Cast For Death

by Margaret Yorke

  Manolakis’s plane was due at eleven-forty. Patrick planned to take him in to London straight away, for a general look round before making plans for the rest of his stay. He knew that the Greek had been in direct contact with Detective Inspector Colin Smithers; Patrick hoped to be present when Colin showed his Greek colleague some of the secrets of the Yard, and altogether he looked forward to his friend’s visit. Manolakis doubtless had in mind specific places he wished to see, and Patrick would happily conduct him to others which should not be missed.

  The miles slid by, the car purring along through the spectacular cut above Aston Rowant. Patrick took the turn- off for Marlow to join the M4, and drove down the linking escarpment which by-passed the riverside town behind a blue Mercedes. He followed it round the roundabout outside Marlow and up the road which climbed through the woods to the junction with the Henley road, where he turned left to pick up the motorway. There was a lot of traffic here, going in both directions, and he was forced to crawl behind a van which the Mercedes had managed to pass. As they went in procession past a church and the turning to Maidenhead a black flash, a dog or a cat, suddenly sprang from the side of the road between Patrick’s car and the van in front. There was nothing he could do to avoid it, for if he braked the car behind, already much too close, would crash into him, and he could not swerve away because of the oncoming traffic. He stamped for an instant on the brake but had to release it at once. There was a considerable thud, and Patrick slowed down, pulling in to the side of the road as he did so. The cars behind reformed and sorted themselves out as he got out and walked back along the road to see what he had hit.

  The dog, for that was what it was, had been flung on to the verge by the force of the collision and now lay motionless on the grass. It was a black poodle, and it was dead. The law obliged you to report the death of a dog to the police, and your own morality to tell the owner, but this one wore no collar. Well, the owner could not be far away, having doubtless been exercising his pet on the nearby common. Or her pet. Men, Patrick thought, did not own poodles.

  He laid the dog closer to the hedge, out of range of other motorists, drove on to the roundabout and circled it to turn, then took the road across the common. But there was no sign of anyone whistling or calling; no one seemed to be searching for the poodle. By the time Patrick had found a police station, described what had happened and left his own name and address, half an hour had passed.

  He hurried on towards Heathrow, the bright day dimmed a little by the incident, time short now if he were not to be late for Manolakis.

  The plane had already landed but the passengers were not yet through customs. Manolakis, in a light brown suit and bright blue tie, was among the first through the doorway. He beamed as he greeted Patrick with many warm remarks and much hand-shaking. The flight had been perfect: no bumps; he had seen both Venice and Mont Blanc. He had never been out of Greece before.

  ‘Haven’t you a coat?’ Patrick asked, as they went to the car. A sharp wind blew round the airport buildings.

  ‘I have one for the rain in my baggages,’ said Manolakis.

  ‘You’ll need to wear it for the warmth,’ said Patrick.

  ‘Your city is very fine from the sky,’ said Manolakis. ‘I have seen Windsor Castle and the Thames river.’

  ‘We’re so near, I thought you might like to see a bit more of London now, before we go to Oxford,’ said Patrick.

  ‘That would please me very much,’ said Manolakis. ‘I would like to see the Tower of London, please.’

  ‘The Tower!’ Patrick had anticipated a sentimental trip to the Elgin marbles in the British Museum, but had not foreseen this. ‘I’ve never been there myself,’ he confessed. ‘Right. The Tower it shall be. You’ll see quite a bit of London on the way.’ Then he had an idea. ‘We’ll go by boat,’ he said. That would make a fine introduction to the splendours of the capital.

  The Greek was clearly impressed as they drove through Hyde Park, past Buckingham Palace and down Whitehall; Patrick explained everything as they went along.

  They left the MGB in a car park, and Patrick urged Manolakis to put his raincoat on, for it would be breezy on the river. Before embarking, they found a pub which looked suitably atmospheric, and over their beer and ham sandwiches Patrick enquired about Manolakis’s wife and three children; all had sent him affectionate messages, and so had his sister. Then they went down to Waterloo Bridge to catch the boat.

  The voyage was a good idea. Sunlight filtering through the wispy clouds emphasised the varying hues of all the buildings as they passed. Patrick pointed out the most notable, and when they approached the Tower he launched fluently into a description of the young Elizabeth in the rain, a tale equal to any Greek legend. Patrick himself was quite moved as they passed within the huge walls wherein so much tragedy had dwelt. There were groups of schoolchildren on holiday walking around, and a number of tourists, but so early in the year it was not crowded and they could move about freely. Manolakis was impressed by the vast suits of armour for horse and man; it was all rather different from the Archaeological Museum in Heraklion.

  ‘We go back by river?’ he asked eagerly.

  So they did. Patrick pointed out a police river patrol boat as it went by.

  ‘Last time I was in London I saw a dead man taken out of the river,’ he said.

  Manolakis made clicking sounds with his tongue.

  ‘Who was it?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Some suicide. He had red hair,’ said Patrick. Until this moment he had almost forgotten the incident.

  ‘You did not ask the name?’

  ‘No. There was nothing I could do. It was no concern of mine,’ said Patrick.

  ‘It is not like you. Not wanting to know why,’ said Manolakis.

  ‘Plenty of people jump into the river,’ said Patrick. ‘You can’t wonder about them all.’

  ‘We do not have many suicides in Greece,’ said Manolakis.

  While they talked he was gazing about him.

  ‘So big,’ he said. ‘So very big. And beautiful.’

  Patrick felt proud. Manolakis was right: London was, indeed, a beautiful city.

  ‘We’ll go to the Houses of Parliament another day,’ he said. ‘And Westminster Abbey.’ He felt a sudden lightening of spirit; the slight depression brought on that morning by the accident with the dog had gone.

  ‘”Latest swindle case,”’ read Manolakis as they passed a newspaper seller. ‘What is swindle?’ His English was so good that Patrick was surprised by the question. He explained. ‘Ah yes. I write him down when we get to the car,’ said the Greek.

  ‘Do you still carry that notebook around with you?’

  ‘Oh yes. He is very useful,’ said Manolakis. He had a habit of noting down new colloquialisms whenever he met them and then producing them, used perfectly in context, soon afterwards.

  ‘I will buy the paper. I will read him later. It will be good for my English,’ said Manolakis. ‘It is so strange to hear it all about us.’

  In fact they had not heard it all about them, in Patrick’s opinion, for so many people in London spoke in other tongues.

  ‘I’ll buy it,’ he said.

  ‘No, please!’ Manolakis put up a hand. ‘You know me, Patrick. You understand my speaking. I must practise with other people.’

  He was right. And there was the unfamiliar money too.

  ‘I got me some small money on the plane,’ said Manolakis, and he stepped forward to carry out his little transaction.

  On the way back to Oxford, they stopped in Marlow for dinner. The visitor was swift in admiration of the river scene. Swans obligingly swam past, and the weir lent drama. It was very un-Greek. By the time they got to St Mark’s and Manolakis had been installed in his room, fatigue after his journey and the subsequent tourism hit him, and he went to bed forgetting his newspaper. Patrick sat down for a few minutes alone, gathering himself after the day. He was tired too; he had overlooked the fact that being a good host is of
ten exhausting, no matter how welcome the guest. Idly, he turned the pages of the Evening Standard. With Parliament in recess there was a dearth of political news and plenty of space for domestic items. Several valuable old paintings had been stolen from a house near Leamington Spa while the owner, a Birmingham businessman, was out at the theatre. A party of Americans, including a senator, had arrived in England for a varied programme of talks about matters concerning pollution of the atmosphere; there were pictures of Senator Dawson, of Princess Anne preparing for the Badminton Horse Trials and another of Ivan Tamaroff, the Russian pianist who had defected to the west eight years before and whose son, Sasha, a celebrated violinist, was soon to make his first visit to London where the two would perform together. At the foot of a column on an inside page a small paragraph caught his eye. ‘Actor’s death,’ he read, and below the heading: ‘The inquest on Sam Irwin, 44, the actor whose body was found in the Thames last Friday night, has been adjourned. Mr Irwin was currently appearing in the part of Macduff in the production of Macbeth at the Fantasy Theatre.’

  Shock made Patrick’s mind a blank at first. Then, as he unfroze, horror succeeded. Sam had been dead, not ill, that night: dead, and in the river.

  But it couldn’t have been Sam whose body he had seen. That man had red hair, and Sam was dark.

  Part II

  1

  Next morning, at breakfast, Patrick showed Manolakis the piece in the paper.

  ‘He was your friend? Oh, what sadness,’ said Manolakis, about to tackle the bacon and eggs which Robert, Patrick’s scout, had produced.

  ‘But why? How?’ Patrick demanded, brandishing the paper in the air above his coffee cup.

  ‘Suicide. You say there are many in your river.’

  ‘It must have been.’ But why had the inquest been adjourned?

  ‘You will be finding out, I think,’ said Manolakis.

  ‘Yes.’ It was dreadful news; he must learn what had happened, and when the funeral would be held. The coroner had probably given permission for this at the preliminary hearing; as far as Patrick knew, Sam had no close relatives; he had always seemed very much a loner. Liz must be told, too.

  While Patrick telephoned her, Manolakis gazed from the window at the Fellows’ garden. It was so green outside, and the daffodils under an ancient cedar were like pictures of England in springtime which Manolakis had seen. An elderly man in a shapeless jacket was walking over the velvety lawn, smoking a pipe. A gardener, Manolakis supposed, not realising that he was looking upon the Master of St Mark’s.

  Liz, just arrived at her office, was very surprised at the identity of her caller, and shocked by what he told her.

  ‘Oh, how terrible! Do you mean it was Sam that you saw that night?’

  ‘No, it couldn’t have been. That man had red hair – bright red, it must have been, as it looked distinctly auburn even when wet.’

  ‘He could have dyed it, for Macduff,’ said Liz. ‘You might not have recognised him, from a distance.’

  It was true that Patrick had not looked closely at the body; he had not wanted to become involved. Now, the thought that the dead man might, after all, have been someone he knew and from whom he had walked away, filled him with remorse. He would have to find out.

  ‘You could be right,’ he said.

  ‘Please tell me, Patrick, when you know,’ said Liz.

  He did not have to explain to her the compulsion he would now be under; she knew.

  ‘All right. I’ll be in touch.’

  He would, as this involved someone else and was not just a matter of friendly communication; though shocked by his news, Liz was detached enough to see the irony in the situation.

  Patrick immediately rang up Detective Inspector Colin Smithers at Scotland Yard, and learned that it was indeed Sam whose body had been found near the Festival Hall. No one else had been fished from the river that night.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me it was Sam?’ fumed Patrick.

  Colin had not known that Patrick was there when the body was found.

  ‘I didn’t know myself till just now – it’s not a Yard case, the local boys are handling it,’ he replied. ‘But as it happens, a colleague had mentioned it to me – that’s why I could answer you.’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ Patrick knew he had been unreasonable. ‘But what happened? Why has the inquest been adjourned?’

  ‘They frequently are – to enable fuller enquiries to be made,’ said Colin. ‘Now, what about your Greek friend?’ He switched the subject.

  ‘He’s here. You’d better talk to him,’ said Patrick, and gave the telephone to Manolakis. He and Colin had never met, but both had been concerned with a case involving thefts from ancient tombs some time before. Now there was an exchange of polite platitudes on the line before the two policemen made their plans to meet. It was decided that Manolakis would go up to London the next day, spend most of it at the Yard, and then go on to visit some relations, returning to Oxford in a few days’ time.

  When all this had been arranged Patrick took Manolakis round the college; this was a lengthy business for there was a lot to see. Manolakis was not as impressed as American visitors by the antiquity of the building, for by Greek standards it was young, but he conceded that it was beautiful, and exclaimed in admiration of the library, where some old volumes could still be seen chained to ancient reading desks. In the afternoon they toured the city, taking in the Sheldonian, the Bodleian, and the Epstein at New College, then walked to the river where Patrick explained about Eights Week, Torpids, and the Boat Race, at which Manolakis marvelled. He had arrived just too late to witness this annual event, Patrick, a rowing Blue, lamented.

  ‘You took part in this challenge?’ asked the Greek. ‘Wonderful. I admire you.’

  Patrick was reminded of the Argonauts: Greeks today were still doughty seamen, but perhaps not notable oarsmen any longer.

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ he said.

  2

  Next morning they left for London. They had spent the evening at the Playhouse watching a revival of The Importance of Being Earnest, and Manolakis had been able to follow most of the dialogue, though Patrick had had to explain the nuances of the play. The theatre, with its panelled walls and rose-rust seating, had an intimate atmosphere which Patrick always enjoyed, and Manolakis said he admired it, though he thought the city, when they walked back to St Mark’s after dining near the theatre, very quiet.

  There was enough bustle in London to satisfy anyone, Patrick reflected, hunting for a parking meter near the Yard.

  Colin said airily, when they entered his office, ‘I won’t invite you to join us, Patrick. I’m sure you’ve things to do and you’ve been here before.’

  Patrick was chagrined; he had expected an interesting day. Perhaps Manolakis, being a policeman, was to see more of what went on within the Yard than even such privileged visitors as himself. There was also the possibility that the Greek had some official reason for meeting the CID.

  ‘That’s all right.’ he said grudgingly. ‘But tell me, first, what you know about Sam Irwin’s death.’

  ‘I knew you’d ask,’ said Colin. “There’s not much. He lived in a bed-sitter in Hammersmith, and when he didn’t turn up for the evening performance last Friday the rest of the cast thought he was ill, but he sent no message. However, it seems he sometimes got attacks of nerves, though he’d never actually missed a show on that account – not lately, anyway. Actors are expected to be temperamental.’

  Manolakis had been listening to this with intense concentration, and now he asked for the meaning of ‘temperamental’. The word was explained, and then Colin continued.

  ‘No one at the theatre was alarmed at first. By the time they did start worrying, he’d turned up, in the river.’

  ‘Any note?’ Patrick asked. ‘Any reason for suicide?’

  ‘No.’ Colin hesitated.

  ‘He did not drown,’ said Manolakis, pouncing.

  ‘Right,’ said Colin, and looked at Manolaki
s with respect.

  ‘What, then?’ demanded Patrick. ‘Some sort of fit? A heart attack?’

  ‘Yes. Just that,’ said Colin.

  ‘But how did he get in the river? You mean he died somewhere else and the body was thrown in? Good God, why?’

  ‘Why indeed,’ said Colin grimly. ‘And why were there marks on his wrists and ankles as if he’d been bound, and fragments of sacking under his fingernails?’

  ‘You mean he was tied up and chucked in? But he wasn’t tied up when he was found.’

  ‘No. Nor were there any weights to hold him down. Perhaps he couldn’t swim. But he didn’t drown.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ said Patrick, now truly shocked. ‘What on earth can have happened?’

  ‘Routine enquiries are proceeding,’ said Colin.

  ‘But it must have been murder!’

  Colin shrugged.

  ‘Who would want to do it? Who on earth would want to kill poor, harmless Sam!’ Patrick exclaimed.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Colin.

  ‘He had an attack – he died, perhaps, from fear, when he is finding himself suddenly in the water?’ Manolakis suggested, and Colin nodded.

  ‘It’s possible. If whoever threw him in knew he couldn’t swim.’

  ‘How was he identified?’ Patrick asked. ‘Were there papers on him?’

  ‘No – a bystander recognised him. Odd, wasn’t it? You didn’t, but someone else who’d seen him acting did.’

  Patrick might have done, if he had looked more closely.

  ‘He’d dyed his hair,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. This woman – she’d been at some function or other in the Festival Hall, it seems – had seen him on the stage only a few nights before. He’d made her cry, she said, and she knew him at once. Remarkable.’ Colin, not a theatregoer, found this hard to comprehend.

  But Patrick understood at once.

  ‘Ah yes. “What, all my pretty chickens and their dam at one fell swoop,”’ he quoted. ‘It’s a very moving scene, that one – or should be. When Macduff pulls his cap upon his brows.’