by Deryn Lake
Sonia fixed Olivia with a stare. ‘My dear, how it must take it out of you, all this travelling around. You look quite worn out.’
This was one of the unkindest things that one woman can say to another, immediately suggesting that the person concerned looked old and haggard.
Olivia countered with a brilliant smile. ‘Do you know I was thinking the same about you, Sonia. I hope you’re not overdoing it.’
Nick was dying to snigger but controlled himself admirably while the doctor stared moodily at the ceiling. Tennant, returning from the counter, just heard the tail end of it and decided to let it pass. Olivia seemed more than capable of dealing with such cattiness. He passed Sonia her drink.
‘If I may say so I think it is very foolhardy of you to wander about on your own during the hours of darkness.’
‘Well, people did during the war, didn’t they? They didn’t let Hitler ruin their social lives. I mean my mother was brought up in Brixton and she kept going out and about despite the blackout.’
Nobody answered her and Tennant thought that her mother must have had her quite young because Sonia had always struck him as being well in her sixties, despite her attempts to present an image of eternal youthfulness. He looked at his watch.
‘Well, I must be going. I’ve got a great deal to do this evening.’
‘Would you like to come and stay the night? I think everywhere else is packed with journalists,’ Nick said.
‘That would be very kind.’
Sonia said archly, ‘I’ve got a spare room available at any time.’
Everyone looked at her but nobody said a word, though eventually Tennant couldn’t resist saying, ‘Thank you, Sonia. I’ll put it on the list for the WPCs.’
She was about to make some remark but the vicar spoiled it by rising to his feet.
‘So sorry, everybody, but I have to go. Got to let the choir in for practice. Ladies, good night. Please go home with an escort.’
He gave his odd bow and almost ran back to the vicarage, where he quickly fed Radetsky, rushed up to the spare room and hastily put some fresh towels out, then hurried to the church to open it up for the choir.
Though it always gave him the creeps to enter the place at night, Nick immediately went to the light switch and turned them on. There was nothing and no one there and a few minutes later he heard the reassuring sound of several cars stopping outside and the tramp of feet as the choir approached.
The choirmaster, one Reginald Bridger, had arranged, during the present reign of terror, for those with cars to give lifts to others who had not and the first to enter the church followed by a flock of youngsters was Mrs Ely, the belting soprano with the terrible voice. She swept in like a mother hen with a brood of chicks, followed by several spotty boys, driven by somebody’s sister. Last to arrive were Reginald Bridger and Broderick Crawford, who tonight looked sicker than ever.
The vicar, who had indeed a lot to do, decided to skip his tasks rather than walk home in the dark, and sat unobtrusively in one of the pews and listened. Tonight Mrs Ely, who had niggled on about having a sore throat, was singing quite quietly and some of the sounds that the choir were making were extremely beautiful. Nick felt almost moved to tears that some evil creature was roaming the village, terrorizing the people, and yet his humble choir could produce such an exquisite sound.
At nine o’clock on the dot he moved quietly into the vestry and opened the outer door. Tennant and Sergeant Potter were standing outside and crept softly within, the inspector raising his finger to his lips to indicate that they must keep totally silent. Nick nodded and went back into the church.
As the practice ended he got to his feet.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I would request you to come into the vestry for a moment. I have something to say that won’t take more than five minutes.’
Mrs Ely said, ‘But, Vicar, my throat . . .’
‘Please, ma’am,’ he answered, ‘this will be very brief I assure you.’
They trooped into the vestry to find Inspector Tennant standing with an armful of cloaks. The sergeant had taken possession of the rest.
‘Well now, people,’ Tennant said cheerily, ‘we thought that as it was a cold night you all ought to wear your cloaks. Could you come and take them from me, please.’
In the doorway Broderick made a most terrible retching sound, so much so that several children moved away, fearful of what he might do.
‘Come along, sir,’ said Tennant, horribly bright. ‘Just take your cloak please.’
Broderick wheeled in the doorway and sprinted from the church, gagging as he ran.
‘After him, Potter,’ shouted Tennant, and as his sergeant sped away he threw the cloaks to the vicar and sped out into the night.
NINETEEN
They brought him crashing to the ground just outside the church porch. Tennant had taken the precaution of stationing four policemen there and four more outside the vestry door. As he came sprinting out of church the quartet leapt on him and Broderick Crawford disappeared under a thrashing sea of blue legs. By this time both Potter and the inspector had arrived and watched until eventually Broderick surfaced, firmly handcuffed and weeping like a girl. Potter read him his rights and the wretched young man was escorted off to the mobile HQ.
An enterprising member of the paparazzi, who happened to be lurking in the street, just on the off-chance, took several shots of the arrest which he immediately sent off to his paper via his laptop. He then went to The Great House, looking smug. Meanwhile, having out of the kindness of their hearts given the snivelling Broderick a cup of tea, Tennant and Potter sat down to question him.
‘Right, Mr Crawford,’ the inspector began, ‘we now have the evidence we want which tells us that the choir cloak belonging to you was worn on the night you attacked the vicar of Lakehurst with a piece of wood. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, but I wasn’t wearing it,’ Broderick replied, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.
‘Then who was?’
‘I don’t know. I just left it hanging there.’
‘Come along, Broderick,’ said Tennant gently. ‘Are you trying to tell us that someone borrowed your cloak to assault the vicar and then put it back with a piece ripped out? I’m afraid that simply won’t wash. You know damned well that you wore it that night and for some reason unknown launched an attack on Mr Lawrence, who saw you clambering over his gate.’
Broderick turned suddenly from broken reed to sullen youth. ‘I know nothing about it,’ he said, staring into the depths of his tea cup.
‘And that is all you have to say?’
‘Yes.’
Tennant stood up. ‘Broderick Crawford, I am charging you with the murders of Ali and Rohini Patel, Gerrard Riddell, Dwayne Saunters, Ceinwen Carruthers and Cheryl Hamilton-Harty. You do not have to say anything—’
He was interrupted by a loud scream from Broderick. ‘I didn’t kill them, I swear it on the Bible.’
Tennant finished what he was saying then turned to Potter. ‘Get him taken to Lewes. I don’t want to look at him any more.’
Crawford was led out by a constable, shouting and kicking for all he was worth.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Potter said, ‘But he didn’t do it, sir. You know that perfectly well.’
‘Yes, but I couldn’t bear the arrogant little sod trying to tell me he didn’t attack Nick Lawrence when we know that he did.’
They could hear Broderick weeping in the corridor outside and shouting, ‘I want to see Inspector Tennant. I want to confess to what I did do.’
Potter and the inspector exchanged a weary glance and the sergeant rose to his feet and opened the door.
‘Bring Mr Crawford back in please.’
He entered the room, gibbering.
‘Right Crawford,’ said Tennant, looking like an angry pixie. ‘That didn’t take too long, did it? Now, just settle down and talk us through everything.’
The boy went crimson. ‘What
do you want to know?’
‘Are you gay or straight?’ the inspector asked matter-of-factly.
Broderick muttered something.
‘Speak up,’ ordered Potter.
‘I’m gay. But don’t tell my mother, will you.’
Tennant sighed. ‘Mr Crawford, what you say in this room is for our information only. But surely she’s bound to find out one day.’
‘Not necessarily. I’ll just keep telling her that I haven’t met the right person.’
There was a moment’s silence and then the inspector asked, ‘Was the attack the other night anything to do with your lover?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well?’
‘You swear you won’t tell anyone?’
‘I’ve told you before,’ answered Tennant impatiently, ‘what you say is for this room only.’
Bright red, his face almost matching his hair, Crawford said, ‘He’s Mr Bridger.’
‘You mean the choirmaster?’
Broderick nodded but could not bring himself to speak. Tennant caught Potter’s eye and they could not help but smile at one another.
‘Did you think he was at the vicarage that night?’
‘Yes. I know it was stupid of me but I thought he might have a fancy for the new vicar. And I didn’t know how Father Nick would feel about it. So I crept into the gardens and peered through the kitchen window but I couldn’t see anything. I was just going away again when the vicar came out of the back door with that cat of his. He saw me jump over the gate and gave chase. So I hit him over the head with a piece of wood.’
‘Because you thought he might be able to identify you?’
‘Yes. But I swear on my mother’s life – and Mr Bridger’s – that I didn’t commit any of those other murders. I honestly didn’t.’
He looked so earnest, so vulnerable and so terribly young that Tennant, typically, felt a great deal of compassion for him. Potter, on the other hand, remained stony-faced.
‘All right, Broderick. You may not be guilty of the murders – though your evidence will be examined along with that of all the other suspects – but you are certainly guilty of assault. I am afraid that you will still have to go to Lewes and will be charged accordingly.’
The young man looked at the floor and mumbled, ‘Will my mother find out what I am?’
‘I expect she will,’ Potter answered ruthlessly. He stood up. ‘Constable, drive Mr Crawford to Lewes. He has pleaded guilty to assault and is now in custody.’
When the door closed behind the deflated figure, Potter turned to Tennant.
‘What a dirty old man that Bridger is.’
‘At least he doesn’t go for the very young kids.’
‘I suppose that’s something.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
With the mobile unit going quiet for the night, Tennant took his seat in front of the computer and typed the words Rose Indigo into Google. Up came that familiar face, those luminous eyes and that full, fabulous mouth. He reread Wikipedia with interest but he had already seen Potter’s printout of that. Now he turned to the other references about her and was pleased to find some of the stills from her early films. One in particular struck him, a scene from Jekyll and Hyde. All the actors seemed so familiar to him and he realized that as a small child he must have seen the film. There was James Pitman, looking suave and urbane and somehow dated, too clean cut and neat. And there were all the other players, frozen in time, forever caught in a moment of action from the film. Very, very faintly a distant bell rang in Tennant’s mind, but when he sought for what it was it slipped away from him, as ephemeral as a faraway dream.
Out of interest the inspector typed in the names of her various husbands, starting with James Crichton, the young actor she had met in Sidmouth. The entry was relatively brief but telling.
‘James Alexander Crichton, born 28th April, 1936, only son of Hubert Crichton, railway engineer, and his wife Gladys. Studied at Cricklewood County School where he showed early promise as an actor, playing Katharine of Aragon in Shakespeare’s Henry VIII, and Juliet Capulet in Romeo and Juliet, in school productions. The entire family moved to Devon after James’s father was invalided out of the RAF. Hubert began a career as a crime writer and had several popular books to his credit. James was acting with the local dramatic society in Torquay and was consequently signed up by the Sidmouth Repertory Company where he met his first wife – who was to become a Hollywood star during the fifties and sixties – the famous Rose Indigo. The marriage did not last and they were divorced in 1962. James subsequently married Jane Glynde, also an actress, and later Beryl Miller, with whom he remained until her death in 2002.
‘He had a moderately successful career in the theatre, his most famous part probably being William the Conqueror in the Martin Steele film 1066. James gave up acting in 1995 and started a small but profitable farm outside Exmouth from which he produced free range eggs. He has two children, Nathaniel and Thisbe, by his third wife, Beryl.’
There was no mention of his death so Tennant deduced that the old man was still alive. On a whim he telephoned a contact he had in the Devon and Cornwall constabulary and asked him a few discreet questions. It appeared that James Crichton was quite a well known figure in the Lower Chudleigh public houses, where he would sit in a corner and regale the passing population with tales of show business and the people he had known.
‘Funny old character apparently,’ said the contact.
‘Ever been in any trouble that you know of?’
‘Never. As good as gold. His wife was a bit odd, though.’
‘Oh? Which one?’
But at that moment there was an interruption at the other end and the contact said, ‘Sorry. Got to go. Ring me another time,’ and the receiver was put down.
Tennant, feeling curious, typed in the words Michael Mauser but nothing came up except a question: Do you mean Sieglinde Mauser? At that moment Potter came into the room and Tennant reluctantly switched the computer off. Third time lucky? he thought.
‘I’m off, guv. Is that all right?’
‘Yes, I’m staying with the vicar. Are the night duty boys here?’
‘Yes, hundreds of ’em. If there’s a murder tonight . . .’
‘Don’t even say it,’ interrupted Tennant.
‘Right, sir, I won’t. Goodnight.’
Five minutes later the inspector made his way to the vicarage, where the lights were still on. Nick answered the door, smiling a most welcoming smile.
‘Come in, come in. Mrs Culpepper is here. I fetched her,’ he added in an undertone.
Tennant felt vaguely uncomfortable that he had just been looking at her personal details on the Internet. But when he saw her face, which tonight seemed particularly beautiful, he forgot all about them and felt himself start to relax.
‘Hello Roseanna,’ he said. ‘How nice to see you again.’
‘And you my dear Inspector. It was so kind of Nick to invite me this evening. I must admit to feeling a little nervous when I’m on my own and after it gets dark. What is it about darkness that makes one afraid, I wonder.’
Tennant smiled. ‘I don’t know. Night terrors, I suppose.’
‘I know some adults who will insist on having a night light on and others who like their rooms as dark as an Egyptian tomb,’ said Nick.
Roseanna looked squarely at the inspector.
‘It is like living in the village of the damned at the moment. Please, when are you going to make an arrest?’
‘Well, we have arrested someone but only for the assault on the vicar. It’s Broderick Crawford.’
Nick tutted but said, ‘I’m not surprised about that.’
‘Yes.’ The inspector became deliberately vague. ‘No doubt we’ll learn more in time.’
There was a slight silence into which Roseanna spoke.
‘Gentlemen, Richard has given me three complimentary tickets for his show and I am wondering if you would like to accompany me to London to see it.’
Tennant considered whether it would be possible to leave Lakehurst at such a delicate stage of the investigation. Then he thought that just one night off might give Potter a chance to take over and show what he was made of.
‘Yes, I’d like that very much.’
‘Oh how wonderful.’
Roseanna clasped her hands together and looked so delectable that Tennant wished he were twenty years older or she twenty years younger. Then he remembered the remarkable Joan Collins and silently came to the conclusion that age was really irrelevant.
‘When are the tickets for?’ asked Tennant.
‘Any night we like this week. You see the show is closing on Sunday and they’re anxious to fill the house.’
‘Quite right,’ observed the vicar. ‘Well, I’ll fit in with you, Inspector. You’ve got far more on your plate than I have.’ He addressed himself to Roseanna. ‘Can I refill your glass?’
‘Yes please. It really is a lovely Beaujolais.’
They fell to discussing the merits of various wine growing regions, both displaying a knowledge of France which was extremely creditable. Tennant was miles away, thinking about the bicycle search and sorry that nothing had been revealed so far. He was determined, however, to identify the bike and search it thoroughly for any trace of protective clothing. It occurred to him that it might have been taken, not stolen exactly but borrowed. He turned to the other two and interrupted their conversation which had now reached the merits of the Bergerac region.
‘I’m sorry, but have either of you got a bicycle?’
‘Yes,’ said Nick. ‘It’s in the garden shed.’
‘Do you keep that locked?’
‘Yes, I do as a matter of fact.’
‘And you, Roseanna?’
‘We’ve got two actually. One terrible old thing I used to ride – though I haven’t done so for months. The other is much smarter and belongs to Richard. He cycles quite a lot when he’s here. Says it helps him to keep fit.’
‘And where do you keep them?’
‘Again in the shed which I’m afraid is not locked.’
‘I’ll have a look at them in the morning if that’s alright with you.’