Dead on Cue

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Not yet. But the day draws nearer I believe.’ Paul sighed heavily. ‘I shall go representing the Odds. Who will join me?’

  Several people put up their hands, including Robin Green who announced, ‘I have been interviewed by the police several times. I think they regarded me as prime suspect. But I believe I have finally got the message through to them that there were two different people involved and that I was neither of them.’ He laughed, puffing an odour of milky tea into the atmosphere.

  ‘What do you mean, two?’ asked Barry Beardsley, who had had a simply dreadful day digging out corns and was in no mood to be trifled with.

  ‘I’ve already told you a dozen times,’ answered Robin. ‘Somebody poked my legs with a stick which caused me to lose balance. While I was blinded by the helmet I heard the door to the other spiral staircase open and somebody made a sound—’

  ‘That was our black friend,’ interrupted Mike.

  ‘It was an exhalation, just like when you push someone. Anyway I’ve told this to the police over and over again. They must have taken note of it by now.’

  Cynthia Wensby, plain as a trodden-on sultana but an excellent treasurer for all her want of looks and talent, said eagerly, ‘They’ve been to see me – twice.’

  ‘They have been to see us all, my dear Cynthia,’ said Paul in a bored-to-death voice. ‘I had a charming little lady come round. Delightful wee creature – quite ravishing in fact. All violet eyes and smiles. We struck up quite a rapport.’ He looked roguish.

  ‘I tell you something,’ said Annette Muffat into the sudden hush that followed. ‘There was something funny about the bear the night of the show.’ She turned to Jonquil Charmwood. ‘Did you have a date, my dear, that you arrived so early and left before the end?’

  Jonquil, who so far had not said a word to the meeting – something most unusual for her – went a nasty shade of plum but remained silent.

  Meg Alexander, keen as a whippet scenting a hare, said, ‘Hope he was worth it, my dear. It put the rest of us out considerably.’

  ‘Yes, I had to dance the Charleston on my own,’ Cynthia piped up, looking pained.

  ‘You always dance on your own,’ said somebody nastily.

  Jonquil cleared her throat. ‘I may as well tell the truth. I’ve told the police everything so I’ve nothing to hide. It wasn’t me. I was given tickets for Les Mis and I went to see the show. I got someone else to understudy for me. Her name was Emma Simms and now the horrible thing is that she has vanished.’

  There was a profound silence broken by Paul speaking as if he were sounding the death knell.

  ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’

  ‘What I just said. She disappeared four nights ago. She hasn’t been seen since the Son et Lumière.’

  ‘How very peculiar,’ said Estelle. ‘Are the police making enquiries?’

  Silently, Jonquil started to cry. ‘They’ve been to see her mother in the Isle of Man. I believe they’ve even been to question her boyfriend – which must have shocked the miserable bugger. They have looked everywhere but they can’t find her. I think they are turning it into a murder enquiry.’

  There was another protracted silence broken by Robin Green saying, ‘The two things have got to be related. Perhaps your friend Emma saw something. Perhaps she saw the person who hit me on the legs – and she had to be silenced.’

  ‘What rubbish you talk! How could witnessing someone playing a practical joke on you lead to the poor girl being murdered?’

  ‘But she probably did see something,’ put in Barry, and his tone was serious. ‘Remember she hadn’t been rehearsed properly and didn’t know the lie of the land. She probably wandered about a bit, then I think the poor creature must have witnessed something happen and paid for it with her life.’

  Now there was total silence from the committee broken only by the sound of Jonquil, who had put her arms down on the table and was weeping bitter tears of guilt.

  Tennant was feeling depressed as he nearly always did when a case came up against an apparent dead end. Furthermore he had received the analysis of the substance beneath Gerry Harlington’s eyes and been told it was salt water – tears. The fact that the black man had died slowly, weeping, and in enormous pain was too much even to contemplate. One wouldn’t wish it on one’s worst enemy. And now to muddy the waters entirely had come the strange disappearance of Emma Simms, as clean-living a girl as one could have hoped to meet providing that one overlooked her affair with Mr Garth Thorney, managing director of a small manufacturing company and the biggest bullshitter alive, at least in Tennant’s opinion.

  He had given Potter so much grief on the telephone that the inspector had intervened and called Mr Thorney into Lewes to make a statement about his relationship with Miss Simms. This had caused some blustering and the eventual threatening of Tennant with dire consequences because Mr Thorney played golf with his superior officer. But for all that he had agreed to report to police headquarters tomorrow morning. Another thing to add to Tennant’s feeling of total despondency.

  He got up from his chair and poured himself a large vodka and grapefruit juice, which he proceeded to sip thoughtfully. He and Potter had now come to the conclusion that the girl had either been abducted or killed, and Tennant felt almost certain that somehow or other it was connected with the Son et Lumière. But how? Unless she was making some sort of statement to the gallant Garth Thorney what could possibly be the purpose in vanishing? No, the coincidence of Emma taking part in the show in which the Wasp Man had met his death was far too great to be ignored.

  Tennant crossed to the CD player and put on Olivia Beauchamp playing the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto. Then he sat down again and stared into space, wishing that he had not given up smoking but determined to stick with it. The sound of the music invaded his consciousness, blocking out all other thoughts – even a cigarette. When she played it was as if pearl drops formed, each droplet containing the most exquisite note that a human being could create. Tennant found that the tears were rolling down his cheeks at the pure ethereal beauty of what he was listening to. He wondered what instrument she had – surely it must be a Stradivarius – and made a mental note to ask her. He had a blinding flash of them standing together in the sunset, perhaps in Venice where all the world loved music, and she slowly raising the violin to her cheek and the glory of the sound she was creating reverberating and re-echoing past the ancient palaces, down the green waterway of the Grand Canal and out into the great lagoon that lay beyond. Sobbing like a fool, but quite unable to help himself, Tennant poured another vodka and headed for his bed.

  SEVENTEEN

  It was early evening and Rufus Beaudegrave was relaxing with a book in the Victorian sitting room. It was a week to the night of the single, fateful performance of the Son et Lumière and though he knew better than most that the police had their job to do he could not help but fret that people were still not allowed in to the castle. Because this was his income – or a least a major part of it – and he relied heavily on outside events to keep everything going. He was well aware that the bloodthirsty public would come rolling in as soon as the police cordon was removed but space was limited and he could only hope that the interest would persist for some time to come. The only good thing he had noticed was that balloon flights over the castle had increased, with people hanging over the side of the basket and pointing out the battlements and the place where they presumed the body had fallen. But to add to Rufus’s general irritation was the fact that the press corps had set up camp in the fields on the far side of the moat. Whenever the family went out in the car they took photographs of him, his girls, even the old dog and despite polite requests for them to move on they weren’t having any of it.

  Rufus laid down his book and went to one of the windows which swept down to the floor, with shutters set in recesses beside them. Here he could look out over the moat, see it turning from blue to cobalt as the glow slowly drained from the day. His eyes took in the dim lights
of the press people, some of whom had actually brought tents, whilst other less hardy souls had taken over all the nearby hostelries. But, as ever, his eyes were drawn to the starkly beautiful outlines of the castle, rearing majestically up against a sky in which the planet Venus was scintillating. And then his attention was drawn to something far nearer at hand. Floating in the water, a yard or two from the window at which he was standing, was a figure. Rufus was so startled that he pressed forward, leaning on the glass.

  It looked for all the world like Millais’ Ophelia. In the darkening day he could make out that it was female by the mass of wet fair hair floating round the deathly white face. He watched in horrible fascination as she drifted gently past him, one pale hand sticking up out of the water as if in supplication. Ophelia, for that was surely who it was, wore a billowing cloak that seemed to be keeping her afloat but beneath Rufus could see she had on another garment, which clung tightly to her body. A small wave broke around her and for a moment he looked directly into hollow terrible eyes before he let out a cry and took a step away. Then he watched in silent horror as, mermaid-like, she languorously glided out of his sight. Turning, he saw that his daughter Araminta had come silently into the room and was standing at the window next to his. She ran to him, her eyes horror-stricken.

  ‘Oh, Daddy,’ she said in a tiny voice that did not sound like hers at all. ‘What was that?’

  Rufus shook himself, literally, and regained control. ‘I don’t know, darling, but I shall phone the police and ask them to come.’

  He walked to his armchair, which had a telephone standing beside it, dialled a number, then put out his other arm to cuddle Araminta, who suddenly seemed so small and vulnerable. A voice spoke at the other end and he answered, ‘This is Rufus Beaudegrave of Fulke Castle speaking. I think you had better send some people over. I’ve just seen a body floating in my moat. I think perhaps a police diver might be a good idea.’

  In the crook of his arm Araminta began to sob quietly.

  ‘When is it all going to stop, Daddy?’

  ‘When they catch the wicked person who is doing these things.’

  ‘I do hope they hurry up.’

  ‘So do I, my darling. So do I.’

  It was one of the most bizarre scenes that Rufus had ever witnessed. Standing at the windows of the Tudor banqueting hall – the windows that looked out over the moat – he saw the police working by the floodlights that were switched on every night to light that great circle of water which held the castle safe in its nestling arm. The police had brought a boat and the diver had gone in and guided the body towards the shore. They had landed her just below where Rufus stood silently, gazing down at the horror unfolding beneath him. Just as soon as the body was landbound, two police photographers had stepped forward and had photographed the corpse from every conceivable angle, their cameras flashing in the darkness. Rufus knew that this was to catch it before it bloated up horrendously, distorting it beyond recognition. He had a glimpse of the face in the sudden flash of one of the cameras and saw that the eyes had glazed over and seemed to glare at him through their veils of blindness. Rufus’s stomach heaved and he suddenly felt the loneliness of a single adult without a partner to share the whole ghastly business. His thoughts went to Ekaterina and he admitted at that moment that he wanted her badly. In every way. But the laws of good behaviour – in which he had been schooled constantly by his upright mama – forbade any such ideas. Nonetheless, Rufus walked through the silent and echoing castle to the nearest telephone.

  By the time Tennant arrived on the scene the body was beginning to swell up, distorting the features of the face into a ghastly grin. He and Potter went into the tent that had been hastily erected. Stretched out on a table were the swollen remains of what had once been a young woman.

  ‘Any identification on her?’ he asked.

  ‘None, sir. Except that she seemed to be wearing some sort of fancy dress. A black cloak of some description. Then the killer weighted her down with a saddle.’

  Potter turned to his boss. ‘Emma Simms, sir?’

  ‘Probably. But we mustn’t jump to any conclusions. Ah, here comes the doctor now.’

  It was not the fresh-faced Cornish girl but a deputy who on this occasion turned out to be Dr Kasper Rudniski, aglow with the honour of being on official police business. He greeted Inspector Tennant with an enthusiastic shake of the hand.

  ‘My dear Inspector, such a pleasure to see you again.’

  ‘And to see you. But in rather grim circumstances I’m afraid.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Kasper answered, looking serious.

  He was very professional about his approach, examining the swollen body with care and not removing the horse’s saddle which had weighted her down until Tennant had given his permission for it to be taken away. Eventually he raised his head.

  ‘She either hit something in the water or somebody inflicted a wound and then tied her down.’

  ‘Which do you think?’

  ‘The latter. I imagine her killer knocked her out then tied the saddle on her by means of knotting the stirrups together.’

  ‘Do you mean she was thrown into the water alive?’

  ‘I think so. But the post-mortem will reveal the answers.’

  ‘I presume it was the natural gases internally that brought her to the surface again.’

  ‘Correct. As her organs broke down they would have given rise to gases which would make her come up from the depths once more.’

  ‘Of his bones are coral made,’ quoted Tennant mystically.

  Kasper looked a little puzzled but said nothing and Potter contented himself with a quizzical glance at the doctor.

  ‘Do you think this is the missing girl?’ Kasper asked.

  ‘I should think it highly likely. How long would you say she’s been in the water?’

  ‘Several days.’

  ‘Thank you. And thanks for your help, Dr Rudniski. I feel we have rather put you on the spot.’

  ‘It has been my pleasure, Inspector. My first experience of police work.’

  Potter thought to himself that people got satisfaction from the most extraordinary things.

  ‘It has taken me away from my day-to-day routine,’ Kasper continued. ‘You know I was present when Gerry Harlington fell to his death.’

  ‘You actually witnessed the moment?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what did you think?’

  ‘I thought it was the real thing. I even thought I heard a gasp on impact but the tape was playing so loudly that I realized I must be mistaken. I wish now that I had relied on my instincts.’

  ‘Could you have saved him?’

  ‘I doubt it. I think he would have died in hospital.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right of course. But do you know he wept as he lay dying. Poor bugger.’

  Kasper looked grim. ‘As you say, Inspector. He died a savage and cruel death.’

  Rufus was sitting in his study having a scotch to calm his nerves before retiring for the night when there came a tap on the door. He called out ‘Come in’, and was surprised when Inspector Tennant appeared in the doorway.

  Rufus stood up. ‘My dear Inspector, what a terrible business. Do come in. Would you like a drink?’

  Tennant glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to eleven. Potter was downstairs talking to uniform and the sergeant was driving.

  ‘I’ll join you in a scotch please, Sir Rufus.’

  The two men sat down opposite each other and Rufus asked the inevitable question. ‘Is this the girl who’s gone missing?’

  Tennant shook his head. ‘I honestly don’t know but my hunch is that it is.’

  ‘I suppose she saw something at the Son et Lumière and had to be silenced.’

  ‘I imagine so. But the point is, Sir Rufus, that there were either two people working together or a coincidence which gave the killer his – or her – advantage.’

  ‘What do you mean exactly?’

  ‘Well, the fal
l to the ground that preceded the heave over the battlements was no accident. Robin Green swears that someone came up the spiral stairs behind him and knocked him in the legs with a stick. And the killer – who must have been waiting on the spiral opposite – seized the opportunity and rushed at his victim and chucked him over the edge.’

  Rufus stared into the dying flames. ‘That is if Green is telling the truth.’

  ‘Yes, that’s occurred to us as well.’ Tennant finished his drink and stood up. ‘Thanks for seeing me. I’ll leave you in peace. But I’m afraid the castle will remain out of bounds for the moment.’

  ‘That’s perfectly understandable. Let me escort you out.’

  They walked together through the room that acted as an enclosed bridge, feeling the moat lapping at the arches beneath their feet.

  ‘Do you ever get frightened here on your own?’ Tennant asked.

  Rufus gave a wry grin. ‘I’m not on my own. I have four daughters and a handful of servants to keep me company.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I don’t know what I’m talking about. Forgive me.’

  ‘You are perhaps referring to the fact that there is no woman in my life.’

  ‘I suppose I was in a way.’

  Rufus smiled. ‘I hope to rectify that situation one of these days.’

  Tennant turned to look at him. ‘I hope very much that you do. Goodnight, sir.’

  And the policeman walked out to his car wondering how he and the rest of the team were going to dodge the array of photographers waiting eagerly on the far side of the moat.

  Nick was up early and was showered and shaved by eight o’clock in the morning. Pouring himself a bowl of muesli and sticking a couple of slices of bread in the toaster, he picked up a copy of the Guardian and, turning over the pages, was horrified to read a story headlined Mystery of the Castle Deepens. He read it quickly, then re-read it at a proper pace, digesting the facts while the toaster popped up his toast and let it slowly grow cold.

  It seemed that yesterday evening the body of a young woman had been discovered in the moat at Fulke Castle. Though she had not yet been identified rumour was running high that it was the missing Emma Simms who had appeared in the performance of Son et Lumière during which Gerry Harlington, known to children throughout the world as the Wasp Man, had plunged to his death. The police had been called and Inspector Tennant of the Sussex Police had made a short statement, ‘I have no comment to make at this time.’ The story was accompanied by a tasteful photograph of Fulke Castle taken from the newspaper library. Unable to help himself Nick bolted from the vicarage to the newsagent opposite and bought a copy of The Sun. This was having a field day.