by Adam Croft
‘Looks pretty short to me,’ Ellis noted.
‘Indeed it is. Primarily because he's left everything to one person.’
‘Marianne, presumably.’
‘Oh no. He wouldn't have needed to write a will in that case, as his estate would pass to her as his next of kin regardless. This completely changes everything, Ellis. Charlie Sparks left his entire estate to Roxanne de la Rue.’
16
The Fox and Bugle was a heavily-extended thatched pub which sat on the cross-roads in the centre of Fettlesham. The low ceilings proved to be a challenge for Hardwick, who meandered towards the bar via the path of least resistance.
The pub was decorated with all manner of Italian-style trinkets, the walls adorned with pictures and photographs which seemed to have no relationship to each other, yet appeared to fit perfectly within the surroundings. Hardwick sat himself down on a sofa near the front window and watched the cars passing, stopping occasionally in acquiescence to the pedestrian crossing a few yards further up the road. Ellis Flint returned a few moments later with two drinks and wasted no time in getting straight to the point.
‘What's next?’ he asked.
‘There's no rush, Ellis,’ Hardwick replied.
‘How can you say that? For all we know, the killer might be out to strike again!’
‘Oh, I very much doubt that. No, I think we can quite safely say that the murder of Charlie Sparks was a one-off. I don't imagine for one minute that we're looking at the work of a serial killer. No, we need to assimilate our information and formulate some sort of plan for moving forward.’
‘And how do you suggest we do that?’ Ellis said.
Hardwick could sense Ellis Flint's growing frustration. ‘Well, let's look at what we know so far. Charlie Sparks was poisoned, that much is almost certain. Judging by the symptoms, I'd say we're looking at a very hefty dose of tetanus.’
‘Only problem with that is that Charlie Sparks didn't have a mark on him, if you believe the newspaper reports.’ Ellis replied.
‘Indeed. That's a stumbling block. Either way, he was poisoned and he died. For now, I don't suppose the specific method matters all too much if we can find someone with the means, motive and opportunity to kill Charlie Sparks.’
‘Could the killer not have used a hit-man?’
‘Come along, Ellis. A poisoning in a pub full of people? Hardly the mark of the fly-by-night hit-man, is it? No, I think we can discount that. The problem we have is that none of our main suspects were actually at the pub on the night of the murder.’
‘What about the landlord, Doug Lilley?’ Ellis asked.
‘No motive,’ came Hardwick's reply.
‘He could have been paid to do it.’
‘Oh, really, Ellis. Doug Lilley is a career publican. Are you really suggesting that he'd commit the murder of someone he didn't even know in his own pub and risk his entire business and career at the same time? No, I'm sure it must be one of our main suspects. If we're looking at poisoning, the murderer need not have actually been present at the time of death. Particularly with tetanus, one would expect a slow onset of symptoms leading to eventual death.’
‘Charlie Sparks's death was nothing like slow and eventual,’ Ellis offered. ‘The man practically keeled over and died.’
‘That's the problem,’ Hardwick responded. ‘A dose that heavy must have been administered pretty shortly before he went on stage.’
‘So what, our killer somehow got into Charlie Sparks's dressing room and had a conversation with him, somehow managing to slip poison into his drink?’
‘It's looking entirely possible.’
‘But who?’ Ellis asked.
‘That's the eternal question, Ellis. The only witness is a dead man.’
Ellis Flint sat quietly for a few minutes, feeling really rather despondent. ‘But what about the means and motive? Surely we have plenty of leads on those fronts.’
‘Oh, indeed we do. The means of obtaining a deadly tetanus cocktail would be extremely easy for someone who ran, say, a pharmaceuticals company.’
‘Patrick Allen?’ Ellis asked.
‘Indeed. Of course, Marianne Spencer had a couple of pretty close ties with Wellington Pharmaceuticals. Her husband was part-owner of the company, for a start, and her love affair with Patrick Allen gives her even more opportunity to obtain chemicals and poisons. I think we can quite safely assume that she also had the means to kill him.’
‘That's what I don't understand,’ Ellis said. ‘Why, if Patrick Allen was having an affair with Marianne Spencer, would he reveal the information about her being the director of Net Marketing Solutions?’
‘Quite simple, really. The net's closing in, Ellis. Guilty people do strange things. I shouldn't imagine for one moment that Patrick Allen would think twice about jeopardising a fling in order to save his own skin. Besides, that information would all be publicly available. Keeping it from us would only make us even more suspicious of him. The problem is that both Patrick Allen and Marianne Spencer also have pretty strong motives. Wellington Pharmaceuticals had been haemorrhaging money and Patrick Allen may have believed at that stage that he'd stand to gain. At least, he'd gain by default by losing a dead weight. And if we're to believe the stories of Charlie Sparks's philandering ways, it's no surprise that his wife would have wanted rid of him.’
‘Surely that'd be pretty hypocritical, though, seeing as she was having an affair at the same time.’
‘Women are a strange species, Ellis,’ Hardwick said. ‘Never put anything past them.’
‘Including Roxanne de la Rue?’
‘Especially Roxanne de la Rue. I'm not entirely sure I'm convinced of the “jilted lover” scenario; there has to be something she's not telling us. As for the means of murdering Charlie Sparks, that's going to take some working out. She did, however, stand to gain more than anyone else from his death. Amassing his entire fortune and future royalties would set her up for life quite nicely.’
‘But why?’ Ellis Flint exclaimed. ‘Why on earth would he have left his entire estate to her if, as she claims, he had led her on with false promises of marriage before leaving her altogether? Surely if he didn't want to be with her, there's no way he'd leave everything he had to her.’
‘Unless, of course, he didn't leave her at all,’ Hardwick mused.
‘But why would Roxanne de la Rue say that he did? What would she have to gain? Surely that would only increase the level of suspicion on her, seeing as it gives her a motive for killing Charlie Sparks.’
‘Does it, though? Think about it, Ellis. It's far less likely that the end of a fling would cause someone to commit murder than the revelation of a potentially huge windfall from being the sole beneficiary of his Will. What it actually does is shift our perception of her motive to something far more fatuous and unlikely. When, in actual fact, her motive was to obtain Charlie Sparks's entire estate, which she knew she would receive upon his death.’
‘Kempston, why do I get the feeling you're about to drag me into another strip club?’
*
‘You make out like you don't enjoy it,’ Hardwick shouted back to a trailing Ellis Flint as he marched his way up Greek Street for the second time that week.
‘Well it's never been my idea to come in here. I don't see what's wrong with calling her and meeting her at a neutral location.’
‘Have you ever tried hunting bears at sea, Ellis? No, we need to speak to her where she feels most comfortable; where she's most likely to reveal her inner thoughts. If her guard is down, we're infinitely more likely to discover the truth.’
The man on the door gave the pair a knowing grin, seemingly recognising them from their previous visit. Ellis Flint returned a coy smile, as if begrudgingly entertaining his partner's whims. Roxanne de la Rue was seated on a rounded stool at the bar as Hardwick and Flint entered The Vines. She seemed to recognise them immediately, but showed little willingness to greet them enthusiastically.
‘Miss de la Rue.
How nice to see you again,’ Hardwick remarked.
‘You know, Inspector, there's only so many free visits I can allow you.’
‘Oh, we're not here to visit, as such. We're here to ask you a few questions.’
‘I told you everything I know the other day, Inspector. I have nothing else to tell you.’
Hardwick shuffled slightly as he deliberated as to when to play his trump card. ‘Well, that's not entirely true, is it? I mean, you told us something, but I'm not entirely sure you told us everything. In fact, I've a funny feeling that you didn't actually tell us anything.’
‘I’ve no idea what you mean,’ she replied, taking her eyes from the pair and starting to stir her drink.
‘You told us that Dave Spencer had promised you marriage and that you had since gone your separate ways as he wasn't as committed to you as he had claimed.’
‘That's right.’
‘So why, Miss de la Rue, did he see fit to commission a will in which he left his entire estate to you?’ Roxanne de la Rue looked visibly taken aback. ‘Oh, you're a fine actress, Miss de la Rue. You're a woman whose entire life revolves around duality. Your job is to be something you're not; to entertain and mislead; to elicit certain emotions. I must admit it almost worked with me, too. You had me believing that you were simply a lover scorned and that you had no real motive to kill Charlie Sparks. In fact, you had used your fantastic acting skills to ensure that he gradually fell in love with you until such a time as you were named as the sole beneficiary in his Will, at which point you somehow kill him off and claim the money.’
‘That's not true at all!’ Roxanne de la Rue protested. ‘I loved Dave, but he didn't love me. That's the absolute truth. You have to believe me!’
Hardwick looked sideways at Ellis Flint. ‘And why should we believe you, Miss de la Rue? Whether you're being honest or not, you had a solid motive for killing him. Where were you on the night Charlie Sparks died?’
‘Where do you think? The same place I am every bloody night. I was here, at work.’
‘Do you have an alibi?’ Ellis Flint asked.
‘Will the entire staff roster and about eighty sweaty old men do?’
*
Hardwick and Flint headed out of Greek Street and back down the Charing Cross Road towards Covent Garden before heading into The Harp. The room upstairs was accessed by a traditional wooden-boarded staircase at the back of the pub, and was ornately decorated and had the look and feel of an Edwardian drawing room, with four small tables and sets of chairs dotted around comfortably. Hardwick and Flint sat at the table nearest the window.
‘The problem is,’ Flint began, ‘Every single suspect has a cast-iron alibi. Marianne Spencer, Patrick Allen and Don Preston were all at home and have had their alibis confirmed by witnesses, and Roxanne de la Rue was at work all night.’
‘Indeed, but I wouldn't suppose for one minute that it puts them all in the clear. There's something that doesn't quite add up.’
Hardwick and Flint both stared out of the window for a good couple of minutes, neither saying a word. It was Ellis Flint who deigned to rekindle the conversation.
‘Well, I'm going to get another drink. What's that you've got?’
‘Campari,’ Hardwick replied, proffering the glass politely to Flint.
‘Oh no, thank you. Far too bitter for me.’
The bottom of Hardwick's glass hit the table. ‘My God, that's it! We've got it!’ Hardwick exclaimed, rising from his chair and dashing towards the staircase leading back down to the main bar.
‘Got what? Kempston!’ Ellis Flint gulped down three last mouthfuls of his beer and followed Hardwick as quickly as possible. They were back on the Charing Cross Road before he had managed to catch up with him. ‘What is it, Kempston?’
‘Too bitter, Ellis! We need to assemble everyone as quickly as possible. Call Marianne Spencer, Don Preston, Patrick Allen and Roxanne de la Rue and ask them to get to the Freemason's Arms for seven-thirty.’
17
A light murmur of conversation reverberated around the Freemason's Arms at twenty-five minutes past seven that evening as the assembled souls awaited the arrival of Kempston Hardwick who, as Ellis Flint had expected, arrived at the very moment the grandfather clock in the corner chimed the half-hour gong.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, if you'd all quieten down for a moment, please,’ Ellis Flint pleaded.
A voice came from the crowd. ‘Who killed my husband?’ It was Marianne Spencer.
‘That's what we hope to settle once and for all, Mrs Spencer,’ Hardwick replied. The conversation died down as the front door to the pub swung open and DI Warner and DC Kerrigan entered the pub to whispered words. ‘Ah, good evening, officers. Glad you could join us.’
‘Now, what's all this about, Hardwick?’ asked Warner.
‘Quite simply, I intend to reveal the identity of Charlie Sparks's killer.’
‘And what makes you think you have the authority to do that, Hardwick? Besides, this isn’t some second-rate detective story. This isn’t how we do things in real life,’ the policeman said.
‘I never claimed to have any authority, Inspector Warner. I have, however, managed to piece together the clues and formulate a theory which exceeds anything the police have yet achieved.’ DI Warner fell silent. ‘Now, a fair few things struck me as rather odd about the chain of events on the night that Charlie Sparks died. Firstly, why were none of the main suspects present at the time of the murder? Quite simply, they didn't need to be. The dastardly deed had, in fact, been carried out much earlier. It was my associate, Ellis Flint, who led me on to the truth.’ Ellis Flint was both flattered by the recognition and confused by the term “associate”. ‘Of course, I should have realised what had happened before Charlie Sparks even died. The signs were all there while he was still alive.’
‘For crying out loud, man!’ yelled the voice of Patrick Allen. ‘Are you going to tell us what the hell you think happened, or what?’
‘In good time, Mr Allen. Patience is a virtue. And the person who killed Charlie Sparks knows all about patience. In fact, the weapon that killed Charlie Sparks was in place at least some days before he died.’
‘Weapon? I thought the police said he was poisoned?’ asked Roxanne de la Rue.
‘He was. That's about the only thing our esteemed local police force managed to get right.’
The officers began to shuffle their feet and clear their throats.
‘Poison is indeed a weapon, Miss de la Rue. It was the way it was conducted which surprised me. No, his food wasn't poisoned by his wife, nor was his drink spiked by an accomplice in the pub that night. When Ellis and I were speaking with Charlie Sparks backstage that night, shortly before his death, he was signing photographs for fans. Do you recall, Ellis?’
‘Well yes, I do remember, but what does that have to do with—’
‘Don't you remember what he said? He made some remark about how revoltingly bitter the postage stamps and envelopes tasted nowadays!’
‘What on earth does that—’
‘Bitter, Ellis! Bitter! Postage stamps and envelopes aren't bitter! Strychnine, however, is!’
‘Strychnine? You mean to say…’
‘Yes! Charlie Sparks was poisoned by the postage stamps!’
‘But who—’
‘I believe, quite firmly, that Charlie Sparks was poisoned by the very person with whom his wife, Marianne Spencer, was having an affair.’
The room fell into a hushed silence as the heads began to turn and look at Marianne Spencer and, most importantly, Patrick Allen.
‘I knew it!’ Roxanne de la Rue exclaimed. ‘You wanted him out of the way so you could carry on with your sordid affair!’
‘How dare you!’ Marianne Spencer shouted back. ‘Who the hell are you to speak about marriage and sexual morals?’
‘Ladies, please. As I said, I believe Charlie Sparks was killed by his wife's lover. When he was signing those photographs, he quite clearly said that he h
adn't had to package the envelopes himself for some years, but that he had been left to do them himself. By you, Mr Preston.’ Kempston Hardwick glared at Don Preston, who looked nervously from side to side as the eyes of the room fell upon him.
‘I beg your pardon! Just what proof do you think you have, exactly?’
‘For years, it was you, as his manager, who packaged and sent off the signed photographs, but on the night of his murder you insisted that you didn't have the time to do so, and that Charlie Sparks should do it himself, thereby being slowly poisoned by the heavily strychnine-laced stamps and envelopes. Now, it stands to reason that you would profit immensely from the death of your client. I should imagine DVD sales would soar, wouldn't you say?’ He gave Don Preston no time to reply. ‘But that's not all, is it? It wasn't Patrick Allen who had been conducting an affair with Marianne Spencer at all. It was you.’
‘Well! I've never heard such nonsense in all my life! And just how do you think I got hold of bloody strychnine?’
The eyes of the room fell again on Patrick Allen.
‘Well, the obvious line of suspicion falls again on Mr Allen as the beleaguered business partner of Charlie Sparks. The pharmaceuticals business, no less. Oh no, I've no doubt that Wellington Pharmaceuticals was the source of the strychnine.’
‘Now, you take that back at once! I've told you, I had nothing to do with this!’ Patrick Allen protested.
‘I never once claimed that you did, Mr Allen. In fact,’ Hardwick said, as he glanced at his watch, ‘I think the matter should be resolved in just a few seconds.’
The crowd looked around at each other, unsure what to make of Hardwick's comments. A few moments later, the door to the Freemason's Arms creaked open and the frame of Billy Reynolds entered the bar.