The Poisoned Arrow

by Simon Cheshire

  Tom blinked at me. ‘Have you heard anything I’ve said?’

  ‘Every word,’ I lied. ‘Fascinating. Don’t forget, when you introduce me, my name is Raymond Chandler and I’m here because I’m studying The Poisoned Arrow for a national essay-writing competition.’

  Tom tutted. He marched ahead, down the aisle between two blocks of seats and up to the edge of the stage.

  ‘Afternoon everyone,’ he called. ‘This is my pal, Saxby. He’s a fan of my acting so he’s volunteered to be my Personal Assistant for the week. Here, take my school bag, Saxby, and fetch me a glass of water. Nice and cold, please.’

  I sighed. Why are undercover identities always such a problem? The detectives on TV never seem to have this trouble.

  A debate was going on amongst the actors. It carried on roughly as follows:

  Stage 1 – Half the actors were saying that the big battle scene (which took up most of the second half of the play) needed something a bit more spectacular than everyone running around wielding swords. How about some horses? Horses would have taken part in a real medieval battle.

  Stage 2 – The other half of the actors said that this was the most ridiculous idea they’d ever heard. You can’t have horses clomping about on the stage!

  Stage 3 – The first half of the actors said no, of course not real horses. But they could use pantomime horses! Someone had a friend who had three horse costumes, which could be borrowed for a tenner.

  Stage 4 – The second half of the actors said hang on, no, wait, on second thought, that was the most ridiculous idea they’d ever heard. The Poisoned Arrow was a historical drama, not a pie-in-the-face comedy for toddlers!

  And so on, and so on.

  It won’t surprise you to learn that Tom was firmly on the side of the second half of the actors. I kept well out of it.

  Morag Wellington-Barnes also seemed to be keeping out of the argument. She was sitting with her legs dangling over the edge of the stage, tapping furiously at a laptop (in between nibbling at her fingernails). She was dressed in various shades of leather and suede and wore a pair of sunglasses which were very small, very round and very dark. I could see what Tom had meant about her. She looked like the sort of person who’d like to introduce prison sentences for anyone who drops biscuit crumbs on the carpet.

  ‘Morag,’ called one of the actors, ‘what’s your take on this? Are we going with the pantomime horses or not?’

  Morag swung her gaze to one side and, even though her eyes were invisible behind those glasses, she speared the actor with a look which could have frozen volcanic lava.

  ‘Would it involve using more actors?’ she said, in a voice which could have turned lemonade to stone.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then no,’ she said. ‘End of.’

  She left her laptop glowing on a table that was part of a banquet scene. She gathered some of the actors in the middle of the stage and told them that the scene in which Baron Thornicroft plots the downfall of King Lionel was coming across as a load of old rubbish and that she wanted it done with far more anger and intensity. One or two of the actors’ bottom lips started to wobble slightly. Tom was reading through his script and practising his dramatic facial expressions – surprise! Fear! Thoughtfulness!

  Meanwhile, I was watching a figure sitting quietly on a chair towards one side of the stage. Sir Gilbert Smudge (I recognised him from all those old TV shows on ITV3) was also going over his script, his creased face and whiskery white beard held still in concentration.

  He was wearing faded jeans, scuffed shoes and an old corduroy jacket that had been patched several times in different places. At first, I assumed he was simply one of those people who’s happy being scruffy, but then I saw him search his pockets and come up with nothing but an old bus ticket and a scraggy paper tissue. His nose wrinkled up in dismay. After looking around for a few moments, wondering what to do, he caught the eye of one of the actors who’d been given an earful by Morag.

  ‘Would you mind, old chap,’ he said, in deep, mellow tones, ‘advancing me a coin or two for the coffee machine? I seem to be temporarily without funds. Oh, many thanks, many thanks, much obliged to you.’

  And off he wandered to a vending machine in the backstage area. Tom had told me that Sir Gilbert was having trouble finding acting jobs, but I’d only thought about that in terms of his acting career and reputation. It simply hadn’t occurred to me until now that someone as well known as Sir Gilbert Smudge might barely have a penny to his name! He must have had money – he’d been in all those movies and TV series. He must have got through a lot of cash in the past. I felt very sorry for the guy.

  Suddenly, something important occurred to me. I pulled out my notebook and re-read the notes I’d made in bed the previous night. From what I’d just observed, I now had a possible answer to a vitally important question.

  Can you guess what was going through my mind?

  If Sir Gilbert was penniless these days, could I have found a motive for the crime? Could he be in serious financial trouble? Could it be that Sir Gilbert’s fund-raising idea was a cover for a larger, sinister plan?

  Sir Gilbert wandered back on to the stage, sipping at a steaming paper cup. I found it hard to believe that this distinguished, friendly-looking but rather sad figure could be involved with a gang of villains. Then I reminded myself that some of the worst crooks I’d ever encountered had seemed equally innocent at first.

  ‘We’ll rehearse King Lionel’s death scene,’ announced Morag. ‘Soldiers, I want more shock from you this time, please, it’s your beloved king dying here, not a pet hamster. And Baron Thornicroft, ease up on the evil cackling.’

  Everyone took their places. Sir Gilbert put his coffee down and stood centre stage, brandishing an imaginary sword. Tom, playing Wilbert the peasant boy, crouched beside him.

  ‘Morag, m’dear,’ said Sir Gilbert, ‘do we know yet how many pouches of fake blood there’ll be under my shirt for this scene?’

  ‘Just the one, Sir Gilbert,’ said Morag.

  ‘One?’ cried Tom in disgust. (Some of the actors groaned quietly. Tom’s interruptions were obviously a regular thing here.) ‘Is that all? He’s getting a sword through his chest – we need buckets of it! Why can’t we be realistic?’

  ‘Because, Tom,’ said Morag firmly, ‘we’re trying to entertain the audience, not make them vomit. OK, everyone, from the top.’

  Tom huffed grumpily.

  Morag, Sir Gilbert and everyone else concentrated on the scene. Which gave me an opportunity to concentrate on everything else. I sat in the front row of the auditorium, watching the goings-on carefully in case there were any clues to be spotted.

  At that point, I spotted Morag’s laptop. It was still sitting where she’d left it, its screen shining brightly. Even from a distance, I could see that she’d been writing an email.

  I told myself that snooping at other people’s emails was utterly, totally wrong. Then I told myself that planning a robbery was even worse and that a bit of snooping might be excusable under the circumstances.

  I casually stood up and took a few casual steps to the left, casually taking my phone from my pocket as I did so. I flipped the phone to camera mode and held it up, pretending to be dialling a number. Holding the phone as steady as I could, I zoomed in on Morag’s laptop and took a quick close-up of the screen. Then I casually went back to sitting casually and looking casual.

  While the rehearsal on the stage carried on, I looked at the picture I’d taken. Luckily, I’d caught the laptop just right and, with only a few minor adjustments to the image, the open email was readable. Unluckily, only the email’s header and the last section of text had been visible on screen – Morag must have scrolled down the email before leaving it.

  What I could see was this:

  To: customer.services@zippyprinters.co.uk

  From: morag.wellington_barnes@ultranet.net

  Subject: Posters advertising The Poisoned Arrow

  because when the
first batch of posters were delivered six weeks ago they were printed back to front. I phoned you. I was not happy.

  The second batch were delivered five weeks ago. They proudly announced a performance of The Poisoned Marrow starring Sir Golbert Smidge. I phoned you again. I was not happy. I told you that if these posters weren’t correctly printed and delivered to me within two days their would be trouble.

  Two days later, no posters. I phoned you. I was not happy. I cancelled the entire order. I went to another print shop, who got them done the same day. And for less money.

  So, no, I will not be paying this bill you’ve sent me. You can take it and stick it in your poisoned marrow.

  Yours sincerely

  Morag Wellington-Barnes

  At first, this snapshot didn’t appear to tell me anything useful; Morag was simply having a moan at someone who’d mucked up a printing job.

  However, as I glanced through it a second time, I saw something which confirmed one of Tom’s suspicions. There was evidence here that it was Morag who had dropped those pieces of paper. Or, at least, that it was Morag who had drawn that plan of the theatre, showing the entrances and exits.

  Can you see it too?

  Halfway down that email’s text, Morag had written ‘their would be trouble’, when she should have put ‘there would be trouble’. Exactly the same mistake that appeared on the plan of the theatre.

  Meanwhile, the rehearsal was continuing. From what I’d seen so far, the play looked like it might turn out to be pretty good. Once they’d stopped arguing about the big battle scene, anyway.

  When the session finished, I had a sudden shock when I thought I’d have to endure Tom’s yattering all the way home. Then I remembered that, from there, our houses were in opposite directions and I felt OK again.

  As I headed for the bus stop, I was already jotting some thoughts down in my notebook (see opposite). Daylight was rapidly fading. I glanced back and in the large field behind the theatre I could see two or three horses. They were cantering around and flicking their manes.

  I wonder what they’d make of the pantomime horses those actors were on about, I thought. I smiled to myself and went back to my notebook.

  A Page From My Notebook

  On the plus side: I’ve made a couple of important discoveries.

  On the minus side: Those discoveries point in completely OPPOSITE directions.

  Events at the rehearsal suggest: Sir Gilbert may have a MOTIVE for planning a crime, but Morag is the one who is most implicated in putting such a plan together (she drew that plan of the theatre).

  Could they BOTH be involved? If so, WHY? If not, then one or other of my so-called important discoveries is almost certainly wrong.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  GET HERE. NOW.

  Izzy’s texting was often straightforward and to the point, but the three-word message she sent me just as I arrived home was even more concise than usual.

  I texted back: See you at school? Just got home.

  She replied: Have solved case.

  Twenty minutes later, I was standing in her glittery, fluffy, spangly, multi-coloured, multi-beanbag room. I was also out of breath because I’d run the last hundred metres or so.

  ‘You are so unfit, Saxby,’ she tutted, swivelling around on the chair beside her computer.

  ‘The case,’ I wheezed. ‘What have you found?’

  ‘Honestly,’ she said, collecting up a handful of printouts, ‘if you don’t start getting more exercise you’re going to start storing up problems for when you’re older.’

  ‘The case?’ I gasped.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Good thing I decided to help out on this one. That list of names you gave me has sorted out the whole thing. After I’d done some initial research, I had an idea and showed the list to my mum. It turns out that she already knows who most of these people are and had lots of useful information.’ (Izzy’s mum was a sharply-suited executive, the sort of business woman who has two secretaries and a really smart briefcase. You may remember her from a couple of my earlier case files.)

  ‘OK, whatcha got?’ I asked.

  Izzy turned the list so that I could see the names. ‘Seventeen of these people are likely to be, by most estimates, the seventeen wealthiest people in this area. You’ve got the owners of six large companies in the middle of town, the regional directors of another four international companies, one retired professional footballer, two guys who create office software, a property developer, the man who invented the self-fastening shoelace and two old ladies who just happen to have a heck of a lot of money.’

  ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘You never know who lives just around the corner, do you?’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ said Izzy. ‘By far the richest person is the property developer. This name here – Jason Dreasdale. He buys land and old buildings, puts up new buildings and sells them on. It’s thought his fortune runs into several million pounds.’

  ‘Wow,’ I said again. ‘He could fund saving the Turtle-Shell all by himself.’ Something vague stirred at the back of my memory, but I brushed it aside because I wanted to find out what else Izzy had discovered.

  ‘What about the other five names on the list?’ I asked. ‘The ones marked with asterisks?’

  ‘They are, going from top to bottom,’ said Izzy, pointing a finger down the list, ‘the mayor, the leader of the town council, a member of parliament, another member of parliament who happens to be in charge of town councils and the council’s head of planning.’

  ‘What does a head of planning do?’ I asked.

  ‘He authorises who gets to build what and where all over town,’ said Izzy.

  ‘You’ve done a great job, Izzy, as always,’ I said, ‘but, umm, I don’t quite see how this information solves the case.’

  Izzy handed me back the list. ‘It’s very simple,’ she said. ‘There is no case.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘All those doubts you had about Tom’s suspicions? You were right first time. There’s nothing going on, no robbery being planned, nothing. You and Tom are reading far too much into far too little.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘A couple of Christmases ago, my mum organised a big charity event for her office. Similar kind of thing, but a posh dinner and ballroom dancing rather than a play. And guess what? She wrote down a list almost identical to this one. Well, as far as these first seventeen go, anyway. Why? Tomake sure that all the most minted guests donated the most money. She even pinpointed them on her seating plan, so her helpers would know where to rattle their collection tins! If the director of this play . . . whatsername?’

  ‘Morag Wellington-Barnes,’ I said.

  ‘If she’s compiled this list,’ said Izzy, ‘it will be to give to Sir Gilbert Smudge, so that he knows who he mustn’t miss when he’s out there gathering donations. Saxby, this is all entirely innocent. Morag has every reason to have a list like this in her pocket.’

  ‘You really think so?’ I said quietly.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Izzy. ‘You and Tom are barking up the wrong tree.’

  A thought occurred to me. ‘Wa it! What about that plan Morag drew? The one showing the entrances and exits to the theatre?’

  ‘When my mum organised her charity event,’ continued Izzy, ‘she drew a plan exactly the same. Not of the Rackham Road theatre, of course – a plan of the hotel where they were going to hold the event.’

  ‘Eh? Why?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe the forms that have to be filled in if you want to hold a public event,’ Izzy replied. ‘The Turtle-Shell is like any other venue – it has to have a licence to put on shows. Several of the official forms that have to be sent in are about Health and Safety regulations. Morag will have had to show the authorities that the theatre has proper fire exits, access for emergency vehicles and all that. I bet you didn’t know about any of that, did you?’

  ‘Er, no,’ I admitted.

  ‘Actually, neither
did I, not until Mum mentioned it. But once again it shows that Morag isn’t planning a robbery of any kind, in any way, at any time.’

  I had to admit what Izzy was saying made sense. I folded the list up again and put it in my pocket.

  ‘Now then,’ said Izzy, ‘if you’ll excuse me, I’ve really got to get that science homework done. And so have you.’

  As I walked home, I felt more confused than a hedgehog in a hairbrush factory. I also felt very relieved. It seemed that, just for once, my worst fears wouldn’t come true.

  Even so, I couldn’t help also feeling a certain . . . hmm, I’m not sure what you’d call it. Worry? Nervousness? Something small and elusive was still nagging away in the back of my mind.

  So, had I simply misinterpreted Morag Wellington-Barnes’s apparently strange decisions (the keeping on of the house lights, the ditching of the play’s minor characters, etc)? Was it all merely a question of her doing things her way?

  Technically, I still had a motive for Sir Gilbert to plan a robbery. However, once I took everything else that might raise suspicion out of the picture (the plan, the list, the odd decisions), it left me with absolutely no reason to suspect Sir Gilbert at all. Or anyone else, for that matter.

  But even so . . .

  I couldn’t help thinking about those other five names, the ones marked with an asterisk. I could see why those people might be on the overall guest list, but why were they on this special list, this list which otherwise only included those seventeen names? If Morag had compiled that list for Sir Gilbert’s benefit, as Izzy had suggested, then why had she added these other five? And why mark them separately?

  In the end, I had to tell myself to stop letting this whole business prey on my mind! There was no evidence that anything sinister was going on. None at all. I could relax. I could let it go. I could move on to other things. Hey, I could even get my science homework done!

  Little did I know . . .