by Simon Brett
He started to dress, but almost passed out with the pain from his arm. To steady himself he sank down on the side of the bed. At that moment, Juliet came into the bedroom. ‘Daddy, are you all right? I heard you moving and-’
Charles nodded weakly.
‘You look ghastly,’ she said.
‘I feel it. Here, would you help me get dressed? This bloody arm
… I can’t do anything.’
Very gently his daughter started to help him into his clothes. As she bent to pick up his trousers, she looked just like Frances. ‘Daughter and wife whom I’ll leave when I die’-the phrase came into his maudlin thoughts and he started crying convulsively.
‘Daddy, Daddy.’
‘It’s just the shock,’ he managed to get out between sobs.
‘Daddy, calm down.’ But his body had taken control and he couldn’t calm down.
‘Daddy, get back to bed. I’ll call the doctor.’
‘NO… I can’t go back to bed, because I’ve got to get to London. I’ve got to get… to London. I’ve got to get to London.’ Suddenly the repetition seemed very funny and his sobs changed to ripples of high-pitched giggles. The situation became funnier and funnier and he lay back on the bed shaken by deep gasps of laughter.
Juliet talked calmingly to no avail. Suddenly her hand lashed out and slapped his face. Hard. It had the desired effect. The convulsions stopped and Charles lay back exhausted. He still felt ill, but the hysterics seemed to have relaxed him a bit. Juliet helped him back under the bedclothes. ‘I’m going to get the doctor,’ she said, and left the room.
Charles dropped immediately into a deep sleep where lumbering Thurber cartoon figures with guns in their hands chased him through a landscape of pastel green, dotted with red flowers. There was no menace in their attack. He was running hand in hand with a girl who was Juliet or Felicity, but wearing Frances’ old white duffel coat. They stopped at a launderette. The girl, whose face was now Jacqui’s, clasped his arm and said ‘It’s a pity the Battleship Potemkin is booked for Easter.’ She kept hold of his arm and shook it till it became elastic and extended out of its socket like a conjuror’s string of handkerchiefs.
‘Mr Paris.’ Charles opened his eyes warily, disgruntled at being dragged out of his dream. ‘Mr Paris. I am Doctor Lefeuvre.’
‘Hello,’ said Charles sleepily.
‘It’s rather difficult you not being one of my regular patients, but since your daughter is, I’m stretching a point. She’s told me about your accident yesterday, but I gather that’s not what’s troubling you?’ The voice had a slight Australian twang. Charles looked at Doctor Lefeuvre. A man in his mid-thirties with dull auburn hair and a freckled face behind rectangular metal-rimmed glasses. He had very long hands, which were also covered in freckles and sported three gold rings.
‘I don’t know, Doctor. I just feel very weak and ill.’
‘The arm’s all right?’
‘It feels bruised, but that’s all.’
‘Only to be expected. Let’s just have a look at the dressing.’ He cast his eye expertly over the bandage on Charles’ arm. ‘It’s been very well done. When are you due to go back to the hospital?’
‘They’ll change the dressing next Monday.’
‘That seems fine. I won’t meddle with it then. But otherwise you’re feeling run down and ill. It’s probably just shock.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d better have a look at you.’ And the doctor began the time-honoured ritual of taking temperature and pulses. In fact, Charles felt better now. His body had regained some warmth and the sleep had relaxed him. He just felt as if he’d run full tilt into a brick wall.
Doctor Lefeuvre looked at the temperature. ‘Hmm. That’s strange.’
‘What?’
‘You seem to have a slight temperature. Just over a hundred. That’s not really consistent with shock. Let’s take your shirt off. There. Not hurting the arm?’
‘No.’
‘Hmm.’ The doctor started probing and tapping. ‘Let’s have a look at your throat. Open. There. Tongue down. No, down. Yes. Is your throat at all sore?’
‘A bit. Sort of foul taste in my mouth.’
‘Yes. Hm. That’s strange. You haven’t been in contact with German measles recently?’
‘Not to my knowledge, no.’
‘No. Hmmm. Because, on a cursory examination, I would say that is what you’ve got. There’s a slight rash on your chest, hardly visible. The temperature and the sore throat are consistent.
‘Oh. Well, what should I do about it?’
‘Nothing much. It’s not very serious. If you’re feeling bad, stay in bed. It’ll clear up in a couple of days. You don’t have to rush back to work, do you?’
‘No, they’ve reorganised the shooting schedule.’
‘Oh.’ Doctor Lefeuvre obviously didn’t understand what that meant, but equally obviously it didn’t interest him much either. ‘Look, I’ll prescribe some penicillin.’ He scribbled on his pad. ‘You’d better check with Battle Hospital, tell them you’re going to take it. Just in case they want to put you on something else.’
‘Fine.’
‘Good. Oh. I’d better just have your address and National Health Number for the records.’ Charles gave them, digging the number out of a 1972 diary which was so full of useful information he’d never managed to get rid of it.
‘Right.’ Doctor Lefeuvre gathered his things together and prepared to leave.
‘So there’s nothing special I should do? Just rest?’
‘Yes. You’ll feel better in a couple of days. The rest won’t do the arm any harm either.’
‘OK.’
‘Oh, there is one thing of course with German measles.’
‘Yes.’
‘You mustn’t be in contact with anyone who’s expecting a baby. If a woman gets German measles while she’s pregnant, it can have very bad effects on the unborn child.’
Charles dressed with Juliet’s help (he didn’t like staying in bed alone) and rang Jacqui as soon as the doctor had left. He didn’t mention the ‘accident’ at Bloomwater because it would only upset her. In fact, she sounded particularly cheerful; it was the first morning she had woken up with no trace of sickness, and was cheered at the thought of entering the ‘blooming’ phase of pregnancy. No, nothing disturbing had happened. Nobody had rung. She was quite happy in her little prison.
Charles felt fairly confident of her safety for the time being. Though the shooting on the film set, if it wasn’t accidental implied that Nigel Steen knew of his involvement, he still might not have realised the direct connection with Jacqui, and certainly was no nearer getting the Hereford Road address. But she would have to be moved soon. Charles determined to ring Frances and ask her to take the girl in. It would be a strange coupling, but Frances wouldn’t refuse. He explained to Jacqui about the German measles.
‘Oh no, for God’s sake keep away from me,’ she said. ‘The child is born blind or something terrible.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll stay away.’
‘How long are you infectious?’
‘I should be better in two or three days. But I don’t know how long the quarantine period is. It’s probably just as well I haven’t been near you for the last week. Don’t worry though. I won’t come back till I’m quite clear of it. I’ll ring Doctor Lefeuvre and check.’
‘Who?’
‘Doctor Lefeuvre.’
‘Australian?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good God.’
‘Why. Do you know him?’
‘Yes. He was the one who did my abortion in the summer.’
‘What? But it wasn’t a legal one, was it?’
‘No. Marius got Nigel to fix it up.’
‘Was Lefeuvre the family doctor?’
‘I suppose so. Marius didn’t talk about doctors. He kept saying he was never ill.’
‘So it was probably Lefeuvre who was called in when Marius died.’
�
�Yes, it was. He was at the inquest.’
‘He was? Jacqui, for Christ’s sake. Why didn’t you tell me this before?’
‘I didn’t think it was important. Is it?’
‘Jesus! But there was no time to explain. And no point in worrying her. ‘Jacqui, just sit tight. Don’t worry about anything.’ He slammed the phone down. ‘Juliet, can I have your car keys? I’ve got to go up to London immediately.’
Juliet emerged dazed from the kitchen area. ‘But you can’t take the Cortina. Miles’ll be furious.’
‘I haven’t got time to worry about Miles. Give me the keys.’
‘Juliet was amazed by the sudden force of his personality and held out the keys, as if hypnotised. ‘But, Daddy, you can’t drive with that arm.’
‘I bloody can.’
XVI
Back at the Fireside
Being back in London was a disappointment. The mad drive up the M4 with pain like barbed hooks turning in his arm had all been for nothing. He had screeched to a halt in the residents’ parking bay in an unimpressed Hereford Road, let himself in, banged on his own door and, keeping his distance, ordered Jacqui to go off to the pictures for the afternoon. Then he’d driven round to the surgery of Drs Singh and Gupta, with whom he was registered, only to find that both were out on their rounds. He rushed to St Mary’s Hospital, Paddington, and, after the hours of waiting that are statutory in hospitals, finally persuaded a callow houseman to examine him and pronounce him clear of German measles. It was evident from the young man’s circumspect excitement that he thought he’d got his first genuine schizophrenic hypochondriac. Charles ended up with a clean bill of health and a parking ticket.
As he sat in his drab room in Hereford Road, it all seemed a bit futile. The dark fears of the morning had subsided into childish fantasies. He felt he should be watching the road from behind the curtains, waiting for the badmen to arrive at High Noon, while in the background a voice intoned ‘Do not forsake me, o my darling’. But since his windows faced the back of the house, it was impossible. And in the familiar banality of his room thoughts of approaching badmen seemed ridiculous. He just felt tired and ill again. The excitements of the day had put him back considerably. Pain throbbed in his arm with agonising regularity. He felt himself drifting asleep.
Suddenly the phone rang. Swedish feet in wooden sandals clumped down the stairs past his door, then up again, paused, knocked, said ‘Telephone’ and continued back to their room.
He went down and picked up the dangling receiver. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello. It’s Joanne Menzies.’
‘Oh. Hi.’
‘Charles, can we meet and talk? About Marius’ death.’
‘Yes, sure. Have you got anything new?’
‘Not really. But I’m just convinced there was something fishy going on.’
‘Yes. There are a lot of things that don’t fit. When do you want to meet? After work?’
‘I’m not at work.’
‘Oh.’
‘I came back after Christmas to the news that my services were no longer required by Mr Nigel Steen. A year’s salary in lieu of notice.’
‘That’s a substantial pay-off.’
‘Yes. Hush-money, no doubt. Where shall we meet?’
‘Do you mind coming round here? I’m not very well.’
‘Fine. What’s the address?’ Charles gave it. ‘I’ll be round straight away.’ He put the phone down and had a moment’s doubt. Was he wise to give Joanne Menzies his address? She seemed straight enough, but her motives weren’t absolutely clear. Oh well, if she told Nigel Steen, fair enough. Charles’ suspicions of Dr Lefeuvre made him think his address was already common knowledge. At least he was here now, and could supervise moving Jacqui to another hide-away. He rang Frances’ number to make his strange request, but there was no reply. It was only five o’clock. No doubt she was supervising the school debating society or another of her public-spirited activities.
Joanne Menzies arrived quickly and they started talking over a glass of whisky. Charles gave the shortest possible explanation of his sling-‘an accident on the film set’. He didn’t want to voice any suspicions until he felt a bit surer of Joanne’s allegiances. ‘So. What do you think is fishy?’
‘No one big thing, Charles. Just a lot of dubious details.’
‘Like…?’
‘Like the way Nigel lied over that Saturday night, all the subterfuge over the petrol in the Datsun. Like the way he’s been behaving since his father’s death-and the week before, come to that-’
‘How’s he been behaving?’
‘Very twitchy. Jumps whenever the phone rings. As if there’s something he’s frightened of.’
‘What else?’
‘The way I’ve been dismissed. All right, I was Marius’ personal assistant and there’s no reason to assume that Nigel would want to take me over in the same role. But it was rather sudden. And a year’s salary is excessive-out of character too for someone as mean as Nigel.’
‘Hmm. So you think that Nigel murdered Marius?’
‘That’s the obvious thing to think.’
‘Except for the findings of the inquest.’
‘Yes.’ Joanne spoke with the same contempt Jacqui had shown for the high achievements of forensic science.
‘And the fact that Nigel had no motive. It was in his interests that his father should live at least until the seven years were up.’ Joanne’s face revealed that she didn’t know about the gift, so Charles gave a brief resume of the legal position. He finished up, ‘You know, we are not the only people who are suspicious of Nigel and would attribute any crime to him. But the fact remains that, in the matter of Marius Steen’s death, we have not a solitary shred of evidence to go on. Just prejudice and dislike.’
‘Yes. I’m sure he’s done something, though.’ Her conviction was reminiscent of Jacqui’s, overriding little details like facts.
‘All right, Joanne, let’s talk through it all again. Actually, one thing you said interested me. You said Nigel was twitchy the week before the murder-I mean, the death.’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought he was in Streatley that week.’
‘Only part of it. He went down on the Thursday to go through some business things with Marius, then came back on the Friday late afternoon-just after you came round about your play. Was that another blind, by the way?’
“Fraid so.’
‘Why?’
‘Too complicated to explain.’ He didn’t want to bring in the Sweets and the implied charge of murder against the dead man. ‘So look, let’s trace through the movements of the two of them. Where were they on the Sunday, that’d be what…?’
‘The 2nd of December.’
‘Right.’
‘I think they were both in Orme Gardens. Then Marius drove to Streatley that night to read the scripts on his own.’
‘Was that unexpected?’
‘No, he’d been talking about it. He’d noticed a slight waning in the receipts on Sex of One… though I think it was just the power crisis and the railways. Anyway, he felt he had to make a decision on the next show for the Kings.’
‘And when he did one of these script-reading sessions, he used to cut himself off completely?’
‘Yes. Just switch on the Ansaphone.’
‘I see. So when did you last speak to him?’
‘Small hours of Sunday morning. At the Sex of One… party.’
‘Oh yes. A thousand performances. Ugh. Let’s continue their movements. Marius is in Streatley. Where’s Nigel, say on the Monday morning? Milton Buildings?’
‘No, he came in after lunch.’
‘Was that unusual?’
‘No. Particularly considering the late night we’d all had on the Saturday.’
‘Right. Incidentally, how was Marius at the party?’
‘In marvellous form-leaping around like a boy of twenty. Dancing with all the girls.’ The pride was evident in her voice.
‘Includi
ng you.’
‘Yes.’
‘You loved him, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you know he was contemplating remarriage?’
‘I knew.’
‘Did you mind?’
‘Yes, but if it made him happy… If Marius wanted something there was no point in trying to stop his getting it.’
‘No.’ Her answers sounded perfectly honest. ‘Let’s continue our tracing movements. Which car did Nigel go down in on the Thursday?’
‘His own. The Interceptor. It was after that that he complained about the brakes to Morrison.’
‘Right. And then he goes down again in secret on the Saturday in the Datsun. The Datsun, the Datsun. You know there’s something at the back of my mind about that Datsun and I can’t think what it is.’ He looked round the room for inspiration. It was an untidy mess. Jacqui’s occupation hadn’t improved it; she wasn’t the sort of girl who immediately revolutionised a place and gave it a woman’s touch; she just spread her belongings over the widest possible area. A flouncy negligee and a pair of tights lay over one chair; the tiny television was perched on another; a soggy packet of frozen spinach lay beside the gas-ring; on the crumpled candlewick of the bed an Evening Standard was open at the entertainments’ page so she could decide which film to go and see.
A thought suddenly illuminated Charles’ brain like a flash of lightning. ‘That’s it. The Evening Standard.’
‘What?’ Joanne was left floundering as his mind raced on. Very clearly he saw himself standing in the BBC Club with Sherlock Forster and hearing the name of Marius Steen, the name that had come to dominate his life. When was that? It was a Monday. Yes, Monday the 3rd of December. After that terrible play. And what had the paper said? Something about Marius not using the Rolls, but sticking to the Datsun. Oh, if only he could remember the details.