by Deryn Lake
‘It is on the pad by the telephone,’ Ekaterina answered quietly.
She was stunned by the news but didn’t truly believe it. She had known Gerry Harlington too long and too well to believe that he would actually allow himself to be murdered. In fact she expected him to walk through the front door at any minute and tell the police to get lost. Yet she had to admit that he had been strangely absent ever since the dress rehearsal and that was one thing she couldn’t quite explain. Added to this had been her sudden panic this morning that had culminated in her phoning Rufus, only for her to get the answerphone. She had not left a message.
She vaguely became aware of the chime of the front door and heard the woman police officer go to answer it. A second later the man she was thinking of actually strode in.
‘Oh, my dear,’ he said.
And with those words she knew that everything was true.
Tennant and Potter were sitting in their car, parked outside a rather austere Victorian villa, situated in a side road running off Oakbridge High Street. They were waiting for the return of Robin Green who, so they had been informed by his next-door neighbour, had gone off early with the Wayfarers Wanderlust Association.
‘He’s generally home by six ’cos he likes to watch the news. I can hear it through my wall.’
Tennant had raised a saddened eyebrow. ‘Why, oh why, my dear Potter, do we always have to wait for those we most need to speak to?’
‘Sod’s law, sir.’
‘A truer word was never spoken.’
They sat in silence, Potter chewing on a Double Whopper burger, Tennant wishing he hadn’t given up smoking and biting furiously on a Polo mint. It grew dark and the inspector was just glancing at his watch when they heard the sound of sensible footsteps and the figure of a man in brown shorts worn over skinny legs, together with an enormous pair of walking boots and grey knee socks, appeared through the gloom. Tennant was out of the car in a flash leaving Potter to swallow the remainder of his Double Whopper in an indigestible lump.
‘Mr Robin Green?’
‘Yes,’ said the figure, peering suspiciously.
‘Inspector Dominic Tennant, Sussex Police. We’d like to ask you a few questions please.’ Tennant flashed his badge.
‘Oh dear, yes. Is it about the dustbins?’
Tennant smiled. ‘May we come in for a second? It’s getting rather cold out here.’
They made their way into a truly boring living room furnished in shades of Elephant’s Breath grey. Robin pulled the dusty curtains and, turning a switch, a nasty and unappetizing electric fire came on with imitation coals giving off a feeble flicker.
‘Take a seat please. Can I get you anything?’
They both refused though Tennant was sorely tempted to say ‘A large vodka please.’
‘Now, gentlemen, what can I do for you?’
Is it possible, the inspector thought, that he doesn’t know? He asked a question of his own.
‘What time did you leave this morning?’
‘About seven. We ramblers set off earlier in the summer but these autumn mornings can be a bit sharp.’
‘Then you probably haven’t heard the news.’
‘What news?’ Robin looked nervous, like a startled rat.
‘I’m afraid Gerry Harlington is dead. He fell over the parapet during the very scene in which you were involved, Mr Green. Because you were not fighting Adam Gillow but Harlington. I am referring of course to the duel on the battlements which took place last night in the Son et Lumière at Fulke Castle.’
‘The one in which you unfortunately fell down,’ put in Potter acerbically.
Robin had gone a horrible shade of yellow, which was not pleasant to look at.
‘You remember the fight, no doubt.’
‘I’ll say I do. That fall was no accident I can tell you. Somebody reached out of the door behind me and poked me in the legs with a stick. It threw me off balance and I fell over.’
Tennant felt his heartbeat quicken and beside him he was aware of Potter leaning forward.
‘Who was it? Did you see them?’
‘I couldn’t see anything. The fall disengaged my helmet and I was plunged into darkness. By the time I pulled it back straight the dummy had gone over and I had to make my way out in the pitch black.’
‘Tell me what you heard.’
‘Well, not much. I thought a door opened . . .’
‘Which one? Behind you or in front?’
‘I can’t be sure. I was very confused but I thought it was the one in front. Somebody poking me with a stick had quite upset me.’
‘We’re relying on you to help us. Please, Mr Green,’ said Potter.
‘I repeat, I think it was the door in front of me. After that I thought I heard a bit of a scuffle but the tape was playing loudly at that moment, my helmet had fallen over my eyes and I was generally concentrating on other things. And that is all I have to say.’
‘Did you hear a scream?’
‘There was a scream loud enough to waken the dead on the tape. But now you come to mention it I thought I heard a shout nearer at hand.’
Tennant looked at Potter.
‘You do realize, Mr Green, that we will have to ask you to come to Lewes and make a statement to this effect.’
‘Yes, I do. And I have something to say to you. No doubt you will have heard that I jumped on Gerry Harlington at the dress rehearsal after he had done that obscene dance during the Elizabethan Fair scene. But I can assure you, Inspector, that I had no hand in his death. I disliked the man intensely, believed he was a beastly braggart . . .’
How quaint, thought Tennant, concealing a small smile.
‘. . . but for all my feelings I could not murder anybody. To take a life is quite beyond me.’
‘But you attacked the man two nights ago.’
‘That was different,’ answered Robin. ‘He was trying to ruin what I considered to be a work of art.’
‘Be that as it may you still had no time for him.’
‘But last night I thought I was fighting Adam,’ said Robin, a note of hysteria entering his tone. ‘I couldn’t see his face and I believed it was him. Oh my God, you must realize that.’
Tennant rose to his feet. ‘Right. You can put all this in a statement. We’ll see you at Lewes at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Don’t be late, Mr Green.’
Once outside Tennant turned to Potter, smiling a little wryly.
‘Well, we’ve got a murder on our hands if old shorty pants is to be believed.’
‘Do you believe him, sir?’
‘It’s all feasible, of course. But the question remains how could somebody come through the door behind him, knock his legs with a stick, run down the spiral stairs, mount the other staircase, come through the other door and heave Harlington over the parapet?’
‘You mean there were two of them?’
‘It looks like it.’
‘Or he’s telling a pack of lies and did it himself.’
‘Which is far more probable.’ Tennant looked at his watch. ‘Is it too late to call on the vicar of Lakehurst?’
‘And perhaps drop in at The Great House?’ answered Potter with a smile.
‘Pity you’re driving,’ answered the inspector as the car started up.
It seemed to Nick Lawrence that he had been on the phone all morning, either ringing out or receiving calls. Paul Silas had been the second to phone at approximately ten o’clock. Before that there had been a call from a policewoman asking if it would it be possible for him to visit Mrs Harlington who was in a state of shock.
‘Why?’ Nick had asked.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Vicar. The fact is Mr Harlington died last night.’
‘Good God. How did it happen? Was he involved in an accident?’
‘In a manner of speaking, yes, sir. Will you be able to visit?’
‘Yes, of course. Tell her I’ll be there at about eleven o’clock.’
Half an hour later Paul had come thro
ugh.
‘Hello, Reverend Nick. How are you?’
‘I’m very well thank you. What’s all this I hear about Gerry Harlington?’
‘My dear chap there’s a fine how-do-you-do. The castle has been closed off as a scene of crime and has policemen standing guard and apparently some high falutin’ police inspector from Lewes is taking charge.’
‘So what has happened exactly?’
‘It seems that he – Gerry that is – was up on the battlements last night fighting Robin Green and pitched over the balustrade and plunged to his death.’
‘Did he fall or was he pushed?’ said Nick, quoting an ancient saying.
‘That’s the burning question. Nobody seems to know as yet.’
‘You don’t think Robin . . .?’
‘No, I don’t actually. Because he really was under the impression it was Adam Gillow up there. I mean, you can’t recognize anyone behind those damn helmets.’
‘So . . .?’
‘So, my dear friend, the show is pulled, cancelled. I rang the chief constable – we’re both members of the same Masonic lodge you know – and he told me that it was utterly impossible to proceed at least for the next few days. I’m sorry but there ’tis.’
The next call had been from Jonquil Charmwood.
‘Help, Nick. What on earth’s going on?’
‘Jonquil, I didn’t see you in the pub last night. Nor, funnily enough, in the last scene. Did you have to leave early?’
‘Er, no. I mean yes. But what’s all this I hear about the show being pulled?’
‘Well it seems that Gerry Harlington met with an accident.’
‘Gerry? What was he doing there? I thought he had walked out of the whole thing.’
‘Apparently not. It was him fighting up on the battlements with Robin Green. I don’t know how but it appears he fell off and was killed.’
Nick heard Jonquil draw breath and then there was a long silence.
‘But surely the show must go on.’
‘The police are treating the death as suspicious. They have marked the castle as a crime scene and there is no chance in the world of any of us getting near it.’
There was another long pause and then Jonquil said breathlessly, ‘Nick, are you free to come and have supper with me one evening?’
‘Why, yes. Thank you very much. When would be convenient?’
‘Any night this week, though we had better make it earlier rather than later just in case the show goes on again.’
Small hope of that, thought Nick.
To Jonquil he said, ‘Well, how about Wednesday?’
‘That would be fine.’
‘What time shall I come?’
‘About seven thirty. You have my address, don’t you.’
Nick put the phone down and looked at his watch. It was getting on for eleven and he had arranged to call on Ekaterina. Hurriedly he put on his dog collar and dark shirt and made his way outside to the car.
By the time the evening came the vicar was well and truly ready for a pint. He had found Ekaterina pale but not weeping, being comforted by Sir Rufus Beaudegrave. Nick had been somewhat surprised by this, not realizing that the couple even knew one another. But he had taken it in his stride and had accepted Ekaterina’s offer of some coffee.
They had carried it outside, for though chilly the sun was warming the courtyard and it was good to leave the house in which the essence of Gerry Harlington seemed omnipresent.
‘Why don’t you get away for a few days, Mrs Harlington? It would do you good,’ Nick had observed, gazing out at the moat and the countryside beyond and thinking how heavenly the whole setting was.
‘I’ve invited Ekaterina to come and stay whenever she feels like it,’ Rufus had answered.
In a flash of inspiration Nick had realized that the man had already fallen hopelessly in love with Gerry’s widow and had felt tremendously pleased for them. Then he had reproved himself, thinking of the horror of the Wasp Man’s painful and terrible death.
‘Have the police been to see you yet?’ he had asked.
Ekaterina had turned her beautiful face to him. ‘Not to interview me, no. I had a phone call from one of them. He was an inspector. He had a nice voice and was well spoken. He is coming to see me tomorrow.’
Nick had suddenly looked up. ‘His name wasn’t Tennant by any chance?’
She had stared at him. ‘Yes, it was. Do you know him?’
‘Indeed I do. He’s a very good man.’
Sir Rufus had spoken. ‘Then I hope he solves the case quickly and finds out that it was all a tragic accident.’
‘Yes,’ Nick had replied thoughtfully.
Rufus had picked up on it. ‘You don’t think it was?’
‘To be perfectly honest with you I don’t know.’
‘Well I can give Ekaterina an alibi, should anyone ask. We were together watching the show from the Tudor banqueting hall the entire evening. Plus my four daughters. We had a very cosy time.’
Ekaterina sighed. ‘It was a pity that such beauty could mask such tragedy.’
THIRTEEN
The Great House was heaving with people all talking loudly; the jungle drums had definitely been beating regarding the strange events at Fulke Castle and for a minute the inspector wondered how. Then he thought that this was a true example of village life and simply accepted it.
Jack Boggis was sitting in his usual seat, his newspaper lying before him on the table, listening for once to old Alfred who was holding forth with animation about the show he had seen at the castle and the tragic events that had followed it. Boggis looked up as Tennant and Potter came in and flashed his set of mighty false teeth in what was supposed to be a welcoming smile.
‘Hello, Inspector, I expect you’re here on business.’
‘Good evening, Mr Boggis. Yes, you could say that. Were you in the audience the other night? I’m talking about the Son et Lumière at Fulke Castle.’
‘Me? No fear. You wouldn’t catch me going to one of those damned amateur shows. I’d rather sit at home with the telly. Personally I’m a great admirer of Sally Grey, pretty little thing. And I like Robert Newton as well. They’re more my cup of tea.’
Tennant exchanged a look with his sergeant and murmured, ‘Talk about revealing your age.’
‘Yes, indeed, sir.’
Alfred was piping up. ‘I was there, Inspector. I enjoyed it very much indeed.’ This with a self-satisfied glance at Jack. ‘It was extremely colourful and well done. But I never noticed anything was wrong. The dummy that turned out to be Mr Harlington went over ever so convincingly.’
‘Was there anything peculiar about the fall? A scream for instance?’
Potter couldn’t help but notice that Boggis was adopting an amused grin, the way that people do when listening to a garrulous child.
‘No, not really. It was very loud but that was all on the tape, of course. But now I can’t help wondering if the sound wasn’t boosted by a real cry of terror.’
‘Thank you Mr . . .?’
‘Alfred Munn, sir. And I live at Parsley Cottage, West Street, Lakehurst.’
‘Thank you so much. Have you got all that Potter? We’ll be in touch again should we need anything further. Now, where’s the vicar?’
‘He’s over there talking to that wop.’ Boggis had got his chance and was speaking up extremely loudly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘He’s talking to that wop – that Italian. Now he’s the man you should be looking out for, Inspector. Comes over here, a real Johnny-come-lately, stays at the pub without telling anyone his business. Then before you can say Jack Robinson he’s in that bloody Son et Lumière just as if he owns the bloody place. Damned Eyeties. I haven’t trusted ’em since the war.’
‘Fortunately for the United Nations not many people share your view these days,’ remarked Potter.
They made their way to the centre of the bar where a hub of people had formed round the vicar and Ricardo, who were the
very pinnacle of attention.
The masseur, aware of his good figure and sleek, dark looks was describing the scene at the Son et Lumière to those who hadn’t already been there. He rolled his gorgeous eyes and gesticulated and his resonant voice carried with the words ‘But, my friends, I can assure you that we in the show knew nothing. Nothing at all. Not till this morning did I receive a call from Ekaterina telling me not to come. That there had been a terrible accident.’
‘What exactly do you do for Mrs Harlington?’ asked Giles Fielding, a Sussex sheep farmer, who was sitting on a bar stool taking it all in.
‘I was her masseur,’ Ricardo answered with pride.
‘Aye aye,’ said another voice meaningfully.
‘Which parts of her did you massage?’ said somebody else.
‘Sir, that is a slight on my profession.’
‘Now calm down boys,’ put in Nick. ‘There’s no need to be vulgar. We’ve told you as much as we know about what happened. Gerry Harlington went hurtling over the battlements, pushed by some unseen hand. But whose hand it was is yet to be discovered.’
Behind him he felt a stirring and the next second he turned round and looked straight into the face of his old friend, Dominic Tennant, accompanied by that most respectable young man, Mark Potter.
Nick held out his hand.
‘My dear Inspector, how marvellous to see you. I presume you’re here about what took place the other night?’
Tennant nodded. ‘I am indeed. Now how many present were members of the Son et Lumière cast?’ he asked.
The vicar and Ricardo put their hands up, as did a couple of other people, a wispy man and a hatchet-faced woman who looked as if they would enjoy folkish activities.
‘Shall we find a seat in a quiet corner – that is if there is such a thing in this place,’ suggested Tennant.
‘There’s a table over there,’ said Potter. ‘A party is just leaving.’ And he shot off and grabbed it before anyone could argue.
They all sat round and the two Lakehurst people introduced themselves as Joyce and Lewis Partridge.
‘And what were your roles in the show?’ Tennant asked while Potter silently removed his notebook.
‘I played Piers Gaveston,’ said Lewis with a certain pride.