by Ray Clark
“None,” replied Corndell.
“Oh,” said Gardener. “I thought you were an actor.”
“I am,” replied Corndell, sipping his tea. “But I prefer to act on a stage rather than behind a camera. Not that there’s anything wrong with acting for a camera, but I think there’s more skill involved in theatre. I’m also a scriptwriter, and I regularly have my work accepted in Hollywood.”
“That must be rewarding,” said Gardener. “Are you responsible for any of the modern-day material gracing our screens at the moment?”
“Not at all, Mr Gardener. My work is deeper and more meaningful than the stuff you see in the cinema today. There is more emotion to my material, more acting skill required. I write with the old masters in mind, those that didn’t have the privilege of working with sound. Now, that was acting.”
“So, if you don’t write film scripts for Hollywood, what do you write?”
“I do write film scripts, as you call it,” replied Corndell, sipping his tea and becoming more unsettled. He didn’t like being questioned. “But I also supply the Hollywood agencies with a lot of theatrical material, regularly seen all over America.”
“Have you starred in any of your own material?” asked Gardener.
“Only once, in London. It was a play shown at Her Majesty’s Theatre before The Phantom of the Opera.”
“Was it a success?”
“Mr Gardener, all my work is successful. I also took the leading role in The Phantom.”
“I thought Michael Crawford was in that,” said Reilly.
“He came after me, Mr Reilly.” Corndell smiled. “Unfortunately, I broke my leg and was unable to continue... hence the cane. I don’t have to use it all the time, but I have my off-days when the stiffness is a little too much.”
“Apart from your love of theatre and your scriptwriting, I can see you also collect film memorabilia,” said Gardener.
“Oh, yes, all the time. It’s a life’s work trying to track down the lost films of the silent era. I have my own cinema.”
“Really?” he asked Corndell. “Where?”
“Here, in the house.”
“Your knowledge of films might just come in useful,” said Reilly.
“You’ll forgive me for asking,” Corndell said, “but I find it strange that you two gentlemen should come out here to my house and talk to me about films. I’m sure that there’s something else on your minds.”
“There is,” said Gardener. “We’re investigating a couple of extremely unpleasant deaths in Leeds recently.”
“Are you talking about the young girl who was killed in the shop in the arcade?”
“Did you know her?” asked Gardener.
“No, but I read about it in the papers.” He leaned even further forward. “You don’t think it was me, do you?”
“Was it?” asked Reilly.
Corndell stood up, his left eye twitching rapidly. “Am I under arrest?”
Gardener left his seat as well. “Not at all. We’ve come to you because we believe you may be able to help us. With your knowledge of film and theatre, you might be a real asset.”
“Of course,” said Corndell, sitting back down, using the arms of the chair as a guide.
“Would you take a look at these, see if you recognise them?” asked Gardener, passing over a piece of paper containing the quotes they had found next to the bodies.
Corndell studied the paper before passing it back to Gardener. “I can’t say I do, but they’re very dated.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Look at the phrasing, Mr Gardener. People don’t talk like that now.”
“So, they’re not from anything you’ve seen?” asked Gardener.
“I wouldn’t say that,” replied Corndell, sipping more tea. “I have seen literally thousands of films, and not just the well-known ones. My collection goes as far back as 1900. And in my experience, that could well be the era from which they originate, the Golden Age of Hollywood, the silent films. As I mentioned earlier, there is more acting skill involved in a silent film, your gestures are usually exaggerated. If you look at those quotes, that was how the dialogue was presented to audiences.”
“So, the person we’re looking for may be old, or he might live his life in that time period?” asked Gardener.
“Possibly both, maybe neither,” replied Corndell. “May I ask why you think he’s an actor?”
“It’s speculation at the moment, but the people he’s killed so far have both been connected to the entertainment world.”
“So, you think he might be a failed actor? Someone with a grudge?”
“Not entirely, but we have reason to believe that he’s very good at disguising himself. The eyewitness reports we’ve collated describe him as looking like two completely different people.”
“Maybe it was two different people.”
“Unlikely. The modus operandi was very similar, and then we have the quotes, quite apart from the fact that he was actually the spitting image of one of the people he killed.”
Corndell was about to take a drink, but decided to hold his cup before it reached his lips. “You don’t mean that nice Leonard White?”
“You knew Leonard White?” asked Gardener.
“Yes, I did. Not that I worked with him, but he actually starred in one of my father’s films many years ago, just as he was starting out.”
“Which one?” Reilly asked.
“Tales From A Village Pub, 1957. It was a compendium of short stories. I saw him on and off over the years after that.”
“But you hadn’t seen him recently?” asked Gardener.
“No. But I must say, I rather wanted to go and see him at the Grand Theatre the night he was killed. He was only there for the one night, and I would have loved to have heard him talk, perhaps even had the chance to talk to him myself.”
“Where were you that night?” asked Reilly.
“I was here, at home.”
“Alone?” questioned Reilly.
Corndell knew that one was coming. “I’m always on my own, Mr Reilly. I am in constant demand with my work and I rarely, if ever, get the chance to leave the house these days.”
“Didn’t you buy the house from Leonard White?” asked Gardener.
“My father did, many years ago.”
“How well did you know him?”
“My father?” Corndell grinned. “Sorry... just my little joke. Well, I wouldn’t say I knew him all that well. I have seen most, if not all, of the films he made at Hammer. You have to remember, we travelled in different circles. When my father bought this house I was still in London, and remained there until after he’d retired. It was quite sad, really, because he never had the chance to appreciate it. He died four months after buying it. I came up to Leeds after his death, and stayed to look after my mother.”
“Is your mother still alive?” asked Gardener.
“I’m afraid not, she died of cancer many years ago.” Corndell finished his tea and continued with another question. “If he’s that good with his disguise, how will you catch him? You won’t know what he looks like.”
“Very true,” replied Gardener. “That’s something else we wanted to ask you about, make-up techniques.”
“That’s an art in itself, Mr Gardener.”
“Are you involved much with make-up?”
“Very little. Over the years of course, with my theatre work, I have applied my own. As I said, my life is scriptwriting these days.”
“Not completely,” said Reilly.
“Sorry?”
“It’s not all writing, is it, Mr Corndell?” retorted Gardener. “I believe you’ve recently accepted a live performance at the University of Leeds.”
“You’re very well informed.”
“It pays to be,” replied Gardener.
“It’s true, then?” asked Reilly.
“Yes, it is. The gentleman who books the entertainment called me a few days previously. May I ask how you kne
w?”
“My wife’s a theatre critic. She’ll be there. I’m sure she’ll give you a good review.”
“She won’t need to, Mr Reilly, my work speaks for itself.”
“Will it involve make-up?” continued Reilly.
“It most certainly will.”
“Where do you buy it?”
“Quite a few places, the internet mostly. But unfortunately for me, I have recently visited the shop in Leeds where the young girl was killed,” replied Corndell.
“Why unfortunate?” asked Reilly.
“Because despite what you and Mr Gardener say, Mr Reilly, I still feel as if I’m a suspect.”
“Quite the opposite,” replied Gardener. “If you were a suspect, we’d have had you at the station by now. No, my colleague wants to know more about make-up. For our man to be so practised in the art of disguise, he would need quite a lot of different products. We wondered if you’d know what they were and whether or not the shop in Leeds would sell them. Or would you need to be somewhere far more specialised?”
“Oh, I see.” Corndell nodded. “Well, without knowing the extent to which your man is disguising himself, it’s difficult to say. However, if he can pass closely for Leonard White, he must be good.”
“Why would someone use aluminium powder?” inquired Gardener.
“Colouring his hair, particularly white or grey. What about the second murder, did he look like Leonard White then?”
He noticed Gardener glance at Reilly before replying. The detective reached into his pocket and produced an artist impression of the vampire. “From the eyewitness reports we have, we think his disguise was this one.”
“Oh my good God!” shouted Corndell.
“Do you recognise the character?”
“No, but to create an effect like that, you’d need quite a few things. I would imagine flexible collodion for one, which is a plastic skin adhesive. It provides a coating for make-up construction. And then there’s rigid collodion, a liquid used to make scars and pock marks. When you put that stuff on, it draws and puckers the skin. For something like this he obviously used a wig, and then there’s the costume...”
“All of which you can buy at the shop in Leeds?”
“I would imagine so,” he replied. “As I mentioned, I have used the place on occasion, but I don’t think I’ve spent a lot of money there, or taken too much notice of their costumes. You really do have your work cut out, gentlemen.”
A silence followed before Reilly spoke. “Is it true that thespians are a tad superstitious?”
“I’m sorry?” replied Corndell.
“Superstitious,” repeated Reilly. “I’ve heard a lot of strange stories about actors, particularly those in the theatre.”
“Well, of course there are a number of superstitions connected with the theatre.”
“And what are yours?”
“Since you ask, I don’t particularly like live flowers being delivered before a performance. They have a very short life and I believe it reflects the life of the play. I’m not particularly keen about whistling on stage, it’s bad luck and can lead to accidents. And under no circumstances do I like someone wishing me good luck.”
“And away from the stage?” Reilly persisted.
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
“I couldn’t help noticing when we drove up to the house that it’s surrounded by poplar trees. As you draw closer you have bay trees, or laurels if you like. And then, as sure as God’s my witness, if you haven’t got houseleek placed in the roof.”
“You’re... very observant, Mr Reilly.”
“It’s my job.”
“To answer your question, you’re quite correct about the trees. If you’re that knowledgeable, perhaps you know that laurel trees guard the doors of great men’s houses.”
“I certainly do, but I also know that the bay tree is said to keep away witches, devils, and bad luck, and that a house guarded by such a tree should never be struck by lightning.”
“I can’t say I know anything about that, Mr Reilly,” replied Corndell. “And I’m certainly not aware of houseleek, as you call it.”
“Are you not? So, you haven’t placed it there as a protection against lightning?”
“I can’t have done, can I? Which begs the question, which one of us is really superstitious?”
Reilly made no reply.
“Tell me, Mr Reilly, where did you learn about myths and superstitions?”
“I’m Irish, Mr Corndell. We invented most of them.”
“Oh, does that mean they’re not true, then?”
“You tell me,” retorted Reilly. “You’re the superstitious one. There’s no shortage of the colour red around here. Your hall has a tiled floor which contains red, and then there are red velvet drapes leading into each of the rooms, and they all seem to have something red in them.”
“Red is my favourite colour, Mr Reilly, mostly because it’s the colour of Aries, but also because it’s associated with good luck, health, and joy, and hence the living body as opposed to the corpse.”
“And you’re not superstitious? I’ll bet you know as well as I do about the references in folklore to the use of threads, ribbons, wool, or pieces of flannel which prevent a variety of ailments,” continued Reilly. “And isn’t red thread used as a protection against witchcraft?”
“Is there anything else I can help you gentlemen with?”
“And it has nothing to do with it being the colour of blood?” asked Reilly.
“Why would it?” replied Corndell.
“Just curious, Mr Corndell. It was you who made the comment about the living body and not the corpse, was it not? I thought maybe you had a kind of superstition about blood being pure and all that.”
“I really haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
At that precise moment, Gardener’s mobile chimed. He reached into his jacket pocket and then excused himself into the kitchen, where he took the call.
Reilly asked Corndell if he could use the bathroom.
After the phone call and the toilet break, the two detectives returned to the conservatory.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to leave you, Mr Corndell.” Gardener turned to Reilly. “That was the station. Apparently, Albert Fettle wants to see us, urgently.”
“It’s no problem, Mr Gardener, I’ll show you both out.”
As Gardener reached the door, he turned to face Corndell. “Just one more question.”
“Which is?” asked Corndell.
“What’s your favourite film?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your favourite film. You must have one, a film buff of your calibre.”
“I certainly do. A Blind Bargain,” replied Corndell, still wondering why the question had been asked in the first place.
“Can’t say as I know that one,” replied the detective.
“You won’t, Mr Gardener. Before your time.”
“I’ll have to look out for it. What about The Scarlet Car?”
“I’m afraid you have me there, Mr Gardener. But if you have the time, I’d be more than happy to look it up for you,” replied Corndell.
“Another time, maybe. Anyway, thank you, you’ve been most helpful. I’ll leave you a card, and perhaps we could call back if we need you again.” Gardener tipped his hat.
“Don’t hesitate,” said Corndell.
Chapter Thirty-one
The atmosphere at the theatre was still grave when Paul Price met them at the stage door. “Do you have any idea when I can reopen?” he asked, testily.
“Shouldn’t be too long, Mr Price,” replied Gardener. “We do have a few more people to interview.”
Price’s expression showed his irritation. “So, you’re not here to tell me it’s business as usual?”
“No, we’re here to see Mr Fettle.”
“You do realise how much this is costing me, don’t you?”
“Not as much as Leonard White,” replied Garde
ner.
“Have you made any headway catching the lunatic responsible?”
“It is a murder investigation.” Gardener turned to glance down the street. “And I would rather not discuss it on the doorstep, if you don’t mind.”
Paul Price stepped to one side, allowing them down the stairs to where Fettle kept himself hidden. “Two policemen to see you, Fettle. Though I can’t think why.”
“I asked ’em,” replied Fettle, once again invisible to the naked eye. When it became obvious that no one was going to speak until Price left, he grunted and did so, adding that he could be found in his office if needed.
“He’s like a bear with a sore head. You’ve really upset him,” said Fettle, when he finally appeared.
“He’s the least of our worries,” replied Reilly.
“You’ve not found him yet, then? Anyway, best come in and have a pot of tea.”
“Tea is the last thing we need, Mr Fettle,” replied Gardener.
“I’m sure it is, but it’ll do for starters.” Fettle drew them in and poured the tea from a recently boiled kettle. He then threw a book on the table, opened to a page which contained the photograph of a man Gardener had asked him about on a previous visit.
“Inspector Burke of Scotland Yard,” Fettle proudly announced. “You asked me if I knew him last time you were here.”
When Gardener realised he had been holding his breath, he still didn’t speak, but turned to the front cover of the book. It was an old issue of Film Review. “Where did you get this?”
“I’ve had ’em years. Been in that cupboard yonder.” Fettle pointed, but neither man bothered to see where.
“So, which film does the photograph come from?” asked Gardener.
“London After Midnight,” replied Fettle.
“And what do you know about the film other than Inspector Burke?”
Fettle sat down and sipped his tea. “It’s a bit of a classic, maybe the most famous of all the lost films.”
Gardener suddenly thought back to what Corndell had told him about collecting lost films, wondering if he had it. More to the point, what hadn’t Corndell told them? Had it been a cryptic clue, like those found with the bodies? He realised he was ahead of himself. Perhaps a lack of evidence on the case had forced him into thinking irrationally. “Go on.”