The Poisoned Arrow

by Simon Cheshire

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, AT SCHOOL, I explained Izzy’s findings to Tom. I didn’t mention the lingering doubts that were still hanging around in my head, like sullen teenagers on a street corner.

  ‘Hmmm, I dunno,’ said Tom. ‘I still have lingering doubts.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t,’ I lied. ‘I think we can safely say that this is a case I can label The Adventure of the No Case After All.’

  ‘Oh well,’ sighed Tom. ‘At least it gives me a chance to concentrate on the play. I’ve got some radical and very exciting ideas for the battle scene. I’m sure Morag will stick her nose up at them, still, I can but try.’

  At that, he swanned off to geography. Tom had given me a ticket to Friday’s performance (each member of the cast was allocated a few freebies), and by the time Friday arrived I was really looking forward to it.

  I arrived at the Turtle-Shell in plenty of time so that I could pop backstage and wish Tom and everyone else good luck.

  ‘Agh!’ squealed Tom, already in his medieval peasant costume and plastered in stage make-up. ‘You can’t say that! It’s bad luck! We actors are very superstitious! You mustn’t say the G-L phrase. You must say “Break a leg”.’

  ‘Really? I’m supposed to wish you’d break a leg?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Tom. ‘Quickly!’

  ‘OK. Break a leg.’

  ‘Thanks. Much appreciated. By the way, Morag actually liked my radical and very exciting ideas for the battle scene. Everyone’s going to love it.’

  I gave him a quick thumbs-up and went back to the main auditorium. The performance was due to begin in a few minutes.

  It turned out that my seat was next to Tom’s parents. I’d met them before, during the case of The Stranger in the Mirror.

  ‘Hello Saxby,’ they said with a cheery nod.

  Tom’s mum was a slight, plainly-dressed woman. If Tom hadn’t told me, I’d never have guessed that she could speak fluent Chinese and was a fully qualified plumber.

  Tom’s dad was a chunky man with a moustache which couldn’t make up its mind which direction to grow in. He worked for the local council, in charge of the drains. There was a faint whiff of wet earth about him.

  ‘I expect there’s quite a few people here tonight you know from work,’ I said to him. ‘The guest list includes several council officials.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tom’s dad. ‘I’ve been seeing faces I know since I got here. One or two surprises, too, I must say.’

  ‘Surprises?’ I said. ‘Why’s that?’

  Tom’s dad nodded in the direction of a weasly little man sitting a couple of rows in front of us. ‘That’s our head of planning. He wouldn’t normally get invited to a staff party, let alone a charity do. He’s a miserable little skunk.’

  Head of planning? Ah, yes, one of the asterisked names Izzy had told me about back in Chapter Five.

  ‘Hmm,’ I pondered. ‘Who’s the other surprise you mentioned?’

  ‘Oh, Jason Dreasdale,’ said Tom’s dad, pointing over his shoulder at chest level so it couldn’t be seen from behind. ‘The only person I know who’s even more poisonous than our head of planning.’

  Dreasdale, the property developer, was sitting beside one of the aisles, several rows behind me. He reminded me of a bulldog: he was broad and bald, with an enormous mouth and limbs which looked like they were designed for levering tree trunks out of the ground. His nose looked like it had lost a fight with a lawnmower, and down his right cheek – from eye to chin – was a creased and livid scar.

  He was so wide, he kept elbowing the woman sitting next to him in the ribs. He was ignoring her protests. The look on his face was a mixture of impatience, simmering temper and more impatience.

  My stomach suddenly felt as if it was dropping towards the centre of the earth.

  Of course! Why hadn’t I realised before?

  I knew more about Jason Dreasdale than Izzy had told me. I knew there was a direct link between Jason Dreasdale and Tom’s first suspicions about Morag!

  Have you spotted it?

  That scar. That nose. It was Dreasdale who Tom had seen talking to Morag in the theatre car park! Dreasdale was the mysterious man Tom had called an ‘obvious villain’. So . . .

  Was Izzy wrong about there being no case?

  Was something going on here after all?

  Quickly, I turned back to Tom’s dad. ‘Why is it surprising to see Jason Dreasdale here? Has he got some connection with this place?’

  ‘Connection?’ said Tom’s dad. ‘No, not at all, not unless you count the Dreasdale Tower.’

  ‘The Dreasdale Tower?’

  ‘The huge block of flats he wants to build on this site. It’s Jason Dreasdale who wants to bulldoze this theatre.’

  ‘W-W-What?’ I spluttered.

  ‘Oh yeah, he’s been trying to buy it for years, but the theatre people have always just about scraped together the rent in time, so the council have never allowed him to get his greedy mitts on it. There’s no love lost between the council and Jason Dreasdale, that’s for sure. That’s why I’m surprised to see him here. He’s not exactly a fan of this place. Oh well, I guess whoever invited the likes of Dreasdale and our head of planning had their reasons.’

  Ideas were beginning to stir in the dusty storage cupboard tucked away under the stairs at the back of my brain. Tom’s dad leaned closer to me to whisper. I think that smell of wet soil was coming from his coat.

  ‘Between you and me, Saxby,’ he muttered, ‘I’ve heard some nasty things about Jason Dreasdale. It’s said that he’s resorted to all kinds of dirty tricks to make his millions. Sabotaged rivals, threatened people, all sorts of ugly stuff. I’m surprised you’ve never come across him before, you being a detective. Anyway, I’m glad tonight’s fund-raiser looks like it’ll go well. It’d be a crime to bulldoze this place.’

  At that moment, a fanfare sounded. The stage curtains slowly parted and the play began. Tom (as Wilbert the peasant boy) and half a dozen others were in the middle of a banquet. Tom had the first line.

  ‘’Tis evil work afoot, my lords, when the Baron doth plot to seize the throne from our noble King Lionel!’

  The first half of the performance went very well. However, my attention wandered. The things Tom’s dad had said kept returning to my thoughts, like echoes in a cave.

  . . . Whoever invited the likes of Dreasdale and our head of planning had their reasons . . .

  . . . It’d be a crime to bulldoze this place . . .

  Suddenly, it was the interval. After a round of applause had died down, there was another round of applause as Sir Gilbert Smudge appeared from behind the curtains.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he declared in his fruity tones, ‘it’s time for the most important part of the evening. Apart from the after-show drinks at the pub, that is!’

  Laughter all round. While Sir Gilbert told us about the wonderful history of the Turtle-Shell and its importance as a community theatre, I twisted around in my seat to take another look at Jason Dreasdale.

  He was texting someone, half his attention on his phone and half on Sir Gilbert.

  And at that moment, the truth finally dawned on me.

  Tom’s suspicions about Morag had been correct. But he – and I – had failed to see the full picture.

  I leaped to my feet. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I ran for the main entrance of the theatre, passing Dreasdale on the way. I had to raise the alarm, and quickly. And I had to do it without causing a panic in the auditorium.

  First, I thought to myself, call Izzy and get her to alert the police. Second, go backstage and alert Tom and the rest of the cast (revealing to Morag that the game was up, if needs be!).

  The whole horrible scenario was now clear to me. It worked like this:

  1. Dreasdale wants the theatre flattened.

  2. But! The theatre is about to stage a major fundraiser which will keep it safe.

  3. So! He resorts to underhan
d tactics. He decides to ruin the theatre’s efforts by robbing the fund-raiser! The point of this robbery is not so much to get loads of money, but to stop that cash benefiting the theatre!

  4. He wants help from inside the theatre, so he recruits Morag into his scheme. Morag – in exchange for a large amount of money, presumably – can organise the performance to make a raid on it easier (those odd decisions of hers, remember), and place Dreasdale and various influential councillors and politicians on the guest list.

  5. Then! On the night of the performance, a gang of armed thugs raids the theatre sometime after the interval, when Sir Gilbert has collected up all the charity donations.

  6. Result? The Turtle-Shell goes bust. Dreasdale can move in! (As a bonus, those influential councillors and politicians having been through this traumatic robbery themselves are left with the impression that the place is a crime-ridden menace and probably won’t object to Dreasdale’s bulldozing it! And, as another bonus, Dreasdale has the proceeds from the robbery to use when buying the theatre!)

  I hurtled out of the theatre. It was dark. A thick fog had descended and there was nobody in sight. With trembling fingers, I dialled Izzy’s number.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ gasped Izzy. ‘Isn’t Dreasdale taking a big risk?’

  ‘Dreasdale stands to make a fortune from all the flats he’ll build,’ I said. ‘It’s well worthwhile for him!’

  ‘But why has he put himself at the scene of the crime?’ cried Izzy. ‘If he’d never normally go to the Turtle-Shell, why has he got himself added to the guest list?’

  ‘Perfect alibi,’ I said. ‘He gets himself robbed with everyone else and it diverts suspicion away from him. Who’s going to suspect a robbery victim of staging the robbery?’

  ‘But if the plan works, he wouldn’t need an alibi,’ protested Izzy, ‘because he wouldn’t be suspected in the first place. Why should the plan require Dreasdale to be sitting there in the audience?’

  I thought back to what I’d seen at the end of the play’s first half, and to that six-point scenario. Suddenly, my stomach felt like it had gone right through the centre of the earth and come out again the other side.

  I could see why Dreasdale would need to be in the audience. I knew who he must have been texting!

  Do you?

  ‘Uh-oh,’ I said, my voice wobbling slightly. ‘He needs someone in the audience to signal a Go to the gang, someone he trusts completely. Himself! He’s just texted the gang that it’s time to move in!’

  ‘I’ll call the police right now,’ said Izzy.

  ‘Call me back as soon as you’ve contacted them. I’ll go backstage now, so when you ring me I can tell them the cops are on their way.’

  I snapped my phone shut and hurried back inside.

  In the auditorium, Sir Gilbert was collecting up the last of the charity contributions. A short line of audience members – including the mayor and Jason Dreasdale – were standing at the front being applauded while Morag was poised with a marker pen on the stage, writing down the running total of contributions on a flip chart.

  I skirted the audience, hurrying down one side of the auditorium, along the line of elongated, window-covering curtains. Stay calm, I told myself, don’t rush, don’t raise the alarm too early, don’t let Dreasdale or Morag know they’ve been rumbled. Go backstage, talk to Tom, and then when Izzy calls —

  I stopped dead.

  My phone had gone.

  I must have dropped it outside! It must be lying somewhere on the forecourt gravel!

  Luckily, my loud yelp of horror was swamped by the audience’s clapping. Sir Gilbert acknowledged the crowd with a teary smile of gratitude.

  ‘My friends,’ he boomed, ‘our theatre is safe once more, thanks to your wonderful generosity. And now, we shall commence the second half of our play, and we have something very —’

  His voice was cut off as the heavy door clunked shut behind me. I took a few steps across the gravel, my footsteps crunching loudly.

  And now we’re back where we began, at the start of Chapter One.

  It was 8.45 p.m. The fog was thickening.

  Where was that blasted phone? I bent down and scooped it up. Good – I hadn’t missed Izzy’s call. I pocketed my phone and stood.

  And then I heard them: the footsteps. My heart began to thump.

  Suddenly, out of the darkness, emerging through the mist came those six hulking figures – tall, heavy, smothered in dark coats, each wearing a horrible Halloween pumpkin mask. I was terrified. One crunching step and they’d know I was there.

  At that moment, my phone trilled. Loudly.

  The man in front stopped. ‘Is someone there?’ he boomed. ‘Show yourself! Now!’

  He twitched an arm to usher the others forward.

  I didn’t dare breathe. The only thought going through my head was: Why do I let myself get into these messes?

  In an instant, I’d switched my phone off.

  The pumpkin-heads were only a few metres away from me.

  By my left shoulder was that hideous statue I told you about, the one which stands on the forecourt and shows four human figures striking dramatic poses.

  It was my only hope. One big step took me into the middle of those four figures. I crouched slowly, carefully, silently. My heart was tearing and my head felt as if it was about to burst.

  Was the statue enough to conceal me? Was the foggy darkness enough to hide me from view?

  ‘C’mon, let’s get inside,’ grunted the one in front, the one carrying the big canvas bag. ‘We’re on a timetable here. Remember, he wants it done fast, he wants noise, he wants a few bones broken.’

  He opened the canvas bag. Baseball bats were handed out. ‘Right, let’s go!’

  Two of them headed for the emergency exit on the left side of the building, two for the one on the right, and the last two barged through the main doors behind me.

  I was too late! It was happening right now!

  That terrifying gang of thieves were entering the crowded theatre and there was nothing I could do about it.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  I FELT TOTALLY HELPLESS.

  The only thing that was racing through my brain was: Whaddoidonow? Whaddoidonow? Ohnowhaddoidonow?

  I followed the last two pumpkin-heads and returned to the main entrance to the theatre. Cautiously, I pressed my nose to one of the door’s glass panels and peered inside.

  I was just in time to see them raise their baseball bats high above their heads and run into the brightly-lit auditorium. They yelled a murderous, blood-curdling war cry as they bounded forward. I could see the other pumpkin-heads charging in from either side at the same time.

  They all came screaming out into an auditorium that was . . .

  Empty.

  ‘Huh?’ I cried. I poked a finger behind my glasses, rubbed my eyes and looked again.

  The auditorium was empty. No audience. Every last seat audience-free. Gone. Vanished. L’audience ce n’est pas la.

  ‘What in the name of Sherlock Holmes is going on?’ I gasped to myself.

  For a moment or two, all six pumpkin-heads were equally startled and confused. They stood there, bats raised, pumpkin masks turning this way and that, standing in the middle of rows and rows of vacant seats.

  Suddenly, a dozen or more figures stepped out from where they’d been hiding behind the curtained sides of the auditorium. Several of them were armed.

  ‘Police! Drop your weapons! Down on the floor!’

  The pumpkin-heads were so bewildered they all did exactly as they were told. I was so bewildered I almost did the same myself.

  The plain-clothes police officers quickly descended on the pumpkin-heads, pinning them to the ground. Then, from behind the closed curtains on the stage, another plain-clothes officer led out Jason Dreasdale, his wrists snapped into handcuffs. (This officer was the woman I’d seen sitting next to him, the one he’d kept elbowing! She must have nabbed him only seconds after I’
d gone to look for my phone!)

  Behind them came Morag. At first, I thought she was under arrest too. But one of the officers ran over to her and put a hand on her shoulder. I could tell he was asking her if she was OK, and she nodded that she was. He gave her a gentle pat on the back.

  Dreasdale, seething with rage, spun around and yelled at Morag. Nothing of what he said is repeatable here. Three officers pounced on him and dragged him away.

  By now, I’d come to my senses. Well, a bit, anyway. Remembering that plan Morag had drawn and what I already knew about where the theatre stood, I could work out where the entire audience must have gone.

  Can you?

  Morag’s drawing showed double doors at the rear of the backstage area, opening out on to the neighbouring field. Everyone must have got up out of their seats and trooped over the stage and out of the back of the building.

  I hurried around the side of the Turtle-Shell. I took out my phone as I jogged along and switched it back on. There was a text from Izzy: The police already know!!??!!

  ‘No kidding,’ I muttered to myself.

  The sight that greeted me when I got to the field behind the theatre was nothing short of amazing. The entire audience was standing in a huge ring around the perimeter of the field. Coloured spotlights had been rigged up and glowed eerily in the swirling fog. Across the centre of the field, the big battle scene of The Poisoned Arrow was being played out, complete with real horses. Real horses.

  Sir Gilbert Smudge did a spectacular job of acting King Lionel’s death. There was just enough blood to make it look nicely yukky. Tom was very good when it came to wielding his sword and fighting the evil Baron Thornicroft.

  The overall effect was wonderful. Characters (and horses) kept moving in and out of the rolling mist that enshrouded the whole field. The spotlights gave everything an air of creepy mystery.

  And the crowd loved every minute of it. Clearly, nobody had the slightest clue that something even more dramatic was happening back inside the building.

  If only you knew, I thought to myself. If only all of you knew!

  I stood and watched the rest of the performance. It was chilly out there, but nobody minded. (However, I made sure I kept back from the horses, in case they set off my animal hair allergy, but I was fine.)