Murder Comes To Call: three Inspector Constable murder mysteries (The Inspector Constable Murder Mysteries Book 4)

by Roger Keevil

  “Oh. Inspector, I didn't expect to find you here.”

  “I'm afraid we took advantage of your absence to make use of your house, Lady Ellpuss,” explained Constable. “I hope you don't mind. Copper, would you please escort Mrs. Pocock out to the car, while I have a word with Her Ladyship to explain matters. Perhaps we could go and sit down in the other room, madam,” he suggested. “And under the circumstances, I think a cup of tea is a very good idea.”

  ***

  SET FOR MURDER

  It was a dark and stormy night. The shrilling of the telephone bell on the cabinet alongside his bed drew Detective Inspector Constable from a heavy slumber. He opened his eyes. Pitch black. He rolled over and lifted the receiver from its cradle.

  “Hello. Yes?”

  “Sorry to bother you at this hour, sir,” came the voice of Detective Sergeant David Copper, “but I'm afraid we're wanted.”

  “What, now?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir, but it was a special request. Something's happened at the film studios, and there are important people involved, so the Chief Constable says ...”

  “You can tell me all the details when you see me. Give me ten minutes to get dressed.”

  “Oh. Right.” Copper sounded slightly disconcerted. “Sorry, sir, didn't realise you'd gone to bed. But there'll be a car on its way in just a sec. I'll explain everything then.”

  It was barely ten minutes later that the brisk rap sounded at the front door. Inspector Constable, already alerted by the sound of the approaching police car's bell, opened it to reveal a rather damp Sergeant Copper, trilby in hand, standing in the rain on the doorstep. At the kerb, engine still running, a uniformed P.C. at the wheel, stood the regulation black police Wolseley. Andy Constable picked up his hat and shrugged his way into his raincoat. “Shall we go?”

  Seated in the back of the car alongside his colleague, Constable focussed his thoughts. “So, what's this all about?”

  Copper still seemed troubled at having disturbed his senior officer. “I'm really sorry for waking you up, guv'nor,” he said, “but I didn't think you'd be asleep at eleven o'clock.”

  “Stop apologising, sergeant,” replied Constable. “I wouldn't be normally, but there was nothing worth listening to on the wireless, so I thought I'd look through the arrangements for the King's visit next month. Nothing like a mountain of instructions from on high to start your eyelids drooping.”

  “I'd forgotten about the royal visit, sir.”

  “It's all part of the celebrations for this year's Silver Jubilee. The King and Queen will be honouring His Worship the Mayor by taking tea at the Town Hall, so there are all sorts of special arrangements in place.”

  “Queen Mary's coming to the Town Hall for tea? Blimey, the mayor had better keep an eye on his silver teaspoons!”

  “Sergeant Copper,” said Constable severely, “that remark is not remotely amusing. I will not have my officers repeating idle tittle-tattle and taking in vain the name of the Queen, who is a very gracious lady. Is that clearly understood?”

  “Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir.”

  “So I should think.” After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Constable relented. “Anyway, shall we return to the matter in hand? Where are we going?”

  “The Spanner Film Studios at Larchwood, sir,” replied a chastened Copper. “I gather there was some sort of event going on in connection with a film they've been making, and someone's been killed.”

  “And why does this necessitate you hauling me out of bed in the middle of the night?”

  “According to the word from the top brass, sir, it's a very sensitive matter. There are some big names involved – film stars and so on. The Chief Constable hasn't seen fit to allow me into all his counsels, sir ...” Copper chanced a sideways grin. “ … but apparently you were thought to be the man for the job. I don't really know any more than that.”

  “I dare say we shall find out more shortly,” said Constable, as the car swept through the brightly-lit arch, boldly emblazoned 'Spanner Films'.

  Spanner Film Studios had been founded some fifteen years before, in a disused aircraft factory left over in the aftermath of the Great War. For most of the 1920s they had churned out a constant stream of two-reel comedies, but with the advent of talkies some six years ago, they had branched out into full-length feature films, and had found their own particular niche in the market, producing a series of spine-chillers with a gothic theme under the general title of 'Spanner House of Horror'.

  Constable registered surprise as the car drew up at the steps to the front door of a slightly unexpected Regency manor house. “This doesn't look much like a film studio to me,” he remarked.

  “I think all the film stuff is behind the house, sir,” explained Copper. “Apparently the house was requisitioned from the owner during the War, and after he lost his only son in action, he didn't want to live here any more when the government handed it back, and the film company bought it.”

  As the two detectives emerged from the car into the lashing rain, the man sheltering under an umbrella at the head of the steps descended to meet them. He looked to be in his fifties, portly, with thinning dark hair greased back. “Thank you for coming so quickly, gentlemen,” he said. Constable was not expecting the American accent. “This is a terrible business. Are you the man in charge?”

  “It would appear so, sir. I'm Detective Inspector Constable, and this is my colleague Detective Sergeant Copper. And you are …?”

  “I'm Omar Gould, inspector. I'm the producer of this movie, although after what's happened tonight, I don't know if it will ever get to the screen.”

  “Suppose you tell us exactly what has happened, sir,” suggested Constable. “At present, we're rather short of details, other than that there has been a death.”

  “You'd better come and see for yourself.” Omar led the way through the house to the rear door of the hall, which opened on to a covered walkway which turned to pass through a stable yard and onwards to a group of two or three hangar-like buildings beyond. “These are our sound stages,” he explained. “It happened in here, on Stage 13.” He held open a metal door and motioned the detectives to pass through.

  A pair of large sofas flanked the entrance, lying in semi-darkness. All the lighting in the cavernous space was directed towards the film set, a construction of rough-hewn stone walls dotted with burning torches, a flag-stoned floor, tiny barred windows with an eerie green light filtering through them, and pointed Gothic arches. Three film cameras were positioned at intervals across the front, with a folding wood-and-canvas chair marked 'Director' between two of them, while a large table stood out of the way against the studio wall to the left, laden with various medieval-looking items. Near it on the studio wall, and half concealed by the scenery, a board held a row of large electrical switches. Chains and shackles were affixed at various points around the set walls, while alongside a smouldering brazier was a stand containing an assortment of iron devices, evidently instruments of torture, whose precise uses Constable preferred not to think about. To the right of the set stood the rack, its wheels gleaming in the atmospheric pool of light around it, incongruously fitted up as a bar with glasses and a selection of bottles. And in pride of place, in the centre of the rear wall, stood a monstrous contraption in the form of a female figure, over seven feet high, reminiscent of the Egyptian sarcophagi which Constable had seen in the British Museum. This device, however, was not made of wood, but of cast iron. The door stood open, revealing a fearsome array of spikes on its inner side and at the back of the interior. And sprawled on the floor in front of it, blood-soaked from innumerable piercings, lay the body of a woman.

  “What the hell ...” muttered Constable. “Copper, you'd better take a look, just to be sure.” A grim nod followed swiftly from the kneeling sergeant. The inspector spoke briskly. “Right, Copper, get back in touch with the station. Tell them we want the usual team as soon as they can – photographers, fingerprints, the works. Mr. Gould, is t
here a telephone the sergeant can use?”

  “There's one in the front hall of the house.”

  “Leave it to me, sir,” said Copper, and headed back towards the entrance.

  Constable circled the body slowly. “Do you know who the dead woman is, sir?” he asked.

  “Oh yes,” said Omar Gould. “It's Myra Marks.”

  “Myra Marks? Who's she?”

  “Have you not heard of her, inspector?” Omar sounded surprised. “She's quite famous in our business. She's a journalist - gossip columnist with one of the daily newspapers. They call her 'The Iron Maiden of Fleet Street'.” He shuddered. “It's a bizarre coincidence, isn't it?”

  “I don't know what you mean, sir.”

  “Iron Maiden, inspector. That's the name of that device. The Iron Maiden of Nuremberg. A medieval instrument of execution. It's the real thing, too – we tracked one down and had it imported for the film, to add more authenticity.”

  “A little too authentic for my taste, sir.”

  Sergeant Copper reappeared at that moment, puffing slightly. “It's all in hand, sir. Everybody is on the way.”

  “Well done, sergeant. We can make a start.”

  “What about the others, inspector?” enquired Omar Gould.

  “How do you mean, the others? Do you mean to tell me that there are more people involved?”

  “The rest of the guests.”

  “Guests? What guests?”

  “For the party.”

  Constable suppressed a sigh of exasperation. “Why don't you start at the beginning, Mr. Gould,” he said, “and tell me exactly how this came about.”

  “We've been making a movie, inspector …”

  “That much I'd gathered, sir.”

  “And tonight we were celebrating the end of shooting.”

  “What, she's been shot as well?” ejaculated Copper, aghast.

  “No, sergeant,” continued Omar. “The shooting of the film. We did the final scenes today – we actually managed to finish on schedule, for once.”

  “And what is this film, sir?” Copper produced a notebook and prepared to take details.

  “It's a comedy horror movie entitled 'Love Me To Death'.”

  “Not much to laugh about in this situation, is there, sir?” retorted the unimpressed sergeant grimly.

  “So what with the coincidence of today being February 14th,” Omar pressed on, “I decided to celebrate the occasion by having a little St. Valentine's Day cocktail party here in the Chamber of Horrors set.”

  “And ended up with your own St. Valentine's Day massacre, by the look of it.”

  “That will do, sergeant.” Constable took the reins. “As you point out, not really the occasion for levity. Mr. Gould, do carry on.”

  “It seemed quite an amusing idea at the time, inspector,” said Omar defensively. “Just a small gathering - the stars of the movie, some of the team involved with the production, and one or two guests. And Myra Marks was one of the guests.”

  “Which brings us to the all-important question of how your party guest ended up lying dead on the floor, with lord knows how many stab wounds.”

  “We started at about nine o'clock,” explained Omar, “and people seemed to be enjoying themselves, talking and having a few drinks and so on ...”

  “I noticed the bar, sir,” said Constable. “I thought it looked a little out of place in a medieval dungeon.”

  “Everything was fine until about ten o'clock, when suddenly, all the lights went out. I thought it must be a power cut – we get those sometimes when the studios are all working at once, because it overloads the power supply. It's all the strong lighting, you see. Anyway, everyone was taken by surprise, and there was a lot of shouting and jostling in the dark, and there was what sounded like a door slamming. A few seconds after that, the lights went back on – they could only have been off for a minute, if that – and we all stood looking at one another, wondering what had happened. Then someone noticed that there was blood seeping out from the bottom of the door of the Iron Maiden. And when we opened it up, Myra's body just sort of slumped out.” Omar looked pale at the recollection.

  “And then, sir?”

  “As you can imagine, inspector, there was a great deal of shock and surprise. Some of the women were screaming, and nobody seemed to know what to do, so I took control. I sent everyone to the dressing rooms off-set, and then I went through to telephone for the police.”

  “Which is where we came in, Mr. Gould. Very smart thinking, if I may say so, but then, I suppose as the producer, you would be the man in control, I assume. Am I right?”

  “Yes, ultimately, inspector. Some people get confused between the rôle of producer and director when you're making a movie. As producer, my job is to put the whole deal together and get the money in place.”

  “And Myra Marks would have fitted into this picture how, exactly?”

  “She was great for helping you to make contacts. Being a journalist, there was nobody she didn't know in this business, and sometimes she knew one or two things which, shall we say, helped me to persuade a few reluctant backers to put their cash into a film. But where's the harm in that?”

  “I see – a little gentle coercion to help you along the way, eh?”

  “I don't know that I'd put it as strongly as that, inspector. But I will certainly miss her influence, if that's what you mean.”

  “Of course, a critic can have influence which might harm your interests as well as benefit them, sir,” observed Constable. “But I think we can leave speculation of that sort to one side for the moment. At present, I'm more concerned with these other people that you've mentioned. Who would they be?”

  “Perhaps you'd better come and meet them for yourself,” said Omar, sounding slightly relieved that the conversation had turned away from what might have been a sensitive topic. “They're through here in the dressing rooms.” He led the way through an arch at the rear of the set.

  *

  Behind the scenery, the detectives received their first lesson about the illusory world of the cinema. What had appeared from the front to be solid ancient masonry was revealed to be nothing more than a flimsy construction of plywood and battens, held up with a ramshackle arrangement of timbers, braces, and weights. Electrical cables snaked across the floor. An odd jumble of ladders, spotlight bases, dusty tapestries, a throne, and what appeared to be the funnel of a Mississippi riverboat leaned against one wall. Omar turned left and opened a door in the rear wall of the building, concealed by the scenery, which gave on to a corridor with several doors off it. “I suppose you'd better meet our leading lady first.” He tapped on the first door and, in response to a gracious 'Come in', held it back so that the detectives could enter.

  “Please, Omar, no autograph hunters – I'm far too upset.” The words came from a woman apparently in her middle years, wrapped in an oriental silk robe in crimson and gold and reclining upon an opulent brocade chaise longue, a cocktail glass in her hand. Strands of dark hair peeped from beneath a gold lamé turban – a chiffon scarf in a matching colour was draped about her neck. The complexion was a flawless pale cream, the eyes heavily kohl-lined, the lips scarlet. The effect could scarcely have been more theatrical.

  “No, Gloria, it's nothing like that,” Omar hastened to reassure the woman. “These gentlemen are from the police. They've come to find out what happened to Myra. This is Inspector Constable, and this is Sergeant Copper. Inspector, may I introduce you to ...”

  “There's no need for an introduction, sir,” interrupted Andy Constable. “I'm sure anyone who's ever been to the cinema would recognise Miss Gloria Mundy. And may I say that it's an honour to meet you, madam.”

  “Why, inspector, how very kind.” Gloria extended a hand, its nails varnished to a deep purplish-red, its skin, the inspector noticed, not quite as youthful as the owner's face would have indicated. Constable was uncertain as to whether he was intended to shake the hand or kiss it – he compromised by taking it and executin
g an awkward sort of half bow. “It's always gratifying to meet an admirer. I suppose I shouldn't ask what was your favourite of all my films.”

  “Well, there have been so many, haven't there …?” floundered Constable.

  “I liked the one where you were the all-powerful ruler of that lost African kingdom,” piped up Copper, coming to the rescue of his superior.

  “Ah yes.” Gloria sighed in reminiscence. “'Her' – that was certainly one of my triumphs. And then you must have seen me when I portrayed Victoria in 'What A Great Queen'. Of course, those were in the days before sound came along. Acting was so much more of an art then. All in the eyes, you see, so that everyone could understand you, the world over. Not like this modern Tower of Babel where everyone is so obsessed by words.”

  “But you did win an academy award just recently, didn't you?” Constable recollected.

  “Yes I did, inspector.” Gloria bestowed a gratified smile on the detective. “How very sweet of you to mention it. Yes, it was as best supporting actress for playing The Queen of Spades in 'The Count at Monte Carlo' – of course, only a minor rôle, but I believe I brought a certain grandeur to the character. A small thing, but mine own, as you might say.”

  “Sadly, Miss Mundy, we are here on rather more serious business. Much as I'm sure that Sergeant Copper and I would be delighted to hear about your career, it isn't really relevant to the death of Myra Marks.”

  “Ah, but that is just where you're wrong, inspector.” Gloria became more animated as she sat up and directed her penetrating gaze towards her questioner. “Dear Myra has been following every step of my career. Of course, in her position, it is absolutely incumbent on her to keep up to date with everything that is going on in the film world and what all the major stars are involved with. Oh, not just the stars, of course – there is so much more to the film business, with all the various interests concerned. And that, I'm sure, is one of the main reasons she was here tonight – keeping abreast of events. Why, she was even taking an interest in this latest little film of mine.” She smiled deprecatingly.