by Deryn Lake
Culpepper gulped and turned back into a gangling youth caught drinking or smoking or something or other, for the first time.
‘How confidential is this?’ he asked, going from ashen-cheeked to flame impressively fast.
Tennant sighed. ‘It all depends which way the case against you goes.’
‘Case? What case? You have no case.’
‘Not at the moment we haven’t, sir,’ put in Potter, who had been dying to get a word in. ‘But much depends on what you tell us now.’
‘If word of this ever gets back to my wife I swear I’ll put a gun to my head.’
‘Oh stop being so dramatic,’ said Tennant testily. ‘This is 2009 not 1929. I take it from all your protestations and general mouthiness that you had another woman within cycling distance of the station, that you spent a night of wild sexual excess with her, that you got up when you felt like it and caught a train back to London. Or that is what you would like us to think. But I put it to you that the first scenario I painted could quite as easily fit the bill and until you can give us incontrovertible evidence that that was not the case, then you leave me no alternative but to regard you as our prime suspect.’
‘And what about the other night?’ asked Culpepper, pushing his chin out and looking like an angry schoolboy. ‘What about when I came back with you and there was a murder attempt the next morning? How can you explain that?’
‘Very simply. You rose early and borrowed your wife’s car and went to Speckled Wood and attempted to murder Giles Fielding but somebody took a pot shot at you and you retired home, hurt.’
‘My wife will prove that I remained in bed with her till eight o’clock.’
‘We haven’t asked her yet, but we will,’ answered Potter nastily. ‘And meanwhile, Mr Culpepper, you will remain in custody and not be permitted to use the telephone.’
The actor positively bristled and Tennant thought that at last they were beginning to see through all the impeccable performances.
‘Would you care to give us the name and address of your mistress,’ he said in a businesslike manner.
‘No I would not,’ Culpepper retorted.
Tennant gave a mannered sigh. ‘You will eventually so why bother to spin it out? We have a certain amount of time before we have to take you in front of a magistrate and unless you give us something to go on we will press for you to remain in custody.’
‘Then press, my friend, press,’ said Culpepper, easily slipping into the role of gallant Englishman who would not betray the woman he loved at any price.
‘You could have been written by John Buchan,’ said Potter in amazement, aware that Tennant was looking at him in something like surprise.
‘Damn you, sir,’ Culpepper answered. ‘You’ll never get her name out of me.’
‘Well, it’s that or a murder charge,’ Tennant answered. ‘Constable, would you escort Mr Culpepper to the cells please. And put him on bread and water,’ he added, with a sly wink in the officer’s direction.
It was six o’clock and Nick was relaxing after a very strange day when there came a frantic knocking at his front door. Roseanna stood there, looking as tragic as only a Garbo look-alike could.
‘Oh, Nick, Nick,’ she sobbed. ‘They have taken my husband away to Lewes. What shall I do?’
The vicar had already heard the news when he had gone to the post office earlier. Mavis Cox had told him, her eyes reduced to wicked little slants as she had relayed the story.
‘It was him all along. Pretending to be in London in a show. Would you believe it!’
Somehow, Nick hadn’t. As soon as Mavis had opened her mouth he had started to have doubts. Richard Culpepper may be many things but a murderer he was not.
Now he said, ‘Come in and sit down. Let me get you a little drop of brandy and then you can tell me the story from the start.’
He ushered her into the living room and went to the sideboard where he poured her a large brandy and a smaller one for himself.
‘Now tell me everything,’ he said.
‘Well, they came this afternoon. It was Sergeant Potter who made the arrest. He just said the words and then they drove him away to Lewes.’ She cried again and then sipped her brandy which appeared to revive her a little. ‘But the thing is, you see, that I know why.’
Those heavy-lidded eyes, somewhat puffy now, looked at him over the rim of the glass.
Nick stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I know why he kept a bicycle at Oakbridge Station.’
‘Why?’ asked Nick, not following the thread of the conversation in the least.
‘Because of her.’
‘Her who?’
Roseanna blew her nose, wiped her eyes, and had another deep drink of brandy.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m being a little incoherent. I’ll start at the beginning. You know that my husband is twenty-two years younger than I am.’ The vicar nodded. ‘Well, about a year ago he was in a West End production – only a very small part, I’m afraid. Poor Richard, I’m sorry but he never made the big time and I doubt very much that he will now. Anyway, during this run he fell madly in love with the ingénue, a pretty little thing, very small and feminine with jet black hair and amazing bright blue eyes. To cut a long story short he promised her that one day they would be together but that he owed me a debt of gratitude and that he could never leave me.’
‘And she believed him?’
‘It was true, it was true,’ Roseanna said tragically. ‘I did give him a start. We met in 1969 when he was only ten. He had the part of a baker’s boy in Jekyll and Hyde.’ She laughed. ‘Do you know I think he had a bit of a crush on me, even in those days. However, later on we met again and married and have been ever since, and it did his career no harm at all. I introduced him to agents, producers, everything. But I love him, Nick. And I know that he loves me. This little girl no doubt fills some place in his heart, yet I know that I will always come first.’
‘So how does this fit in with keeping a bicycle at Oakbridge Station?’ asked Nick, bemused.
‘Because some nights he does not take his curtain call but catches a train and cycles to see her. They spend the night together and then he goes to the theatre the next day.’
Nick thought that Richard could have done this from the start but said nothing, presuming that he was under contract to take a bow, or something like that. He pulled himself together because Roseanna was asking him a question.
‘So what shall I do, Nick?’
‘Well, you’d better ring Tennant and tell him. Or better still go into the mobile unit and tell them. I’ll go with you. How did you get here by the way?’
‘Oh, I took the car. Because I know the murderer hasn’t been caught and it’s still dangerous on the streets.’
Nick shivered. Her voice had a deep and disturbing quality when she spoke like that.
‘And for a few minutes I thought we were safe,’ he said.
Strangely, or so it seemed to him, the police treated her story with a certain amount of caution. Admittedly neither Tennant nor Potter was present, both busy in Lewes he presumed, but for all that the policemen in the mobile unit had very little to say but merely took a statement from her which Roseanna duly signed. The vicar waited for her and afterwards invited her for a drink in The Great House which she, somewhat surprisingly, accepted. They went in and there was Giles Fielding, regaling all and sundry with tales of his miraculous escape. Sitting on the edge of the group, drinking his usual vodka and smiling at Giles’s story, was Kasper.
‘Good to see you,’ said Nick, really meaning it.
Kasper stood as Roseanna approached and kissed her hand. She smiled at him graciously.
‘So, you two are out for an evening,’ he said.
Roseanna went pale. ‘Well hardly,’ she answered.
Kasper was profuse in his apologies. ‘Please forgive my unfortunate use of the language. I was merely saying the first thing that came into my head. I do beg your pard
on.’
The vicar saved the situation. ‘Unfortunately Mrs Culpepper and I have just come in for a quick drink. As you know her husband was arrested earlier today and she came to see me for a bit of moral support.’
‘He is innocent,’ Roseanna said loudly. ‘I have made a statement to that effect to the police.’
She was very slightly hysterical, Nick thought, and obviously so did Kasper, for he escorted her to a seat and put a glass of brandy in her hand.
‘Perhaps you would like to tell me,’ he said, in his most soothing professional voice.
Roseanna drew breath, took a sip, and then poured out the whole sad story – this time fortunately in an undertone – to Kasper. Nick, sitting at the same table, listened to it all again. But for some reason the fact that she had met Richard when he had been only ten, encouraged by his parents, no doubt, who had presumably sent him to stage school – Nick could just imagine it – meeting his future wife in a Selznick film, where they had obviously sent for an English boy rather than sit through the agony of an American kid trying to do an English accent, haunted him. It was such an unlikely idea. Nick determined to try and find a still from Jekyll and Hyde on the Internet when he got home.
Kasper was speaking. ‘All will be well I assure you, my dear Roseanna. As soon as the inspector gets your statement he will be round to see you and everything will be sorted out.’
Despite her weeping, despite the fact that her nose was red and her eyelids swollen, Roseanna had never looked more beautiful than when she said quietly, ‘Thank you, Kasper. You are so kind.’
A familiar voice spoke behind them. ‘Is this a private party or can anyone join?’
It was Sonia Tate, very slightly drunk, and not caring a damn. Nick and Kasper caught each other’s eye and winced slightly.
‘Well, I walked here because I believe that it is now safe to do so.’ She looked at Roseanna and clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘Oops, sorry. I didn’t see you there.’
Nick knew perfectly well that she had and that the whole thing had been a cruel barb. He drew himself up.
‘I’m sorry but I was about to take Mrs Culpepper home. The streets of Lakehurst are not safe until they are pronounced so by the police.’
‘You sound very pompous.’
Nick struggled to keep his annoyance under control. ‘I’m devastated if you think so. Apologies for leaving you like this, Kasper. Come and see me any time.’
But the doctor was not going to be left alone with Sonia. ‘I, too, must take my leave of you, Mrs Tate. Please excuse me. Nick, I may come to the vicarage later if that would be all right?’
‘Can I join you?’ This from Sonia.
Together both men said, ‘No.’
She looked petulant. ‘Talk about not being wanted. Well, you can both bugger off. I can spy some younger and more amusing company.’ And she went off, wiggling her behind horrendously.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ murmured Nick, and taking Roseanna under the elbow he propelled her through the doors, followed closely by Kasper.
Later, after he had seen Roseanna into her house, Nick went back to the vicarage and fed Radetsky, then went into his study and sat down before the computer. This time instead of pressing Wikipedia he brought up another site which showed old photographs of her various films. He loved the titles of some of them: The Seductress, The Waterfall, The Daring Lady, Purple Orchids, The Kiss of Passion, to name but a few. Then there were the classics: Anna Karenina, Mati Hari, The Woman in White and Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. He came to the still that he sought. The one in which a grubby child, barely recognizable as Richard Culpepper, was standing offering Mr Hyde a bun. There were several other people in the photograph; a young James Pitman, playing the title role, a couple of women – clearly prostitutes – eyeing him up, and Roseanna walking along the other side of the street, unaware of what was going on.
But it was to the two young girls that Nick’s attention was drawn, for one of them reminded him of someone he had seen quite recently, though for the life of him he could not recall who it was. It was just at that moment that there came a knock at the door and going to answer it he found Kasper standing in the entrance.
‘Oh, what a ghastly woman,’ said the doctor. ‘I thought you acted quite nobly in getting rid of her.’
‘Come in, come in,’ Nick answered. ‘I want you to look at something.’ And he pointed out the picture which was still on the computer. ‘Does it remind you of anyone?’ he said.
‘Yes, it does. Now who on earth is it?’
They both stared at it and then they turned to one another. ‘It’s . . .’ started Nick.
But he got no further because at that moment a thunderous and repetitive knocking started at the front door.
‘It’s going to be one of those nights,’ said the vicar, and went to answer it, leaving Kasper staring at the computer screen.
TWENTY-THREE
Late in the evening as it was, Tennant and Potter decided to leave Lewes and head back for Lakehurst. The mobile unit had faxed through a copy of Roseanna’s statement and that was enough to make them return.
Tennant felt terribly disappointed. He really thought they had got their man at last; the fact of the late train home, the protective clothing and the bicycle kept at the station had really proved it to him. Yet now had come this wifely confession, that she knew all about his little love nest with yet another young actress waiting there, that had blown the whole theory out of the water.
‘Could be a trick, sir. It won’t be the first time a wife’s done that to protect her husband – and it won’t be the last.’
‘We must go and see the girl right away. Her name’s Titania Grove, by the way.’
‘That surely was made up for the stage,’ Potter exclaimed. ‘Can you see an officer worker going round with a moniker like that?’
‘Anything’s possible,’ said Tennant. ‘I once knew a girl named Petal.’
They drove along in silence after that, Tennant wishing that the tests carried out on the many bicycles he had delivered to the laboratory had come up with something. But the most that any of them had provided were one or two items of sweaty hands on the handlebars, scrapes of mud, a torn piece of trouser leg, a sordid scrap of chewing gum. All this from the commuters to London. The most hopeful was a smear of white that looked like the deposit made by protective suiting. But this, strange to tell, had come from the bicycle ridden by Jack Boggis which was so rusty that the laboratory came out with the story that it hadn’t been ridden for five years at least, though admittedly there were traces of new oil on it. The fibres clinging to Culpepper’s other cycle had turned out to be from a pair of white dungarees.
So, truth to tell, there had been no tangible clues other than for the warnings left by the murderer, which had been gone over with a fine tooth comb, revealing only the fact that he must have worn gloves when he wrote them. And Tennant had had nearly four weeks working on the case. Small wonder that he was determined to resign from it at the end of this one. With a mighty effort he put such negative thoughts from him and asked Potter, ‘Do you think it is too late to call on Mrs Culpepper?’
His sergeant looked at his watch. ‘It’s ten o’clock, sir. I think perhaps we ought to make it tomorrow morning.’
‘What about Titania? Her address was given on the fax.’
‘Yes, let’s do her. Showbiz people never go to bed early.’
‘Except when their boyfriends are coming,’ Tennant answered, and gave a hollow laugh.
She lived in Buckfield, another village about the size of Lakehurst, but with a far more imposing High Street of ancient houses all crowded together, and a truly grand Georgian mansion standing on its own, a short distance away from them.
‘What number is it?’
‘Fifty-eight, High Street.’
‘Blimey! It looks good from the outside.’
‘I think,’ said Potter, peering at the door, ‘that it is divided into flats.’
; There were three bells and as Roseanna had either forgotten or not known whether it was A, B, or C, Potter was in something of a quandary.
‘Aren’t there any names?’ asked Tennant.
Potter shone a torch. ‘Yes, but there’s no Grove.’
‘Try ’em all,’ said Tennant, a note of exasperation in his voice.
There was no answer from A and from B came a voice with an old Etonian accent. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello and good evening,’ said Potter in exaggerated American tones. ‘We are looking for a Miss Titania Grove. Would she be at your number by any chance?’
‘No, try C. And kindly don’t ring my bell after ten.’
‘We’ll ring it at midnight if necessary, sonny. Cos we’re the cops, see.’
‘Potter, have you gone completely off your head? He could report us.’
‘Sorry, sir. But we could always say it was youths mucking about.’ He tried ringing C and this time a beautifully modulated voice said, ‘Yes?’
‘Miss Titania Grove?’
‘Yes. Who is it?’
‘Sergeant Potter and DI Tennant from the Sussex Police.’
There was a sharp intake of breath and then the voice said, ‘Come up,’ and a buzzer pressed and the front door opened.
Despite this modern entrance the house was truly ancient. A winding circular staircase with doors leading off it would prove a challenge to all but the fittest, thought Tennant, as he puffed his way up to what would once have been the attic. The door was already open and a slight figure wearing pyjamas and a silken dressing gown, stood there.
‘Come in,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Has there been an accident?’
The men walked into a gorgeous little flat, complete with sloping ceilings, which she had decorated with theatrical posters, which gave it a cosy and welcoming air.
The three of them stood looking at one another. Tennant thought she was just like her name, a fairy creature, utterly petite and feminine, with a divine little smile. Titania found him extremely attractive, instantly drawn to his green eyes and rather longish hair. Potter she passed over as being like a million and one other men that she knew.