Murder Most Frequent: three more Inspector Constable mysteries (The Inspector Constable Murder Mysteries Book 5)

by Roger Keevil

  “Now,” he continued, “we have the supporting evidence of a number of items which have been discovered around the theatre. There is a discarded piece of paper bearing several versions of Stuart Nelson's signature. Why on earth would he have felt the need to write out his name repeatedly? It is of course a ridiculous question. He would have no need to practice his signature – but somebody else might. So, where might such a signature be required? We've been told that Mr. Nelson kept a very tight hold of the chequebook. But is it beyond the realms of possibility that a person might somehow abstract a cheque from that book, and execute a forgery in order to obtain a substantial amount of money – perhaps for the purpose of paying off a debt to Mr. Nelson himself? We have evidence that such a debt existed, and who knows how many crimes have been committed for financial gain?

  “What of the other things? We have a pair of electrical pliers that nobody will admit to owning. There is a photograph which is nothing at all to do with the play. And finally, there is a mysterious gold ring. Small, but valuable – perhaps our most valuable piece of evidence, in all senses. And what does the initial engraved into the ring stand for? 'D' – it could relate to so many of you. Don? David? Delia? Davenport? But let's not forget the rôle which is played by Matthew in the drama – the part of Daniel Allen. No, surely not him – we've been told that the ring does not feature on the properties list for the play. So if it does belong to one of the others, how did they come to lose it? Or was it thrown away? And by whom? Well, we have one possibility, since we have managed to identify a fingerprint on the ring. And that print belongs to Jessica Davenport.”

  The eyes of every individual in the room were immediately fixed on the young actress. Under their gaze, she seemed to shrink into herself, her lip trembled, and tears started to form. “But I … Stuart was … Matthew!” She turned in appeal to her companion, who put his arm protectively around her.

  “Inspector, is this bullying tone really necessary?” challenged Matthew. “You can see how upset Jess is.”

  “And I'm sorry for that, Mr. Edwards,” replied Constable. “And I assure you, there is no intention to bully. But in my view, the facts seem to point to one inevitable conclusion – the central figure in the whole mystery is Jessica Davenport.” The inspector was conscious of a sudden and distinct air of stillness in those around him. “Consider what we know. The 48-year-old Stuart Nelson was paying unwanted attentions to the 29-year-old Jessica. This was not new, but perhaps the situation reached some sort of a climax. Angela Bailey saw Stuart making advances to Jessica before the rehearsal, and later heard Elizabeth Hamilton apparently urging him to take responsibility for his actions. She also mention her puzzlement at Delia Armstrong's abandonment of a promising acting career – I wondered, was Delia the first in a long line of young actresses of which Jessica was just the latest example? Mr. Mott's and Miss Hamilton's words may well have given us the answer to that. And Angela did see Delia going into Jessica's dressing room – was that simply to tell her to take care, or something else?

  “Some things we know – others we have to guess at. Among the things we know, thanks to the very careful and comprehensive note-taking by my colleague Sergeant Copper ...” The young officer gave an uneasy half-smile of acknowledgement. “... is the fact that Miss Davenport was already in an upset state during the afternoon, thanks to the testimony of Peter Castle, who also witnessed the argument between Stuart Nelson and Elizabeth Hamilton before Miss Hamilton left the theatre. Was this anything to do with the conversation witnessed by Will Mott between Elizabeth and Delia, in which the latter spoke of 'shock' and having 'given up everything'. Will was very nearly in the right place at another significant moment – he almost witnessed Matthew being evicted from Jessica's room. Matthew, the man to whom Jessica referred as 'the big brother she never had'. Because Jessica was an adopted only child – she never knew who her actual parents were. But she does now – as does Elizabeth, and I believe, before he died, so did Stuart Nelson.

  “I said that there are some things we have to guess at. This, I think, is where I have to enter the realms of guesswork, and I hope you will all forgive me if I make what follows sound like the synopsis of a play. But I believe that this is the only logical explanation which brings all our known facts together to make a coherent story.

  “Thirty years ago, a young aspiring actress and actor met. They had a relationship, and this relationship led to an unintended consequence, as so many do. The young actress discovered that she was pregnant – for whatever personal reason, she chose not to share this information with the father, nor to remedy the situation, but instead to have the baby at the expense of the abandonment of her career. She left drama school and cut off all her old contacts, but for reasons we can only surmise – lack of support, shunning by family, financial insecurity, who knows? - she found that she was unable to cope with caring for the child. Instead, she made what must have been an agonising decision – she decided to give the baby up for adoption. All she kept was a single photograph, hidden and treasured. And all she could give the child was a signet ring, engraved with her own initial.”

  “It was an eighteenth birthday present from my own parents,” said Delia, quietly but clearly, into the silence. “They died in a car accident the day after my birthday. I could never bear to wear it, but I thought … I don't know … a new life … new hope ...” Her voice tailed away.

  “Perhaps it did bring new hope,” continued Constable kindly after a pause. “The baby was adopted by a couple named Davenport, who named their new daughter Jessica. An oddly prescient choice of name – the daughter of a tragic Shakespearean character. And, perhaps because of the coincidence of the initial of their surname, they evidently decided to keep the ring in trust for the child, although I assume they never revealed its source. And as the child got older, the powerful acting genes she had inherited from both her parents must have come to the fore – it's no surprise that she grew up to become an actress. And at the age of twenty-nine, she was employed by Stuart Nelson.

  “Which brings us to the events of today. I'm assuming that, at some stage during the course of the day, Jessica's mother discovered her daughter's identity when she saw Jessica's signet ring and realised with horror that Stuart's latest target for his attentions was his own daughter. She resolved that the situation had to be dealt with. She confided in Stuart's wife – again, Will Mott was almost a witness to the conversation – and Elizabeth confronted her husband – Peter Castle told us about the resultant argument. But, stressed to breaking point, Delia took what I believe to have been a totally uncharacteristic decision – she planned a more permanent solution.

  “Using her technical expertise built up over many years in theatre backstage work – and Will Mott gave us an early hint of this when he testified to what he called Delia's brilliance at devising props such as the electronic shooting effect – she rigged the wiring to Stuart's shower. It must have been a risky business, but in one sense she was lucky, in that she took the opportunity between six o'clock and six-thirty when Stuart was either in Jessica's room or up in the lighting control box for his confrontation with David Winston. Nevertheless, she only narrowly escaped being witnessed by Angela Bailey. Delia then went to Jessica, showed her the photograph which she had treasured for some twenty-nine years, and broke the truth about her parentage. We can only imagine the sort of emotions that were involved, particularly for Jessica, who was already in a fragile state.”

  “But why is the ring so significant, inspector?” intervened Matthew Edwards. “I mean, Jess, you never normally wear a ring, do you? I've never seen it before.”

  “I usually keep it on a chain round my neck,” faltered Jessica. “My parents … I always thought of them as my real parents, even after they told me that they'd adopted me … that's when they gave it to me, when they explained everything. But I've never actually worn it. Until today, that is. And I don't know what made me put it on today. There must have been something ...”

 
; “Whatever it was, Miss Davenport,” resumed the inspector, “it turned out to be the one tiny detail which set today's events in motion. Because it was the clinching factor in both revelations – to Delia, to provide an answer to a question which must have long haunted her – whatever became of her daughter? - and to Jessica, who must have wondered about her birth mother, and who now also had her own answer, since I imagine that Delia's knowledge of the ring's interior inscription would have proved the matter beyond doubt. So why was the ring no longer in Jessica's possession? I think it's because Jessica probably pressed Delia to accept it back. But perhaps Delia realised that it might incriminate her in some way, and so attempted to dispose of it.”

  “Oh, it was much simpler than that, inspector,” said Delia with a watery smile. “I realised that the whole thing had been a shock for Jessica, so I decided to leave her alone in peace to think. But my hands were shaking so much when I left the dressing room that I just fumbled the ring and dropped it in the corridor. It rolled away out of sight, but before I could retrieve it, I heard somebody coming, and I was in such a state that I just ran.”

  “And then presumably you went up on stage and hid the wire-cutters?”

  “Yes.” Delia sounded almost relieved to be able to tell the truth. “And then I went and sat in my little room and just … waited. And if I'd had time, perhaps I would have realised how mad the whole thing was, and perhaps I would have gone and dismantled the whole apparatus. We could have worked everything out, I'm sure. There would have been no need for ...”

  “Quite,” said Constable. “But then fate intervened. For some reason, Stuart Nelson decided to take a shower before the dress rehearsal rather than afterwards. And at seven o'clock, the theatre itself killed him.”

  In the ensuing silence, Elizabeth Hamilton rose and moved to Delia Armstrong, taking her in a totally unexpected embrace. “You and I have a great deal in common, my dear,” she said, in that slightly husky voice which had entranced so many audiences. “We both loved Stuart – and we both hated what he had become. But I can't hate you for what you did. This world makes fools of us all.”

  “Mother ...” Jessica also rose. The use of the word came uneasily to her lips.

  Delia pressed her back into her seat. “No, darling. You'd better stay here. Matthew, would you …?” The young actor nodded a silent acknowledgement of the unspoken request. “I think I had better be going with the inspector.”

  “Sergeant Copper, if you would, please ...” said Constable, as the junior officer gently took hold of Delia's arm and escorted her towards the door. “As for the rest of you, you are free to leave. We shall be in touch.”

  As he left the Green Room, Constable heard Elizabeth Hamilton speak once more. “And so it all ends. 'La commedia è finita!'” The door closed behind him.

  * * * * *

  LAST ORDERS

  “Are you coming out for our training run tomorrow, then, Rex?” Penny, the wife of the landlord of the Three Blind Mice, looked up from where she was re-stocking a row of bottles of tonic water on the shelf beneath the bar, and smiled invitingly.

  “Oh, dear lord,” replied Rex Hope, clutching his brow in mock anguish. “Is it really that time already? Why can't I just have a day of rest like civilised people?”

  “Because it's not just an ordinary Sunday, that's why,” sparkled Penny. “It's the last chance for us all to get together before the run next week. And you do want to be in the team, don't you?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Well, you should,” retorted Penny. “And Sam's coming too, aren't you, Sam?”

  “Mmm?” The young barman looked around from where he was replenishing the huge and gleaming coffee machine. “Oh yes … sure. Wouldn't miss it.”

  “Leaving me to set up the place on my own – again. Thank you very much, everybody.” The remark came from the well-built man in his late forties who had just appeared through the door from the cellar as he hefted a crate of beers on to the bar. Bob Farmer stood an impressive six foot four, with broad shoulders and, despite being no longer a youngster, the still-rugged physique of a born athlete, and strong attractive features which drew many admiring glances from his lady customers.

  “Oh, Bob, don't be grumpy.” His wife draped herself over his shoulder appealingly. “You know we'd all love it if you were part of the team, but you know you can't be. Anyway, teams of three, that's the rule. So it's got to be me and two of the boys. Don't worry, I'll be back in plenty of time to help serve the lunches.” Penny looked up at Bob with pleading in her large grey eyes and shook back her long blonde mane. “You do want us to win, don't you?”

  To all those who knew the couple, this performance by Penny was a normal part of the stock-in-trade of the attractive wife towards the husband almost twenty years her senior, and they marvelled that it never failed to produce results. Bob sighed. “Of course I do.”

  “Well then!” Penny smiled triumphantly. “We've got to beat the Dagger boys.”

  “Girls, isn't it, this year?” queried Sam Booker, as he turned from stacking coffee cups to checking the bottles of liqueurs on the mirrored shelves at the back of the bar.

  “Oh, don't worry about them,” said Rex. “We can handle them easily.” A thought occurred to him. “So, I suppose Mark is coming along tomorrow as well?”

  “I haven't asked him yet,” replied Penny, “but I'm sure he will. He wouldn't want to miss the chance. And after all, it is between the three of you. Best two out of three.” She grinned impishly. “I'm looking forward to it.”

  *

  Each of the villages of the Dammett Vale was famous for having its own distinctive character. Upper Dammett was perhaps the most picturesque. Its single street shared its course with the chuckling waters of the Dammett Brook, and was lined with thatched cottages, many with their cob walls painted in a variety of pale pastel shades, homes to well-heeled commuters who caught the daily train to London from nearby Camford Parkway. Bishop's Dammett, once part of the extensive land-holding of the region's diocese, was graced with an enormous and spectacular fifteenth-century church in the perpendicular style which completely dwarfed and dominated the huddle of houses clustered around its skirts. Dammett Slaughter was popularly believed to have been named after a legendary battle between a heroic Anglo-Saxon king and a band of marauding Vikings, where the Danish invaders had come off considerably worse, and traded for all it was worth on that reputation to the sadly few tourists who passed that way. Any mention of Dammett Worthy still provoked a lowering of the voice and a look over the shoulder, in recollection of the still-vividly-remembered events at the Dammett Hall annual garden fête. And Blaston Dammett, named for the long-extinct Blaisetonne family who had accompanied Duke William in his conquest of 1066 and been rewarded with lands to build their now vanished manor, was celebrated for the rivalry of its inter-pub fun run.

  Nobody could quite remember how the run had come into being. Probably initiated at some time during the 1960s, when there had been a great fad for sponsored walks and runs in aid of various local and national charities, it had reached its peak in the 1990s, sometimes attracting thousands of participants decked out in pink wigs and tutus in support of health causes, or bearing the T-shirts of a campaign for the relief of suffering in distant countries. Of late, the event had contracted to become a much more local affair, with the consumption of beer as a prominent theme. From the Three Blind Mice, a stately Georgian coaching inn at one end of Blaston Dammett, which in former times had provided the final change of horses for the long run down into Camford, the mile-long course ran around the back lanes of the village, crossed the churchyard, passed through Blaise Copse, skirted the fields of Manor Farm, and ended after five circuits at the bar of the Sword and Dagger at the opposite end of the village. In early days, participants had been obliged to down a glass of the Sword and Dagger's own home-brewed ale each time they passed the inn – in these more politically-correct times, water or fruit juice was considered an acceptable alterna
tive, although many die-hards regretted the passing of the tradition. And at the end of the race, the arrival of each runner at the Dagger was hailed by the ringing of the bell behind the pub's saloon bar, its strident chimes, accompanied by the traditional cry of 'Last orders, please!', sadly now far less frequently heard in an era of all-day opening hours.

  The rivalry between the two hostelries had never been thought of as serious. True, each had its own atmosphere and clientele. The Three Blind Mice, with its mullioned windows and elegant stone porch, had always regarded itself as a cut above its competitor, and attracted tourists as well as residents from the more prim local houses with its continental selection of coffees, its chalked-up wine list, and its small bistro-inspired bar food menu. At the lower end of the village, and catering largely for workers on the surrounding farmland, The Sword and Dagger, named for the old manorial coat of arms, made the most of its heritage as a former row of agricultural labourers' thatched cottages, with its low beams, flag-stoned floors, scrubbed deal tables surrounded by a mismatched miscellany of country-built chairs and settles, and three unique home-brewed ales from the micro-brewery in the old brick out-house. And the fact that the licensees had similar backgrounds might have been thought to make them closer than they actually were, but that would be to disregard the traditional mutual disdain felt between the military and civil arms of the forces of order. Bob Farmer, landlord of the Three Blind Mice, was an ex-sergeant from the military police who had chosen to be invalided out after a helicopter accident left him with an injured leg which he felt made him unable to do the job he loved. And Adelaide Knight, who ran the Sword and Dagger, was a former Metropolitan police officer who had risen through the ranks, joining the political protection unit, and eventually becoming part of the protection detail of a notable woman cabinet minister, before an unguarded exchange of words late one night at the gates of Parliament led to the suggestion that a discreet and graceful retirement on full pension might be advisable.