Dead on Cue

by Deryn Lake

  He had stood by a police car for the interview, wearing his long coat, his curly hair accentuated by the street lamps, and had spoken clearly and directly to the girl from Meridian.

  ‘Can you tell us, Inspector, whether this murder was racially motivated?’

  ‘No, it was a gang of gay bashers –’ Tennant had paused and put it into polite English – ‘homophobes – who are said to have caused Mr Kazir’s death. The fact that he was of Asian origin was coincidental.’

  ‘And they are now in prison?’

  ‘Yes. They will be tried at Lewes Assizes later this year.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector.’

  The Meridian interviewer had insisted on him taking her card and had smiled at him quite saucily. In return, Tennant had presented his card with a flourish and had then got into a car and been driven home. And now he was having a relaxing morning pottering about his new flat.

  It was situated on the top floor of a Victorian mansion, built in the quiet part of Lewes, away from the one-way system and in an area that had once been genteel and in a way still was. Professional people lived nearby and the children who played outside were controllable and polite. Tennant liked it very much and had taken considerable pleasure in furnishing it to his taste. The walls of his living room were a rich, riotous red and curtains in a matching shade hung to the floor. After that his money had become somewhat stretched and he was doing the rest of the work at his leisure, or rather when he felt in funds.

  He was standing in the rather tired-looking roof garden, which had been started by the previous owner, thinking he must definitely put some work into it before the spring when the telephone rang. Somehow the very sound of the bell had a slightly menacing tone. Reluctantly Tennant picked up the receiver and said his name.

  ‘Hello, sir, sorry to bother you but something rather important’s come up.’ It was Potter.

  Tennant groaned silently. ‘I was meant to be having a day off.’

  ‘I know, sir. But I think you’re going to like this one.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘The body of an actor has been found at Fulke Castle . . .’

  ‘That’s not far from Lakehurst, isn’t it?’

  ‘About eight miles away. Anyway, we’ve had a call from Sir Rufus Beaudegrave, the owner. He sounded extremely shaken. Apparently he and his dog found the body on an early morning walk. The dead man was Gerry Harlington, who played the part of the Wasp Man in films. He was also a hip-hop dancer.’

  ‘Good God! What part did you say he took?’

  ‘The Wasp Man. I saw The Revenge of the Wasp Man a couple of years ago. It was pretty terrible but my nephews enjoyed it.’

  ‘I’ll come in.’

  Fifteen minutes later Tennant walked into the sprawling police headquarters in Lewes and as luck would have it bumped into Superintendent Miller on the stairs.

  ‘Ah, Dominic, good man. Come to my office in five minutes will you.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Anything in particular?’

  ‘Indeed. It’s about the death at Fulke Castle. I’ve had Sir Rufus Beaudegrave on the phone and he feels very concerned about the whole thing. Fact is, I’ve met him socially on a couple of occasions and I rather liked the fellow. Anyway, we’ll discuss the whole thing in depth in a few minutes.’

  It was obvious that the boss man was heading for the loo and Tennant stood to one side to let him pass, then made his way to his sergeant’s desk. Potter was not there but Tennant tracked him down at the coffee machine.

  ‘Get one for me, will you.’

  Potter, as neat and as orderly as ever, duly pressed the button for a black coffee without sugar and waited while the liquid poured into a plastic cup.

  ‘There you are, sir.’

  ‘I think we’re on the Fulke Castle case,’ said Tennant, sipping the rather unpleasant brew.

  ‘I hope we are,’ Potter answered enthusiastically.

  ‘Why? Are you a fan of the hip-hop dancer?’

  His sergeant pulled a face. ‘No. It’s just that I like the castle. I went on a tour there once and I thought it was wonderful. It’s fully moated, you know.’

  ‘How do they get on and off then?’

  ‘Oh, they’ve built a causeway. Did you see the remake of Ivanhoe on television last year?’

  ‘Yes. Was that Fulke Castle?’

  ‘It certainly was, sir. Apparently the owner, Sir Rufus Beaudegrave, manages to keep the place running by letting it out for God knows what. It’s been in his family since the Conquest and he’s determined to keep it that way.’

  ‘An enterprising fellow.’

  ‘Very much so, I believe.’

  At that moment they were called into Superintendent Miller’s office and half an hour later were driving out into deepest Sussex. The local policeman had been called in and was standing by the body, which had been left exactly as it was, protected by the usual police tape which had been stretched across the archways surrounding it. Tennant and Potter, approaching, looked down silently on the upturned face of Gerry Harlington, the knight’s helmet that had hidden it still lying where Rufus had placed it. Sir Rufus himself was standing just outside the tape, talking to another policeman who was treating him as if he were royalty. Tennant approached.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir. I’m Dominic Tennant of the Sussex police and this is my sergeant, Mark Potter.’

  ‘How do you do,’ said Rufus politely.

  ‘I believe it was you that found the body, Sir Rufus. Can you tell me more about that please?’

  ‘Certainly. I knew the victim vaguely. His name was Gerry Harlington and he was a small-time actor in Hollywood. He also . . .’

  Tennant interrupted tactfully. ‘I have had a run down on the man’s career already but if you could help me with any new information I’d be awfully grateful.’

  ‘Such as?’ Rufus enquired.

  ‘I believe he and his wife moved to Lakehurst recently, buying the moated manor house out at Speckled Wood. And then he volunteered to direct some play or other for the Oakbridge Dramatists and Dramatic Society, which was to be performed here at the castle. Could you tell me about that.’

  ‘It was not a play, it was a Son et Lumière, and it was the history of the castle being re-enacted in scenes. It was written by a professional writer – Bob Merryfield, he used to work at the BBC – and I must say it was a profoundly colourful and moving show. But unfortunately Bob died during rehearsals and that’s when Gerry Harlington stepped in.’

  ‘He wasn’t popular?’

  Rufus’s colour suddenly came up and Potter shot his boss a look of surprise.

  ‘He tried to ruin the whole thing. First of all he wanted to turn it into a musical – songs written by himself, of course. When the Odds objected he decided to introduce a hip-hop dance into the Elizabethan Fair scene. And he actually did one at the dress rehearsal. That’s when the proverbial hit the fan, I can tell you.’

  Tennant looked at Potter who was scribbling like mad in his notebook.

  ‘What happened?’ Tennant asked.

  ‘He was physically attacked. Robin Green actually leapt on him and there was a terrible melee.’ A smile briefly lit Rufus’s face. ‘Even the vicar was involved.’

  The inspector looked up intently. ‘Which vicar would that be?’

  ‘The one at Lakehurst. Nice chap. Name of Lawrence.’

  Tennant and Potter exchanged a grin.

  ‘Oh yes. We’ve come across him before. But please continue.’

  ‘Well, the fight was stopped and Harlington sloped off swearing revenge. And that was it really. Nothing further was seen of him. But somehow or other he must have taken the place of the man who does the stage fight with Robin Green and then – God knows how – fallen over the parapet and got himself killed.’

  ‘So you think it was an accident?’

  ‘Well, what else could it be?’

  ‘I’ll keep an open mind on that until we have the pathologist’s report. But tell me, why did no one
notice that anything was amiss during the actual show?’

  ‘Because the fight scene was carefully rehearsed and everyone was aware it was going on. As I said, Robin Green and Adam Gillow fought up there –’ he pointed to the battlements above, starkly outlined against the autumnal afternoon sky – ‘and at a certain point Adam ducked down and then threw a dummy off the battlements. And most effective it was too.’

  ‘I see. Anything else?’

  ‘There was one funny thing, now you ask.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Robin tripped and lost his footing. Fell over backwards in other words.’

  ‘And that hadn’t been rehearsed?’

  ‘Definitely not. It was a complete accident.’

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘The dummy was thrown over and the lights went out. End of scene.’

  ‘And the dummy? Where did that live?’

  ‘That was taken up to the battlements before the show began. It was lying there all the time.’

  ‘Most interesting.’

  Tennant turned round at the sound of noises behind him and saw the familiar sight of white-clad masked figures making their way over the causeway. In their midst was the doctor – a tall, auburn-haired fresh-faced Cornish girl with whom Tennant had worked once before. She knelt down beside the body and began her examination.

  Tennant turned back to Sir Rufus. ‘Can you give me any idea of the whereabouts of Mrs Harlington? That is, if you know?’

  ‘I should imagine that she is at home, Inspector. I really couldn’t tell you.’

  Did he mistake it or was the baronet now extremely pink in the cheeks? A becoming look with his red hair and tall build.

  ‘Well, thank you so much for your time, Sir Rufus. I’m afraid there will be some further questions but that will be all for the moment.’

  Tennant and Potter turned away and crossed over the bridged causeway on foot, making their way towards the gatehouse and beyond where a police van had been parked. There they changed into their blue protective suiting ready to inspect the body at close range. The remains of Gerry Harlington, having been photographed from all angles, had now been stripped of its chain mail and was down to the garments worn beneath. These consisted of a bloodstained T-shirt bearing the slogan ‘Wasp Man For Ever – Yay’ and a pair of black tights. The doctor was on the point of raising the shirt to look at the wounds beneath.

  ‘Is this a terrible accident do you think?’ Tennant asked the Cornish girl whose name was Helena Wensby.

  ‘Could be. But I don’t quite see how he could have toppled over.’

  ‘Unless he tripped and lost his balance. But then surely the other fellow – what was his name, Potter?’

  ‘Robin Green, sir.’

  ‘Green, would have raised the alarm, performance or no performance.’

  ‘Unless he didn’t see,’ said Helena.

  ‘Oh come on, this is getting more and more unlikely.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ Potter answered.

  The chest was covered with lacerations, mostly caused by the fall, but it was the skull that was the most terrible sight. Harlington must have landed head first, for the brains were visible and the cranium had been split in two. There were bruises to his cheeks and there were little rivulets in the dust marks caused by the helmet. Tennant leaned extremely close and the smell of drying blood filled his nostrils, making him silently heave.

  ‘Look at this, Potter,’ he called, pointing to Gerry’s eyes.

  The sergeant bent low. ‘What is it, sir?’

  ‘It looks to me as if Gerry was crying. I’ll ask the forensics team to take a sample.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Helena answered cheerily. She stared at Tennant. ‘How can he have cried?’

  ‘Perhaps it took him a while to die,’ the inspector answered sombrely, and, straightening up, turned to look at the moat.

  A few minutes later, Tennant and Potter climbed up to the battlements to see the place where the stage fight had taken place. The sergeant, who had absolutely no head for heights, was looking somewhat grey about the gills but Tennant, stepping through the door at the top of the spiral staircase, exclaimed, ‘My God, what a place. D’you know I envy Rufus Beaudegrave. I would like to have inherited this little lot.’

  Potter gasped and held on to the battlement wall, not daring to gaze round. Tennant meanwhile was breathing in and out noisily.

  ‘What a view. Glorious, isn’t it. Good Lord, there are black swans on the moat. Take a look, Potter.’

  ‘No thank you, sir. I’ll just stay where I am if it’s all the same to you.’

  Tennant glanced over. ‘Oh dear. It is a bit high up, isn’t it? Come on, we’d better get on with it.’

  He advanced a few feet and then stared in amazement. On the floor, man-sized and dressed in chain mail and helmet, was a body. Just for a moment Tennant thought it was real and then realized by the limp manner in which it lay that it was merely a man of straw. Here was the dummy that Adam Gillow should have thrown over while the man whom it represented – himself – ducked beneath the parapet.

  ‘How come nobody spotted this before, Potter? I mean what about the other knight – Robin Green? Surely he must have seen it still lying there before he made his exit?’

  ‘I should imagine, sir, that the shock of falling over backwards which probably dislodged his helmet must have rendered him almost blind. And by the time he recovered himself the lights must have gone down on the scene and he had to concentrate like mad to get down the spiral in the dimness.’

  ‘In other words, he didn’t see it.’

  ‘No, and he was on his own up here, wasn’t he? Wasn’t he?’

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ answered Tennant grimly.

  ‘And did nobody else come up? Later, I mean.’

  ‘Again. We’ll have to find out.’

  He walked over to it and leant over the battlements. Below him was the courtyard and the doctor just getting to her feet. He could also see two men with a body bag approaching the mortal remains of Gerry Harlington. So it ends for all of us, he thought. But hopefully not in such a violent manner.

  Potter, sidling along, was searching the battlements on his hands and knees. He exclaimed, then said, ‘Take a look at these, sir.’

  Tennant bent to see. On the wall, beneath the parapet at knee and foot height were marks where somebody had kicked the bricks violently.

  ‘Looks like signs of a struggle.’

  ‘Yes, I would say so. If somebody attacked the late Mr Harlington from behind, came on him unexpectedly and pushed him hard . . .’

  ‘He would have kicked out and fought as they tipped him towards the parapet.’

  ‘I know the guy who was fighting him had fallen on his backside but surely he could have staggered up and intervened.’

  ‘A very good point, Potter. I think we must go and interview him fast.’

  They scoured the rest of the battlement area but found no further evidence other than a matted piece of fur that looked as if it had been torn from an ancient fur coat. It was stuck on the parapet. Tennant put it in an evidence bag, then said, ‘Get the photographer and the forensic team up here, Potter. I want these marks photographed and analysed. If they were caused by scuffling feet then I think we can say that this was a murder.’

  ‘Right you are.’

  Potter made his way back down the spiral with a look of relief on his face. Tennant meanwhile walked along the battlements, taking in the full beauty of Fulke Castle. Far below him he saw Rufus Beaudegrave get into a Jaguar sports car and drive over the causeway, through the gatehouse to the open countryside beyond.

  Tennant walked back slowly to the place where the straw body lay and stood there silently thinking. Then he crossed the space between the two staircases and, opening the door, went down the second one. He descended the stairs carefully, one slow step at a time, and eventually his patience was rewarded.

  Lying near the bottom, half hidden by th
e shadow of the spiral was a rather smart fountain pen. Slipping on a protective glove Tennant picked it up and dropped it into an evidence bag. Expensive though it was, it was still run of the mill and could have belonged to anyone. With a sigh he stepped out of the darkness and into the autumn sunshine, looking for Sergeant Potter.

  TWELVE

  Ekaterina stared blankly at the two police officers – a man and a woman – who stood opposite her in the living room of the moated manor.

  ‘You say Gerry is dead?’ she asked them in a dazed manner.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Harlington. I’m afraid he is,’ the WPC answered her quietly. ‘Why don’t you sit down? Can I get you a cup of tea, perhaps?’

  ‘No, nothing thank you. But how did this happen? Where is his body? Surely he cannot have died by his own hand.’

  Her Russian accent and phraseology were becoming more pronounced in her apparent distress.

  ‘We really don’t know, Mrs Harlington,’ said the man. ‘Your husband was found at Fulke Castle. From what we have been told he took part in a theatrical production there and met with some kind of accident.’

  Ekaterina went white as a sail. ‘In that case he must have been killed,’ she croaked in a voice so ghastly that it would have made an ordinary person shudder, though not so the stoical members of the police force.

  ‘Please don’t jump to conclusions, madam,’ said the WPC. ‘Nobody knows at the moment. We are making enquiries.’

  ‘But I was at the castle last night,’ Ekaterina stated, sitting down hard on the sofa. ‘I didn’t see anything happen. Gerry wasn’t in it. You must be mistaken.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Mrs Harlington,’ said the male police officer firmly. ‘Your husband has been identified by someone who knew him. Now, have you any friends locally? Somebody who could come and stay with you perhaps?’

  ‘I am new here. I only know my masseur and the cleaning lady. Oh, and the vicar.’

  ‘Then perhaps we could phone one of them for you. What is the vicar’s number?’