF four pints of Guinness vanished. Charles’s mind was working very clearly. And fast.
It was incongruous, and yet it might be true. Could the pattern to this apparently meaningless sequence of deaths lie in a series of forgotten detective stories?
There were too many coincidences for him to dismiss the idea with his customary cynicism. The old still from the never-completed film of Death Takes A Short Cut told him that Barton Rivers and Aurelia Howarth had once been cast as Maltravers and Eithne Ratcliffe, and the old man’s bizarre dress and style of speech suggested that in some mad way he was still playing the part. It made sense of the white flannels and all the inconsequential cricketing jargon, as well as Barton’s permanent air of demented gallantry.
But the greatest coincidence was in the name, von Strutter. There had to be some connection there. If somewhere in the fogs of Barton Rivers mind, he was convinced he had an arch-enemy called von Strutter, he might well seek revenge on a television series which was called The Strutters. It was lunatic logic, but it was the only form of logic Charles had so far been able to impose on the random accidents.
The most chilling thing he had read, though, was R. Q. Wilberforce’s choice of murder weapon. The coincidence of a samurai sword in the book and in the script of the next day’s Strutters episode seemed to offer too much temptation to Barton Rivers’ insane motivation. The accident with the sword must be averted.
But Charles needed more information. All he had so far was an idea, a new theory into which some of the known facts fitted. Many more would have to fall into place before he could dignify the theory with the title of a solution.
That meant finding out a lot more about the books of R. Q. Wilberforce. He went to the payphone on the landing.
‘Hello. Gregory Watts.’
‘This is Charles Paris.’
‘Oh, good afternoon. Did you get the book all right?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘What else can I do for you?’
‘I seem to remember when we spoke, you said Wilberforce was still alive.’
‘Was last year, certainly.’
‘Look, I need to contact him very urgently. Have you got a phone number for him?’
‘No, I’ve got an address. Incidentally, when I wrote to him, I wrote to R. Q. Wilberforce, but his reply was very firmly signed in his real name, so perhaps you should use that.’
‘You mean R. Q. Wilberforce is a pseudonym?’
‘Certainly.’ Watts laughed. ‘I can’t imagine too many people are actually called R. Q. Wilberforce.’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Oh yes. Mind you, his real name is pretty odd, too.’
‘Oh. What is it?’
‘Barton Rivers.’ There was a long silence. ‘Are you still there, Mr Paris?’
‘Yes, I . . . yes. Good God.’
‘Shall I give you his address?’
‘Yes . . . no. I mean, no, I don’t need it now.’
‘Oh, but I thought . . .’
‘No, what I do need are copies of his books. All of them. And fast.’
‘I told you, that’s the only one I’ve got – or rather had. They’re pretty rare.’
‘But they must exist somewhere. Don’t you know of any libraries or. . . .’
‘I suppose they might be around in a library, but you could spend weeks looking.’
‘I’ve got to find them. It’s really important.’
‘Hmm . . . Well, the only thing I can suggest – I don’t know if any of them would have any – but there are one or two collectors who specialise in detective fiction. You could ask.’
‘Anything’s worth trying.’
Gregory Watts gave him three names and phone numbers.
Stanley Harvey’s cottage in Hampstead was, like his speech, precise to the point of being precious. On the telephone he had admitted with pride to being the possessor of an almost complete set of R. Q. Wilberforce, but he had been unwilling to have them inspected that evening. Charles had to use all his powers of persuasion and even resort to the phrase (for once used in a literal sense) ‘a matter of life and death’, before he achieved grudging consent. ‘But I’m going out at eight,’ said Stanley Harvey, ‘so you’ll have to be through by then.’
And no, there was no possibility of Charles borrowing any of the books.
When he opened the front door, Stanley Harvey lived up to the impression of his voice and cottage. He was a dapper little man in his early sixties, with a white goatee beard. A tweed Norfolk jacket and a Meerschaum pipe gave a Sherlockian image, which was reinforced by prints on the walls, models and memorabilia of the great detective.
Stanley Harvey seemed unimpressed by Charles Paris. ‘This is really extremely inconvenient. I hope you meant what you said about it being important.’
‘You must believe me. It is. It’s far
too complicated to explain but it is important.’
Stanley Harvey sniffed. ‘I rang Gregory Watts and he confirmed that he had given you my number. Can’t be too careful. The collection is pretty valuable and I can’t let just anyone in.’
The emphasis, and the look that accompanied it, suggested he suspected Charles might be just anyone and still contemplated refusing admission. ‘Gregory Watts said you were an R. Q. Wilberforce collector.’
‘Hardly. I’ve only got one of the books. Death Takes A Short Cut.’
Stanley Harvey gave a superior smile. ‘Oh, I’ve got that, of course. I’ve got five of them, and there only ever were the six.’
‘First editions?’ Charles felt he had to ask, only to give Stanley Harvey the satisfaction of saying a supercilious ‘Of course.’
It had been a good question, because now Stanley Harvey’s desire to show off his collection was greater than his distrust of his visitor. ‘Come through,’ he said curtly.
They went to the back of the cottage and through a passage to what appeared to be a modern extension. As they walked, Stanley Harvey continued to parade his knowledge. ‘Of course, the reason R. Q. Wilberforces are so rare is that so few were printed.’
‘Oh?’ said Charles humbly.
‘Yes, he never really caught on as an author. He was too larky and the plotting was too slack, I believe. He had the books printed at his own expense.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes.’ Stanley Harvey had perked up now he saw what a humble student he had to lecture. Yes, he must have been a schoolteacher, he obviously enjoyed pontificating so much. A schoolteacher who had come into money.
Quite a lot of money, Charles reckoned when they went into the library. It was a purpose-built circular room. Packed bookshelves rose to the ceiling, alternating with tall windows protected with metal grids. All their books, arranged with the pernickety neatness that characterised their owner, were hard-backs of this century.
Charles made suitably appreciative noises.
‘Yes, not bad,’ said Stanley Harvey smugly. ‘One of the largest private collections in the world, so I believe.’
‘Of what?’ Charles couldn’t resist saying.
‘Detective fiction. All first editions of course. I have my own private cataloguing system.’
Yes, you would.
‘Conan Doyles along there – complete set of English and American firsts. Agatha Christie, the same. Raymond Chandler . . . Dorothy Sayers, of course. Simenons in the original, English editions and some selected translations and –’
‘What about R. Q. Wilberforces?’ asked Charles. It was twenty past six, the eight o’clock curfew was approaching fast, and he felt a desperate urgency to find out if he was on to something or just caught up in an elaborate fantasy.
‘Yes,’ said Stanley Harvey, with a moue of annoyance. ‘Of course. Right, if that’s all you’re interested in, over here.’
He moved across the room and pointed to a row of matching blue spines. ‘Here we are. R. Q. Wilberforce. The only one I haven’t been able to track down yet is Death Takes A Back Seat. But here we have Death Takes A Tumble, Death Takes The Wrong Turning, Death Takes A Drive, Death Takes A Stand and Death Takes A Short Cut. I also have some manuscripts and drafts of stuff that was never published, if that’s of interest.’ He gestured towards a rank of metal filing cabinets.
‘Did you collect them all one at a time?’
‘No, not the R. Q. Wilberforces, actually. I do with most of the stuff, get it from publishers or through dealers, but in fact I got all this lot together. Just after the war I wrote to R. Q. Wilberforce and asked if he’d got any material he wanted to get rid of. To my surprise he sent me the lot. With a very strange letter. Said that he had been going to throw it all away, said that the War had changed everything, that there was no time for frivolity any more, that life had been shown up in its true colours and it was a tragic business. He said that R. Q. Wilberforce was dead and he never wanted to hear anything about him again. The letter was very odd, sounded a bit unbalanced.’
‘Did he sign his own name?’
‘He signed R. Q. Wilberforce, I don’t know whether that was his name or not. I’ve got the letter filed if –’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Stanley Harvey smiled a self-satisfied smile. ‘So I got a nice little haul there for nothing. Shows what a letter arriving at the right time can do. Always worth writing a lot of letters if you’re building up a collection.’
‘Yes.’ Charles looked at his watch. Half-past six. And he looked at the thickness of the five blue books on the shelf. ‘Look, perhaps you could save me a bit of time. All I need to find out is about the deaths in the books. Perhaps you can remember something of the plots.’
Stanley Harvey looked at him in amazement and stroked his little beard. ‘Good Lord, no. I only collect this stuff, I don’t read it.’
Stanley Harvey perched watchfully at his desk in the middle of the library while Charles did his research. The circular room strengthened the impression of a spider at the centre of his web, as did the little man’s suspicious eyes. He clearly expected Charles to try to leave with an illicit Margery Allingham under his jacket.
But once he got into the books, Charles was too intrigued to be inhibited by any hostile spectator. He read with fascination as the pattern he had suspected unfolded in all its lunacy.
He soon realised that he wouldn’t have to read all the text. The relevant bits were not hard to find.
He opened each book and checked the date to confirm their sequence. There was a dedication in each one, too. In the first, Death Takes A Tumble, it read ‘To Darling Hilary’, and in the subsequent ones, ‘To Hilary again, with all my love’. That introduced a new element. Barton and Aurelia’s had always been hailed as the great example of a show business marriage that remained faithful, and yet who was this Hilary to whom he had dedicated five books? Charles knew he would have to find that out.
But for the moment he was more concerned with the deaths. They were easily found. Barton Rivers, in the guise of R. Q. Wilberforce, wrote his books to an unerring formula. In Chapter One, Maltravers Ratcliffe would return to his wife, Eithne, from some gallant exploit, arid they would decide to go away somewhere to escape all thoughts of crime. In Chapter Two they would arrive at their destination, and, on the last page of the chapter, someone would die. Maybe this total predictability was one of the reasons why R. Q. Wilberforce couldn’t find a publisher and had to produce the books himself.
The murders made fascinating reading. In Death Takes A Tumble, the victim apparently fell from a fire escape on the tower of a baronial castle. In Death Takes A Wrong Turning a rock, cunningly placed round a hairpin bend in the Dolomites, caused a young playboy to drive his Hispano-Suiza to destruction down the face of a cliff. In Death Takes A Drive the victim was run down by a Bentley that didn’t stop (thus causing, because of the make of car, suspicion to fall on the spotless Maltravers Ratcliffe). And in Death Takes a Stand a young man in a stately home was killed by the apparently accidental fall of a heavy wall-mounted light-stand.
In each book the manner of the death was, either punningly or directly, suggested in the title.
And, in every case, whoever had actually committed the crime, behind it, masterminding the operation, had been ‘the evil genius of von Strutter’ (usually followed by an exclamation mark!).
And so, in these old blue volumes were prefigured the deaths of Sadie Wainwright, Scott Newton, Rod Tisdale and Robin Laughton. Their individual identity had not been important; so long as they were connected with the series called The Strutters they had earned the right to die.
Charles returned the four volumes to their shelf long before Stanley Harvey’s deadline. He didn’t look at Death Takes A Short Cut. He knew what happened in that one.
Someone got impaled on a Japanese samurai sword.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE TOWER BLOCK of W.E.T. House looked unchanged, mod
ern, impassive, but internally it was crippled. There was no canteen or bar service, the security men’s go-slow continued and members of other unions formed little mumbling groups. The company was like a very old man’s body, in which no one knew which organ would fail next. Senior management sat like anxious doctors in their offices, waiting for the loudspeaker announcement or phone call that would signal the end, or at least the lapse into coma, of their patient.
But Peter Lipscombe was not the man to let that sort of atmosphere get him down. With Boy Scout brightness he welcomed each member of The Strutters cast into the building, and assured them all that everything was okay.
And so indeed it seemed. Costumes were laid in dressing-rooms, make-up girls waited to administer their tantalisingly short caresses, cameramen and sound-boom operators drifted towards the studio, Vision Mixer and PA to the control box, Sound and Vision Controllers to their adjacent stations. The set was up, and there seemed to be no reason why the rehearse/recording of Episode Eight of The Strutters should not start on camera at ten o’clock as scheduled.
Charles Paris wasn’t there on the dot of ten, because, from force of habit, he had gone to the big Studio A, where Wragg and Bowen were having an uphill struggle with new directors and scriptwriters, and beginning to question the wisdom of their hugely expensive transfer from the BBC. (Why did they think they could change the inalienable law of television – that no comedy star was ever improved by moving from the BBC to ITV, and that for most a commercial offer was a sure sign that they had passed their peak of popularity?)
Charles realised his mistake as soon as he saw the set of garish tinsel and dangling silver bicycle wheels. As he turned to leave, he nearly bumped into a familiar, and not unattractive, figure. ‘Jay!’
Actually, I call myself Jan Lewis now. It looks better on the roller caption.’
‘Uh-huh. Well, how are things?’
‘Fine. This Wragg and Bowen show is so complicated. There’s lots to learn.’
