Dead on Cue

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Wasn’t he gay?’ asked Potter.

  ‘Well, he was bisexual, certainly.’

  ‘To say nothing of Hugh Despenser,’ Potter answered surprisingly.

  ‘I too am sometimes of the gay persuasion,’ said Lewis. ‘And my wife does not object, do you dear.’

  ‘I think people’s sexuality is entirely up to the individual,’ Joyce replied in irritating nasal tones that went through Tennant like a knife. He could imagine her scrubbing out their clothes by hand and then pegging them on an old rope line, all this whilst playing an accordion.

  No wonder, he thought, that her husband has other interests.

  ‘Tell me, if you will, whether either of you noticed anything unusual about the performance of the Son et Lumière.’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ answered Joyce, ‘several things.’

  ‘Such as?’

  She leant forward in a confidential manner and the inspector noticed for the first time that she had two long plaits which hung down to her waist, one of which swung to the side as she began to talk earnestly.

  ‘Well, other than for the fact that Adam Gillow was missing – though I didn’t notice that at the time – it was the behaviour of the bear that I thought odd.’

  ‘The bear?’ exclaimed Potter, lowering his notebook.

  ‘Yes. It arrived really early, before any of the rest of us got there, and was in full costume – head and all – wandering about for ages.’

  ‘I see. But what was so unusual about that?’

  ‘The part was played by Jonquil Charmwood. She’s a modern-day equivalent of a bright young thing. She always rushes in at the last minute and dives into her costume, puts the head in place just before she is due on then hurries up to the bear tamer and away she goes. But this night she just behaved differently.’

  ‘I see,’ Tennant said. ‘But surely she was on stage before the Elizabethan Fair?’

  ‘No, that’s just the point – she wasn’t. It’s because her costume was so complicated that the director – and I speak of Bob Merryfield not that small-time actor – let her off. The Fair was her first appearance.’

  ‘I take it you didn’t like Gerry Harlington,’ remarked Potter.

  Lewis spoke up. ‘It is not that we have anything against anyone of whatever race, creed, colour or sexual inclination.’

  Pompous little ass, thought Tennant.

  ‘Quite so,’ he said aloud, and caught the vicar’s eye, which was twinkling.

  ‘But Gerry Harlington was more than one could stomach. So pretentious. And on what basis?’

  ‘I thought he was jolly good as the Wasp Man – at least my nephews did,’ put in Potter.

  Lewis looked down his long aquiline nose. ‘Precisely.’

  The vicar interrupted. ‘He had talent. One can’t take that away from him. That hip-hop dance he did at the dress rehearsal was really excellent. It was just totally out of place. I don’t think he had much idea of English history.’

  ‘You can say that again, Reverend,’ said Joyce. ‘He was a total ignoramus.’

  ‘Can we get back to the subject of the bear, please. What happened after she finished her scene?’

  ‘Well, that’s just the point. Nobody saw her go. And she didn’t appear in any of the last acts. She was meant to be in the big Charleston number but she never showed up. It was too bad.’

  ‘And what happened to her costume?’

  ‘It was found, neat as you please, hanging up on a hanger on Sir Rufus’s estate car.’

  ‘Really? He never mentioned that.’

  ‘He didn’t see it. It was removed by one of the stagehands and put back in our changing tent.’

  ‘And how do you know all this?’

  ‘’Cos I saw him put it back and asked him where he found it,’ Joyce answered triumphantly, and glugged down her Gold Label with a knowing air.

  ‘Well, thank you very much for the information. Potter, make a note that I will be interviewing Miss Charmwood myself.’

  The vicar said a little uncomfortably, ‘I’m going to have dinner with her tomorrow night. I can ask her about it if you like.’

  Tennant’s eyebrow rose and he looked pixieish. ‘How very kind of you. But I shall be seeing her nonetheless.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nick, a trifle sheepishly, ‘I thought you would.’

  Afterwards in the comforting walls of the vicarage, Nick sat down to watch the ten o’clock news. There was a piece on national television about the strange death at Fulke Castle and how the police were investigating. There was also a short inclusion on Gerry’s widow, Ekaterina, saying she had been born in Russia, followed by a brief bit of footage of herself and Gerry going to a Hollywood premiere.

  Nick thought about tomorrow night and the fact that Jonquil had issued the invitation rather than him asking her. Then Olivia came into his head and he was glad that she was missing the drama of this particular investigation. He yawned and stood up. Above his head, William walked across the landing and Radetsky simultaneously came through the cat flap. The vicar smiled. All was well. He could go to bed.

  But there was to be no early night for Dominic Tennant. Before he had parted company with Joyce and Lewis he had obtained a full list of everyone involved in the first-night performance both on and backstage. Sir Rufus had already given him a programme but this was nothing like as comprehensive as the slightly malicious gossip emanating from the folksy pair.

  ‘Of course, it’s poor Oswald I feel sorry for. He took the post hoping he would learn more about directing,’ Joyce had said spitefully. ‘But he was treated like dirt – that is by Mr Harlington. He was nothing more than a gofer.’

  ‘How old was he?’ Tennant had asked.

  ‘Nineteen. But very introspective. Wouldn’t speak up for himself except in monosyllables. You know the type.’

  Unfortunately the inspector did and made another mental note to interview him personally and to be firm with the youth.

  Tennant, at last home in his lovely flat, finished his lists and turned to his own mail which lay in an untouched heap on his desk. There was a postcard with a Chinese stamp and he wondered momentarily who could have sent it. Then he remembered that Olivia was on a world tour. He opened it and skimmed through the lines. Then re-read it slowly. The last bit amused and pleased him.

  Hope there are no more grisly happenings in downtown Lakehurst! Give my love to all and sundry but save a little for yourself, Olivia.

  The inspector went to bed that night with a smile on his face.

  FOURTEEN

  The smile was wiped off Tennant’s face when the alarm clock rang at six. By seven he was suited and booted and had made his way into police headquarters where he sat at his desk and waited for his team to arrive for a briefing at eight o’clock. Lately he had been cultivating something of an image for himself as he was frequently approached to appear on television. He had let his dark hair grow slightly and had enhanced his natural curls by the clever use of gel. His suits – made by a tailor in Brighton who charged reasonable prices – were often in lighter shades, contrasting well with his flowing overcoat; he had worn the same one for the last two years and was quite famous for it. He chose colourful ties, often with a vivid pattern of flowers. Gone was the plodding policeman of yesteryear. Tennant spoke well, was articulate, friendly, and capable of flashing the odd attractive grin. He was extremely popular with both BBC and Meridian interviewers.

  Reliable Potter turned up at ten to eight and was followed by a dozen or so members of Tennant’s team, all looking ready to go. These included a female detective with thick dark lashes and wood-violet eyes and a fiancé, much to the chagrin of the younger males. Her name was Morgana Driscoll and her partner was a police constable on the beat, which secretly amused some of the more senior people, though not Tennant who inclined to the theory that they were all members of the same service regardless of their rank.

  He outlined a detailed account of what had taken place at Fulke Castle, handed out lists of pe
ople to be interviewed and told them to get on with it. He would see them again tomorrow morning, same time and the best of luck. Then he and Potter went downstairs to the car and headed for the mortuary in which lay the last mortal remains of Gerry Harlington.

  ‘I asked a Home Office pathologist to do this one, Potter.’

  ‘Very wise, sir.’

  The body was lying on a metal table covered with a white cloth and the pathologist, Dr Bernard Lance, was at the sink washing his hands. In death what was left of Gerry’s face seemed as if it were frozen in ice, as if a mask had descended over his features, draining them of all reality. Tennant felt that they were looking at a black doll, a dark representation of someone who had once lived and breathed and been a film star. Just for a second he felt tremendously sorry for the man and then his professionalism took over and he turned to the pathologist.

  ‘Well, Dr Lance. How are you today?’

  ‘Very fit, dear boy. So we have the Wasp Man, eh?’

  ‘Yes. Did you ever see any of his films?’

  ‘Saw them all. My daughter was an avid fan and d’you know I got to quite like the feller. He was very athletic, I’ll say that for him. Leaping about, swinging on ropes, sword fighting. The lot.’

  Potter who was just putting on his protective gown said, ‘I’d agree with that, sir. I was quite taken with him myself.’

  ‘Pity he had to end like this.’

  Tennant asked, ‘Just exactly how did he die?’

  ‘Massive injuries to the cranium, of course, brought about by his fall. But have a look at this. Should be of interest.’

  Dr Lance called for two assistants who proceeded to turn the body over. Tennant was horribly aware of the movement of a hip-hop dancer, turning on one arm, looking up at the crowd, broad grin on face. He gave the smallest shudder and momentarily wondered if he was too imaginative for the job. Meanwhile Dr Lance was pointing to bruises, no bigger than a hand-span, on the dead man’s waist.

  ‘What do you make of those?’ asked the pathologist as if he were questioning a group of students.

  Tennant and Potter leaned in closely and had a look.

  ‘Push marks?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘I would say so,’ answered his boss. They both turned to the pathologist.

  ‘No doubt about it in my mind. It seems to me that someone came up behind the unfortunate Wasp Man and gave him a hard push which sent him stumbling to his death.’

  ‘There was some sort of scuffle following the fight up on the battlements but unfortunately the other person involved had fallen down and jammed his helmet on his head so he couldn’t see a damn thing. That is if he’s telling the truth.’

  ‘Looks as if he is, sir. I don’t see how he could have whipped round behind the victim and given him a hearty shove and then got back into his place again. Not considering the time factor.’

  ‘You’re right of course. So –’ Tennant straightened up – ‘we must go hunting. And if we work on the theory of who stood to gain then there is only one obvious person.’

  ‘The wife,’ said Potter.

  And Tennant nodded his head.

  Before they drove back to Lakehurst the inspector had one call to make. For there was an important person connected with the Oakhurst Dramatists and Dramatic Society who was at present studying at the South Downs College of Further Education in Lewes. Young Oswald Souter was there doing a drama course. At approximately eleven o’clock the two policemen drove up outside the place and actually managed to find a parking space, then went straight to the principal’s office.

  It was discovered that Oswald was presently on a short break in the canteen from which he was duly fetched out. He arrived in the small office that had been found for Tennant, appearing pale and puzzled. The inspector immediately felt sorry for him.

  Oswald was an ordinary-looking boy, medium height, medium build and inclined to acne. Tennant, who in the past had had longings to go on the stage, could only see him playing character roles in the years that lay ahead. The poor youth was also painfully thin and had several zits on his face at which he had clearly picked. He was clutching a packet of half-eaten sandwiches in his hand and the inspector felt like telling him to finish them off and build himself up a bit.

  ‘Come in, Oswald, and take a seat. Now this is really nothing to worry about. I just want to talk about the performance of Son et Lumière the other night if that’s all right with you.’

  Potter flicked open his notebook.

  ‘What do you want to know about it?’ asked the lad, his Adam’s apple bobbing ferociously.

  ‘I understand you were assistant director.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  God, he’s going to be one of those, thought Tennant. I’m going to have to drag the facts out of the little pest.

  ‘And how did you get on with that?’

  ‘Very well under Mr Merryfield.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘But he died unexpectedly and Gerry Harlington took over.’

  ‘Yes, I know. So how did you get on with him?’

  Oswald blushed slowly, starting with his neck then the colour working its way up to his sparrow-coloured hair.

  ‘Not so well.’

  ‘It has been said to me that he treated you as a gofer. Would that be correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Potter interrupted. ‘Look, Oswald, why don’t you tell the inspector the whole story. You’re going to be here all day if you go on as slowly as this.’

  Oswald gulped and his Adam’s apple did a nosedive.

  ‘Well, what do you want to know?’

  ‘Tell me about the performance of Son et Lumière. It was your role to take the dummy up to the battlements, wasn’t it? Now can you describe the details of what happened that night. Recount to me exactly what took place.’

  ‘All right. I got there early because that was what I was supposed to do. There was nobody around except for the bear. I waved at her – it was Jonquil, you see – and she waved a paw back. I went to collect the dummy from where it was lying under the arches . . .’

  ‘How did you know it would be thrown there?’

  ‘Because that was what Adam Gillow always did. He ducked down and simultaneously threw the dummy over the parapet. It landed in roughly the same place every rehearsal. Besides, it was up to Charlie Higgs to move it under the arches.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, it was there all right. So I picked it up and took it up the spiral staircase and placed it just under the parapet out of sight. Then I went back down and that is all I can tell you.’

  ‘And you did not go near the battlements again that night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did anybody else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What did you wear during the performance?’

  ‘Black. I had some black jeans belonging to my father, a black T-shirt and some trainers that I’d put boot polish on. Why?’

  It was the first question that Oswald had asked and it rather startled Tennant.

  ‘I just wondered what the backstage crew wore. Whether you had cloaks or anything to blend with the actors.’

  ‘I think there were one or two cloaks lying about. I never wore one if that’s what you’re asking.’

  Tennant shook his head. ‘Well, thank you, Mr Souter. You’ve been very helpful. There’s just one other thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Did you see anybody go near the battlements or up one of the spiral staircases on the night that Gerry Harlington was murdered? In short, did you see anything out of place happen at all?’

  ‘I didn’t see anything. I just got on with my job.’

  ‘Well, thank you again. Sorry to have interrupted you at college but we were saving petrol.’

  Potter grinned but Oswald’s face remained impassive.

  ‘Can I go?’

  ‘Certainly. We have your home address. We’ll be in touch if we need anything further.’

 
He held the door open and Oswald marched through, sandwich box still clutched in hand.

  ‘Uncommunicative little bugger,’ Tennant said, looking at the young man’s retreating form.

  ‘I can’t imagine him and the Wasp Man hitting it off. Not the type at all.’

  ‘Oh well, it takes all sorts. Come on, Potter. We’ve a mountain to get through today.’

  They drove on to Speckled Wood and Tennant asked Potter to stop the car so that they might look at the view. It was quite indescribable with the autumn colours beginning to gleam in the foliage. To their right lay the livery stables that had once been the scene of such sadness but which now had a bright and bustling air about them. Above them lay the ancient farmhouse and the land owned by Giles Fielding on which grazed mild-mannered sheep, moving slowly over the fields as they cropped the grass. Tennant had briefly lived opposite a sheep field and had forever been nipping over the stile and pulling them out when they got their heads stuck in the hedge. When he thought about it now it seemed as if it had been in another life. He had been married, had been briefly happy before his wife had run off with her actor lover – amateur of course. He had been a different person.

  Tennant turned his eyes to the distant view. There glittered that tantalizing cobalt glimpse of the sea, the woods and pastures sweeping down to it, the land the colour of sage and parsley. At this time of day, with the autumn sun low in the sky, the water in the moat of the house which Tennant had always longed to have glinted dazzlingly so that one had to shade one’s eyes in order to look at it.

  ‘There’s the house I’ve always fancied living in, Potter.’

  ‘Well you’ll have to chat up the Wasp Man’s missus then.’

  They drove down a narrow lane, plunging into the verdant countryside, at one point the trees leaning over and forming an arch above their heads. The leaves were just beginning to turn colour so that a ripple of red and gold was visible here and there. Tennant could not help but think that autumn was one of the loveliest times of the year, a time when people settled down and took stock of their lives. He thought of Olivia’s postcard and decided that as soon as she returned to England he would phone and invite her out to dinner.