Dead on Cue

by Deryn Lake

  ‘You mean the Elizabethan Fair?’

  ‘Yep. That was no time for her to try and see the rest of the show.’

  ‘Was that what she was doing?’

  ‘I guess so. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  The bald-headed man stuck his head round the door.

  ‘Sorry, Inspector, but Oswald’s got to run if he is going to catch his train.’

  ‘All right, Dad, I’m going.’ The young man stood up. ‘Have you finished with me?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. For the time being anyway.’

  Oswald picked up a battered-looking backpack from the chair beside him and ran a protruding comb through his brownish hair.

  ‘Well, see you later.’

  ‘Goodbye.’ And Tennant rose politely to his feet. The bald-headed man took a seat at the table and poured himself a mug of tea.

  ‘Would you like a cup?’

  ‘No, thanks very much. You’re Oswald’s father I take it.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. It’s just me and him. I lost his mother ten years ago.’

  Tennant made the right noises, wishing that people would use another phrase when referring to death.

  ‘I’m Norman, by the way.’ The man stretched across the table and pumped Tennant’s hand heartily. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘How do you do? It must have been quite a struggle for you bringing up the boy on your own.’

  ‘It was. But fortunately Oswald has always had an interest in drama. I sent him to Kids Got Talent when he was only five and he wiped the floor with the rest of the bunch. Took the lead in everything. But lately he’s been more concerned with the directing side. It was a boon to him when he joined the Odds. He’s gone from strength to strength with them.’

  ‘What did he make of Gerry Harlington?’

  ‘Well, to be perfectly honest . . .’ Norman leant across the table. ‘Oswald didn’t take to him one little bit. He came home and said “Dad, I don’t reckon that fellow. I think he’s going to muck the show right up.” And wasn’t he right? I went to the dress rehearsal and I saw that terrible dance Gerry did. It was diabolical.’

  ‘Well, it seems everyone agreed on that point. And somebody murdered him as a result.’

  ‘Yes, that was going too far, I must admit.’

  Tennant didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He changed the direction of the conversation.

  ‘Tell me about the stagehand who moved the dummy. Did you know him?’

  ‘Charlie Higgs? Oh yes, I know him very well. The Higgses are a big farming family hereabouts.’

  ‘And what about Charlie? Does he follow in the family tradition?’

  ‘Yes. He went to college in Cirencester and learned all about agriculture properly. He’s a true farmer. Yet he’s always loved the stage but is too shy to take an active part. Great strapping lad, he is. He’s the one who moved the body, you know. But then I expect that you do know.’

  ‘We try to keep abreast of what is going on in the police force,’ Tennant answered drily.

  ‘Oh, of course you do. No offence,’ said Oswald’s father apologetically.

  ‘I didn’t interview him personally. But I intend to call on him now as a matter of fact.’

  Mr Souter consulted his watch. ‘I expect he’ll be seeing to the milking at this hour. Do you know your way to Higgs Farm?’

  ‘No, perhaps you’d be kind enough to direct me.’

  And this the elder Souter did with much enthusiasm, even going so far as to draw little maps of the area illustrated with arrows and crosses.

  Just as had been predicted, young Charlie, who stood six foot six inches high and had the orange hair and bright-blue eyes of a typical Sussex dweller, was fixing a massive herd of cows on to the milking machines. Inspector Tennant, mindful of his dandified clothing, had thrust his feet into a pair of wellington boots and made his way cautiously up the aisle to where Charlie Higgs stood amidst the swishing tails and mellifluous mooing.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Tennant cheerfully, and carefully produced his badge.

  Charlie stared at it before replying. ‘Oh, the big cheese, eh? I wondered if you’d come and see me.’

  ‘Forgive me for leaving it so long. I think it was Constable . . .’

  ‘Oh yes, a jolly pretty girl,’ interrupted Charlie in an extremely well-educated voice. ‘She had got quite the most attractive eyes.’ His fair skin went rose pink. ‘At least I thought so.’

  ‘Yes, a very nice woman,’ agreed Tennant.

  ‘She told me her name was Morgana Driscoll. I enjoyed the whole interview.’

  ‘I’ll try not to ruin the illusion but I’m afraid I must ask you one or two questions.’

  ‘Righto. Fire away.’

  ‘Do you think we could go somewhere a bit quieter?’

  ‘Of course. Mustn’t spoil your lilac suit. I’ll call Dave.’

  Charlie proceeded to bellow the name several times until at last a wizened little gnome appeared from the far end of the shed and said, ‘Yes, Charlie?’

  ‘Take over, will you. I’m being interviewed by the police. An inspector no less.’

  The gnome actually tipped his time-worn cap, a gesture so old-fashioned that Tennant felt momentarily as if he had stepped into a bygone age.

  ‘How do, sir,’ Dave said, and looked respectful.

  Tennant felt touched and thought how manners maketh man and wished that the feral teenagers he had to deal with had been so instructed by their parents, who were probably just as bad anyway come to think of it.

  ‘Thanks, Dave,’ he said. ‘Now, Charlie, where can we go where it’s peaceful?’

  ‘Come back to the farm and I’ll give you a cup of coffee.’

  With his opinion of the Higgs family rising, Tennant was not to be disappointed when he followed Charlie into their home. Mother was cheerfully feeding a basketful of small kittens with a bottle of milk and looked up and flashed a most attractive smile, while Dad was in the back office doing accounts. It turned out that there were four sons altogether and two of them had followed their father into the farming business.

  ‘My eldest brother is an auctioneer. Works for Christie’s,’ said Charlie, with just a hint of pride.

  ‘What a wonderful job. What about the rest of you?’

  ‘Mike and I run the farm with Dad. Allen is an actor.’

  ‘Really? Does show business run in the family?’

  ‘Yes. Got it from Mum. She was a dancer with the Royal Ballet.’

  ‘Well I’ll be damned. I used to go to Covent Garden quite a lot – before the prices became horrendous. I expect I saw her.’

  ‘You probably did. Now, Inspector, what was it you wanted to ask me?’

  ‘A delicate question. I believe you moved the body out of the way on the night of the murder.’

  ‘Yes. Yes I did. It was my job to take it to one side at the end of the show. And before you say anything let me tell you that it was as heavy as lead to shift. I thought that little tinker Oswald had stuffed it with stones or something. But it was extremely dark and I had to do it by what light was spilling from the acting area so I didn’t get a chance to look at it.’

  ‘I see. So you had no idea it was Gerry Harlington?’

  Charlie looked slightly annoyed. ‘If I had known it was his body rather than a dummy I would have called the police immediately.’

  ‘Of course you would. That was stupid of me.’

  Tennant leant across the kitchen table at which they were sitting.

  ‘Charlie, tell me. Can you think of anyone in the Odds who would like to have seen Gerry Harlington out of the way?’

  The young man sipped his coffee thoughtfully, then said, ‘Practically every one of them, I should imagine. But that doesn’t mean that they did anything about it.’

  ‘No,’ Tennant answered slowly. ‘It doesn’t, does it?’

  TWENTY-TWO

  It was Araminta Beaudegrave who answered the telephone, speaking in her mos
t grown-up voice. ‘Fulke Castle. Can I help you?’

  A woman spoke at the other end, saying rather breathlessly, ‘Would it be possible to talk to Sir Rufus Beaudegrave please?’

  Araminta paused, wondering if it was a member of the press corps who were still present – though admittedly in much reduced numbers – just beyond the gatehouse.

  ‘Who would like to speak to him please?’

  ‘It is Ekaterina Harlington here. Would you be one of his daughters?’

  ‘Yes. Ekaterina it’s me. Araminta. Oh, I do wish you would come and see us. We all miss you. Especially me.’

  There was a definite sob, though stifled, from the person making the call.

  ‘Oh darlings, I miss you too. How are every one of you?’

  Araminta was fourteen and had mourned her mother more than the other girls. Now her jade eyes widened as a scheme presented itself loud and clear. She would lure the Russian woman into the net and persuade Daddy to marry her – not that it would take much persuading, she thought with a catlike smile.

  ‘The girls are all right – and they all send their best love – but Daddy is terribly miserable and nobody is sure why. He’s not eating and he’s not sleeping. He can hardly go about his daily duties,’ she lied magnificently.

  ‘Why is that?’ asked the concerned Russian voice at the other end.

  Araminta deepened her speech. ‘Nobody knows. I realize you are always kind, dear Ekaterina, but I am begging you to be extra kind to him. He is so wretched.’ She resumed her normal tones. ‘He’s in his study at the moment. I’ll put you through.’

  She jiggled a little black knob on the mini switchboard they kept in the hall and heard Rufus pick up, then she listened for a few moments to the ensuing conversation before quietly replacing her receiver.

  ‘Rufus, is that you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It is I, Ekaterina.’

  ‘My dear girl, where are you?’

  ‘In London. I have put the house on the market. The estate agent will be driving down to see it tomorrow. I have given him the key.’

  ‘But what about you? Won’t you be there?’

  ‘Rufus, I cannot go back to that place. It is full of bad memories. Besides, I saw a ghost. Truly I did. I am going to ask you a big favour.’

  It was at this point that Araminta hung up, a contented smile on her face.

  ‘And what might that be?’ asked Rufus, his voice slightly perturbed.

  ‘You remember once you asked me to come and visit with you. May I take you up on it?’

  ‘Of course you can. Do, please. You can stay as long as you wish.’

  ‘May I?’ asked Ekaterina, suddenly out of breath again.

  ‘You don’t know how much I would like that.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Scout’s honour,’ Rufus replied – and there was a sudden electric silence.

  Tennant had one more person to see before he called it a night and went on to the television studios. This was Paul Silas, whose secretary he had rung in order to make an appointment to call on him. Judging Mr Silas as a pompous bastard Tennant had done everything according to the book and thus was totally prepared when he was ushered into a mahogany-furnished waiting room with copies of Country Life and The Collector spread out on the table before him. Picking up the former, the inspector looked with envy at all the marvellous properties for sale. He had always had a penchant for the moated manor house, but now after all the terrible tragedy associated with the place he was not so sure.

  The secretary, who had dyed blonde hair and creepily long scarlet fingernails, appeared in the doorway and gave Tennant an appraising look. Unable to resist he fixed her with his ripe gooseberry glance and gave her a pleasant smile.

  ‘Is Mr Silas ready for me?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector, if you would like to go in.’

  Ushering him into the inner sanctum with a great deal of fluting laughter – though what about Tennant couldn’t imagine – she called out, ‘The Inspector to see you, Mr Silas.’

  ‘Thank you, Cheryl.’ Paul stood up from behind his desk and extended a hand. ‘Inspector Tennant, to what do I owe this pleasure?’

  ‘Just a few routine questions, sir. Nothing to worry about at all.’

  Paul boomed a laugh and looked affable.

  ‘I am not worried, Inspector. My conscience is clear and therefore I have no need to worry. I suppose you have come to ask about the wretched Emma Simms. Well let me tell you now that a) I did not know her and b) I had no idea that Jonquil Charmwood was fielding an understudy that night. Had I been informed of such a thing – and I think as chairman of the Odds I should have been –’ pretentious old fool, thought Tennant – ‘I would have vetoed the whole idea. I run the Odds as a professional company, with professional standards, and a misdemeanour like that would not have been countenanced in the real theatre.’

  Tennant raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. I speak from experience. I appeared many times at the Old Vic and I can assure you that such a thing would never have been allowed. Of course, I knew Richard Burton extremely well. That is before he ruined his career by going to Hollywood.’

  ‘Did you take major roles with him?’ Tennant asked, looking wide eyed and innocent.

  Silas regarded him with a certain amount of suspicion. ‘No, I was a boy actor in several plays that called for young people. I would have gone on to the boards professionally but my father deemed otherwise.’

  You and me both, thought Tennant.

  ‘What did you think of Gerry Harlington?’ he asked, changing the subject.

  Paul Silas blew out his cheeks, looking momentarily like an ageing putto.

  ‘Shyster,’ he said. ‘Complete charlatan. I believe he made one or two sub-standard films . . .’

  ‘Actually those who have seen them thought they were quite good,’ Tennant put in politely.

  ‘That’s as may be. But allow me to tell you that the man had no idea of ensemble playing. Nor anything else, come to that. I mean to say he attempted to ruin the whole show by inserting a hip-hop dance in the Elizabethan Fair. I ask you!’

  ‘I believe there was quite a punch-up afterwards.’

  Paul stared at his desk, a patronizing smile on his face.

  ‘Boys will be boys. Somebody took a bit of a swing at him, I must admit.’

  ‘And more than a swing it would seem. Tell me, Mr Silas, have you any idea who has done these murders? Because whoever it is has a warped and dangerous mind to say the least of it.’

  Paul regarded his nails, not meeting Tennant’s gaze.

  ‘I have no idea, Inspector.’

  ‘Did you know it was Meg Alexander who hit Robin Green on the back of the legs and caused him to fall down?’

  The solicitor looked up sharply, his features undergoing a subtle change.

  ‘Now you are speaking of the only true troublemakers that we have in the Odds. Mike Alexander would do almost anything to run the company and his wife is equally vicious. If you want to look anywhere for your murderers I think you need seek no further than that unpleasant pair.’ He added hastily, ‘This is in the strictest confidence, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ The inspector was silent for a few moments before something naughty stirred within him and he asked, ‘Have you played Lear?’

  Paul Silas straightened his shoulders. ‘Not yet but one day I intend to do so. I shall make it my swansong performance of course. Hopefully I shall go out like a flash of lightning.’

  ‘I am quite sure your rendition will never be forgotten,’ answered Tennant guilelessly.

  It was the day of Gerry Harlington’s funeral, the coroner having finally released the body. The church in Oakbridge was packed and Nick, who was conducting the service by special arrangement with the vicar of the parish and also to grant Ekaterina’s heartfelt request, looked round at a welter of faces, some familiar but some unknown. He gathered from the sharp suits and predominance of tinted
glasses that they were the Hollywood crowd. Then there were representatives of the family. Black men in full mourning gear with trilby hats that they swept off as they entered church; a very large lady in a purple dress and matching coat, tugging a little at her ample bosom, weeping discreetly into a small handkerchief; an ultra-chic woman with two round-eyed children, the boy dressed in a miniature man’s suit, the little girl with bunches of curly dark hair. They must have flown in from America, thought Nick, and felt a deep regret that they had had to come to such a sorrowful occasion.

  The Odds were out in force, Meg Alexander looking disgruntled having been charged at Lewes with assault, Mike wearing a respectful dark tie. Paul Silas was there with a plump woman who Nick presumed must be his wife. He had on his mourning face and one would think, looking at the old hypocrite, that a close relative of his had died. Estelle and Fizz were present, so was Annette Muffat wearing a huge pair of false eyelashes. Cynthia Wensby, she of the plain face, had made a great effort and slashed cyclamen lipstick in the region of her mouth, while Robin Green was, for once in his life, wearing a pair of very crumpled trousers. Barry Beardsley had torn himself away from the bunions and Jonquil Charmwood, getting back into her old and rather delightful ways, arrived breathlessly late. Sir Rufus Beaudegrave was in attendance and, sitting at the very back of the church, Nick noticed the two policemen, Tennant and Potter, quietly watching the congregation.

  The vicar went to the doorway to greet the coffin and saw with immense sadness that Ekaterina, looking exquisite in a simple dark suit by Chanel, walked alone behind the casket, borne aloft by the undertakers. She took her seat beside her masseur, Ricardo, who today resembled, yet again, a modern version of Rudolph Valentino. The organ burst forth with the Shaker hymn, Lord of the Dance – a touch ironic Nick thought – and the congregation, usually vocally weedy and thin, were treated to the glorious sound of black people singing their hearts out. In a way, Nick thought, Gerry Harlington had had the last laugh on them all. He was going out in a blaze of glory.

  After the cremation, which was very small and quiet with only Ekaterina, Nick and the lady in the purple dress – who turned out to be Gerry’s mother – present, they went back to the moated manor where the firm of London caterers had started the wake. And what an occasion it was. Regardless of the fact that Gerry had met his end in such a brutal and terrible way, Nick saw the usual reaction of everyone present. Everybody heaved a mental sigh of relief that they were still alive and attacked the wine and canapés with gusto. Paul Silas, as usual, was holding forth.