Bucket's List

by Gary Blackwood

  She’s left her bedroom door ajar, and each time she tosses about or mutters in her sleep, he hears it and can’t help imagining that she’s calling softly to him, or that she’s rising restlessly from her bed and will appear in the doorway at any moment, wearing only a nightgown and beckoning him.

  She doesn’t, of course – which is probably just as well. To add to the aches and pains that are the natural result of trying to sleep in an armchair, he’s experiencing the occasional twinge of guilt; he probably should have at least let Jane know that he wouldn’t be coming home. He’s never worried much about that in the past, nor did she, but things are different since her mother died. Jane seems more fragile, somehow, as if, like Monty, she’s been wounded and needs someone to lean on.

  He assumed that the house girl would return from her day off at some early hour and prepare breakfast for them; when that doesn’t happen, Charley finds a coffee stall and brings back muffins and Mocha. The muffins are delicious; the coffee is swill, but at least it’s hot swill. ‘I don’t understand,’ says Miss Fairweather, ‘why Arly isn’t here by now. I hope nothing’s happened to her.’

  ‘So do I,’ says Charley. Actually, he’s wondering whether there could be some more sinister reason for the girl’s absence. Perhaps he’s being unnecessarily suspicious, but that’s one of the hazards of the detective business. ‘How long has she worked for you?’

  ‘She was here when I moved in, nearly a year ago. Apparently she’d been a maid before that, at the family’s country house, but Lady Bainbury didn’t like her, so when Monty leased this place, he brought her here.’

  ‘Pardon me for asking, but was she … well, was she anything more than a house girl, do you think?’

  Miss Fairweather gives him a wry glance. ‘You don’t have to worry about my sensibilities, Charley. I’m in the theatre, remember? You mean, was she his mistress? Very likely.’

  ‘She must have resented it, then, when you came on the scene.’

  ‘Probably. If so, she kept it to herself. If she hadn’t, she’d have risked losing her position. An attractive young woman can always get a man; jobs are harder to find.’

  ‘Hmm. I don’t know much about women, I’ll grant you, but it seems to me they seldom forgive a hurt or an insult, or forget it.’

  ‘What are you saying, Charley? You think she’s somehow responsible for … for what happened?’

  ‘I don’t see how she could be. But I’m not going to rule it out.’

  ‘And are you ruling out the possibility that I’m responsible?’ Though her tone says she’s only joking, the look in her eyes suggests otherwise.

  Charley sips at his coffee and says, with studied nonchalance, ‘I can’t imagine that, either. But it’s my job to consider every possibility until the evidence provides a solution.’

  ‘Ah. We’re being brutally honest again, are we? Well, as you say, that’s what I hired you for.’

  ‘I don’t expect to be paid, you know.’

  ‘Good. Because I can’t afford it – or anything else, including rent. They’ll be throwing me out of here soon, I’m sure.’ She gives a grin that manages to be both rueful and mischievous. ‘How do you suppose Jane would feel about my moving in with her?’

  Charley smiles, too, and shrugs. ‘Who knows? She might be glad of the company.’

  The house girl doesn’t turn up at lunchtime, either. Miss Fairweather – who has mimed cooking meals onstage, but otherwise has no notion how it’s done – puts together a platter of cheese, cold cuts, and bread. Meanwhile, Charley conducts a full-scale investigation of the kitchen and uncovers a bag of coffee and a grinder, but no apparatus for brewing. He’s forced to resort to the method he learned long ago, while living at the station house: Add the grounds to a pot of boiling water and throw in a couple of eggshells to settle them.

  After lunch, he turns his attention to Arly’s room, hoping to discover something – old love letters, keepsakes, legal documents – that will either incriminate the girl or exonerate her. He finds none of those things, but what he does discover is nearly as revealing. The chest of drawers and the wardrobe are surprisingly well-made and in good condition – more befitting a mistress than a domestic. They’re also practically empty. The only items in the wardrobe are two maid’s uniforms and a pair of shoes. It’s beginning to look as though her disappearance was not unexpected at all, but planned.

  He decides to hold off on mentioning any of this to Miss Fairweather; better to wait and see whether she brings it up. No doubt he should give her room a going-over, too, but he doesn’t want to make her feel as though she’s a suspect, for she isn’t. Not just yet, anyway.

  But an hour or so later, the situation takes an unexpected turn. Charley is down in the cellar, checking the corpse for anything out of the ordinary, when the front doorbell chimes. Miss Fairweather calls, ‘Could you please get that, Charley? I don’t want to see anyone.’

  Whoever is at the door, he or she is an impatient blighter; before Charley can answer it, the bell has rung four more times. To his surprise, the caller is familiar to him, though it takes him a moment to recall from where and when. The man has gained a few pounds and a set of mutton-chop whiskers. No doubt the latter is calculated to make him look more authoritative and mature; he can’t be more than twenty-five, after all. Further evidence that the world is falling into the hands of children. Even if they hadn’t met, Charley would have made him as a copper easily enough. In his plain clothing, he might almost pass for a banker or a barrister, but the standard issue seven-league boots are a dead giveaway. ‘Dolly Williamson,’ says Charley.

  ‘Inspector!’ The detective sergeant thrusts out a pudgy hand. ‘You’ve beaten me to the punch yet again!’

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ says Charley, and for the most part he means it. Though Adolphus Williamson joined the force only two years before Charley left, he quickly proved himself a very likable, dedicated and resourceful fellow, not to mention a pretty fair sparring partner. Still, Charley would be a lot happier not to see him; his presence here means that the Detective Branch has suspicions of some sort. ‘Are you conducting an investigation?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Dolly grins good-naturedly. ‘I’m sure you’ve taken care of that for us, eh? No, I’m here to remand Miss Fairweather into custody, until the coroner’s inquest.’

  Charley doesn’t invite the sergeant in; instead, he steps outside and pulls the door closed behind him. ‘Why? Is she accused of something?’

  ‘Not accused, just suspected.’

  ‘As far as I can tell, Lord Bainbury’s death was an accident, nothing more.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I figured, too … until about an hour ago, when I talked to his solicitor. It seems that Bainbury recently changed his will; it now says that, in the event of his death, this property here goes to Miss Fairweather.’

  Charley can’t help wincing. That’s not going to play well at the inquest; it sounds too much like a motive. ‘But that’s hardly some great windfall for her; she couldn’t possibly make the payments on it.’

  ‘She won’t have to,’ says Williamson. ‘The lease is already paid up. For the next thirty-three years.’

  Charley puts a hand to his forehead and mutters, ‘The devil take me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Charley. Don’t be blaming yourself; we all get it wrong now and again.’ Williamson puts a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, but Charley shrugs it off.

  ‘Have they scheduled the inquest yet?’

  ‘Seven this evening, at Offley’s.’

  Charley groans. ‘That’s not much time. Could you do me a favor, Dolly? Don’t run Miss Fairweather in; just keep her here, will you? If word of this gets out, it’ll surely hurt her career. Notoriety is one thing; being accused of murder is another.’

  ‘All right. I’ll tell the Branch that I’m investigating. I’ll need to be here for the viewing, at any rate.’

  ‘Thanks. You’re a good man. Is it all right if I speak with her?’
/>   ‘Be my guest. I’m not eager to break the news to her.’

  Charley starts inside, then turns back. ‘What prompted you to visit Bainbury’s solicitor, anyway?’

  ‘It wasn’t a what, it was a who: Lady Bainbury. She practically demanded Miss Fairweather’s head on a platter.’

  Charley shudders at the thought. ‘You think Her Nibs will turn up at the inquest?’

  ‘And mingle with the hoi polloi? I doubt it.’

  Charley finds Miss Fairweather curled up in the same armchair in which he spent the night, a fact that creates a disturbing sense of intimacy. When he clears his throat nervously, she glances up from the script she’s perusing.

  ‘Sorry. Just going over Henry VIII. Elton’s doing it next, and he’s offered me a role. Who was at the door?’

  ‘Um … a detective, actually.’

  ‘Damn. What did he want?’

  Charley doesn’t reply. He pulls up a footstool close to her chair and sits. ‘I need you to tell me the truth about something, Julia.’

  She gives him a bright smile. ‘Don’t I always?’ When he again fails to reply, the smile fades and she shrugs a bit sheepishly. ‘That’s a silly question, isn’t it? Of course I don’t. Well, I’m not very good at honesty, but I’ll try.’

  ‘Try very hard. It’s important.’ He stares straight into her dark eyes, and she doesn’t look away. ‘Were you aware that Monty left this place to you in his will?’

  Her eyes blink and grow wide; her mouth drops open slightly. Either she’s genuinely surprised or she’s an even better actress than he thought. ‘What?’

  ‘He never mentioned it to you?’

  ‘Not a word. Not even a hint.’ She looks about the room in a dazed fashion, as if trying to grasp the notion that it belongs to her. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘So says his solicitor.’

  ‘My god. I had no idea.’ Her expression changes yet again, as she realizes the implications of this. ‘Will the coroner and the jury be told?’ When Charley simply nods, she groans and puts her head in her hands. ‘It’ll seem as though I had a reason to … to want him dead.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  As with most of her moods, her despair doesn’t last long; when she raises her head a moment later, there’s a hopeful look on her face. ‘But what if someone were to vouch for me? To verify that I knew nothing about the will?’

  ‘You have someone in mind?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘I do.’

  Five minutes later, Charley is in a cab, heading for the Princess’s Theatre. Though it’s only a half hour away on foot, he can’t afford to waste time. He only hopes that the acting company will be around this far in advance of the evening curtain. Luckily they’ve already begun rehearsals for Henry VIII, without Miss Fairweather. Charley doesn’t wait for the troupe to take a break; he pushes past the boyish assistant stage manager and strides onto the set as though this is not Shakespeare they’re doing, but a second-rate murder mystery in which he’s been cast as The Inspector.

  Mr Elton is, of course, playing the much-married monarch himself, and the part seems to have gone to his head. He gives the intruder an imperious glare and indignantly demands, ‘Who the devil are you, and what do you want?’

  Charley has learned from long experience when a situation requires subtlety and tact, and when a more direct approach is called for. Elton is used to being in charge; he needs to be disabused of that notion right away. Seizing the astonished director by the front of his frilly shirt, Charley drags him downstage, away from the others. ‘I’ll tell you who I am,’ he says in a voice that’s like a knife – quiet but deadly. ‘I’m the cove who’s going to knock your bloody teeth down your throat if you don’t cooperate. Is that clear?’ When Elton, who has been struck dumb, nods fearfully, Charley releases him. ‘Good. I’m Inspector Field, and I need to ask you some questions. Can we go somewhere private?’

  Elton straightens his clothing and puts on a strained smile. ‘Of course, Inspector. We’re always happy to assist the police.’ He conducts Charley to the property room, where they seat themselves on a couple of steamer trunks.

  ‘Now, tell me: How well do you know Miss Fairweather?’

  ‘Julia? I – she’s acted in several of my shows. I’d say we’re friends, but not close friends. Why?’

  ‘Has she ever said anything to you about her … living arrangements?’

  Elton momentarily regains some of his haughtiness. ‘I don’t think it would be proper to discuss such matters without Miss Fairweather’s consent.’

  ‘I don’t care what you think,’ growls Charley, ‘and I don’t care whether it’s proper or improper. Just answer the question.’

  ‘Uh, well, I don’t suppose it’s any great secret that she’s being … provided for.’

  ‘Has she told you that herself?’

  ‘Not in so many words. But a few days ago, she came to me in tears. She said that Lord B— That her benefactor—’

  ‘Lord Bainbury, I know. Go on.’

  ‘Well, she said that he’s been very ill, and she’s afraid that, if anything happens to him, she’ll have nowhere to go. She asked me – practically begged me – to cast her in another play, so she’d have a little income of her own. And, well … I obliged.’

  ‘Very generous of you.’ Elton may be able to carry off Henry VIII, but he’s not very convincing in the role of beneficent theatre manager. He’s concealing something, most likely something he’s a bit ashamed of. ‘And in return?’

  The director shifts uncomfortably on the trunk. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You agreed to give her a role; what did she agree to do for you?’

  ‘Why … just to appear in the play, that’s all.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ says Charley. ‘However, I’ll let it go – for now.’ Elton looks distinctly relieved – at least until Charley adds, ‘Provided, of course, that you agree to do something for me.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  When Charley enters the long gallery above Offley’s Tavern with his witness in tow, the inquest is already underway. Mr Mallett is seated at his bench, which has been jury-rigged – literally, by several members of the jury – from two sawhorses and a discarded door. Charley has known Mallett ever since joining the force. The coroner seemed ancient even then; now he looks as though he might be the subject of an inquest himself, any day.

  The jury is a small one – only fourteen men – and one of them seems to have no idea why he’s here; no doubt they’ve recruited him from the tavern just to avoid having an unlucky number. There are more spectators than is usual at an inquest – probably because the deceased is high born; working folk are always curious about the affairs of the rich and titled. But they’re also more subdued than normal, perhaps in deference to Miss Fairweather, who sits all alone, looking quite forlorn and quite beautiful. When Charley catches her eye and nods, she seems to relax a little, but otherwise maintains her melancholy mien.

  Dolly Williamson stands before the bench, recounting what Lord Bainbury’s solicitor revealed to him about the will, and doing so with obvious reluctance; no doubt Miss Fairweather has won him over in the short time available to her. The information causes such a stir among the jury members and spectators that Mr Mallett must rouse himself and call for order, so feebly that Williamson is forced to relay the message. ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ he says, in a voice that’s far from feeble. ‘Quiet, please!’ He turns back to the coroner. ‘That’s all I have for now, Your Honor. But I see that Inspector Field has just arrived; I’m sure he will be able to enlighten you further.’

  Charley’s done this sort of thing a hundred times, and he knows how to work a jury. Not that he would lie to them, exactly, or even deliberately mislead them. But he doesn’t want to confuse them either, so he tells tell them only what they need to know. For example, there’s no point in mentioning the cane, since he doesn’t yet know what became of it. Nor does he bring up Arly, the house girl, and his vague suspicions ab
out her. He can follow up on those later on; for now, the important thing is to establish Miss Fairweather’s innocence.

  Slowly and in great detail, he lays out the evidence for them; he emphasizes the fact that Lord Bainbury drank heavily, that he’d taken another fall very recently, that he was always trying to do things he shouldn’t. Once he’s sure they’ve taken all that in, he broaches the subject of the will. There’s no point dancing around it; he readily admits that, at first glance, it may seem to incriminate Miss Fairweather. This gets the men of the jury worked up again; some seem to be objecting, some agreeing. ‘But!’ Charley continues, over the babble, ‘that would be true only if she knew about the will! Which, as Mr Elton will make clear, she most certainly did not!’

  He’s been hoping all along that Elton, like any actor worth his salt, will make the most of his moment in the limelight, and the man doesn’t disappoint. He approaches the bench like Henry VIII making his grand entrance in Scene II. The murmuring swells again, even louder, and not only from the jury but from the audience. Surely a substantial number of them have seen the celebrated actor looming larger than life upon the stage, and now here he is, gracing them with his presence – as if a dead lord and a beautiful woman in distress weren’t enough.

  In well-rounded tones and with great feeling, Mr Elton recreates his dialogue with Miss Fairweather; in his hands, it becomes a full-fledged dramatic scene, and when he’s done, a few of the spectators actually applaud.

  The coroner has a question. Charley catches it but, knowing he may be the only one, he repeats it. ‘His Honor would like to know when this conversation took place.’

  ‘The day before yesterday, Your Honor,’ says Elton.

  Mr Mallett turns to Dolly Williamson and croaks, ‘Did you happen to note the date of Lord Bainbury’s will?’

  ‘I did,Your Honor. April 14th, of this year.’

  ‘Nearly two months ago, then. So Miss Fairweather clearly knew nothing about the will – unless Lord Bainbury told her sometime in the past two days.’ For the first time, he addresses the lady herself. ‘Did he, Miss Fairweather?’