by Simon Brett
‘Hmm.’ The Detective Inspector paused again. ‘Did you know that Mr Belvedere was homosexual?’
‘Well, yes, obviously . . .’ Charles shrugged again. Ooh, he must stop doing that. ‘But I mean, in the theatre, so many people are, you don’t really think about it.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ For the first time, Charles caught a whiff of prejudice in the Detective Inspector’s voice. For all his politeness and ingenuous enquiries, the man seemed to be building up a personal case against the theatre and theatrical people. Perhaps he was one of those who had always thought of actors as drunken, effeminate layabouts. If that were the case, what he had seen during the previous six hours would have done little to dispel the impression.
‘I gather from Mr Scholes that Mr Belvedere was also a heavy drinker.’ The ‘also’ suggested the Detective-Inspector was compiling a catalogue of the dead man’s moral shortcomings.
‘Yes.’
‘From the way he was found last night, one might assume that he had drunk a whole bottle of brandy.’
‘Yes.’
‘He also, I gather, had had a fair amount in the bar in the course of the day . . .?’
‘Yes.’
‘Surely that would be an excessive amount for him to drink?’
‘Excessive, yes, but not out of character. I mean, he was notorious for going on benders.’
‘I gather quite a few actors do that . . .’
‘Some.’ Charles found himself avoiding the Detective Inspector’s eye.
‘Do you think it possible that Mr Belvedere broke into that store-room in search of alcohol?’
‘Well, one doesn’t want to speak ill of the dead . . .’
‘Much as I appreciate your delicacy, Mr Paris, I’m afraid we in the police sometimes have to ignore such niceties.’
‘Of course. Well, yes, then I would say it is possible. When I spoke to him before going into my dressing room last night, he did express an intention to get very drunk.’
‘Did he?’ The Detective Inspector’s head shook slightly in disbelief at the existence of people who behaved like that. ‘Hmm, well, that would certainly conform with our findings so far. It’ll have to be checked, but it seems fairly certain that Mr Belvedere’s walking stick was the instrument used to force the padlocks on the door and cupboard.’
‘Ah.’
There was another silence, before the next question was posed with studied casualness. ‘What do you think Mr Belvedere died of, Mr Paris?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Seems a straightforward question. What do you think killed him?’
‘Well, I hadn’t really thought.’ It was true. In the shock of discovering the body, and in the alcoholic haze in which he had discovered the body, Charles had not asked himself this basic question. ‘I don’t know. I suppose, a heart attack . . .? A stroke . . .? He was grotesquely overweight. Or maybe just alcoholic poisoning . . .?’
His interrogator shook his head. ‘None of those. He died of asphyxiation.’
‘You mean he was strangled?’
‘No, no. We don’t have to be so melodramatic, Mr Paris. Asphyxiation simply means the obstruction of the body’s respiratory system. You don’t have to strangle someone to achieve that. There are many other ways of cutting off the supply of air to the lungs.’
‘So what do you think happened in this case?’
‘Well, we’ll have to get it confirmed by forensic tests, but the police doctor’s made a few educated guesses. I’ll tell you what we think, because it’s possible you might have some evidence to support our theories . . . you know, having been on the spot when it happened . . . albeit dead to the world at the time.’ This time there was no mistaking the edge of contempt in the Detective Inspector’s look.
‘Right, here’s a scenario for what might have taken place. Mr Belvedere leaves the bar at closing time. He’s had a lot to drink, but, being an alcoholic, he still wants more. He goes down to his dressing room and waits. You see him down there, but he presumably doesn’t know that you stay in the building. He switches out the light in his dressing room, so that the Stage Doorman won’t realise there’s anyone there when he does his final rounds before locking up.
‘When he’s confident that the theatre’s empty, Mr Belvedere, by now desperate for a drink, makes for the store-room. Using his walking-stick as a lever he forces open the door and then does the same to the lock of the cupboard. He steals a bottle of brandy and starts drinking it down, there on the spot. The brandy, on top of all the other alcohol he’s had in the course of the day, makes him stagger around a bit, and that’s when he pulls down the beer pipelines. Or maybe he just does that out of spite, or to make it look as though it’s been an outside raid by kids . . . it’s not really important which, the important thing is that the lines get broken.
‘Then, finally, the alcohol gets to him, and he passes out, flat on the floor.
‘Unfortunately, though, when the beer lines got broken, so too did the lines carrying gas to pump the beer. That gas, of course, is carbon dioxide, and an elementary knowledge of chemistry will tell you that it’s heavier than air and so sinks to the ground. When it gets to the ground, it forces out the oxygen and so, for anyone who happens to be lying there, it’s really rather bad news. Particularly in a room where there’s a step up to the door, so that the gas stays trapped on the floor. Of course, someone in normal health would react, would rise to his feet when he started to have difficulty breathing. But for someone who was lying there in a drunken stupor . . .’ The Detective Inspector shook his head ‘. . . I’m afraid it’s going to be very bad news indeed.’
‘And that’s what you think happened?’ asked Charles.
‘Seems a reasonable assumption. Subject to confirmation, as I say. See what comes out at the inquest. But yes, that’s the way it looks at the moment.’
‘So you think it was an accident?’
Detective Inspector Dowling’s eyes narrowed. ‘The only alternative to it being an accident, Mr Paris, would be murder.’
‘Yes.’
The policeman sighed. ‘I know actors make their living by dramatising things, but I don’t think it’s really necessary in this case. Looks like a straightforward accident to me. I don’t think we need set in motion all the paraphernalia of a murder enquiry.’
‘Then why are you telling me all this?’ Charles was, in part, relieved that the threat of his being a murder suspect had lifted, but he was also intrigued about the reasons for his interrogation.
‘You were on the spot, Mr Paris. You may have seen something that invalidates my theory.’
‘Well, yes, I did, actually.’ Charles leapt in without thinking of the implication of his words.
‘Oh yes?’ The Detective Inspector was suddenly alert. Once again he had snapped from casual courtesy to incisive interrogation. ‘And what was that?’
‘The brandy bottle.’
‘What about it?’
‘Did you find a second brandy bottle?’
‘No. Just the one.’
‘And you know it came from the store-cupboard?’
‘We assume that.’
‘Because when I saw Warnock, before the store-room had been broken into, he already had a bottle of Courvoisier.’
‘Are you sure of that, Mr Paris?’
‘Well, yes, I . . .’ But suddenly he wasn’t sure of anything. The night before was disappearing into a jumble of alcoholic images. ‘I’m fairly sure.’
‘Fairly, eh?’ Detective Inspector Dowling grimaced. ‘We in the police force prefer things to be a bit firmer than “fairly”, you know. But let’s say for a moment you’re right . . . What you’re suggesting is that someone set up the whole thing, got Mr Belvedere drunk, broke into the store-room, laid him on the floor, fractured the beer- and gas-lines . . . all getting pretty elaborate, isn’t it, Mr Paris?’
‘Yes, I agree, but –’
‘And then of course if you are talking in those terms, it raises the q
uestion of who, doesn’t it? Who are you suggesting set up this complicated scenario?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Mr Paris, if you’ll pardon my saying it, you are not what the police regard as an ideal witness. During the period of what you like to think of as the murder, you were, not to put too fine a point on it, incapable with drink. I’ve spoken to other people who were in the bar with you last night . . . apparently you couldn’t even stand up when you left. So I think anything you say about your encounter with the late Mr Belvedere must be a little suspect, don’t you . . .?
‘I’m sure he had a bottle then. He said that a generous friend had given it –’
‘There is another point, too, Mr Paris, which I’m sure you will in time work out for yourself . . .’
‘What’s that?’
‘If we are talking about a murder, so far as we know there was only one other person in the theatre at the time that Mr Belvedere died. Wasn’t there, Mr Paris?’
The implications of Detective Inspector Dowling’s words sunk in, as Charles went down to join the rehearsal.
He just didn’t know. The policeman’s manner was so deceptive. Maybe he genuinely did think that the death had been accidental. Or maybe that was just a ploy to disorient Charles, to put him off his guard.
One thing was clear, though. If the police were thinking in terms of murder, they had only one suspect.
And that was Charles Paris.
Chapter Ten
‘YOU’RE NO fun any more, Charles Paris,’ said John B. Murgatroyd, slurping a lunchtime pint in the bar. Charles squinted down at his Perrier water.
‘No.’
‘I mean, what you need is a hair of the dog.’
‘That’s what I had yesterday. I had so many hairs of the dog I could have knitted myself my own St. Bernard. And it didn’t do me any good.’
‘No. But that was yesterday. Today’s today.’
‘I know. I’m still laying off.’
‘But, after the shock of discovering old Warnock’s body, you need something.’
‘That’s true.’
‘What’ll it be?’
‘I’ll stick with this.’ He looked again at the Perrier water. It didn’t get any less pallid and uninspiring. Had he been a vodka drinker, or a gin drinker, perhaps it wouldn’t have looked so strange. But to a man whose familiar spectrum of beverages ranged only from the gold of Bell’s whisky to the russet of bitter, there was a mental jolt each time he looked at it.
John B. shook his head in mixed pity and disbelief. ‘Sad to see a good man go.’
‘Sad to see Warnock go . . .?’ Charles ventured.
‘Well, yes. Sad to see anyone go, obviously. But I don’t think the old bastard’s going to be mourned that much.’
‘No.’
‘Couldn’t be a more appropriate end, though, could it? Drowned in alcohol.’
‘That isn’t quite what happened.’
‘Well, to all intents and purposes. I mean, it was the booze that got him . . . or at least, the desire for the booze.’
‘Yes.’
Something in Charles’s tone made John B. look at him sharply. ‘Oh, I understand. That’s it. Seeing him lying there’s put you off.’
‘I suppose so. I mean, I’ve heard the expression “old soak” enough times, but I never thought I’d see it so literally demonstrated. The beer was just dribbling over him. His suit was like a wet dishcloth.’
‘Yuk. Still, a few people round the theatre won’t be sorry.’
‘Who were you thinking of in particular?’ asked Charles, suddenly alert.
‘You name them. Little Ms. R.S.C., certainly. Now perhaps she’ll get a Duncan who will allow her to . . .’ John B. dropped into a parody of her thrilling intensity ‘. . . concentrate on the subtext of her part.’
‘Hmm.’
‘I’ve come to the conclusion that what would sort her out is a really thorough screwing. By an expert.’
‘Are you volunteering or just giving your considered medical opinion?’
‘Bit of each.’
‘Well, good luck. I’ll know when you’ve succeeded by your bent ears. Incidentally, Doctor, could I just ask why it is that you always recommend the same treatment for every female complaint?’
John B. dropped instantly into a cod Viennese accent. ‘In my experience, Herr Paris, it seems to work wiz most of them.’
‘You are a sexist pig and I shouldn’t be listening to you.’
‘Please yourself.’
‘Who else, though?’
‘Who else what?’
‘Who else do you think will be glad to see the back of Warnock?’
‘Well, everything Felicia does and thinks, someone else does and thinks, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ said Charles ruminatively, remembering the embarrassments of the first evening when Warnock Belvedere had made a pass at Russ Lavery.
‘And dear old Gavin was having enough disciplinary problems without Warnock constantly undermining his authority.’
‘True.’
‘But, as I said, basically anyone in the company. One of the most popular deaths in the annals of the theatre, I’d say. A blessed accident.’
Charles didn’t question this. No one in the company seemed to have thought of any possibility other than accident. Again he wondered how much Detective Inspector Dowling believed that conclusion, or how much he was playing his chief suspect along. Giving him enough rope.
‘Come on, let me get you another drink, Charles. What’s it to be? You can’t pretend you’re enjoying that Perrier.’
‘No.’
‘Go on, have a pint.’
‘No, I won’t.’
‘A Bell’s?’
‘No. I am really on the wagon.’
‘Dear oh dear. Well, what then – Coke, grapefruit juice, lemonade, cherryade, Tizer . . .?’ John B. pronounced each name with mounting distaste.
‘All of those are so bloody sweet, that’s the trouble.’
‘I know the solution,’ said John B. triumphantly. ‘I bet Norman’s got one of those alcohol-free lagers tucked away somewhere.’
Charles raised a hand of restraint. ‘No. I may have few principles, but the idea of alcohol-free lager offends one of my deepest. It’s like . . . yuk, I don’t know . . . like the idea of making love to an inflatable woman.’
John B. chuckled. ‘See, there’s nothing else you like. You’re going to have to have a proper drink.’
‘No,’ said Charles resolutely.
‘If you don’t, I am going to leave you on your own and start my campaign to winkle my way into Felicia Chatterton’s knickers.’
‘Off you go then. Good luck. I’m going to stick to my Perrier.’
‘Sissy.’ John B. started to move away.
‘Just a minute.’ Charles gestured his friend close and whispered, ‘I think your best approach is to find a subtext that proves Lady Macbeth was having an affair with Lennox. Then she’ll leap into bed with you, no problem . . . you know, Stanislavsky, “Method”, all that . . .’
‘Hey, thanks. That’s a brilliant idea. You can’t think of any particular lines of Lennox’s that’d be suitable, can you?’
‘’Fraid not. There doesn’t seem to be a moment where he suddenly says, “How about it then, Lady Macbeth? Get ’em off”.’
‘No.’ For a moment John B. looked downcast. Then inspiration struck. He raised a finger in triumph. ‘I’ve got it. I’ll tell her those lines were in the original text, but they got cut from the First Folio. Can’t fail. See you, Charles.’
When John B. Murgatroyd had sauntered off, Charles was left once again with his own thoughts. And they weren’t very comforting ones.
Also he did very desperately miss having a drink. Usually the worst effects of a hangover could be temporarily suspended by a lunchtime top-up, but his vow had forbidden that option. He thought back to the old joke about a drunkard having the advantage over a teetotaller that he knew from the moment
he woke up, his day could only get better. What faced Charles was a long plateau of boredom.
But he was determined to stick with it. Enough people had told him over the years to lay off the booze. How gratified they would all be to know that he was finally taking their advice.
Frances, in particular. She’d be glad. From the start of their marriage, she’d been on at him, subtly but inexorably, to cut down. And now he was doing it.
That might be a good way of making contact again . . . Ring her and tell her he was on the wagon. He could offer his great sacrifice as a peace-offering.
Good idea, yes. He could go straight away and ring her at school. She was usually free to take phone-calls at lunchtime.
But he curbed his enthusiasm. It remained a good idea, but it would probably be even better if he waited a few days. Frances might not think giving up drink for fourteen hours was really worth crowing about. But when it got to fourteen days, yes, then it could be a useful reopening gambit.
It didn’t take long for his thoughts to move from his magnificent self-denial back to Warnock Belvedere’s death.
He’d really got himself into a cleft stick over that. If he accepted Detective Inspector Dowling’s view of the death as an accident, then he had to deny certain memories he had of the night before. He knew he had been pretty fuddled, but he was sure that Warnock had had a bottle of Courvoisier before the store-room was forced, and also that the old actor had said it was the gift of ‘a generous friend’.
But if he continued to maintain that memory, the only effect would be to concentrate the Detective Inspector’s suspicions on him. Better, in that sense, to let sleeping dogs – or asphyxiated old queens – lie.
On the other hand, if Dowling was simply trying to put him off his guard, then he was still in danger. Any allegation of murder immediately pointed the finger at him as the murderer. So far as the police knew, he was the only person who had had the opportunity. The means were easily organised and, as for motive, well, everyone hated Warnock. He was sure members of the company could recall insults directed at Charles Paris as much as at anyone else.
So, in a sense, the only way he could protect himself against a charge of murder was by proving that someone else had committed it.