They reached the place in the Crown’s car park where the official car waited in the shade. ‘I’ll give you a lift back to your own car,’ said Clutterbuck.
‘Thank you, sir.’
As the black Daimler set off, Clutterbuck leant forward and made sure the screen between them and his driver was firmly shut. ‘Go on.’
‘The caretaker was in his booth that evening so Sheridan took the key for the yard that led to the cellar. He operated the stage trap to get up on the stage and Reilly helped him out.’
‘Lucky he knew how to use the thing.’
De Silva groaned as his mind flashed back to one of his early conversations with the caretaker. ‘I remember now. The caretaker told me Sheridan went down to the cellar with Raikes and the mechanic from Gopallawa Motors. That gave him the opportunity to familiarise himself with how the thing worked and the chance to observe which key was used and describe it to Reilly.’
‘You can hardly be blamed for not making the connection at that stage, de Silva. He was going to use the thing for his role in the play.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘But wasn’t there a risk someone would see him? Presumably there would be blood on his clothes?’
‘Reilly must have helped him to change and destroyed the soiled clothing.’
Another memory came back to him of the powerful smell of perfume in Olive Reilly’s workroom the first time he visited it. He hadn’t noticed it being so strong the second time he went there. Was that where she had burnt the clothes, splashing perfume around to mask the smell? Perhaps the contents of the expensive bottle of perfume she told Kathleen she had broken.
Clutterbuck scratched his chin. ‘There’s one thing I don’t follow. How did Sheridan get out of the building with the caretaker around?’
‘I’m coming to that, sir.’
‘Right.’
De Silva felt gratified at the ease with which the assistant government agent was persuaded to be patient. He listened, occasionally nodding, as de Silva explained about Prasanna finding the passage and the door behind the foyer bar.
‘Why didn’t Kathleen notice Reilly was up to something that afternoon?’
‘Reilly gave her a drink laced with a dose of the same barbiturate she had slipped into Danforth’s brandy earlier in the day.’
‘I see. Well, it’s a pity Reilly didn’t leave us any clues about where we’ll find this fellow Sheridan.’
‘A great pity,’ de Silva agreed gloomily. He hoped that when they did, if Emerald Watson had been taken hostage, it wouldn’t be too late to save her.
Chapter 21
‘I’ll put in a call to David Hebden when I get back to the Residence,’ said Clutterbuck. ‘The poor fellow’s very anxious about Miss Watson and I expect he’ll want to join in the search. It seems there’s an understanding between them, at least so my wife informs me.’
‘Mine too, sir. Might it be better if I speak to him then we can co-ordinate our efforts?’
‘Good thinking. If it helps, I’ll let you have the other official car and a driver.’
‘Thank you.’
Clutterbuck rubbed his forehead wearily. ‘Troubled times, de Silva; troubled times. On top of all this, I heard last night that the King has finally resolved to abdicate. The legalities will be finalised immediately and a public announcement made. In a few days, it will be all change and his brother will be king. I can’t help but feel the Empire has lost a fine man.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it, sir.’
They reached the lake and de Silva started up the Morris and set off for the police station. There, he telephoned the hospital. Hebden was still there.
‘The bastard!’ he spluttered, jettisoning his customary measured tones, after de Silva brought him up to date.
‘It’s not a foregone conclusion that Sheridan has her.’
‘Where else can she be?’
De Silva had to admit he didn’t know.
‘He wants her as a hostage, I’m sure of it. Well, what do we do now? We’ve got to find her before she’s harmed. When I catch up with him—’
He didn’t finish the sentence and de Silva realised he was struggling to master his emotions.
‘A reward, that’s what we need,’ Hebden started again. ‘And posters up all over town.’
‘Do you have a photograph of Miss Watson?’
‘No.’
Hebden’s voice was flat with despair.
‘There were photographs at the theatre,’ said de Silva with a flash of inspiration. ‘They might still be there. I’ll drive up straight away.’
‘I’ll follow you and we can decide what to do next.’
Hurrying out to the Morris, de Silva looked at his wristwatch. The hospital was on the far side of town from the theatre so Hebden would probably be about half an hour behind him. With luck, by the time the doctor arrived, he would have found a poster they could take down to the printers.
He had only gone as far as the post office when he realised he hadn’t brought his gun. He turned in the forecourt under the clock tower and went back. In his office, he buckled on his holster and tucked the Webley into it. Rearranging his uniform jacket to conceal the bulge, he patted the lapel; it was as well to be prepared.
Intent on making up for lost time, he didn’t think twice about the silver-grey Lagonda he had glimpsed before he turned back to the station. Then all at once, like the first drops of water falling after a day heavy with the promise of rain, it came to him – the last person he had seen driving a silver-grey Lagonda round Nuala was Alexander Danforth. It was highly unlikely there would be two models of such a fine car in a small town.
He searched his memory. He hadn’t noticed the car at the theatre. Wouldn’t Danforth have driven up there that evening?
As soon as he cleared the bazaar, he speeded up and, ten minutes later, the theatre’s grandiose façade came into view. He parked the Morris a little way off and made his way quietly to the back of the building. The silver-grey Lagonda was parked in the yard by the stage door. If Sheridan was the driver, de Silva marvelled at his coolness.
At first, he thought he was imagining it, but as he passed the car, it seemed to rock slightly. He went closer and heard muffled noises as if someone inside was struggling. The noises grew louder and more frantic; now he realised they came from the boot. He tried to open it but it was locked. He put his lips close to the searing metal. ‘I’m going to get you out, but I’ll have to shoot off the lock. Keep as far away as you can.’
He pulled the Webley from its holster, put the muzzle of the gun up against the lock and pulled the trigger. The bullet tore into the metal with a blast that split the air. His ears throbbed as the sound reverberated around the courtyard. Flinging up the lid was like opening the door of an oven. Filled with terror, Emerald Watson’s hazel eyes stared at him out of the gloom inside. She was gagged and her hands and feet were bound with tape. Her hair clung to her streaming face.
Quickly he lifted her out and carried her to a patch of shade. She was limp and floppy as a rag doll, but to his relief, as soon as he removed the gag, she took a huge gulp of air and spoke.
‘Frank Sheridan,’ she gasped. ‘He’s gone crazy.’
‘It was Sheridan who did this to you?’ He hurried to release her hands and feet.
She nodded then burst into tears. ‘Thank God you came. It was so horrible… I thought I was going to die.’
He smoothed her hair from her face. Her skin was burning to the touch. ‘It’s alright, you’re safe now. Do you know what Sheridan’s after here?’
‘Money. He left some money hidden in the theatre with forged passports for the two of us. He said we’d leave Ceylon together and he’d kill me if I tried to run away. He kept calling me Polly. Inspector de Silva, Polly was my mother’s name. I don’t understand what’s going on.’
Polly? For a moment, de Silva didn’t understand either. Then he remembered what Morville had said. Did Sheridan mean Polly Devlin, the w
oman he had loved but who had preferred Alexander Danforth to him? But she had died long ago. Then everything became clear. Morville had also said that Emerald looked rather like Polly. The young woman’s resemblance to her mother must have tipped Sheridan over the edge. He believed Polly had come back to him. The man wasn’t just dangerous, he was deranged.
Emerald froze. ‘That noise! He’s coming back.’
De Silva glanced at the stage door. ‘Not yet, and don’t be afraid, I’ll deal with him, but if he’s anywhere nearby, he will have heard that shot so we’ve no time to lose. David Hebden will be here in a few minutes. Will you be alright on your own until he arrives?’
‘I… I think so,’ she stammered, her expression belying her words.
He went to the driver’s door. ‘Sheridan can’t have been thinking straight. He left the keys. Can you drive a car, Miss Watson?’
‘My father let me drive this one once or twice, although it wasn’t on the road.’
‘I’ll start the engine, then all you have to do is steer. Do you remember how the brakes work?’
‘Yes.’
The engine growled into life and he slid out of the seat and held the door for her. ‘Remember, foot gently on the accelerator as you ease off the clutch. Drive very slowly and stay in first gear. You only need to go a short way until you’re out of sight, then pull over to the side of the road and wait for David Hebden. Don’t forget to put the gear in neutral before you turn off the engine.’
She nodded and climbed into the driving seat. As she gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles were white. ‘Shall I start now, Inspector?’ she asked shakily.
There was a grinding noise and the car jerked forward and stalled. She let out a cry of alarm. ‘Oh, I can’t do it!’
‘Yes, you can. Try again.’
Her small white teeth nipped her bottom lip. This time the car edged forward.
‘That’s it! Now slowly, and don’t forget to stop as soon as you’re out of sight of the theatre.’
The stage door creaked open when he turned the handle. There was no sign of the caretaker. Another indication that he wasn’t as devoted to his duty as he tried to make out. He hadn’t even bothered to secure the place. Unless Sheridan had tied him up too, but finding out would have to wait.
The lobby was a furnace. Beads of sweat formed on de Silva’s forehead and his collar chafed the back of his neck.
He decided to search the dressing rooms on Sheridan’s side first. As he crept along the right-hand passage, his hand closed around the reassuring metal of his gun. There was no sign of Sheridan on the ground floor. He went to the staircase and hesitated for a moment on the first step, listening for the creak of floorboards or the sound of a door opening or closing upstairs. Silence. Had Sheridan found another way out? If he had, he would soon know that Emerald had escaped. What would he do then? Come back inside to try and find who had released her, or leave the theatre in pursuit? De Silva was confident that before Sheridan had time to find her, she would be safe with David Hebden.
Suddenly, his stomach lurched. Footsteps approached the top of the stairs and, the next moment, a figure disturbed the shadows. He glimpsed Frank Sheridan’s pale, angry face and raised his gun. ‘Stop there! Frank Sheridan, I’m arresting you for the murder of Alexander Danforth and the kidnapping of Emerald Watson.’
In the half darkness, Sheridan’s wolfish smile gave him a satanic air. ‘If you think I murdered Alexander, Inspector, what makes you so sure I won’t kill you?’
De Silva took another step up the stairs. ‘I don’t want to shoot you, sir. Please come quietly.’
Sheridan sneered. ‘That line would disgrace the most pedestrian of crime dramas, Inspector.’
If it was an attempt to throw him off balance, Sheridan was wasting his time.
‘Just come down, sir. I won’t ask you again.’
‘How right you are, Inspector.’
Almost too fast for de Silva to see what was happening, metal gleamed and there was the crack of a gunshot. The bullet ricocheted off the stair rail taking a lump of wood with it. De Silva returned fire and the gun flew from Sheridan’s hand, clattering away out of reach of them both. Sheridan took off down the passageway.
Gun in hand, de Silva ran up the stairs and followed. He was just in time to see Sheridan disappear through a door and slam it behind him. De Silva waited for a moment to catch his breath then turned the handle. His mouth was dry as he went in.
He didn’t recognise the room. It must have been one that Nadar checked. It was empty, but a small section of flooring had been removed in one corner; presumably very recently or Nadar would have noticed and mentioned it. A hiding place for the stolen bearer bonds perhaps?
A rush of air behind him made him swing round. Sheridan’s fist slammed into his ribs doubling him up with pain. He dropped the Webley and Sheridan made a grab for it. Winded, de Silva tottered as the actor took aim.
The trigger clicked, and clicked again but the gun had jammed. With a shout of anger, Sheridan tossed it away then barged past de Silva and ran. Trying to ignore the pain in his ribs, de Silva gave chase.
Sheridan reached the far end of the corridor and de Silva saw him run up another staircase, this time a much narrower one. The gap between them decreased as he hurtled through a door and into a props room. De Silva arrived in time to see him seize a rapier that lay on a table and unsheathe it. He recognised the weapon Sheridan had used when he played Laertes and fought Hamlet in the last act of the play.
The blade gleamed. De Silva only just got out of the way in time as, with a howl like a banshee, Sheridan lunged. Desperately, de Silva evaded the blow. Looking around for some way of defending himself, he saw a plaster bust of an ancient Roman and grabbed it. With all the force he could muster, he hurled it at Sheridan but the actor side-stepped just in time. The bust smashed into the wall behind him and disintegrated. His head reeling, he tried to control his voice. ‘Give up, Sheridan. Olive Reilly has confessed. The game’s over.’
Sheridan bared his teeth in a ghastly simulacrum of a smile. ‘Olive Reilly! I suppose the skinny old bitch told you we were in love. What a joke! When I told her I had no more need of her, she was pathetic.’ His voice took on a whiny quality. ‘Oh Frank, don’t leave me. You promised we’d be together.’ His lip curled. ‘I should have cut her throat then and be done with it.’
De Silva saw how the actor’s dark eyes glittered and a chill went through him. The man was even more dangerous than he had anticipated. What was worse, he, de Silva, was unarmed. He backed away, fumbling at the surfaces he came to for anything he might use to knock the rapier out of Sheridan’s hand, but before he had any luck, Sheridan lunged once more. De Silva threw the only object he had time to reach, an embroidered cushion, at the flashing blade and it vanished in a storm of feathers. Exhausted and almost senseless, he waited for Sheridan to strike a third time, but Sheridan stepped back, a strange expression on his face.
‘The only woman for me has always been Polly,’ he said softly. ‘And now we can be together.’
De Silva quailed as he realised he had been right about Sheridan. Digging into his memory for what experience had taught him about handling this kind of situation, he forced himself to stay calm. Speak quietly. Win the man’s confidence. Don’t gainsay him until you have control of the situation.
Tentatively, he stretched out a hand. ‘It’s alright, Frank. I want to help you. Why don’t you put your weapon down? We’ll find Polly together and then we can talk.’
Sheridan hesitated and de Silva felt a surge of hope. The rapier pointed to the floor and misery and confusion contorted the actor’s face. ‘Polly,’ he mumbled. ‘I have to go to her. She needs me.’
‘Of course she does,’ de Silva said gently. ‘And you’ll be together soon. Just give me the rapier.’
Stiffening, Sheridan gave him a suspicious look. ‘You know where she is, do you? If you’re trying to take her away from me, it won’t work.’
‘Of course not, Frank. You belong together. I know that.’
For a moment, Sheridan looked disconcerted then he rallied, gimlet-eyed.
‘You’re lying. You want to keep us apart, just like Alexander did. That’s why he had to die, and now you’re going to die too.’
He lunged and a stinging pain seared de Silva’s right arm. Looking down, he saw the sleeve was in tatters and blood was rapidly soaking the torn fabric. His vision blurred, but he forced himself to say upright and dodge Sheridan’s next thrust. He longed to hear rescuers’ footsteps but there was only the macabre hiss of Sheridan’s swingeing strokes and the thump of his own heartbeat. Soon, his back was to a short staircase that he recognised with dismay. The edge of the first step bruised his shin as he stumbled. He righted himself but his strength was failing fast. He was trapped. Inexorably, Sheridan forced him upward, one agonising step at a time.
As they emerged into the flies, Sheridan slashed at a rope and a tattered curtain gave way, plummeting thirty feet to the ground with a heart-stopping thud, releasing as it did so a cloud of ancient dust that clogged de Silva’s nostrils and almost blinded him. Wiping it away with the back of his free hand, he tried to stand his ground but it was over. His head seemed detached from his body; his legs gave way and, arms flailing, he fought to keep his balance. Sheridan advanced one more step. Smiling, he put the tip of his rapier to de Silva’s chest.
The ground rushed up as de Silva fell. In the split second before darkness engulfed him, he imagined that he saw once more the fateful words written on the mirror in Danforth’s blood: the rest is silence.
Offstage in Nuala Page 18