by Deryn Lake
Ricardo helped her into the back seat of his car and arranged the rug over her, putting his box of goodies on her feet. Then they took off for the castle only to be stopped at the gatehouse by a guard built like a sumo wrestler, with a huge fist and face of mega proportions.
‘Yes?’ he said, waving Ricardo’s car to a halt and thrusting his mighty mug in through the rolled down window.
‘Massage for Sir Rufus,’ said Ricardo in a very Italian accent.
‘Oh yes? He didn’t say nothing to me.’
‘Ring him then. Say it is the masseur from Mrs Harlington.’
That did the trick and having made a brief call the guard waved them in. But Ricardo had not been quite clever enough. As Ekaterina removed the blanket from her face and laughed, a photographer who had managed to make his way on to the bridge suddenly reared up and snapped them, thinking it a bit of a coup. Ricardo’s heart plummeted as Ekaterina let out a shriek.
‘I think it would be best if Sir Rufus immediately put you on his visiting list,’ he remarked.
‘But I don’t think he would believe that proper behaviour with me being so recently widowed.’
‘It is not proper behaviour that makes the world go round,’ Ricardo answered wisely.
Tennant was sitting in his office in Lewes looking at all the reports he had taken on the previous day. The four people he hadn’t so far had time to see were Mike and Meg Alexander, Paul Silas and Oswald Souter. Looking through the statements carefully it seemed that several people had noticed the bear wandering about before the Elizabethan fair but nobody had had time to say anything to her.
‘It was one mad rush getting into costume,’ Barry Beardsley had said, still in his white coat from having seen an ingrown-toenail sufferer. ‘I thought she looked a bit lost but I just put it down to Jonquil having a turn, if you know what I mean. Very unsettled in her love life, that young woman.’
‘In what way?’ Potter had asked.
‘She’s a terrible flirt is Jonquil. Has boys round her like the proverbial bees and honey pot. If she hasn’t got six on the go she isn’t happy.’
‘Does she sleep with them all?’
‘Not many, if rumour be true. But who am I to say? You will have to ask her that. If it’s relevant to the enquiry.’
There had been a silence while Tennant had thought and in the end he had said, ‘It might be. Thank you, Mr Beardsley.’
Now he wondered if any ex-boyfriend of Jonquil’s had mistaken the wretched Emma for Miss Charmwood, heavily disguised as the bear as she had been. He thought it was worth a follow-up at least and decided to put Potter on to it. He was just about to pick up his phone when it rang.
A voice spoke. ‘Hello, sir. It’s James from forensics. Sorry we’ve taken so long with that bit of fur you found.’
‘Did you get anything?’
‘Well, we did a skin sample on the interior and found there was some evidence of the wearer. In other words we got some DNA from it.’
‘And?’
‘That’s what caused the delay. We took some specimens from the body in the moat – Emma Simms – and it was her. She was the last person to wear that fur.’
‘Christ, it was the bear skin!’ Tennant shouted. ‘That poor kid must have wandered up on to the battlements and actually witnessed the murder. By God, James, you deserve a drink for this.’
‘I’ll hold you to that, Inspector.’
Tennant hurried into the room where his team were busy at their computers.
‘Listen, everybody,’ he said loudly. ‘The bit of fur on the battlements came from the bear skin that Emma Simms was wearing. Her DNA has been found on it. She must have gone up there to get a better view and seen the murderer – whoever he or she was. That’s why she was killed.’
‘Do you think she tripped up Robin Green, guv?’
‘It’s possible I suppose, though what possible motive she could have had I really can’t imagine.’
‘Perhaps he was an ex-boyfriend.’ This from Morgana with the wood-violet eyes.
‘You haven’t seen him,’ Tennant answered, and laughed hilariously.
‘That bad huh?’
‘That bad.’
Potter walked in and Tennant passed on the glad tidings.
‘Then come on, sir. We’ve really got to find out who was wandering round on the battlements as well as that pathetic bear.’
‘I suggest we have another look at them.’
‘And the spiral staircases as well.’
‘Let’s go.’
They passed through the battery of pressmen and presented themselves at the gatehouse where the man built like a megalosaur duly waved them down.
‘Police,’ said Potter, flashing his badge.
‘And the other one?’ asked the guard, indicating Tennant with a jerk of his vast head.
‘My inspector.’
‘Pass on.’
‘Where the hell did Sir Rufus find him?’ Tennant asked as the car moved out of earshot.
‘In a monastery somewhere?’
‘Probably Brother Corpulentia.’
‘Shouldn’t that be Corpulentius?’
‘Clever dick,’ said Tennant and laughed at his own joke.
Having spoken to the housekeeper – Sir Rufus apparently being out for a ride – the two policemen made their way up the first spiral, the one that Robin Green must have climbed that night. But this time they went up each step carefully, looking at anything and everything. Tennant knew well that by now any forensic material would be well and truly corrupted but really the search was for his own benefit, anything that would give him a lead on the two burning questions. Firstly, who had been on the stairs that night, had opened the door above and poked Robin Green in the legs with a stick? Could it have been Emma Simms? But if so, why? The second question was who had crept up the staircase in the opposing tower and rushed at Gerry Harlington from the back? Many people had disliked the man but who had disliked him enough to kill him?
Potter reached the top of the spiral and stepped out on to the battlements. A fine view of the castle and the surrounding countryside lay before him but his mind was churning over other thoughts. He turned to Tennant.
‘The odd thing is that Gerry Harlington could have had no idea that Adam Gillow was going to be delayed on the train that night. And how did he manage to get in here unobserved?’
‘I think the answer is relatively simple. He had sworn revenge on Robin Green for trying to strangle him and I truly believe that he meant to kill him with the sword. We know from his films that he was used to swordplay and I am sure that was his intention. I think that he got here early in the morning and hid himself in the bushes which grow plentifully on the island. Furthermore, I believe he went into that dressing tent long before the cast had arrived and dressed himself as a knight. As we all know, once the helmet is on it is impossible to recognize anyone. His one stroke of good luck was that Adam was delayed on the train.’
‘But somebody must have seen him?’
‘Yes, his murderer. He probably went up to the battlements long before his scene and the killer spotted him and decided to act. It was a spontaneous killing.’
‘You’re absolutely sure that the murderer didn’t have a partner working with him. Someone who deliberately tripped Green up at just the right moment.’
The inspector sighed wearily. ‘I’ve thought and thought about it. Unless it was Emma herself, but I wouldn’t have believed she would have known what scene was coming when. In other words I think the tripping up was done by someone fully conversant with the show. But whether they were working with the murderer I just don’t know. And I feel a fool for not knowing.’
They climbed the second staircase, which ran parallel to the other, with equal care, looking for something fresh, something other than the fountain pen that Tennant had found on the first day. But there was nothing to see.
Once again but from the other angle they stepped out on to the battlements. Tennant gazed o
ut at the panorama before him. And then his eye was caught by two distant horsemen riding in the parkland that lay beyond the moat and away from the direction in which the press men had their camp.
‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Hey, Potter, come and look at this.’
Potter, nervous of heights, edged to his side. ‘It’s Sir Rufus, isn’t it? But who’s the woman with him?’
‘None other than the merry widow herself.’ Tennant laughed. ‘I wonder if we’ve been barking up the wrong tree all along.’
‘Good Lord, perhaps you’re right. But they’ve both got cast-iron alibis.’
‘Which they gave each other.’
‘Indeed they did.’
‘Cherchez la femme, Potter. That’s what my old mama used to say.’
‘I think we should have another word with them, don’t you?’
‘I most certainly do,’ answered Tennant.
TWENTY
It was late afternoon and Nick had stolen a few delightful moments in his autumnal garden, a vivid, sweet-smelling harmony of russet and ochre. On the trees the remaining leaves had crisped and dried into cockleshells. The flowers still bravely blooming in the beds were a combination of deepest scarlet and the soft gentle mauve of Michaelmas daisies. It seemed as though the earth itself was quietly going into the deep sleep of winter, as if everything was slowing down in preparation for the hardest months of the year.
The vicar breathed deeply, closed his eyes and let his mind wander off at a tangent. He thought about the vastness of the ever-expanding universe and how short a span mortals were given in it. He thought about the cruelties of murder and about the terrible way in which Gerry Harlington had met his end. Slowly and almost reluctantly his mind turned to God and Nick felt in that moment that the Almighty must be so vast and infinite that mankind must make the best of the situation without His help. Then he shook himself. It was not part of his training for the priesthood to harbour such thoughts. But still they came in the darkness of night to haunt him. Nick shook himself again, really hard this time, and turned to go into the house. Then the ringing of the doorbell penetrated his consciousness and with a great sense of relief he went to answer it.
Jonquil Charmwood stood there, ashen faced.
‘Oh Nick,’ she said, and flung herself weeping into his arms.
They stood there in full view of the High Street with Jonquil sobbing bitterly and deeply, the noise raking her throat and making her seem so vulnerable.
‘Come in, come inside,’ said Nick quietly, and all at once his faith in his mission in life returned to him and he felt strong enough to bear her sorrows.
She could not speak, could not say a word to him, but she let him draw her quietly into the kitchen where he sat her down on a wooden stool and, going to his bar, poured her a large shot of brandy.
‘Jonquil, my dear, tell me what is the matter. I am here to help you, remember.’
She looked at him for the first time and Nick thought he had never seen such a change in anyone. Gone was the laughing, vivacious blonde who had called on him only a short while ago to ask his opinion of Gerry Harlington. In her place had come a caricature of the girl that once was. Her hair hung limply, her face was unmade up, her lips were pale and drawn.
‘Oh Jonquil,’ he said, and gave her a spontaneous hug.
She gazed up at him and he thought her eyes looked newly washed, brimming with tears that she had yet to shed.
‘Oh Nick, it was so awful. That’s why I couldn’t come to supper last night. I couldn’t have seen anyone. It was the sight of poor Emma lying there. The trouble was I hardly recognized her. And then came the realization that I had sent her to her death. That if it hadn’t been for me and my stupid theatre trip she would be alive today.’
Nick, who was beginning to think that Jonquil was prone to weeping bitterly whenever she saw him said, ‘Oh come now, that is hardly true, is it?’
‘But it is. Think about it.’
And the vicar had to admit that what Jonquil had just said was undeniably a fact. Nevertheless he did his best to dissuade her.
‘Look, Jonquil, people have been saying what you just said from time immemorial. Think about those on the Titanic. I’m sure the women in the lifeboats must have thought that as they gazed back at their stranded men.’
He was talking rubbish and he knew it, for what the mighty marine disaster could possibly have to do with a poor dead girl he could not possibly think. Jonquil, too, looked puzzled.
‘Do you mean that they were all drowned?’
‘Yes,’ said the vicar, clutching at straws, ‘that is exactly what I meant.’
Jonquil stared at him in tear-stained awe and finally let out a sob-laden giggle.
‘What you’re saying makes no sense.’
‘No, I know it doesn’t. But at least it made you stop crying.’
‘Oh Nick,’ she answered, and collapsed in his arms once more, but this time no longer weeping.
Tennant and Potter had thoroughly searched the battlements and the spiral staircases leading thereto and had come away empty handed. The trail to the killer had gone stone cold – not that it had ever been hot.
A car was drawing up as they were about to get into theirs and they paused a moment to see who was arriving at Fulke Castle. Out of the back seat came two little girls in school uniform, their blonde hair flying behind them, their little faces bright with the joy of living. On seeing the two policemen they hurried forward and introduced themselves.
‘Hello, I am Ondine . . .’
‘And I am Perdita . . .’
‘Beaudegrave,’ they finished together.
‘Can we help you?’ asked the older of the two, giving Tennant a marvellous smile.
With a glance at Potter he solemnly shook their respective hands.
‘How do you do? I am Inspector Dominic Tennant and this is my Sergeant, Mark Potter.’
‘Are you policemen?’ asked the smaller one, Perdita.
‘Yes, we are. Do we look different from other people?’
‘No, not really. But you have an official air.’
Tennant cracked into a laugh. ‘Really? You do surprise me. I always thought we blended in.’
Two pairs of eyes regarded him seriously. ‘You do and you don’t,’ answered Ondine.
‘You have beautiful names, the pair of you. Did your father choose them?’
‘Actually Granny put in her twopenn’orth,’ answered Perdita, and grinned at Potter, who grinned broadly back. ‘I like you,’ she continued. ‘Will you come and have tea with us? It’s only in the kitchen I’m afraid.’
‘I think we ought to get your father’s permission first,’ said Tennant.
‘Oh he’s out riding with Mrs Harlington.’ The two men exchanged a glance. ‘That’s why Tom fetched us from school.’
‘I see. Well in that case we would be delighted to accept.’
‘Oh goody,’ said Perdita.
The children led them through the shadowy recesses of the castle’s many rooms until they finally passed through a door and into a bright and cheerful kitchen. Big by anybody’s standards, its amazing amount of copper utensils, obviously passed down in the family for a considerable length of time, gleamed where they hung on two huge dressers. A big pine table stood in the centre of the room, laid with a blue-and-white gingham cloth. Sir Rufus’s housekeeper looked up in some surprise as the two policemen entered the room.
‘Oh, good afternoon, gentlemen. I didn’t realize you were coming to tea.’
‘Miss Ondine and Miss Perdita invited us.’
‘Does Sir Rufus know?’
‘Oh, don’t be stuffy, Miggy. Of course he does,’ answered Ondine swiftly.
‘Very well. I’ll lay two more places.’
At this point the rest of Sir Rufus’s brood came in; Araminta, black haired and beautiful, and Iolanthe, with hair like a fox’s coat. Tennant could visualize them in the future, at parties, clutching a glass, laughing, the very centre of attentio
n. The inspector suddenly envied Rufus and wished life had turned out differently for him.
‘Aren’t you both policemen?’ asked Araminta pointedly.
‘Yes they are and they are my guests,’ answered Ondine, very hoity-toity.
Araminta shrugged. ‘Whatever.’
Tennant broached the subject that interested him. ‘Did any of you girls see the Son et Lumière?’
‘Yes, we all did,’ said Perdita, widening her doll eyes. ‘We saw the dress rehearsal – and the night of the murder. We thought Gerry Harlington was an absolute prat.’
‘Really? Why’s that?’ asked Potter, halfway through a sandwich.
‘That ridiculous dance he did on the rehearsal night. Talk about out of place,’ Araminta put in.
‘Don’t you like hip-hop?’ asked Tennant innocently.
‘I like it well enough but not done in the middle of an Elizabethan Fair scene. I mean, he came on looking as if he’d just come out of a dustbin and proceeded to cavort. I was told there was an awful punch-up at the end. Even the vicar was involved.’ She giggled.
Tennant smiled. ‘It sounds well deserved to me. Tell me, did you see all of the dress rehearsal?’
‘Yes. Daddy was sitting in the audience but we went to the Tudor dining hall and looked out of the window.’
‘And what about the performance? Did you see all of that as well?’
‘Oh yes. This time we were officially in the dining hall. It was really very exciting to watch.’
‘Did your father sit downstairs again?’ asked Potter.
‘No he was with us. And so was that beautiful Russian woman. Ekaterina.’
‘I didn’t realize they knew one another,’ lied Tennant.
‘Oh yes. They are quite friendly,’ said Iolanthe, the afternoon sun filtering through one of the windows turning her foxfire hair molten.
There was a sudden silence, Tennant longing to ask if anyone had left the room for any length of time but not quite certain how to put it. He could feel Potter looking at him, then heard his sergeant clear his throat.
‘Did anyone go out for anything?’
Araminta’s voice was steely as she answered, ‘If you mean did Daddy or Ekaterina leave the room for a while, the answer is no. Daddy went to get some more logs for the fire and was gone five minutes. Ekaterina went to the lavatory during the interval and I went with her because she didn’t know where it was. So neither of them could have done the murder if that is what you wanted to know.’