‘Bethencourt, while not particularly well off, is educated, cultured, worldly. His social background is much the same as Fielding’s; whose father, you’ll recall, was an army officer. She grew up in India and would have had an easy life, surrounded by servants, at least while her parents were alive. Quite apart from the romantic aspect, which I’m guessing was genuine, they had far more in common with each other than Fielding had with Parry, whose father was a humble slate miner. One can well imagine an uncomprehending family who, when young Iwan failed to become a famous actor, would begin to ask when he was going to stop making a fool of himself and get a proper job. Some would say he was doing quite well – at least he was in work, which actors often are not – but, crucially, Parry didn’t think so. His career had been a disappointment to him, and with the passing years he’d acquired a massive chip on his shoulder.
‘He could tolerate Bethencourt well enough when he worked for him – probably seeing him as bloodless and effete – but he now found himself competing with him for the affections of Miss Fielding, a contest he was unlikely to win. It must have hit his self-respect hard. He also faced the prospect of sharing the proceeds of “his” burglary with this despised rival, a burglary that was supposed to set him and his girl up for life.
‘Then came the unfortunate demise of Sullivan, jeopardising the whole project, for which Parry no doubt blamed Bethencourt. Perhaps it was then that years of resentment tipped over into hatred, not just of Bethencourt but of all the Regent Players. Where they saw good-natured teasing, even affection, he saw condescension, mockery and contempt. Well, he’d pay them out!
‘Logically he’d have taken away the body in Sullivan’s own car and dumped it well clear of the theatre but instead he carefully placed it in the pumpkin coach, arranging for it to tumble out when the door was opened. That way he could guarantee to ruin their precious panto in the most public possible way. He was not, of course, expecting to be around long enough to get caught.
‘The discovery of Parry’s perfidy put Bethencourt in a bind. It was a wicked thing to do and he would have wanted revenge but
he couldn’t safely inform on him without implicating himself and Fielding. Looking back, he did make some attempt to steer us in the right direction early on, but probably decided it was too dangerous to continue. Or perhaps Fielding decided for him. And none of them had bargained, of course, for the intervention of Jane Herring.
‘Jane must surely have realised that someone else was involved in the burglary besides Fielding and that there was a good chance it was a member of the company. That would have been hard enough to accept, but probably the last person she would have thought of was her trusted and admired artistic director, unless, of course, she’d had another hunch. I’m guessing it was Bethencourt himself who confided in his sharp-witted young favourite, seeking her help and advice. It must have been with a sigh that she now set out to try and get him off the hook, helping to capture Fielding, who had been hiding in the theatre all along, while somehow allowing her to first reclaim the loot.
Unfortunately, Parry, who had probably by now put two and two together, grabbed her as a hostage.
‘If it hadn’t been for that,’ said Rattigan, ‘we might not have had to shoot the beggar.’
Felix shrugged wearily. ‘Well, it certainly didn’t help matters. An old policeman’s dream she may be, but I, for one, shan’t be sorry to see the back of her.’
◆◆◆
‘Jane, sweetheart,’ said Figgy gently. ‘You can’t sit there crying all night. Look at you; you’re shivering. You’re like ice! I expect it’s the shock, and I’m not surprised. Come on now, swing your legs round and get into bed. Or come in with me for a while and get warm. Come to Figgy and have a cuddle.’
‘Yes, all right,’ sobbed Jane. ‘The worst of it is, it’s my own stupid fault! I should never have interfered. I should have trusted him. And now he hates me!’
‘Good riddance if you ask me,’ said Figgy crossly. ‘He’s no good for you and you know it. Here, let me get my arms around you. That’s better, isn’t it? Nice and snug. As far as I’m concerned there’s not a man alive that’s worth all this misery. They should keep one in a cage for the purposes of reproduction and drown the rest at birth.’
‘But I love him! And now I’ve lost him, and my lovely job. What’s the point of it all? Tell me that. One might as well turn one’s face to the wall and die.’
‘Hush, don’t be silly,’ said Figgy. ‘You’re being silly. You were perfectly happy to drop him three years ago, and now that Charlie Sullivan is dead there’s no knowing what he might get up to. Rob a bank I shouldn’t wonder.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘It’s that drunk again. Just ignore it.’
‘No, it’s not; it’s Andy!’ cried Jane, instantly upright. ‘I knew he’d come back. Hang on, Andy, I’m coming!’
Figgy sighed and reached for her dressing gown. ‘One-thirty in the bloody morning,’ she grumbled. ‘Doesn’t he sleep? And at least get some clothes on; you’re not decent!’
Andrew stood at the door in his motoring cap and goggles, holding before him a bunch of flowers. ‘Jane, I’m sorry,’ he said ‘I’m a miserable, ungrateful wretch. Will you forgive me? Ah! I see that you have. Here, I bought you these. Don’t squash them! Oh, all right, squash them. I was going to make a speech but I’ve forgotten it. Hello, Miss Figg. Sorry if I woke you. Will you come back with me, Princess? Get your things, then; your enchanted three-wheeler awaits! Love the little whatever-it-is, by the way. Is that what the fashionable young woman is sleeping in this year?’
Back in bed, Figgy watched them go. ‘See you later, then? Or not, as the case may be.’ Turning over, she pulled the blankets tight around her. ‘I’ll give it six months,’ she muttered.
The End
Postscript
Elizabeth Fielding was sentenced to six years for burglary, reduced on appeal to four years, and Alastair Bethencourt eighteen months for conspiracy to pervert the course of justice. In the matter of Charlie Sullivan, the coroner recorded death by misadventure.
PTO
A note on anachronisms.
Yes, you will find some. Usually they are intentional (see below) but no doubt others slip through. I do spend a lot of time checking things for accuracy, whether it’s steam cars, crossword puzzles, milking parlours, boxes of chocolates, paper tissues (yes, really), female apparel, the English aristocracy (for which, of course, I consult Debrett’s), basket-making, doorbells, the original counties of North Wales or classic yachts. (The last is a lifelong interest of mine. I felt that an arms dealer would choose steel, so the schooner Isabella is based on a contemporary Herreshoff design in that material. And, yes, there already existed outboard motors and even onboard charging systems.)
Matters historical are also carefully researched, though with the Mexican Cristero war of 1926-29 I have cheated a little and brought forward the progress of hostilities by a year or so.
For accurate vocabulary I have frequent recourse to an etymological dictionary. There was a marked increase in useful neologisms in the first quarter of the 20th century but you can easily be a few years out and use a word that hadn’t been invented yet. I’m also able to call on my seven decades of watching the English language evolve. One avoids a lot of mistakes that way, though I’d rather have the years back! As for the writing styles of the time, they go from almost Dickensian to the likes of Agatha Christie who is barely to be distinguished from anyone writing now. I tend towards the latter, for obvious reasons.
Some information is remarkably difficult to come by. I cannot discover, for example, if Scotland Yard employed female secretaries and typists between the wars, although I have portrayed them as doing so. They certainly had them during World War One but perhaps not afterwards. Some parts of the British public sector – notably the civil service – were actively hostile to employing women in any capacity (all ve
ry Taliban) so the jury is still out on that one.
Then there are the intended anachronisms. For the sake of a better tale, I have occasionally taken liberties with police and medical forensics, pushing the limits, just a little, of what was then possible. Ditto the telephone system, although in my defence, I should say that both the individual telephone companies and the nascent national network were expanding very rapidly at the time, and what would have been impossible in one year was often commonplace by the next.
Finally, most readers will realise that 1920s police inspectors did not come equipped with their own team of fingerprint and photography experts. Neither, of course, would Inspector Felix have driven around in his own (or any) car while on duty, still less an ageing luxury tourer. But he could have done, and would you want it any other way?
Death and Cinderella (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 11) Page 12