“Don’t tell me!” interrupted Helen, who had been busy texting without apparently missing much of the conversation. “I want to watch the recording and try to guess for myself.” She slipped her phone back in her handbag. “I was texting Julie to let her know what’s going on. She planned on seeing the play tomorrow.”
Julie, Helen’s best friend since university, taught geography at her old school. Helen had arranged to let out her house to her, and Rex and his wife had spent the afternoon packing boxes in preparation for her permanent move to Edinburgh.
“Well, I’d like to know who the killer is,” he countered. “In case it’s a question of life imitating art.”
“Penny can tell you, but please don’t tell me.”
Rex looked expectantly at Penny. Turning away from Helen, she whispered a name in his ear.
“Interesting.” He winked at Helen. “I would never have guessed.”
DI Fiske came over to where they were sitting. “Ms. Spencer, you can leave, if you wish. We’ll ring you if we need further information.”
“I’ll take Penny home,” Helen proposed to Rex. “If you’re staying awhile.”
“Aye.” He turned to the inspector. “If you have no objection, I’ll wait around until my wife returns.”
“What about my car?” Penny asked.
“We can collect it tomorrow,” Helen assured her. “You shouldn’t be driving after the shock you’ve had.”
The women left with the last of the spectators, Rex being the exception.
“Staying to play armchair detective?” Fiske asked blandly.
“Armchair detection has proved quite effective in the past,” Rex said, holding up the programme. “Witness Miss Marple and Poirot.”
“That’s just fiction.” Fiske smiled briefly, or it could have been a smirk; it was hard to tell with his crooked mouth. “You have an impressive success rate in your private cases, I hear.”
Rex shrugged in genuine modesty. “I just hope this is not the case that proves to be my Waterloo.” He gave a heartfelt sigh. “It’s always worse when death involves a young person so full of promise and who will be missed by so many.”
Fiske nodded solemnly and mumbled, “Indeed. This one’s got a lot of attention, and I don’t see it letting up. It’ll be round-the-clock grind for all concerned.”
five
“You’ve worked a case in Derbyshire before, in Aston-on-Trent,” the inspector stated, pursuing their conversation and looking Rex squarely in the eyes as though taking measure of him and his abilities.
“That’s right. A really messy affair at a wedding reception. It’s one of the reasons our own wedding got postponed. But in the end ours turned out just grand.” Except for a few minor hiccups. Rex paused. “Ehm, I know it’s a bit soon, but do you have any leads?”
“We’re in the process of getting alibis from members of the production—who was where when the shooting occurred—and cross-referencing them to see if they check out.”
Rex nodded and waited for elaboration, having perceived the inspector to be a courteous if blunt man who would not wish to offend.
With the ghost of a smile, Fiske consulted his notebook. “There were no dress changes for the second act, and so the actors were at leisure to catch a quick break. Miss Marple, Aunt Clara, and Father Brown went to use the conveniences down the corridor before the rush in the interval. The stagehands, them two over there with my sarge, were having a smoke outside the building. Ditto Bobbi Shaw and Paul Reddit—”
“Lady’s companion and solicitor in the play,” Rex interjected, mostly for his own benefit. He hurriedly added notes to his programme in the absence of anything else to write on. “It’s almost like having two sets of suspects.”
“Could get a bit complicated,” Fiske agreed. “Christopher Ells—Dorkins, the butler—was sneaking a tipple backstage, according to Sherlock. Also backstage was Andrew Forsythe, who plays the ponce detective. Never thought much of Wimsey myself, but my third wife liked Dorothy L. Sayers, in fact all those Golden Age writers of detective fiction.”
Rex marvelled in passing at the inspector’s literary knowledge, while hoping he would be able to read his scribbles if he needed to later.
“Forsythe was on his phone during the crucial time,” the inspector continued, “as was Poirot, as the records show. They can’t have been front of stage at seven forty-five, when the shot was fired, according to witnesses. Then we get to Trey Atkins, who says he was waiting backstage for Cassie. He’s the one that found her body and called the police, at seven forty-eight. Christopher Ells confirmed she was dead. He works at the big hospital.”
“Whose arm was holding the dagger?” Rex asked.
“The image was on a projector. Bill Welsh set it up before leaving for his smoke. His mate Ben Higgins says they left the building together. They think they heard a bang, but couldn’t tell where it came from.”
“That’s a bit strange coming from a sound engineer.”
“Perhaps, but getting people to account for their movements after the fact often involves a certain amount of confusion. Sometimes they imagine things. They could already have been outside and not heard the shot at all. Still, we’ll be looking into all these people’s backgrounds for priors. So far, they appear to have regular jobs and stable family lives, those who are married. And we can’t exclude the possibility that Cassie Chase was unhinged. Maybe the strain of caring for her mother along with full-time employment and all the effort she put into the play proved too much for her.”
“That still leaves the director and producer,” Rex said, consulting his notes. “Penny told me Ron Wade was the prompter, but there were no lines in the last scene before the interval. It was just Lady Naomi alone in the attic.” And maybe one other person, he reflected grimly, tapping the pen against his bottom lip. “Where was Mr. Wade at the fateful moment, I wonder?”
Fiske licked his forefinger and flipped back through the pages of his notebook. “Let’s see here. I spoke to him first. Says he stood behind the Chinese screen, then as soon as the partition came down for the attic scene, he exited the building to fetch his migraine pills from his car.”
“Ah, yes. Penny did mention something about him going to the car park. Did anyone see him there?”
“He thinks so. But he suggested I talk to you, remember. A guilty man would not want the extra scrutiny.”
“He did so on Penny’s recommendation,” Rex pointed out. “I don’t suppose he’s heard of me.”
Fiske’s eyes narrowed at the same time as his mouth widened. “But I have, which is why I welcome your input.”
“Thank you.” Even if the inspector was only tolerating his input, it was more cooperation than Rex had received in some prior cases. Less-seasoned detectives tended to be more territorial than the senior ones, for whom a case solved was a case closed. The top brass didn’t care too much how it came about, so long as proper procedures were observed.
“And Tony Giovanni, does he have an alibi?” Rex asked, afraid of pushing his luck but taking the risk since this might be his last opportunity to speak with the inspector in person.
“I’ve yet to interview him. He’s as badly shaken as young Atkins. A paramedic gave him a shot of Valium before I got a chance to talk to him.” Fiske surveyed the hall for signs of the director. “I wonder where he got to.”
Rex had been wondering the same thing. “Apparently he was rather taken with the leading lady.”
“Who told you that?” Fiske asked, turning his head back sharply.
“Penny Spencer. She was a confidante of his.” Rex paused as he realized with sadness what tense he had used. “Funny how everything is suddenly referred to in the past,” he remarked. “Less than two hours ago everything was moving forward.”
The whole play would have been over by now if all had gone according to the general plan. He and
Helen would at present be at the reception, meeting the cast. They would no doubt have been complimenting Cassie on her performance, the actress’s amber eyes shining, her cheeks flushed from her night of success. Penny would be sharing in the praise as the playwright who had written such an entertaining piece. However, the three-act play had been derailed by someone’s more devious plan.
“With a tragedy like this,” Detective Inspector Fiske said glumly, “it’s always Before and After. My sarge spoke to Ms. Spencer. I’ll see what he’s got and arrange a follow-up with her tomorrow.”
While Fiske went to confer with DS Antonescu, Rex ambled over to Trey Atkins, who sat gazing up at the high ceiling, his head resting against the ecru-painted wall.
“I’m so very sorry for your loss,” Rex said, taking the chair vacated by Miss Marple. Ada Card, he reminded himself, glancing at his battered programme. “Do you live close by? My wife left to take Penny home, but she won’t be long if you need a lift on our way home.” He told Trey where Helen lived and produced his business card from his wallet, purposely dropping it at the young man’s feet in order to take a closer look at the carefully laced brogues. He retrieved the card and handed it to the young man, who gazed at it blankly.
His bloodshot eyes then drifted towards Rex. “Thank you, but I’m waiting for Ada. She left her handbag backstage and one of the constables went to fetch it.” He spoke wearily, evidently drained and at the point where every minor activity was an effort, even small talk.
“She was perfect in her role, I thought,” Rex continued in an attempt to draw him out of his cocoon of misery.
Trey nodded in acknowledgment. “Ada’s read all the Agatha Christie books.”
“I understand there are quite a few.” Fortunate for Ms. Card she worked in a library.
“She’s a good sort, is Ada. She’s taken me under her wing while my parents are in Hong Kong.” Trey brought a paper tissue to his nose and blew into it. Up close, Rex could see he wore tan foundation, which steady tears and the wiping away of them had rubbed from his cheeks, leaving an unnatural pallor and his freckles exposed.
“Are you from the police?” Ada Card demanded, approaching Rex with firm purpose and carrying an old-fashioned black handbag, presumably the one she had gone to recover. She rested a protective, blue-veined hand on Trey’s shoulder. “He’s not really up to answering any more questions,” she said before Rex could reply. “He’s coming home with me.”
As Trey pulled himself up from his chair, Andrew Forsythe came up to them, top hat in hand. “You taking off ?” he asked the pair. Unlike Ada, he had not removed his wig, a tow-coloured affair combed back from his high forehead and temples. Without his beaky nose, his features lacked definition and distinction, having sagged with the onset of middle age.
“There’s nothing more we can tell police,” Ada responded, while Rex stood back and offhandedly lent an ear.
“Nor I. As I told them, I was on my phone to my wife, which they were able to verify.”
“I hope she’s feeling better,” Ada said in a commiserating tone. “I know she was sorry to miss the play, but in the event, I suppose it’s just as well.”
“What happens now?” Forsythe asked. “I mean, the play was supposed to run for three consecutive weekends.”
Up to this point, Trey had said nothing and simply stared in misery at the floor. Now he looked up and blurted, “It’s over, can’t you see? It’s not as though Cassie can be replaced!” Blindly, he stumbled towards the doors.
Ada hastened after him and grabbed his arm, and Andrew Forsythe followed, head bowed. Suddenly, he turned about and almost bumped into Rex.
“Blast. I forgot my walking stick,” he muttered, going back to retrieve it from where it leant against the back wall. He brandished the stick at Rex. “Uncommonly careless of me. My grandfather’s, don’t you know. Would hate anything happenin’ to it.”
“It’s a very fine cane,” Rex took advantage of observing.
“Malacca, and with a silver knob, just like Lord Peter’s. Helps me keep in character, what?” Forsythe’s long mouth slipped into a grin. He saluted Rex with his top hat. “Good evenin’ to you!” he said, and with that, strode off briskly with the unnecessary aid of his cane.
Helen crossed him in the hall as she sought Rex. “He made a rather good Peter Wimsey, I thought,” she said, joining him.
“I rather fear he believes he’s Lord Peter incarnate,” Rex said, gazing after him. “Perhaps just a wee bit eccentric? I wonder if he puts on gentlemanly airs at his publishing house. And how is the writer of the doomed play?” he added, asking after Penny.
“Under a tremendous amount of strain. She feels responsible for what happened, which is quite irrational, of course, but there you are. Are you ready to go home yet?” Helen asked, though far from imploringly, even though she must be tired. Rex, on the other hand, had caught a second wind.
“Aye,” he replied with a last look at the few remaining cast and crew.
“Oh, go on,” his wife said. “I can see you’re still champing at the bit. I had a quick cup of tea at Penny’s. I’ll be fine for another quarter of an hour.”
He kissed her firmly on the lips. “Thank you. You are incontestably one of the most patient women I know.”
“Well, I’d have to be,” she quipped.
Rex made a beeline for the two men he felt might hold the answer to a pressing question it seemed the good inspector had overlooked. But in Fiske’s defence, he had not seen the first act of the play.
six
Bill Welsh and Ben Higgins were preparing to leave after their interviews with Detective Sergeant Antonescu who, Rex felt sure, had been keeping his beady eyes on him since he had mounted the steps to the stage with the inspector.
“Fancy a quick pint at t’Bells?” one of the pair, a Yorkshireman by the sounds of it, was asking the other. They might have been brothers, so similar in appearance were they, both with shaved heads and of medium build, sporting maroon tee-shirts with CREW stencilled across the back in white letters.
“Too right, but just the one. The missus will be waiting up for the latest news.”
“Excuse me, I’d like a word,” Rex said, intercepting them before they could reach the double doors leading into the lobby.
“Ey up,” the one from Yorkshire warned his friend, just loud enough for Rex to hear.
“I’m not a reporter nor a detective,” Rex hastened to explain. “My wife knows Penny Spencer.”
“We were just off to the pub if you want to tag along,” said the Yorkshireman’s friend.
“To drown our sorrows, like.”
There was nothing Rex would have enjoyed more than a draught Guinness, but Helen was waiting, patiently, and he rather doubted she would relish going to the pub at this hour.
“Thank you, but this will only take a minute. Are you Bill or Ben?”
The lookalikes chuckled, holding their beer bellies as they rocked back and forth on their trainers.
“Bill, for my sins. Ben’s the handsome one,” the Yorkshireman joked.
The only significant difference that Rex could see was that Ben wore glasses and Bill’s chin sprouted a scraggly goatee. Rex handed each his business card.
“A QC from Edinburgh,” Bill read with exaggerated interest. “I could tell right off you were from across the border. What brings thee ’ere then?”
“Penny invited us to the play.” Rex decided some extra bona fides were required to gain the stagehands’ cooperation. “Detective Inspector Fiske permitted me to see the crime scene.”
“Why would he do that?” Ben asked with a puzzled glance at Bill.
“I solve cases in my spare time, what I have of it, and usually only by invitation. Penny asked for my help.”
“We just spent the past two hours giving information to t’police,” Bill baulked.
&
nbsp; “I understand. I was simply wondering how the theatre curtains work.” Rex turned towards the expansive panels of red velvet.
Bill’s expression visibly relaxed. “Ah, well, as you can see, them’s a pair of traverse-style curtains.”
“Opening at the centre,” Ben explained. “Unlike the guillotine type, which comes straight down.”
“They’re mounted on a mechanism what operates them at the press of a button.”
“A bit like at the dry-cleaner’s,” Ben added.
These two were a veritable tag team, Rex thought in amusement. “Can you show me?”
“We can’t go back there,” Ben objected, pushing his glasses back up his bulbous nose. “Crime scene investigators will be all over the stage combing it for clues like they do on the telly.”
“They were packing up when I went back there, but I only want to see where the button is located. I’ll clear it with the inspector first.”
Rex did so, and he and the two stagehands made their way up the steps leading to the stage from the right, accompanied by the constable on guard, who held aside the edge of the curtain so they could enter.
“Please keep to the edge,” he instructed. “The centre stage is off limits.”
Bill parted the black drapery panels that lined the side wall and showed Rex a red control button situated near the curtains. Rex looked up and saw the track along which they moved back and forth, concealed from the audience behind a valence of red velvet. In the cavernous space above, lighting and sound systems were attached to the crossbeams.
“Is this the only button?” he asked.
“Aye,” Bill affirmed.
“Who operated the curtains just before the interval?”
The Yorkshireman scratched a cauliflower ear. “Eh, I was supposed to, but ’appen I forgot.”
“You soft pillock,” Ben upbraided him mildly.
“Well, someone closed them before the shot occurred,” Rex stated.
“Would’ve been Ron,” Ben said. “It’s his job to make sure everything’s foolproof.” He flicked Bill’s temple.
Upstaged by Murder Page 4
