Dead on Cue

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Of course we respected Gerry’s modernistic approach, though we did not necessarily agree with it,’ he was lying to a man who could have been a cousin of Danny DeVito, being small and rotund and dwarfed by a pair of enormous horn-rimmed glasses.

  ‘Sure,’ answered the other, ‘I guess a lot of us felt like that. But I can tell you that Gerry was a peach to handle.’

  ‘Oh, you have worked with him then.’

  ‘You could say that. I’m Buddy Temple. I directed the Wasp Man pictures. And the cult movie King of Bamboo.’

  The look on Silas’s face was indescribable. Varying expressions rushed across it until they finally settled on an egregious grin.

  ‘My dear sir,’ he said, his voice suddenly melodious, ‘how very nice to meet you. Of course, I have been associated with theatre for many a long year. I first worked with Richard Burton, you know.’

  ‘Is that so? Well, I’ll be damned. I was assistant to the assistant clapper boy on Alexander the Great. Boy could that Burton put away a drink. Tell me, are you acting now?’

  Paul’s voice and face both dropped dramatically. ‘No, alas, my father took me away and made me study law. I am just a country solicitor.’ He laughed heartily. ‘But I am chairman of the Oakbridge Dramatists and Dramatic Society so I am still very much in touch with my first and only love.’

  ‘Well, that’s great. Keep it up. Oh, hi Nicole. I didn’t know you were here.’

  The woman who had joined them was very thin and had blonde hair, her face being almost completely hidden by an enormous pair of dark glasses. She had three heavily set men who walked one step behind her.

  ‘I was in Gerry’s first film when I was just starting out in Hollywood,’ she answered in a husky and somehow terribly familiar voice. ‘I felt I owed him my respects.’ She nodded and smiled at the rest of the crowd who had suddenly gathered round and went on her way, her three heavies following.

  ‘Crikey,’ said Barry Beardsley, ‘wasn’t that Nicole . . .?’

  ‘Keep your voice down. She’s obviously here incognito. Just remain cool and calm.’

  ‘Well you’ve gone the colour of a blood orange if I may say so.’

  ‘No you may not,’ Paul Silas answered furiously and moved off in the path that the Hollywood star was taking.

  How Ekaterina stood it Nick never afterwards knew. She spoke to everyone, comforted Gerry’s mother, his sister, his niece and nephew. Talked to the celebrities, to the Odds, and behaved with a quiet dignity throughout the whole proceedings. Eventually the entire company left, the Hollywood set to London and good hotels, Gerry’s relations to The Great House in Lakehurst. The Odds, some flushed with wine, others with excitement, most with both, had wended their way to their various homes. The wake was over and there remained only the vicar, the widow, and Sir Rufus Beaudegrave. The caterers were busy clearing up and out of the way.

  ‘Will you be all right here on your own?’ Nick asked.

  ‘I am actually staying at Fulke Castle with Sir Rufus and his family.’

  It was then that another moment crystallized in the vicar’s brain. It had just been a look, nothing more than a mere glance between them. But now it took on a greater significance. Nick felt quite certain that Sir Rufus loved the beautiful Russian and had plans for the future in that direction.

  He was glad. He liked them both and realized that though it would shock convention, Nick personally approved of the match. Driving back through the gloaming, he felt uplifted and when he reached the top of the hill glanced round at the glorious surroundings and was grateful to be alive.

  ‘All things bright and beautiful,’ he sang, and a blackbird in a nearby tree carolled out a tuneful reply.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Nick parked his car in West Street and made his way briskly to The Great House. For some reason the street lighting had failed in the High Street and he had the delightful experience of seeing the houses lit from within, casting their illumination on what passed for the pavement. His thoughts went back to the eighteenth century when Lakehurst had hosted a powerful gang of inland smugglers, who had walked, a hundred strong, to Romney Marsh and there rustled sheep, whose fleeces had been shipped on to the wool merchants of Flanders. This had led to bigger things, brandy for the parson, baccy for the clerk, in the words of Rudyard Kipling. Nick wondered whether, had he been alive in those days, he would have traded with the smugglers, and thought with a grin that he probably would.

  He was humming A Smuggler’s Song as he turned into the entrance to the pub so that he didn’t notice he was being followed by another figure who tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Hello, Nick.’

  He turned and saw Kasper. Before he could speak the doctor said apologetically, ‘I’m terribly sorry I couldn’t make the funeral. I had an urgent call to a patient just as I was about to leave the house. Unfortunately I was on duty and had to go. How was it?’

  ‘If you can ever say those occasions went well, then this one did. You will never guess who was there.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Nicole . . .’

  But the rest of the vicar’s words were drowned in a huge burst of laughter from inside the pub and the doctor had to lip read to understand the rest of the sentence.

  ‘Really? Good God. So the late Mr Harlington must have been highly regarded.’

  ‘She said she was in one of the Wasp Man films and that it gave her her first big break in Hollywood.’

  Jack Boggis was standing at the bar, impatiently waving a five-pound note about. He turned on hearing someone approach him.

  ‘Evening. The time you wait to be served in this dump is diabolical. Trouble is there’re a lot of damned foreigners staying here.’

  Nick glanced round and saw that there were several of Gerry’s black relatives also waiting for service and that the barman and bosomy young woman helping him were run off their feet.

  ‘Patience is a virtue, Jack.’

  ‘Don’t you start quoting things at me, Vicar. I’m dying of thirst here.’

  Kasper put on his professional voice. ‘How often do you get these symptoms, Mr Boggis?’

  ‘They’re not symptoms. You’re just touting for business, Doctor.’

  Kasper looked mournful. ‘Alas, no. That is very far from the truth. The fact is that extreme thirst, regularly suffered, is a sign of type one diabetes. Tell me, do you frequently feel the need to urinate?’

  Jack’s several chins wobbled like that of a turkey cock. ‘I don’t think that that was a suitable question to ask in a public place.’

  ‘I do hope you haven’t taken offence at the mention of urination, Mr Boggis. It is a perfectly natural function let me hasten to assure you.’

  ‘I shall keep my functions to myself, thank you,’ Jack answered, and turned away from them.

  ‘Well, that’s as well,’ said the vicar in a whisper and he and Kasper once more giggled like a pair of naughty schoolboys.

  It was at that moment that Inspector Tennant walked into The Great House and looked round him, then, seeing Nick and the doctor, made his way towards them.

  ‘Good evening to both of you. I thought the funeral went as well as possible in the circumstances, Vicar.’

  ‘Thank you. I did my best. Ekaterina Harlington is a brave and courageous woman.’

  ‘And beautiful. I don’t think she’ll have to wait very long before suitors come knocking at her door.’

  ‘How poetically put,’ said Kasper. ‘I like your turn of phrase, Inspector.’

  ‘Thanks. Obviously she was my prime suspect at first but her – and Sir Rufus’s – alibi were confirmed by one of his young daughters. Funnily enough, I was glad.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ asked Kasper.

  ‘Because one is supposed to remain utterly impartial at all times. Nonetheless, I liked the woman. You do realize who her father was, don’t you?’

  ‘No,’ said Nick. ‘But I’ll bet it was some Russian oligarch.’

  ‘It wasn�
��t some Russian oligarch, it was the Russian oligarch. It was Grigori Makarichoff.’

  Kasper exploded into his beer, which had finally arrived. ‘Good heavens! She must be one of the richest women in the world.’

  ‘I think,’ answered Tennant slowly, ‘that she probably is.’

  ‘I believe that this must be one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen,’ said Ekaterina quietly, looking at the castle and the moat taking on the colours of flowers as the sun sank behind the trees. She and Rufus smiled at one another, totally at peace for the first time that day; a day on which Gerry Harlington had finally been laid to rest unlike poor Emma Simms whose body was yet to be released.

  ‘Despite it being the scene of your husband’s murder?’ he asked directly, wanting to sort the matter out, not wishing for her to have any feelings of horror about his ancestral home.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘even despite that. You see, I think this ancient place has seen its share of violent death in its time. If one were to grieve over everyone who died here then one would spend one’s entire life grieving.’

  ‘Yes, but Gerry . . .’ He could not go on.

  ‘You know that I had decided to divorce him,’ Ekaterina answered. ‘I loved him once, when I was young and ugly. But I realize now it was just childish infatuation.’

  Rufus stood up and went to get the decanter. The firelight reflecting in his hair and on his aristocratic features.

  ‘I don’t believe that you were ever ugly,’ he said, his back to her.

  ‘I was hideous. I even had a squint.’

  ‘Then the ugly duckling has become a swan.’

  He turned round, put the decanter down and, taking her in his arms, gave her a kiss that rocked her to the soles of her feet.

  ‘Sorry to pick such a bad day,’ he said, stopping to breathe, ‘but I just couldn’t wait any longer.’

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t. I mean did. Oh hell, I don’t know what I mean.’

  ‘Then stop talking,’ Rufus answered – and kissed her again.

  Tennant had gone back with Kasper and Nick to the vicarage and there was drinking coffee as he had the drive to Lewes in front of him and tonight was minus the stalwart Potter.

  ‘So what do you think?’ he said to Nick.

  ‘I think it’s a damned good idea. Of course, you’ll have to run it past Paul Silas.’

  ‘No,’ Tennant answered, ‘as a matter of fact I won’t. If I think that a reconstruction of the Son et Lumière will help the police with their enquiries then it must take place, as night follows day.’

  ‘How will you organize it?’ asked Kasper, genuinely interested.

  ‘By telephone,’ the inspector answered. ‘I have an entire list of the cast and crew and I shall simply get my team to ring everyone and demand their presence in five nights’ time.’

  ‘Suppose somebody can’t make it?’

  ‘They will have to make it,’ replied Tennant, ‘or they will be charged for . . . I don’t know . . . something or other.’

  ‘Well, I shall certainly be there,’ said Nick.

  ‘Can I come?’ asked Kasper.

  ‘Yes, and you can bring with you anyone else who was in the audience that night. I want it to be as true a representation as we can make it.’

  ‘What about Jonquil?’

  ‘Like it or not she can play the part of Emma Simms.’

  ‘She won’t like it, I can tell you that.’

  ‘Then she’ll have to lump it.’

  Nick cleared his throat. ‘Have you got any suspects yet, Inspector?’

  Tennant sighed and shook his head. ‘It’s a messy case, this one. There are so many people involved. It literally could be anyone. All I know is that somebody climbed the spiral behind Gerry Harlington and sent him flying forward to his death.’

  ‘And you think that Meg Alexander’s attack was a mere coincidence?’

  ‘Yes and no. I can imagine him lurking in the shadowy doorway, probably wearing a cloak as disguise, and when he saw Robin Green fall backwards he seized the moment and rushed out and gave him a hearty push.’

  ‘Whose duty was it to throw the dummy?’

  ‘Adam Gillow, the man who got stuck on a train. He was to crouch down and heave it over at the same second.’

  ‘Oh dearie me, what a chain of circumstance. If Adam hadn’t have got himself stuck perhaps Gerry Harlington would be alive today.’

  ‘Who knows?’ Tennant answered.

  ‘I rather think he signed his death warrant when he did that hip-hop dance in the Elizabethan Fair,’ said Nick slowly.

  ‘And I rather think you are right,’ said Tennant quietly.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Taking his seat in the now almost empty space that had housed the audience at the one and only performance of Son et Lumière, Kasper felt a thrill of anticipation creep down the length of his spine. Up in the window high above, the window that looked out from the Tudor banqueting hall, the doctor could vaguely see the outline of a man and woman, sitting close together, and four children of various sizes grouped round them. In the actual audience with him were old Alfred – who had announced loudly that he wouldn’t miss it for the world, very much annoying Jack Boggis who had dismissed the reconstruction as piffle – and Madisson the beautician who was going into business with Ricardo. Looking round him Kasper could see that a dozen or so people were gathered to watch the re-enactment; the rest of the seats remained empty.

  There were police everywhere. Standing at intervals round the side of the acting arena, in the changing tent, on the battlements, in every area backstage. And overall there hung a strange quiet that had almost a tangible feel to it. Anyone who spoke did so in a whisper and Madisson put it into words when she murmered to Kasper, ‘Creepy, isn’t it?’

  The sudden blare of a loudhailer made everybody jump. It was almost obscene that such utter silence should have been broken.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ spoke the voice of Dominic Tennant, ‘we are shortly going to run a reconstruction of the Son et Lumière which took place on the night of the murder of the late Gerry Harlington. I would like those of you in the audience to call out and raise your arm if you should see anything different – however small – that you witness tonight. Similarly backstage. This evening I am hoping that this visual evidence, showing us what actually occurred, will jog a memory that will lead us to unmasking his killer. Backstage, is everybody present?’

  ‘Yes,’ called a powerful hidden voice.

  ‘Stagehands all there?’

  ‘All here, sir.’

  ‘Lighting men?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘Right, let us begin.’

  The lights were dimmed and the strange, evocative music that was on the beginning of the tape began to play. Rafael Devine’s beautiful voice spoke the second stanza of the prologue into the incredible night.

  ‘Fulke Castle, called by some the most beautiful castle in the world, stands alone on its small island, withstanding winter storms and summer sun alike. But in the year ten sixty-seven there was nothing where the castle now stands but a natural lake, its only inhabitants wild birds, when William the Conqueror granted a swathe of land in Sussex to his kinsman, Sir Fulke Beau de Grave who had fought at his side at the terrible and bloody Battle of Hastings.’

  A spotlight was switched on and into it rode Paul Silas, somehow looking hunched and tired and not as bold and as brave a figure as Kasper remembered. He wondered whether to put his arm up but decided that this point was too minor to be of any interest.

  The wonderful voice, playing with the words, caressing them as only a master of his craft could do, continued with the narrative. At this point Paul seemed to remember that he was giving a performance and sat up boldly, taking on the character which he was representing. The lights dimmed once more and the second scene came into view, Nick noticeable as a builder of Fulke Castle and Meg Alexander, looking thunderous, as the first Lady Beau de Grave.

  It might have been
eerie in the audience but backstage the atmosphere was worse by far. First of all a lot of petty arguments had blown up, mostly people picking on Jonquil Charmwood who tonight was playing the part of Emma Simms. She had been reluctant from the start but the caustic comments from various cast members, particularly Meg, had set her off into a crying fit. Potter had been called to intercede and had reminded the older woman that she was under charge for assault and any further trouble would be taken into consideration. Then Robin Green had come face to face with her and let out a shrill cry of horror.

  ‘You old cow,’ he shrieked in a high-pitched voice and made as if to hit her.

  A police constable had put his body between them.

  ‘Now, now, Mr Green. You must learn a bit of self-control.’

  ‘Self-control! The bloody woman nearly killed me.’

  ‘Quiet, please. The second scene is beginning.’

  Meg had joined Paul Silas, who had dismounted, and together they had walked into the acting area. She looked round her, then turned and stared off-stage. Kasper’s arm shot up and he shouted, ‘No.’ The action came to a close and Tennant appeared looking odd in his modern suiting. He shaded his eyes with his hand and peered into the audience.

  ‘Somebody called?’

  Kasper stood up. ‘Yes, it was me, Inspector. I don’t remember Lady Beau de Grave staring into the wings like that during the original.’

  ‘No, he’s right, sir,’ piped up old Alfred. ‘She just kept looking at the builders.’

  Tennant approached Meg. ‘What are you looking at?’

  ‘It’s that beastly bear. She’s wandering off towards the battlements.’

  ‘Acting on instructions. You know damn well she went up there. You must have seen her when you attacked Mr Green. She must have hidden herself on the battlements.’