by Deryn Lake
‘Just because you fancy that bloody Jerry.’
But Sonia didn’t answer. She stood up, kissed her finger and placed it on his lips, then left the pub in a whiff of perfume.
Darkness came quickly that November evening. The Lakehurst Bonfire Boys and Belles were due to march through the village shortly, joined by all the other local bonfire societies. But this year they had postponed the festivities on police advice. Besides that, many were fearful of strutting their stuff along the High Street with a killer lurking in some nearby alleyway. Regretfully they had reached a decision that unless the murderer were quickly caught there would be no bonfire celebrations this year.
As soon as they were under cover of night, Tennant began moving people about. First of all he placed a couple of plain clothes men in the homes of Michael and Giles, then took the two of them into the safety of the mobile unit. At the same time Potter escorted a woman into the custody of Nick Lawrence and made sure that the vicarage was locked tight against marauders. Then he placed WPC Sally Castle – the one who had found Ceinwen Carruthers’s body – inside the Culpepper’s house and told her to wear plain clothes. He met up with Tennant again in the mobile HQ.
‘All in place, sir.’
‘Good, let’s hope tonight sees some action. If not we’re going to have to do the same thing all over again tomorrow and tomorrow . . .’
‘And tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day,’ answered Potter cheerfully.
‘Shush. Don’t go quoting the Scottish Play this night of all nights.’
‘Very good, sir.’ And Potter gave a smart salute.
‘You’re in a very good humour.’
‘I feel we’re drawing near and I’m panting like a greyhound in the slips.’
‘Stop showing off your Shakespeare and get to work,’ said Tennant, and gave his sergeant an affectionate cuff round the ear.
The Culpepper house was the very first of the Victorian houses that one came to, coming into the village from the north. Remote from the others, it stood at the end of a curving drive and was one of the few houses left in totally private ownership. Approaching it in the darkness of that cold night, Tennant wondered what Richard and Roseanna used all the space for. Standing hidden in the garden he counted at least four big rooms downstairs, plus a kitchen and a large conservatory leading off the drawing room. Upstairs there were another four rooms and up again, situated in the old servants quarters, were several more. Tennant wondered whether Roseanna had had these smaller rooms knocked into one to make a large studio, though with what purpose he had no idea, perhaps to give guests a living area to themselves. The whole place suggested enormous affluence to him and he thought that Roseanna must have made a mint in her heyday.
As he had instructed the blinds had been drawn in the conservatory but outlined against them was the shadow of a woman, sitting in one of the cane chairs and reading. There was the glow of a fire which had been switched on against the coldness of the night. It made a cosy picture and one could easily imagine the great actress, Garbo-face relaxed, beautiful eyes cast down as she immersed herself in a book. In the garden outside, Tennant shivered, and wished that he were the other side of the glass wall, sitting amongst the potted plants and having a drink with the woman within. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was shortly after nine o’clock. Well, he thought, at least it’s not bloody raining.
Potter glanced at the clock on the wall of the mobile unit and saw that it was half past nine. His two guests, Michael Mauser and Giles Fielding, were sitting as comfortably as possible, conversing quietly over a cup of tea. Mauser, wisely, had brought a hip flask which he was offering to Giles, who took a deep swig.
‘Thanks, me old mush.’ He glanced at the sergeant. ‘Any chance of sending out for some beer?’
‘It’s a bit awkward, Mr Fielding. I’ve only got uniform on duty. It’ll cause quite a stir if one of them goes to the pub.’
‘There’s the offy, Sarg.’
‘Same difference. Look, I tell you what. I’ll go across myself but I’ve got to be quick. What is it you want?’
Mauser spoke up. ‘I think the occasion calls for some good claret.’ He fished in his pocket and produced a twenty pound note. ‘Will this be enough?’
‘More than. I’m afraid we haven’t got much in the way of glasses but I’m sure you won’t mind that.’
‘I’ll drink out of a bucket,’ said Giles, and they all laughed.
‘OK. I’ll leave you in the capable hands of our desk sergeant. Won’t be long.’ And Potter ran across the road and into The Great House.
At ten o’clock Tennant was almost dying of the cold. In fact he was swinging his arms across his body to keep warm, when suddenly he stiffened. Scything through the air came the sound of a bicycle, quite distinctly. The inspector crouched low and listened, heard the cycle slow down and the rider dismount. Then he heard it being leant against the hedge as someone, walking very lightly, came in through the open gates and began to approach the house.
Potter was served quickly as there were few people in the pub that evening. Crossing the road with the bottle of claret clutched firmly in his hand he made his way back into the unit. Looking round he saw that Giles was in deep discussion with the desk sergeant but that of Michael Mauser there was no sign.
‘Where’s Mr Mauser?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Popped out to get a breath of air, sir. You must have passed him.’
‘No, I didn’t see him. How long ago was this?’
‘About five minutes.’
Potter sped outside, plonking the wine down before he did so. The High Street was deserted and still except for one or two solitary figures making their way home.
‘Christ almighty!’ the sergeant exclaimed. ‘Where the hell has he gone?’
Like one in a trance Tennant watched silently as a figure dressed in white protective clothing made its way across the front lawn and round the conservatory. He knew that on the far side of the glasshouse was a door leading into the back garden, a door which had been deliberately left unlocked. He watched, almost spellbound, as he saw the shadow of the seated figure rise and turn to the doorway. Only then was he released from his catalepsy and he sprinted forward towards the conservatory.
Potter stood uncertainly, swaying from foot to foot. He knew that he should not have allowed Mauser to slip through the net but he had given into their request for something stronger to drink and like a fool he had been tricked. He raced up the steps and into the mobile unit. He looked accusingly at Giles.
‘Were you part of the plot?’ he barked.
The man stared at him open-mouthed. ‘What plot?’ he said, his Sussex accent never more pronounced.
Potter dashed out again and started to run, full pelt, down the High Street.
From inside the glasshouse there came a loud scream just as Tennant threw open the door. The white-clad figure stood over Sally who had been knocked back into the chair and was fighting tooth-and-nail as she was slowly being strangled with a piece of cord. Tennant gave a huge leap across the space but even as he did so a shot rang out and he froze as the figure clutched its chest where a huge red patch was forming, stark and obscene against the whiteness of its clothing.
He turned back towards the door and saw there the tall and grand figure of Michael Mauser, who smiled at him.
‘Auf Wiedersehen,’ he said, and raised the gun to his head.
Potter had never run so fast in his life and panting for breath arrived at the door of the conservatory.
He saw the policewoman, gasping almost as much as he was, dragging the air back into her lungs. He saw Tennant, holding the dying Michael Mauser in his arms. He saw the dead body of someone clad in white lying on the floor. He steadied his breathing and knelt down beside it, removing the mask that covered the lower part of the face. Then he looked at Tennant.
There was silence in the conservatory and there was death in the conservatory, and the silence remained unbroken until policemen rushed in
from every angle.
It was only then that Potter said to Tennant, ‘It’s Sonia Tate, sir.’
And Tennant answered, ‘Amen.’
TWENTY-FIVE
Why hadn’t Roseanna recognized her, that was the question that burned in Tennant’s brain as he mulled over the problem now that it was all over and the village had settled back to normal. He had asked her, of course, but she had looked at him with her great magnificent eyes and given him such an enigmatic smile that he had felt he should not press the point too hard. Richard, on the other hand, released from prison, was playing the part of the great man, rising superbly over the scurrilous barbs of the inferior police force who had brought an entirely false case against him. Titania, much to Tennant’s amusement, had dumped him and taken up with the young policeman who had driven her home on that fateful night.
Tennant switched his computer on and again pulled up the images of the beautiful Rose Indigo letting his eyes linger on them for perhaps one of the final times. Eventually he came to the still from Jekyll and Hyde. There they all were: the English child actor, Richard Culpepper; the young attractive James Pitman; the glorious Rose Indigo; and that skulking figure in the background, Jane Glynde, also known as Sonia Tate.
The inspector stared closely. It was her alright, despite the ravages of time and the work of a great number of plastic surgeons, to say nothing of the change of hair colour. For Sonia had been a blonde in the still photograph, but as he had known her she had had raven black locks, obviously dyed and hard against her natural pallor.
Tennant thought about the drastic changes in the late Michael Jackson’s looks and could accept that to someone whose eyes might be failing the matter of recognition could be hard.
He typed the words Jane Glynde into his computer and up came a smallish entry in Wikipedia.
‘Susan Jane Cox (Jane Glynde) was born October 8, 1941, at Brixton, in those days a poor quarter of London. Her father was the Rev. Horace Cox, a strict Baptist minister, and her mother Mildred (neé Harris). Susan, as the only child, was left alone a great deal and was allowed no books except The Bible and The Pilgrim’s Progress. It is said that she grew up quoting passages from The Bible at length. However, she eventually rebelled against this and ran away from home at the age of fifteen, attaching herself to a concert party performing on the pier at Clacton-on-Sea. She later became an actress and played various small parts in films both in Hollywood and England. Jane Glynde married three times:
1) James Crichton
2) James Pitman
3) Roger Tate
All three marriages ended in divorce. There was no issue of any of the marriages.’
And that was it. A life banished in a few miserable words.
Tennant turned the computer off and sat deep in thought. So his hunch had been right all along. It hadn’t been a religious maniac who left those terrible messages in the rooms of death, but rather a woman who at one time had been able to quote the Ten Commandments just as another child would lisp nursery rhymes.
But when, he wondered, had her obsession with Roseanna Culpepper started? Probably then, way back when they had first appeared in films together. One had been incomparably beautiful and had the magic carpet of success rolled out before her, the other had been less lovely and less lucky. Had Sonia started stalking Roseanna when she had married Roseanna’s first husband, James Crichton? Had the obsession grown stronger when she thought she had achieved everything with her marriage to James Pitman, the big star, attractive, commanding any salary – and an alcoholic? Had the shattering of that illusion caused her to become slightly mad in her hatred of the great and successful Roseanna Culpepper.
Tennant knew that he would never find the answer to these questions but one answer had appeared. Sonia’s third marriage had produced some rather strange evidence. Roger Tate, a civil servant, had lived in Jarvis Brook, a village quite close to Lakehurst. Had it been then that Sonia had discovered the whereabouts of the woman of whom she had always been pathologically jealous? Had she lost her over the years and then, by a miracle, located her once more?
Or had she been criminally insane right from the start? It certainly seemed that way when one considered the number of her victims. Michael Mauser’s words came back again. Bloodlust of a diseased mind. It appeared to Dominic Tennant that Sonia had actually enjoyed the double life she led. Did she, like Dr Shipman, enjoy watching people actually die, or were these earlier vicims merely a lead up to her revenge on Roseanna Culpepper? Whatever, she was, without doubt, a cold-hearted and cruel character whose death at the hands of the Nazi’s son had been a strange quirk of fate indeed.
Sunday morning service had been truly joyful. The congregation was large and had sung lustily, the notes of the organ had never sounded merrier, the peal of bells inviting people to church had rung out over Lakehurst with a chime that announced new hope. Best of all, or so it had seemed to Nick Lawrence, Olivia Beauchamp had sat in the front pew and there had been eye contact and smiling. And, to crown it all, Dominic Tennant had arrived somewhat late and panted his way in to a place at the back.
Afterwards it had taken nearly half an hour to greet the congregation and wish them a Happy Christmas. Waiting at the end of the queue and talking to one another with a great deal of animation and friendliness had been Olivia and Tennant. Nick felt a pang of something like jealousy but dismissed such emotion as unchristian and unsuitable for the time of year.
‘Do come to The Great House,’ said Olivia, who looked absolutely gorgeous in a purple beret with a sprig of holly adorning it.
‘You must,’ said Tennant. ‘I’ve come to say goodbye to you all, quite informally of course.’ So as soon as Nick had divested himself of his robes and told the choir, still conducted by a very subdued Mr Bridger but lacking Broderick Crawford these days, that he would see them at midnight mass on Christmas Eve, he made his way out by the vestry door. Behind him stood the ancient church and the rolling graveyard, as nice a place to be buried in as any he could think of, and stepping down the path and into the historic street he considered how lucky he had been to have been awarded the parish of Lakehurst.
He pushed his way through the crowd packing the pub being greeted by people, all with jolly faces, and Nick thought that a curse had been lifted from the village which at one time had seemed like the village of the damned.
He reached the table at which were seated Kasper, drinking a large vodka, his eyes sparkling, looking tremendously handsome, together with Olivia and Tennant. Giles Fielding, still wearing a scarf round his neck, had a sprig of mistletoe and was happily greeting the many young ladies who came to him for a Christmas greeting. He waved cheerfully at Nick.
‘Hello, Vicar. How goes it?’
‘Well, thank you, Giles. What about you?’
‘I’m feeling much better. By the way did you know that Mickey Mouse’s place is being taken over by Cheryl’s cousin? Apparently she was found by those Heir Hunter people. Once all the legal do-da is out of the way she stands to inherit the lot.’
‘Will she continue to run the business?’
‘I believe she will. Good ending, isn’t it?’
‘It most certainly is.’
Giles lowered his voice. ‘I still hear him about the place, you know.’
‘Who?’
‘Michael Mauser. In the early mornings when I am out with my sheep I hear someone walking along, distinct as anything, but there’s nobody there when I go and look.’
‘Do you miss him?’
‘I miss him like hell.’
‘So do I. Well, Happy Christmas.’
‘And to you, Vicar.’
Nick joined his friends, knowing with a cynical smile, that all three of them fancied Olivia. All quite hopelessly, he reckoned.
‘Well, Inspector, were you happy with the result?’ he asked.
‘Happy is not quite the right word. I particularly regretted Michael Mauser’s suicide.’
Kasper spoke. ‘He only had a few
months to live, Inspector. And he would have received heavy doses of morphia towards the end. Perhaps he considered it the best way out.’
Giles addressed them from his place on the bar stool. ‘He shot Sonia Tate in revenge for the murder of Cheryl, let’s make no mistake about it. He really loved that woman.’
‘I think this conversation is getting morbid,’ said Olivia, ‘so I suggest we change it. What are you doing for Christmas, Kasper?’
‘I am going back to Poland. I give my last surgery tomorrow then I have a week’s holiday. And you, my dear?’
‘I’m going to Winchester to be with my sister and her family. And you, Nick?’
‘My widowed father is coming with his new lady friend, plus my brother and his entire family. It’s going to be full house at the vicarage. What about you, Giles?’
‘My brother’s coming over for a drink or two. Should be a laugh.’
The vicar turned to Dominic. ‘And what about you, Inspector Tennant?’
‘I think,’ the inspector answered, putting his hands behind his head and stretching his long legs out in front of him, ‘that I’ll just take it easy.’