by Deryn Lake
‘That will be fine,’ said Roseanna, while Nick nodded his head.
The actress finished her glass of wine and stood up. ‘I really must be off. I’m sorry to trouble you, Nick.’
Tennant held up an admonitory hand. ‘I’ll get a police car to drive you back, Roseanna, and they can search your house before you go in.’
He spoke briefly into his mobile phone and two minutes later they heard it pull up outside. Both men saw her into the vehicle and Tennant, leaning in at the door, said, ‘I want you to search the house thoroughly before you drop Mrs Culpepper inside. I’m spending the night at the vicarage but I’ll be available on my mobile if I should be needed.’
‘Very good, sir.’
They turned back into the warmth of the vicarage and sat down on either side of the fire.
‘Tell me about Broderick now that we are alone. Was he looking for me?’
The policeman decided to be honest. ‘Not really. He thought his lover was in here.’
Nick shot him a perplexed look and then after a moment or two, his face cleared.
‘You don’t mean Reginald Bridger do you?’
‘That’s the fellow.’
‘Oh good Lord,’ Nick answered, his face changed to thoroughly perplexed once more. ‘What on earth does he see in an old boot like that.’
Tennant burst out laughing. ‘Just what I was thinking.’
‘Bridger’s married you know. Got two children, as well. Millicent and Maurice, would you believe?’
‘What’s the wife like?’
‘A grim-faced woman who is running to serious obesity. No wonder poor old Bridger’s gone gay.’
‘Poor chap. No wonder.’
Tennant held out his glass for a refill and they sat in silence, listening to the logs falling in the hearth.
‘You’re lucky to have this house.’
‘Aren’t I just. It’s absolutely perfect for me. I feel totally comfortable here – and that includes old William.’
‘Surely you don’t believe in all that, do you?’
Nick chuckled comfortably. ‘Wait and see is all I can say. By the way I take it that the kneeling figure I saw in church, who scared me half to death, was Broderick?’
‘We don’t know yet. We’ll find out about that in the morning.’
Tennant gave a sudden yawn and said, ‘Today is catching up with me. I think I’ll go to bed. Would you mind showing me where I’m sleeping?’
‘Of course.’
The bedroom was pleasantly warm and the inspector, after having given his teeth a brisk brush, got into bed and fell immediately asleep. During the night, however, the temperature suddenly plummeted and Tennant woke and saw standing in the window, surrounded by moonlight, a craggy-faced man.
‘William?’ he croaked.
And before the apparition vanished he saw it give him a grin with several missing teeth.
TWENTY
It had been very much as Tennant had thought. Traces of an unusual type of material had been found on the bicycle used by Richard Culpepper which had been removed for detailed examination to Lewes. He somehow felt that with this discovery he had drawn somewhat nearer to solving the case. For if the traces had come from protective clothing then, as sure as night follows day, something of the killer would be left on the garments. The net was beginning to tighten.
As everything in Lakehurst remained relatively quiet, he saw his way clear to going to the theatre on Tuesday night. They drove to Oakbridge Station in Tennant’s car and got on an early evening train to London. The inspector could not help but notice how few people boarded and left at the station, which was the nearest to Lakehurst, out beyond Speckled Wood. It seemed that it was being regarded very much as a place not to go near. He presumed that half the Lakehurst residents – that half who were something big in the city anyway – were working from home on their computers. The rest were just busy trying to dodge the murderer as best they could.
It was observed by both Nick and Tennant that as the train began to fill up after Sevenoaks, people of all kinds shot a quick look at Roseanna, just as if she were still young and at the height of her powers. She was superbly dressed, of course, in a simple black number with shoulders heightened by a waterfall of crystal which swept down to her waist. Over this she wore a red evening coat, slightly drawn in at the bottom like a harem girl’s. Her make up was subtle but clever, highlighting the glorious eyes and the curving, sulky lips. Despite her seventy-two years she looked sensational and Tennant, for one, was proud to be seen out with her.
They reached Charing Cross and took a taxi to something called Hackney People’s Theatre, which turned out to be an old library converted into a strange type of community building. Nick, who did not approve of libraries being closed down, pulled a bit of a wry expression as he paid the taxi off. A scruffy fellow in jeans and with a great shock of hair which thankfully covered most of his spotty face and his three-day growth of stubble, tore their tickets in half and muttered something like ‘Frownpairs’, which indicated that they should descend into the very depths.
The bar, to which they had apparently been directed, was dire. Small, hot, with a lot of people talking loudly about their theatrical experiences. There were acres of girls in jeans and huge, unattractive jerseys with matching hair and faces, accompanied by similar-looking men, all of whom seemed to be involved in the arts. Then there were the slightly better dressed aficionados discussing the St Pancras prize for all they were worth.
‘I thought Raymondo’s entry was stunning, didn’t you, Nathan?’
‘Utterly,’ answered a youth in jeans with button at the fly, and a shirt with ballooning sleeves. ‘It couldn’t have made a statement more about the political morass in which this country finds itself today.’
A voice soared above the rest. ‘Well, d’you see, I envisaged this play as a kind of scena, if you take my meaning.’
‘No, I don’t quite,’ answered a very short little woman of interderminate age, with tiny pebble glasses which she clearly needed desperately.
‘What Marcus is trying to say, Gwendoline, is that he sees the whole thing aerially – from above, as it were – and the scenes enacted below represent the way in which various people react to the news that John Major is dead.’
‘But he isn’t dead,’ answered Gwendoline, huffily.
Marcus, clearly the author, heaved a long and pitying sigh. ‘It is a pretence, Gwen dear. That is what I have created. A pretence that Major is dead and that all is not well with the world, d’you see.’
‘No,’ she said stubbornly, and kicked one shoe against the other like a child.
At that moment they were interrupted by a short, earnest man with a balding head. ‘Excuse me, would you be Mr Marcus Alnuff?’
‘Alnough,’ pronounced Marcus loftily.
‘Sorry, Mr Allno. I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes of your time. I’m from the St Pancras Commuter Echo and we would like to do an interview with you regarding the forthcoming award.’
‘Of course,’ said Marcus grandly. He turned to his companions and said, ‘Press’ in a loud stage whisper and then turned aside.
Roseanna caught the eye of the two men and smiled broadly before saying, ‘Poseur,’ in quite a carrying voice.
‘Quite,’ answered Tennant. ‘What’s everybody having to drink? I’ve got a feeling we’re going to need it,’ he added in an undertone for Nick’s benefit.
He managed to get served just as the first bell rang, so changed the order to three shorts, which they all swallowed swiftly as a nasal voice announced, ‘No glasses in the theatre, please.’ They then started on a long trek through big empty rooms until they reached the third, the biggest of all, which had been set out with four rows of folding seats around two-thirds of its area. The space was already quite full but Roseanna, moving swiftly, managed to get three seats in the front row.
In the centre of the acting area stood a large closed coffin with a British flag draped over it
and a bunch of stage flowers placed at its foot. Attached to this was a label saying, ‘Always, Norma.’
Tennant was staring at it, thinking sorrowfully of Lakehurst, wondering when the action was going to begin, when suddenly it did.
A naked young man wearing a John Major mask ran across the stage, paused momentarily by the coffin and then ran off. After that appeared two women in macs both playing the part of TV commentators and both – though not at the same time – reporting on the state of the nation, shocked and stunned by the news of Major’s death as it was.
Tennant closed his eyes momentarily but was brought back by a dig in the ribs from Nick as one of the women peeled off her mac to reveal that she was bare-breasted underneath.
‘What’s it all about?’ asked the vicar, extremely puzzled.
‘Search me,’ Tennant whispered back.
‘Oh,’ said the vicar, none the wiser.
They stared in amazement as the awfulness of what they were watching dragged on but were suddenly alerted by Roseanna whispering, ‘Richard is coming on now.’
Tennant gave a sharp intake of breath as what appeared to be a forensics expert came on the stage. He was dressed in the traditional white protective clothing, had mauve gloves on his hands, and his features were covered by a white disposable mask. In fact he was scarcely recognizable except for the matinee-idol eyes wildly rolling from side to side.
Roseanna’s reaction was endearing. She leant forward on her seat, her hands clasped before her, her chin on her locked fingers. She looked for all the world like a little girl gazing at the Christmas tree and her very attitude made both Tennant and Nick smile.
Richard pulled the mask down and let it hang from one ear. Then he started on about Major’s death being suspicious and how the police force had been called in confidentially, not a word of it leaking to the press. Enter the bare-breasted reporter – once more decently clad in the mac – who began to say through the mike she was clutching that rumours were circulating throughout the media that there might have been foul play involved and how the police were doing a secret investigation.
‘Some hopes,’ muttered Tennant.
The forensics man launched into a long speech about how skilled was the work he did, then everyone left the stage.
‘Is that it?’ asked the vicar, standing up.
‘No, my dear,’ answered Roseanna, ‘this is only the interval.’
They staggered back to the bar, both the men feeling desperately in need of alcohol to numb the pain. Roseanna went to the Ladies and Tennant and Nick stared at one another in horror.
‘This is quite the most God-awful thing I have ever seen,’ said the inspector.
‘What’s it meant to be about? Nobody is connecting with anyone else.’
‘It’s a series of scenas, of course,’ Tennant answered loudly, and the vicar saw that Marcus had walked into the bar surrounded by sycophants.
‘Richard hasn’t got much of a part, has he?’ he remarked.
‘Perhaps he’ll do more in act two.’
But strangely enough when they took their seats again it was to find that the forensics man did not appear.
‘Is Richard coming back as someone else?’ the vicar asked Roseanna.
‘No,’ she answered, smiling. ‘He’s only in the first act.’
Suddenly Tennant came to life. Why had he never thought of it before? Supposing the fellow decided against taking his curtain call on certain occasions and caught the train back to Oakbridge where he might be keeping a bicycle? A short ride to Lakehurst and he could go about his grisly business unhindered. He could even borrow the protective clothing he wore in the play and next morning, arriving early, put it in the theatre washing machine.
The inspector was so gripped by his theory that he scarcely noticed the play had come to an end. The naked man wearing the Major mask ran across the stage, this time in slow motion, and everyone started to clap. They all appeared to take a bow, Richard included, and then the audience traipsed back through the empty rooms to the bar.
Marcus stood in a semicircle of admirers drinking in their compliments.
‘Such meaning,’ said the young man with the buttons on his fly, ‘I mean it left me drained – utterly.’
‘Why did that girl take her top off?’ asked Gwendoline, who was turning out to be a bit of a nightmare.
‘Oh, shush.’
‘No, I won’t shush. I mean why did she?’
‘To show she had decent tits,’ said an old bearded gentleman who was making his way out and who obviously had not enjoyed the evening at all.
‘Hear, hear,’ echoed the vicar unexpectedly.
But at that moment Roseanna could be seen returning and a discreet silence fell. She glanced at Nick.
‘Did you enjoy it, my dear?’
‘I’m afraid it was rather beyond me,’ he said, looking apologetic.
‘And what about you, Inspector?’
‘Well, I’m a bit thick when it comes to a series of scenas,’ he answered, just loudly enough for Marcus to hear.
‘The last thing I would have called you was thick, my friend,’ she said, and then she turned and flashed her radiant smile as Richard came up to her. Looking at him closely, Tennant wondered if he had had plastic surgery.
‘Well, hello, everybody,’ the actor said, putting his arm round Tennant’s shoulders. ‘How are we all, tonight? Did we enjoy ourselves?’
‘It was a very interesting production,’ said the vicar tamely.
‘Hoh, hoh, hoh,’ chortled Richard. ‘Did you know that “interesting” is a euphemism for bloody awful in theatrical parlance.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Neither did I,’ said Tennant. ‘Is that a fact?’
‘What can I get everyone to drink?’ asked Richard, thankfully changing the subject.
‘I’ll have a half of light ale.’
‘And so will I.’
‘And I will have a vodka and tonic,’ said Roseanna, before throwing her arms round her husband and giving him a look of such adoration that it plucked at Tennant’s heart to see it. There could be no doubting that this marriage, regardless of the age gap, regardless of any hidden depths her husband might have – and the inspector thought that they might be deep indeed – had brought her great joy.
‘You were wonderful, my darling,’ she murmured. ‘When you were on stage one couldn’t look at anybody else.’
Considering, thought Tennant brutally, that there had only been one other person with Richard, this was not difficult to achieve.
The actor hugged Roseanna tightly to him. ‘Dearest,’ he said, ‘you truly are so sweet.’
He could have meant it quite sincerely but he had the unfortunate habit of speaking as if every word were a piece of theatrical dialogue. But his wife either didn’t – or did not want to – notice, and snuggled up as closely to him as she could possibly get.
Afterwards, going home on the train, she fell asleep on Richard’s shoulder and the actor closed his eyes, despite the fact that he had a man next to him who was eating a portion of smelly chips while prattling inanely on a mobile phone. Nick leant across to the inspector.
‘Would you like a bed for the night?’
‘I’d be very pleased. By the way, I saw your ghost.’
‘Did you? I’ve never seen him. What was he like?’
Tennant laughed. ‘You really believe it, don’t you. Actually I had a dream and thought I saw something but in fact I must have been asleep.’
Nick laughed shortly and said, ‘You policemen.’ He indicated the dozing Richard with his eyes. ‘What’s he doing coming back with us?’
‘Apparently they’ve got a day off tomorrow. Something to do with judging the St Pancras award.’
‘Blimey. That’s going to be a big deal.’
And both men roared with laughter, so much so that the man on the mobile looked annoyed and spilt his chips all over the floor.
They got back to Lakehurst at mid
night and after having dropped off the Culpeppers, Tennant called in at the mobile unit before returning to the vicarage.
‘Everything quiet?’ he asked the desk sergeant.
‘So far, so good, sir.’
‘Well, fingers crossed.’
On a whim and despite the lateness of the hour Tennant sat down in front of the computer and typed in the words ‘Sieglinde Mauser’. Immediately a picture came up of a somewhat frightened-looking woman standing next to – of all people – Adolf Hitler. The legend came up. ‘Sieglinde Mauser, born 16th June, 1890, only surviving daughter of Fritz and Rosa Mauser. Sieglinde was an associate of Adolf Hitler and worked in the position of his secretary during the 1930s. In 1935 she met Graf Rolfe von Weisshausen, a staunch henchman of the Fuehrer, and married him a year later. (See Weisshausen, Graf Rolfe von). In 1939 their only child was born, a son, Conrad Michael. In 1946 von Weisshausen was tried at Nuremberg and subsequently executed. Sieglinde, however, escaped with her child and reverted to her maiden name in order to avoid detection. It is believed she spent some years in Poland but she eventually came to England, where she lived until her death in 1980.’
Tennant sat back in his chair, breathing hard, and typed in the words ‘Rolfe von Weisshausen’. And up came the photograph of the Nazi war criminal in his high boots and his uniform, the swastika emblazoned on his arm. The inspector had never seen such a likeness between father and son. He could have been looking at the face of Michael Mauser.
TWENTY-ONE
Broderick Crawford looked terrible after a night in the cells. His face was the colour of a slug’s, his normally vivid hair hung limply down upon his grimy collar, his teeth looked as if they had been dipped in seaweed. To crown it all he had a five o’clock shadow in a shade resembling pale putty. Tennant, sitting opposite him, felt that the poor child had nothing going for him at all. To make matters worse Mrs Fothergill, his mother – she had married again after Mr Crawford had gone either to meet his maker or to the divorce court – had arrived in Lewes and was sitting in the waiting room in floods of tears, demanding to see her boy. Tennant sighed. His was not an easy life.