Murder of a Movie Star

by L. B. Hathaway

  ‘That’s right, sir. We have strong evidence to suggest it was Miss Elaine Dickinson herself who was making the death threats. So you can rest assured now, can’t you?’

  Posie was about to protest, to spew out her misgivings about it all, when the Chief Inspector cut in again:

  ‘I’d just like to ask, sir, why were there Foxtrot orchids in Silvia Hanro’s dressing room? I understand you grow the things, but they make an unusual choice of gift, wouldn’t you say? Rather risky. My understanding is that one tiny lick of that plant is enough to cause serious illness, and that death can be caused by ingestion of any part of the plant.’

  Brian Langley laughed:

  ‘Oh, come. What are you going to do? Arrest me? Death is all around us, all of the time. They were there for the simple reason that they are Silvia Hanro’s favourite flower. When they are in season I send them to her, fresh, every few days. I always have done. For years now, since we met before the war. No harm has come before. And she’s a big girl; she knows not to touch them. She listens to my advice, you know.’

  Not always, thought Posie to herself, remembering the scene in the corridor, and evidently not about everything.

  ‘Is that all?’ asked the Producer impatiently. ‘Only, now that Miss Hanro has bothered to show up, I’ve got one last take to film, then a party to host, and then we’re packing up and leaving this place. I’ve paid up to today, and I’m not going to pay for tomorrow. So I’d like to get on.’

  ‘We’d like to speak to Miss Hanro, herself. Is she around?’

  ‘Oh, she’s around. But I’ve sent her straight off to the studio. You’ll have to wait until I’ve finished with her.’

  And then he left.

  ‘I’m sorry about not noticing your hair before, Posie,’ muttered the Inspector. ‘Langley’s right, it’s very fetching. I kept thinking there was something not quite right about you.’

  ‘What a compliment. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Oh, you know what I mean.’

  ‘I do, sir. Absolutely.’

  ****

  Twenty-Six

  Dolly and Posie trudged up the white stairs.

  To Posie it seemed like years, not just the day before since she had been there last, among the little rooms occupied by crew and cast members. The cook, Mrs Thynne, was loitering in the corridor. When she saw Dolly approaching she gave a curmudgeonly smile and almost dropped a curtsey. Dolly had obviously given the woman a large tip beforehand and leech-like, she was hanging around in the hope of another one. Posie felt nauseous.

  ‘M’Lady,’ said the cook. ‘I’ve been waitin’ here for you. Like I told you I would.’

  ‘Thank you, but that will be all for now.’

  They turned into the doorway of the same small room Posie had seen yesterday, and the cook melted away, backwards.

  ‘Hang on a minute, isn’t this your room?’ called out Posie, confused.

  ‘Nope. I’m next door, Miss. That there is Elaine’s room. Sorry, that was Elaine’s room.’

  The cook made an elaborate gesture of crossing herself.

  ‘God rest her soul. We were neighbours, when I stayed over here, anyhow. You’ve changed yer hair, haven’t you, Miss? You’re the girl from yesterday? When I saw you prowling around yesterday afternoon I happened to be on the way to my own room. I just wondered what you were doing nosing around in here. So I made it my business to find out.’

  ‘I see.’ The confusion over, Posie looked about her. Here on the desk were the scrapbooks, the magazines with the cut-out wedding dresses which had haunted Posie the night before.

  In the corner under the small window was the neat white-covered bed, but the dresser with its set of drawers was a diabolical mess of papers, pens, clips and stationery, mixed together with clothes and underthings, mainly of the sad grey washed-out-looking variety, thrown around and heaped about as if a burglar had been through it all, searching for something. The drawers were all pulled out and askew. Posie remembered how neat it had been the day before.

  ‘Did you do this?’ she asked Dolly, pointing at the drawers.

  ‘No, lovey. I’m not that stupid. Although that’s where I got the stuff from, it was all mixed in with a lot of hair-tonic and curlers and stuff in the bottom drawer.’

  ‘I see.’

  Posie turned to the desk. The same magazines were still there, and that same matinée-idol photograph of Tom Moran in the days when he had been Mark Paris, but her eagle-eye now noticed other photographs, too. Four or five photographs of Robbie Fontaine, not framed but pasted above the wall nearest the desk, and there, on the floor, under the desk, a very large photograph of Silvia Hanro, probably in the days when she was just starting out, with longer hair and less make-up and less years under her belt to worry herself about.

  The famous eyes looked out at Posie from under a layer of smashed glass: the photo had been framed, but looked as if had been thrown under the desk in a rage.

  Posie got on her knees and looked at it, careful not to touch. She saw that the photograph had a slight white powdery dusting all over it. And at the back of the under-desk area, she found a small twist of paper. Putting her gloves on, she pulled it towards her, out into the light. She smelt it, licked it. Inspector Lovelace would be proud.

  ‘Cocaine,’ she whispered to a wide-eyed Dolly. ‘I’m pretty sure of it. I think the room should be thoroughly searched by the Forensics team. I can’t think why it hasn’t been done yet. I suppose it’s all the chaos of the morning.’

  ‘But what are you hopin’ to find out, lovey? The girl was obviously a crack-head and a bit of a nutter, that much is evident. Bit too reliant on the white-stuff for her own good, maybe?’

  Posie crossed her arms, thinking. She kept remembering Inspector Lovelace’s initial theory that Elaine was obviously an unhinged fan of Silvia Hanro’s, and here was evidence beyond doubt to show she was obviously not quite in her right mind.

  But the room bothered her.

  Elaine’s room today was so unlike the room she had seen yesterday as to be like night and day. Elaine Dickinson, frump though she had been, was not the kind of girl to leave her sad grey underwear hanging out on show. She had a peculiar sort of pride. And nor was she, Posie felt, the sort of girl to use drugs.

  ‘It’s all wrong,’ Posie breathed to herself. ‘This is all being cleverly directed.’

  She stepped outside again. As expected, Mrs Thynne, the cook, was still lingering. Posie fished in her bag and made sure the glint of her money caught the sunlight this time.

  ‘I say,’ she called. ‘I made one mistake concerning you yesterday, and I don’t want to jump to any more wrong conclusions.’

  Posie smiled in what she hoped was a friendly fashion. ‘I wonder if you can tell me if Miss Dickinson had any visitors here last night? It looks as if there might have been a fight, or some unpleasantness, in here? If you were in the room next door you might have heard something? Anthing?’

  Mrs Thynne drew herself up to her not-very-tall full height and puffed out even wider. ‘I’m not one for tittle-tattle,’ she said pompously. ‘I can’t tell you I heard anything. She was very quiet. Like usual.’

  ‘Did she ever have a boyfriend here at all? Did you know of anyone?’

  Again, the puffing.

  ‘None that I knew of. But this is a decent place, Miss. Not a place to have fellas back for the night in, if you know what I mean. It’s not a hostel. Mr Samuelson wouldn’t abide any of that. And Elaine was a decent sort of girl.’

  ‘Of course. And did Elaine keep her room tidy, do you know? As I saw it yesterday?’

  ‘That’s right. Neat as a new pin she were.’

  ‘Well, thank you. That’s most interesting.’

  ‘There is one thing, Miss. If you’re interested…’

  ‘Yes? Go on.’

  ‘Late last night, must have been past midnight, I heard a banging around in there. It was unusual, but I didn’t like to interfere. But I did make it my business to ope
n my door a crack when the visitor left.’

  Posie’s stomach was a knot of twisted dread. She had known something wasn’t right. ‘And? Did you get a good look?’

  ‘I did. It was Brian Langley. He looked furious. Fit to burst. Worse than usual, I mean.’

  Posie drew in a deep breath. ‘I think you’d better come with us, Mrs Thynne. What you’ve said is very interesting. It could be crucial. You’d better repeat it for my friend the Chief Inspector, downstairs. In a witness statement.’

  The woman pursed her lips. ‘Very well. If I must. Is that there money for me?’

  Posie pushed the coin across. ‘Aren’t you busy today, Mrs Thynne? I’m surprised you have time to be hanging around up here what with the catering for the party going on downstairs.’

  The woman glared at Posie and gave her a look which implied that she found her very wanting. ‘Haven’t you heard? This ’ere party is beyond the likes of my skills, apparently. Old Langley’s brought in Harrods to do the catering. Imagine! They were already arriving with their fancy hot trays a few minutes ago.’

  Posie ushered the cook and Dolly along the corridor, making sure to close Elaine’s door behind her. As they tripped along, she suddenly saw the door to the next room, Tom Moran’s, was very slightly ajar. Pausing, she registered a slight movement within.

  ‘Dolly,’ she whispered. ‘Can you take Mrs Thynne downstairs and hand her over to the Inspector. Tell him what we’ve heard. I’ll be along in two ticks. Tell him to send the Forensics boys upstairs to Elaine’s room, too.’

  Waiting until the nosy cook and Dolly had disappeared, Posie knocked at the door.

  ****

  There was no reply, so she pushed the door open anyway. The room inside was bright and white and hot. And immaculate. The window was right open but it smelt strange inside the room, a perfume of sesame seeds which were sweet and hot and burning. Like very sweet cakes which had been incinerated.

  Tom Moran was curled up on the small bed, facing the wall, rocking backwards and forwards. He gave no impression of having registered Posie entering the room.

  ‘I say,’ she began awkwardly. ‘I couldn’t help but notice the door…’

  Sitting up abruptly, Tom Moran’s half-face was a mass of red, blotchy puffiness. He wore no coverings at all and looked frightful.

  ‘What do you want?’ he slurred. He seemed as if he couldn’t quite wake up.

  ‘I just wanted to see if you were all right. It must have been an awful shock, earlier.’

  ‘It was,’ Tom snapped. He put a strange metal bowl and some spoons and matches and what looked like a piece of paper covered in brown tar quickly under his bed.

  ‘The scent of death is with me even now. I thought I’d escaped it when I was invalided out, but it’s here too. And I thought it was Silvia! Imagine!’

  Posie nodded sympathetically. ‘You know, I think she’s returned. She’s safe: I heard her voice downstairs. I’m not sure if you know or not? But I think she’s filming already so she probably hasn’t had a chance to come up here yet.’

  She registered a spasm of relief and utter misery pass across Tom Moran’s face.

  ‘Thank heavens for that!’

  He groaned and rocked himself back into a ball, facing against the wall again. He seemed almost sick. Posie came closer. She felt terribly and unaccountably sorry for the man.

  ‘Tell me, is there anything I can do? Or get you?’

  ‘No, but thank you. I’ll get along to the studio in a minute.’

  ‘I hope you don’t think I’m prying,’ she continued, while she still had the nerve, ‘but it must be terribly difficult working here, for Mr Langley, bearing in mind your past history. It must be an awful strain.’

  Tom Moran sat up again, looking wretched.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he half-whispered. ‘What do you mean “my past history”?’

  ‘The whole Mark Paris thing. I know you were him. But don’t worry. Only a couple of us know, and it’s more than our jobs are worth to reveal your true identity.’

  ‘Ah.’ Tom Moran reached into the drawer in the cabinet by the side of his bed. Shook out a thin navy packet of foreign cigarettes from what seemed a lot of other apparatus. He offered one to Posie and, on her refusal, lit one for himself. He took a deep drag.

  ‘I thought you meant where I had been since 1917.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Well, I told you I lost my face in the war; you can see that for yourself. If you looked for long enough, you’d see I shake, too. Shake like the devil: can’t even hold a knife and fork very well anymore. I take medication of course, for that and for the pain. But what you can’t see is that I lost my wits too. I was in a hospital for men who’d lost their minds. Until fairly recently, actually. I discharged myself from there about three months back.’

  ‘Gracious. Poor you. That must have been awful.’

  Tom Moran shrugged and took another drag. ‘It was. It was Silvia’s idea that I come back to what I know best: work in some capacity on a film set. Brian set it all up of course, when she asked. Better than sitting at home alone all day, twiddling my thumbs, isn’t it?’

  ‘So you took on a new identity?’

  ‘Yes. Wouldn’t you have done in my position? It was sloppy, really. I didn’t think too much about it. I saw a name on a gravestone and thought it would do when I first arrived here. The thing I’ve realised is that when you’re quite a lowly minion in a film crew, no-one really pays you that much notice. And no-one wants to look me in the face anyhow. So no-one guessed at who I was. Or who I used to be.’

  ‘Golly!’

  ‘So, yes: it’s tough. But not more than working elsewhere. The after-effects of war cling to many men I know. We can’t move on. Even if you can’t imagine it, Miss Parker.’

  Posie was on the verge of confessing that her first fiancé, Harry, and her brother, Richard, had both been casualties of the Great War, their lives cut short in all that unspeakable horror, their hopes and loves and dreams untold, when she stopped herself. It was a confidence too far.

  She nodded respectfully. ‘I’ll leave you, Mr Moran. You must be desperate to get downstairs to Miss Hanro now. But just quickly, can you tell me, staying in the room next door, did you see Miss Elaine Dickinson last night at all? Or Mr Langley, leaving her room?’

  Tom Moran screwed his one good eye up in surprise. ‘Elaine? Silvia’s woman? They’re saying it was her lying dead in that room. Is that right?’

  Posie nodded.

  Tom shrugged. ‘No, I didn’t see her. But I’d taken a good deal of medication last night, slept like the dead. She was always as quiet as the proverbial church mouse, although a good deal mousier, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Mnnn, maybe. But I don’t like to talk ill of the dead.’

  Tom Moran smiled a watery sort of smile. ‘No. Neither do I, mostly. I’m sorry, but my nerves are pretty frayed today.’

  ‘Understandably.’ And Posie bowed out of the room.

  ****

  Downstairs, the glass corridor was still packed with Scotland Yard’s finest, including Dr Poots, who was talking excitedly to a blonde man with a shock of leonine hair. He was obviously junior to Dr Poots, but medical nonetheless.

  Out of the corner of her eye Posie saw smartly-dressed caterers in green livery, and men with what looked like hundreds of silver balloons, thronging through the main hall and foyer. The death of the lowly dresser and the macabre circus of death that followed in its wake was a mere side-show to the main event, the Wrap Party.

  But even here, in the corridor with the only-just-removed corpse, there was already a jovial feeling. Not celebratory, exactly, but light-hearted, for sure. A tangible feeling of relief was hanging in the air.

  Posie felt slightly sick in her stomach: did Elaine’s strange death not mean anything to anyone? Did anyone have anything nice to say about her?

  Opening the door to the Green Room, Posie saw a buzzing confusion of people within: Dolly, Mrs T
hynne, and both Sergeants Binny and Rainbird were swarming around the Chief Inspector, all trying to get his attention. Satisfied that Dolly was staying put, Posie stepped out again, her thoughts a swirling mass of contradictions.

  I need my own room here, she thought desperately. A place to think clearly.

  As if he had read her mind, Constable McCrae, accompanying a small, almost transparent-looking man in his mid-thirties, stopped suddenly in front of Posie.

  ‘We were told we could use the props room, here, Miss. You want it?’

  Constable McCrae opened the door of the room next to the Green Room.

  ‘I’ll tell the Chief Inspector you’re in here, shall I? I think there’s a wee table and chairs inside. Shall I get you a coffee, Miss? You look fair wiped out, or ill, if you don’t mind my saying so. Definitely off-colour. Green about the gills.’

  Posie sighed, her mind made up that the silver-blonde hair colour was doing her no favours, except in Brian Langley’s mind, which didn’t count for much. But she nodded eagerly at the offer of the room and the coffee.

  Inside, the props room was small and dark and packed to the gunnels. It was also airless. But the privacy was very welcome, just the same. Its plimsoll-rubbery scent reminded Posie unaccountably and comfortingly of the changing rooms she had been ushered through as a small girl on visits to her brother Richard’s schools, on her way to admire hard-won cups for cricket, stored in ridiculously out-of-the-way trophy rooms.

  She sunk down at a very small and rickety desk, which had a mis-matched white-painted chair beside it. She sat with her head in her hands.

  Posie was overjoyed that Silvia Hanro had arrived back at Worton Hall safe and sound. But that was just the start of it. The start of everything. Everything which could now go wrong.

  What on earth was going to happen at the Wrap Party? Posie was pretty convinced that Elaine Dickinson’s death, and her apparent role as the person sending death threats were just too convenient a distraction. How on earth could Lovelace be so unquestioning of what was potentially a murder and falsely-placed evidence?

  Posie had never really clashed with the Chief Inspector before. Once, on one case, she had found his conduct surprising, and a little wanting. But that was with the benefit of hindsight, which everyone knew was a wonderful thing. He was truly an excellent detective, deserving of his accolades and plumes, and he was usually spot-on.