Dead on Cue

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Yes,’ Potter answered honestly, ‘that is what I was asking. You see, Miss Beaudegrave, when somebody is killed one has to follow every lead, however hurtful it might be. I do hope you will accept my explanation.’

  She turned on him a face which spoke of generations of good breeding.

  ‘Of course. You are only doing your job. Would you like a piece of cake?’

  ‘Yes please,’ said Potter, and the moment passed.

  Outside the two men looked at one another and as soon as the car had started began to talk.

  ‘Well, that’s that line of enquiry buttoned up. You did well, Potter. I was terrified to ask.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Nice girls, aren’t they? Going to be stunners when they get older.’

  ‘Indeed they are. Now we’ll be just in time to join Mike and Meg Alexander who should be pouring out a glass of preprandial sherry. I can almost smell it from here. Let’s go.’

  And they drove out of the gatehouse and away in the direction of Oakhurst.

  Jonquil had cheered up, that is to say that she was only crying once an hour as opposed to once every ten minutes. Nick, who had grown quite fond of her, was trying to talk her out of her conviction that she had sent Emma Simms to her death. Yet it was difficult, because it was more or less true. The vicar had considered musing about God’s mysterious ways but had decided against it. Jonquil had the look of someone determined to wallow in despair. And yet, he thought, this mood could not possibly last for ever. Hidden deep within was a bubbly person who would insist on eventually returning. Jonquil was by nature a cheerful creature and no disaster, however daunting, would diminish that side of her character. So he let her maunder on until eventually she ran out of steam and put on some make-up and accepted his invitation to supper and decided to be as jolly as was possible in the circumstances.

  Mike Alexander answered the door and regarded Tennant with a gimlet eye.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, in the voice that one might use to an unwanted canvasser.

  The inspector flashed his badge at the same moment that Potter produced his. Neither of them had met Alexander before and they watched his features undergo a rapid change, adopting a hail-fellow-well-met expression.

  ‘Ah ha,’ he said cheerily. ‘An Inspector Calls and all that. Did you see that marvellous production at the National? Many years ago now. Do you go to the theatre, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, whenever I get the time, I do. May we come in?’

  ‘But of course. Certainly, certainly.’

  He bowed them into a living room that Tennant felt shouted fussiness. There were bows everywhere – on the curtains, on the cushions, in the hair of a small dog that sat peevishly growling on the hearth rug. There was even a festoon of fake flowers and wheat cuttings adorned with a bow that hung on the outside of the door. The inspector, who was once more collecting Staffordshire pottery, looked with distaste at a cabinet full of crinolined ladies making moues and girls from the twenties with simpering faces.

  Meg Alexander, who was sitting on the sofa with a glass of sherry in hand – Potter gave Tennant a surreptitious wink – was not at all what he had anticipated. Theatrical she might indeed be but she looked far more like a retriever-walking woman from the Home Counties. She was not fat but large, tall and big-boned, with a head of silver hair swept back in an old-fashioned pleat. She had ample feet, presently encased in a low-heeled pair of shoes in navy and white, and hands like a man. She looked up enquiringly as the two policemen entered the room.

  ‘Inspector Tennant, darling,’ called Mike jovially. ‘And Sergeant Pitter.’

  ‘Potter actually, sir.’

  ‘Of course. How foolish of me. Gentlemen, take a seat. Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘No, thank you. On duty and all that.’

  ‘You won’t mind if I have one?’ Mike continued in the same merry tones. ‘Steady the nerves before my grilling.’ He laughed at his own joke and nobody joined in.

  ‘I believe you saw one of my other officers,’ said Tennant by way of an opening gambit.

  ‘Oh yes, a delightful girl. Very lovely eyes.’

  From the sofa Meg waved a large and languid hand. ‘I didn’t know they made police officers so pretty. Mike quite fell for her, didn’t you sweetie?’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ answered Tennant, straight faced.

  She gave him a sharp look but he smiled at her urbanely and said, ‘I expect you’re wondering why I am here as you have already been interviewed. The answer is that we are now making enquiries about the death of Emma Simms.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Mike, foregoing the sherry and pouring himself a large scotch. ‘The poor girl who played the part of the bear during Miss Charmwood’s little theatre excursion.’

  ‘That’s the one,’ put in Potter cheerfully.

  Meg sat upright and looked Tennant directly in the face. He couldn’t help but notice that her eyes were an odd colour, the kind of grey that his mother would have described as ‘Walrus Whiskers’. They also had a coldness about them that he did not altogether trust.

  ‘Sad little wretch,’ she said, exuding a smell of Poison by Dior as she moved. ‘That girl should never have gone off like that. I am referring to Miss Charmwood of course. That’s the trouble with the Odds, they lack a true sense of theatrical responsibility. Mike and I were both members of the Tooting Bec Acting Society, you know. Now there was a drama group of which one could say one was proud to be a member. Not any old actor could join, in fact quite the reverse. There were strict auditions and when I say strict I am speaking of National Theatre standards. Mike, who was chairman, saw to that.’

  A horrible picture was beginning to form in Tennant’s mind of a stultified drama group, run by the Alexanders, who considered themselves God’s gift to the stage and let everybody know it. They would have gathered round them a clique of yes-men and nobody else would have stood a chance of a part, particularly those with genuine talent.

  ‘Did you ever play Lear?’ was on his lips before he knew it.

  Mike stood still, whisky glass in hand. ‘Alas no,’ he said sonorously. ‘Of course it’s my ambition to so do – who would not wish to take such a role? – but with the Odds there is no chance of it coming to pass. Or if it did that man of mediocrity, Paul Silas, would make sure he played the lead. It’s a sad thing that we ever had to leave the Tooting crowd.’

  ‘Why did you?’ asked Potter, curious.

  Mike gave a deep sigh and Meg answered for him.

  ‘Change of job, alas. The company Mike was working for moved their headquarters to Milton Keynes and we didn’t think that was quite . . .’ She gave a little smile. ‘Anyway, we decided to come to Sussex and we ended up in Oakbridge. But quite frankly, Inspector, the Odds are not to our liking. We are thinking of leaving and forming our own company, aren’t we, darling?’

  She leaned over and squeezed his hand and he gazed at her with apparent adoration.

  ‘We want to play Heloise and Abelard, a two-hander,’ she continued. ‘Do you know it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tennant answered shortly. His ex-wife and her lover had performed it and though he had not gone to see it, other friends had and told him it was glutinously cloying.

  Tennant cleared his throat. ‘As I was saying, we are here to enquire about the death of Emma Simms. So if you don’t mind awfully I would like to ask you some questions.’

  Mike joined Meg on the sofa where they sat closely side by side with identical expressions of avid interest. Tennant felt a wild desire to giggle, which he fought back manfully.

  ‘I’m going to talk about the one and only night she was there. Now, just to fill me in completely can you tell me what scenes you were in and what you were doing when you were off stage, as it were.’

  They both spoke together then Mike gave a deprecating little laugh and said, ‘Ladies first.’

  ‘I wasn’t in the first scene, of course, that was Paul Silas, solo.’ Her mouth tightened as she said this and Mike mutte
red, ‘Naturally!’

  Meg continued. ‘The second scene was the building of the castle and I wafted on in medieval gear as the first Lady Beau De Grave, accompanied by Paul and most of the men as the builders.’

  ‘Had you seen Miss Simms by this time?’

  ‘Yes, she was in the dressing room when I arrived.’

  ‘Yes, she was,’ echoed Mike.

  ‘And what happened after that?’

  ‘Well, I had a long pause during the trouble with the See of Canterbury scene. I wandered about a bit in my Elizabethan costume and it was then that I saw Emma . . .’

  Meg stopped short and her face flushed a dusky unbecoming red.

  ‘Oh yes,’ asked Tennant, ‘and where would that have been?’

  ‘I can’t really remember.’

  ‘I think you can, Mrs Alexander.’

  ‘I believe it was going up the stairs leading to the battlements.’

  ‘I see,’ answered the inspector – and he did, a great deal. He felt rather than saw Potter stiffen beside him and he let his sergeant ask the next question.

  ‘Was it you, Mrs Alexander, who climbed the spiral stairs and poked Robin Green in the back of the legs, causing him to fall down? And I warn you that to lie at this juncture could do a lot more harm than good. You have made it perfectly clear that you hated the Odds and wanted to form a separate company. Either that or to take them over completely. Wouldn’t it have suited your purpose to make them look like a load of amateur halfwits? Which, no doubt, was in your mind when you gave Robin a hearty shove.’

  Meg battled with herself, wondering what to do for the best, ignoring Mike’s signals to keep quiet. Eventually she spoke with such patent dislike that Tennant was vividly reminded of Lady Macbeth and wondered if he was in the presence of a killer.

  ‘Yes I did – and why not? I really resented Green being given that part. Mike should have done it. He’s very fit – plays golf, squash, goes to the gym – he was ideal for the role. But no! It was Robin’s turn to get a good part and so the little runt was given it. So I thought I would spoil his big moment for him. I went up the stairs and saw the bear standing on the battlements. The poor little soul must have wanted a better view or something. Anyway, I knocked Robin down and retreated fast.’

  ‘Did you then go up the other stairs and push Gerry Harlington from behind?’ asked Tennant in a calmly quiet voice.

  ‘No, I didn’t. I didn’t know that he was there or I might have been tempted. You find the person who knew about the substitution and you will have got your murderer, Inspector.’

  Even though he didn’t want to, Tennant found himself both believing and agreeing with her. Nevertheless, she had committed an act of assault on Robin Green and would be charged accordingly.

  ‘Potter, charge Mrs Alexander with assault will you.’

  Meg snarled and it struck Tennant yet again what a dangerous woman she could be.

  ‘I did nothing more than tap the man on the legs. It was his own lack of control that made him fall down.’

  ‘That still amounts to an assault in the eyes of the law, madam,’ Tennant said grimly. ‘If I were you I would try and keep my deepest feelings under control in future.’ He stood up. ‘I shall expect you at Lewes Police Headquarters at eight o’clock tomorrow morning sharp.’

  Meg rolled a fearful eye. ‘But we live in Oakbridge. We shall have to get up at six.’

  ‘Be sure to set your alarm,’ said Tennant. ‘Good evening to you.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  Jonquil eventually left the vicarage at ten, her tears, temporarily at least, dried up and a shadow of a smile on her face. Nick would in other circumstances have asked her to stay the night, regardless of the many Lakehurst eyebrows that would have shot up, but frankly he was afraid that William might get up to his tricks. During the evening Nick had gone to the upstairs lavatory and had received two loud knocks on the door.

  ‘William, stop it,’ he had ordered loudly, only to be rewarded with a third – but very gentle tap – before the ghost had retreated.

  Nick had had the feeling that the loyal old entity was in a good mood because later that evening, after Jonquil had gone, Nick could hear the strangest shuffling on the landing. Going to the door of the living room he had listened carefully and had concluded that this blithest of spirits – to quote Noel Coward – was dancing Gathering Peascods or Big Breasted Susan or something of that ilk. He had thought then that the resident ghost somehow enhanced the house with its presence, a view not shared by Radetsky who arched his back and hissed at the noise. Nick had added his voice.

  ‘Now, William, I want you to be quiet tonight because I feel in urgent need of sleep. Miss Charmwood has quite worn me out.’

  He laughed at the double entendre but did not hear another sound until he was awoken by something pressing on his pillow. Slightly panicky, he switched on the light, but it was only the cat who had sneaked up in the night and crept on to the bed with him. Nick turned off the alarm and had another hour’s sleep.

  Ekaterina was having a horrible nightmare. She dreamed that her late husband had opened the door of her bedroom and was advancing slowly towards her bed. He looked terrible, his black skin peeling away from his bones and his baseball cap, worn sideways, pulled down over one decomposing ear. She tried to scream but as is the way with those in the grip of a bad dream no sound came out. Eventually she managed to make a noise and woke to find the bedroom empty but the door open, which gave her something of a shock. Getting out of bed she went down the silent, dark corridor until she came to the staircase. There was a child sitting on the stairs, she saw it quite distinctly before it faded into the shadows. Going down to the kitchen Ekaterina poured herself a brandy and sat there sipping until the first streaks of dawn shafted like anemones across the sky. Then she went upstairs and packed enough clothes for a few days’ absence.

  Her decision had been reached. In a few minutes’ time she would get into her car and drive to London to put the house on the market with a top-flight estate agent. It was not that she did not like the place – she had loved it on first sight – but since Gerry’s murder it had somehow become sinister. It needed a family in it to laugh and make a lot of noise. It was enclosing her and she would become immured if she did not make an escape. And since it was hers in her own right, paid for by her and with her own name on the deeds, she was free to sell it whenever she so wished. But where to go in the meantime? That was the puzzle.

  Ekaterina suddenly sat down on her dressing table stool and cried her eyes out. Not for Gerry, though she had loved him once in an immature, girlish way. But because now something new had happened to her. For the first time she had got proper grown-up feelings for a man and – unbelievably – his daughters.

  It was not the attraction of the castle. She could have purchased one of those without turning a hair, well a small curl anyway. No, it was Rufus Beaudegrave that she wanted, longed for him to take her in his arms and hold her tightly until the nightmare of Gerry’s death and that poor girl who had been drowned in the moat was far behind her.

  Ekaterina suddenly went cold all over. In the mirror, staring round the door and into the room, she could see the small child that had been sitting on the stairs. Terrified, Ekaterina looked straight into its eyes. The little boy smiled and waved his childish hand before vanishing from her sight. Scared nonetheless, Ekaterina grabbed her suitcase and ran down the stairs and into her car, then set off in the direction of London.

  It was still early in the morning when Tennant knocked on Oswald’s door. Today the inspector was wearing a lavender suit and purple tie as he had an evening appointment to appear on Crimetime – a regular monthly television programme that frightened yet fascinated the nation – and would have no time to change. So he was feeling fractionally overdressed as the front door opened to reveal a large man with a bald head and glasses who stared at him as if he had come from another planet.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Tennant pleasantly. ‘I am I
nspector Dominic Tennant from Sussex Police. I wonder if I could have a brief word with Oswald Souter please.’

  ‘He’s having his breakfast,’ the bald man answered. ‘But come in if you like.’

  Tennant followed him through a narrow passageway to a room at the back where a television set was playing an early morning chat show. Oswald was gazing at it while shovelling in massive spoonfuls of muesli and spilling drops of milk on the plastic tablecloth. He looked up in some surprise as the inspector walked into the room.

  ‘Oh hello,’ he said offhandedly.

  ‘Good morning, Oswald,’ Tennant replied in ringing tones. ‘Please carry on eating. I’ve only just popped in briefly.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For the reason that I am making enquiries into the death of Emma Simms, who, if you remember, was the girl found floating in the moat. Well, the post-mortem has revealed that she was knocked unconscious, then heaved into the water while still alive. That’s a horrible way to go, don’t you think?’

  Oswald nodded, his mouth too full of cereal to utter anything.

  ‘Shame,’ he said monosyllabically, after swallowing.

  ‘Did you know Miss Simms at all? Outside the Odds I mean?’

  Oswald put down his spoon and regarded Tennant with a suspicious eye.

  ‘No. I didn’t even know the bear was her, if you see what I mean. I thought it was Jonquil. It wasn’t until she squeaked at me that I realized. Then I sent her on her route.’

  ‘Why? What was she doing?’

  ‘Oh, just wandering around where she shouldn’t have been.’

  ‘Could you be more specific?’

  Oswald attacked the last of his muesli. ‘Not really,’ he managed in between gulps. ‘She was just ambling round the place and I had to tell her to get out of the way. Her big scene was coming.’