Play to the End

by Robert Goddard

  “Oh. God. I am…sorry.”

  “You say that as if it’s your fault.”

  “P-perhaps…it is.”

  “He died of a heart attack, Derek. It was nobody’s fault.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Why not?”

  “The way…Mr. Colborn talked about it.”

  “What way was that?”

  “He, er, mentioned it…and said…”

  “What did he say, Derek?”

  Derek took a deep breath to steady himself. Then he said, “He came here and told me to stop causing trouble for him. To forget my history of Colbonite. To leave his…your wife…alone. And to leave you alone too. He said I should go away for a few days. Until Lodger in the Throat had finished its run. I told him I didn’t want to go anywhere. That’s when he mentioned Mr. Maple’s…death. He said it was an example of what happened when people got out of their depth. He said…it should be a warning to me.”

  “A warning?”

  “Yes. How did…Mr. Maple die, Mr. Flood?”

  “I’m not sure. I think he was being chased when his heart gave out. He wasn’t a well man. After Monday night’s show, he met someone who seemed to think he was actually me. They didn’t realize he was the stand-in. I think they had something nasty planned for me. When they realized their mistake, they sent Denis packing. But last night, according to a phone call he made to me, they came after him again.”

  “Do you think…they were working for Mr. Colborn?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tell me, Derek, did you manoeuvre me into missing Monday night’s performance to save me from whatever was planned?”

  He looked at me blankly and shook his head. “No. I had no idea…anything was planned.”

  “That letter you wrote to Leo Gauntlett…”

  “Did it help?” he asked eagerly.

  “Not exactly.”

  “I wanted him to understand that you weren’t being irresponsible.”

  “Really? Wasn’t it just a little…tongue-in-cheek?”

  “Well…” Derek flushed coyly. “Maybe…”

  “It reminded me of an Edna Welthorpe missive.”

  At that he beamed. “They’re gems, Mr. Flood. Absolute gems. Do you remember her exchange of correspondence with Littlewoods?”

  “You aren’t going to write to any more of my associates, are you?” I’d have been sterner with him, but so fragile was the state Colborn had left him in that I felt I couldn’t risk even hardening the tone of my voice. “It’s got to stop, Derek.”

  “Yes. Of course.” He hung his head like a guilty schoolboy. “I’m sorry.”

  “No more tricks. No more stunts. Clear?”

  “No more.” He gazed at me earnestly. “I promise.”

  “Good.”

  “Is that why you came? Because of the letter?”

  “Partly. I…found myself in the area.”

  “Not on your way to the Library, were you?”

  “What makes you ask?”

  “It’s just that…when we met at the Rendezvous on Monday, you asked me for directions to the public library.”

  “So I did. And you told me it was in New England Street.”

  “That’s right. But actually…it’s closed on Wednesdays.”

  “I know. I’ve just come from there.”

  “Oh dear. That must have been annoying for you. What were you trying to find out? If I can help…”

  “I wanted to look at back copies of the Argus.”

  “Ah. Actually, the Argus isn’t archived at New England Street. You need the Local Studies Library in Church Street for that.”

  “Also closed on Wednesdays?”

  “I’m afraid so. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

  “Not necessarily. You see, I think you can help, Derek. In fact, I’m sure of it. I wanted to read what the Argus had to say about the death of Sir Walter Colborn.”

  “Oh. That.”

  “Yes. That. I understand he was knocked down by a car, driven by a former employee of Colbonite, who was terminally ill with cancer at the time.”

  “Sounds like…you already know all about it.”

  “Is it true a lot of Colbonite workers contracted cancer of the bladder after handling a carcinogenic curing agent used in a dyeing process?”

  “Yes.” Derek’s reply was almost a whisper. “One of the chloro-anilines. Nasty stuff.”

  “No doubt you mention this in The Plastic Men?”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Flood. It’s all there. Chapter and verse.” He smiled weakly. “There was a sign on the door of the dyeing shop. Somebody spray-painted over the E in dyeing on one occasion. A pretty black sort of joke.”

  “Did you work with this stuff?”

  “Good Lord, no. I was a filing clerk.”

  “But those who did are mostly dead now?”

  “Yes. I checked on them all. They’re listed in an appendix to The Plastic Men. Names. Ages. Cause of death.”

  “Which one of them murdered Sir Walter?”

  “He was only charged with manslaughter.”

  “Who was he, Derek?”

  “Kenneth Oswin.” Derek stared at me. “My father.”

  It was as obvious now as it should have been before. He didn’t blame Roger Colborn for closing Colbonite down. At least, not only for that. There was something far worse to lay at his door. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I thought it might…put you off.”

  “Because there’s a feud between your families? Well, it certainly skews the perspective, that’s for sure.”

  “There’s no…feud.”

  “In your book, do you accuse the Colborns of knowing how dangerous the curing agent was?”

  “I don’t exactly…accuse them. But…”

  “You lay it on the line.”

  “I suppose I do. Yes.”

  “That’s libel.”

  “He could sue me. I wouldn’t mind.”

  “You asked Colborn to help you get the book published. Why? You must have known he’d move heaven and earth to stop it being published.”

  “I just wanted to…get a reaction.”

  “Well, you got one, didn’t you? More of one than you bargained for, if the state you were in when I arrived is anything to go by.”

  Derek squirmed in his chair. “I just don’t see why he should get away with it.”

  “Take after your father in that, do you? He obviously decided Sir Walter shouldn’t get away with it either.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “What was it like?”

  “Dad went out to Wickhurst that day to plead with Sir Walter to help out the families of the men who’d died and those, like him, who were already terminally ill. He’d gone down with cancer shortly after Colbonite closed, but he’d recovered. Then it came back. He’d been a shop steward in his day. He…felt responsible. He thought he could talk Sir Walter round. He’d only bought the car a few years previously, so Mum could drive him back and forth to the hospital. Anyway, he told me later what happened when he got to Wickhurst Manor. Sir Walter refused to discuss the matter. Ordered him off his property. Then stalked off to take his dog for a walk. Dad sat in his car for a while, fuming, then decided to go after Sir Walter and make a last effort to talk him round. He’d seen him set off along the lane that leads north from Wickhurst towards Stonestaples Wood, so that’s the way he went. He was going too fast. And he was never a good driver, anyway. He was in a lot of pain by then as well. He went round a sharp bend and saw Sir Walter too late to stop or swerve aside. It was an accident, Mr. Flood. That’s what it was. Just an accident.”

  “The police obviously didn’t think so.”

  “Well, Dad said some things…about his illness. He wanted them to charge him with manslaughter, you see, or better still murder. He wanted a high-profile trial. The chance to say what Sir Walter had done to his workers. The truth is, though, it was an ac
cident.”

  “Does Roger believe that?”

  “I don’t know what he believes. I’m sure he had the trial delayed, though. He has a lot of friends; a lot of influence. Thanks to him, Dad never had his day in court.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Derek.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Flood.”

  “When did your mother…”

  “Not long after Dad. Looking after him put a huge strain on her. After he passed away, she just…faded.”

  “Leaving you alone, to think about Roger Colborn and how to get back at him.”

  “I’m not after revenge.”

  “No? Well, he won’t give you a day in court any more than he gave your father one, Derek. That’s the truth. You’ve more or less admitted the book’s libellous. No publisher will touch it. The only way you can get anywhere with this is to prove the case—scientifically. And even then…” I hesitated. If Derek didn’t know about the sale of Colbonite to a shell company and the consequences of the move, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be the one to tell him.

  “Mr. Colborn has taken precautions against every contingency, I know. He’s been very clever.”

  “You’re not the only one bearing a grudge against him, if it’s any consolation. I met his uncle. Gavin Colborn. He told me all about Sir Walter’s death. Except that he never mentioned your father was the car driver.”

  “He’s probably forgotten the name. There’s no reason why he should remember it. We’ve never met. I saw him a few times, at Colbonite. But I was…beneath his notice.”

  “You have something in common, though. A desire to put a spoke in Roger Colborn’s wheel.”

  “It would be nice…to do something.”

  “Yes. And I’m the spoke, aren’t I? If I could win Jenny back…”

  “Mr. Colborn would be seriously put out.”

  “It’s not exactly justice. But it’s better than nothing. The only problem is, I’m not sure I can pull it off.”

  “Surely, if Mrs. Flood understands what Mr. Colborn did to people like my father…”

  “If she understands, Derek. Oh yes. She couldn’t stomach that. But how do I prove it to her? How do I convince her I’m not levelling an unfounded accusation in order to split them up? Where’s the hard, incontrovertible evidence?”

  Derek pursed his lips, rocking back and forth slightly in his chair as he pondered our shared difficulty. Then he said, with a meek acceptance of the unalterable, “There isn’t any.”

  “You see?”

  Suddenly, Derek stopped rocking. He pondered a little longer, then said, “No evidence as such. Only witnesses.”

  “The tainted kind, if you mean the likes of you and Uncle Gavin. He suggested his sister, Delia, but seemed to doubt she knew enough to sway Jenny.”

  “I feel he’s almost certainly right there. As far as knowledge is concerned, I could only suggest Dr. Kilner.”

  “Who?”

  “The biochemist Colbonite ‘consulted’ over the risks posed by the curing agent. Dr. Maurice Kilner. He was a head of department at the University of Sussex.”

  “Was?”

  “Since retired.”

  “With a handsome pay-off from the Colborns, presumably.”

  “I’m not sure. If Mr. Colborn has a weakness, it’s parsimony. I saw Dr. Kilner in Waitrose a few months ago. He didn’t look as if he was living in the lap of luxury.”

  “No?”

  Derek shook his head, smiling faintly at the notion he’d planted in my mind without needing to put it into words. “No.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t spoken to him about this.”

  “I don’t think he’d be willing to discuss anything with a former employee of Colbonite. He’d be fearful of the consequences.”

  “What about somebody who’d never worked for Colbonite?”

  “It might be different.”

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  “Yes, Mr. Flood. There is.” Derek cleared his throat. “Would you like to know where Dr. Kilner lives?”

  I left Derek in a much calmer state than I’d found him in. The Plastic Men was going nowhere. He understood and accepted that. But our campaign against Roger Colborn—if it was a campaign and if it was ours—that might yet have legs. It was agreed I’d try to contact Dr. Kilner and would tell Derek what I’d accomplished, if anything, after tonight’s show.

  The rain had stopped. I walked down London Road through the drying grey early afternoon, wondering just what kind of an ally I’d saddled myself with in Derek Oswin. He can be relied on in some things, but not in others. And he’s frightened of Roger Colborn—understandably. Perhaps I should be as well. But other imperatives have blanked out fear. I can’t let Jenny marry this man, even if I fail to win her back. And I can’t ignore what happened to Denis.

  The Great Eastern in Trafalgar Street was still serving food. I sat in a cosily gloomy corner and worked my way through a late lunch while mulling over my next move. I had an address for Dr. Kilner, but no telephone number. I borrowed a directory from behind the bar, but he wasn’t listed, so there was no other way to approach him but on the doorstep. I swapped the directory for a Brighton A–Z and found Pennsylvania Court in Cromwell Road, Hove, just behind the county cricket ground. There was nothing to be gained by delay, unless I wanted to give myself the chance to change my mind. And that I didn’t. Resisting the lure of a second drink, I headed for the taxi rank up at the station.

  The cab was most of the way to my destination when fate intervened, in the form of Brian Sallis on my mobile.

  “I’m with Ian Maple, Toby. We’re at Denis’s lodgings in Egremont Place. Can you join us here?”

  Dr. Kilner, it was apparent, would have to wait.

  Thanks to already being in a taxi when Brian called, I was at Egremont Place in no more than ten minutes. Brian was waiting for me outside number 65, a narrow-fronted, bay-windowed house near the northern end. Ian Maple, he explained, was inside, sorting through his brother’s possessions.

  “He’s pretty cut up, Toby, as you can imagine, and looking for answers.”

  “Answers to what?”

  “Questions raised by a message he had from Denis last night. Look, he knows you found Denis and that the two of you went back a long way. Can I leave you to…go through what happened?”

  “You’re not coming in?”

  “I have to get back to the theatre. Just tell the poor chap as much as you can. Mrs. Dunn will let you in. She’s expecting you.”

  As promised, Mrs. Dunn was expecting me. She’d put Denis up more than once over the years and was clearly upset. “It’s a terrible thing, Mr. Flood. He was too young to go and do this on me.”

  “I know.”

  “His brother’s upstairs. Second floor, front. Will you tell him what we talked about earlier is fine by me?”

  “Sure.”

  I climbed the stairs and found the door to Denis’s room ajar. A younger, balder, bulkier version of my late friend and colleague was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring into space. He was wearing blue jeans and a grey fleece over a sweatshirt. He looked like a tough guy who at the moment wasn’t feeling very tough at all.

  It took several seconds for my presence to register with him. Then he stood up slowly, the bed springs creakily extending themselves, and fixed me with a clear-eyed gaze.

  “Toby Flood?”

  “Yes. Pleased to meet you.” We shook hands, his grip large and powerful. “Though sorry, of course, about the circumstances.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Mrs. Dunn asked me to tell you…something you discussed earlier…is fine by her.”

  “I asked if she could put me up for a couple of days.”

  “You’re stopping over?”

  “Till I find out what Denis had got himself into. Brian Sallis reckoned you might know.”

  Thanks, Brian, I thought; I owe you one. “He said you’d had a message from Denis.”

  “Yeah. On my answerphon
e.” He pulled a small tape recorder out of his pocket and stood it on the bedside cabinet. “Want to hear it?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  He pressed the PLAY button. An electronic voice announced, “Next new message. Received today at eleven fifty-three p.m.” Then Denis was speaking to us, his voice hushed and fuzzy. “Hi, Ian. Big brother here. Sorry not to have caught you. I’ve run into some trouble. Not sure how serious. Could be very. I might need some help. I have a bad feeling and…Send Mum and Dad my love, will you? It’s too late to call them. Hope all’s well with you. ’Bye.”

  Ian Maple rewound the tape, then switched the machine off. “What’s it all about, Toby?” he asked.

  “Hard to say.” I sat down on the only chair in the room, playing for time to little purpose. My instincts told me not to involve this man I hardly knew in my dealings with Roger Colborn. Yet I couldn’t simply deny all knowledge. I should have checked the events of the previous evening with Glenys. I should have prepared myself. I’d done neither. Playing a part without any kind of rehearsal is playing with fire. But it’s what I had to do. “Denis phoned me shortly before he left that message for you. He said someone was…chasing him. He wasn’t very specific. He was at a bus stop in North Street. I agreed to meet him there at midnight. When I got there, he’d gone. I walked towards my lodgings, thinking he might have headed in that direction. That’s how I came to find him, by the fountain on the Steine.”

  “Already dead?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Ian sat back down on the bed, to another squeal from the springs. “Do you think someone was after him?”

  “He said so.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Yes.” I couldn’t write Denis off as a fantasist, however evasive I was being. “I believed him.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know.” (True enough.)

  “No idea at all?”

  “None.” (Not true enough.)

  “I mean to find out.”

  “I wish you luck. It’s going to be difficult.”

  “I won’t let that stop me. Having me as a kid brother wasn’t always a cakewalk. I owe it to Denis to try.”

  “How are your parents taking this?”