A Series of Murders (18 page)

This quality was enhanced that April afternoon by the drizzling mist that kept lifting and descending over the castle's remains. Rick Landor and his cameraman did their best but kept having to break off when the visibility would suddenly drop to about ten yards. At such times there seemed a real danger of losing members of the
Stanislas Braid
team. Figures loomed eerily out of the mist, and it was impossible to see until they came close whether they were actors, production staff, or the few sodden tourists who resolutely continued sight-seeing, even when there were no sights to see.

But slow progress was made in the filming. When the clouds lifted, the outline at the edge of the hill looked very convincingly like a cliff above an unseen sea, and at those moments Rick Landor and Ben Docherty urged their cast into action, fearful of wasting a second of the precious light.

The scenes were fortunately short ones, without too much dialogue. Stanislas Braid, Blodd, and Sergeant Clump were tracing the footsteps of the murderer, looking for the clues that would once and for all convict him and send him to the gallows. Sergeant Clump would point to footprints that the Great Detective instantly identified as being weeks old; only Stanislas Braid himself was allowed to find ‘the mark of a size seven-and-a-half riding boot that has been recently repaired by an apprentice cobbler and whose scuffed heel tells us that its wearer is afflicted by a slight deformity of the right leg . . . probably the legacy of a childhood attack of rickets.'

Slowly, as the afternoon progressed, one by one these scenes were immortalised on film, but the weather was deteriorating fast. The clouds seemed to descend more frequently, and each time they lifted, the cameraman winced more when he checked his light meter. Eventually, at about a quarter to four, he shook his head firmly and said, ‘No point in doing any more. The quality just won't be good enough.'

‘Oh, I'm sure it will,' cajoled Ben Docherty, as ever more concerned about his programme's budget than its quality.

‘No way.'

‘Well, look, let's not call it a “wrap” yet,' the producer pleaded. ‘Keep everything set up, give people a twenty-minute tea break, and then see if the light's improved after that?'

The cameraman shrugged. ‘All right, you can if you like. But it's a waste of time. The light won't get any better today.'

‘Can't we put more artificial light on it?'

‘I'm using all the lights I've got.'

‘Oh, well, look, let's take the break, anyway, and see. What do you say, Rick?'

‘Okay. You're the Producer, Ben,' said the Director in a way that left no doubt that he was in complete agreement with his cameraman.

The tea break was announced. Russell Bentley complained that there wasn't time to get back down to the car park and the caterers' van, so Mort Verdon was unwillingly dispatched down the castle hill to fetch up thermoses of coffee and tea. The production team dispersed, wandering off into the mist – some, like the few remaining tourists, to indulge in a little abortive sight-seeing, others to check whether there were any parts of the castle where Cromwell's army had left enough roof to provide a little shelter from the constant soft but saturating rain.

Charles Paris was feeling bad again. Under the weather, he thought to himself with a grim little smile. The lift given by the lunch-time beer had worn off, and his headache was back with temple-stretching ferocity. With it, the headache brought remorse, the knowledge of how deeply he had humiliated himself the night before. And how thoroughly he had betrayed his intentions toward Frances.

He knew he had no alternative now. The half bottle of Bell's from the offlicense still thumped reassuringly against his thigh in the pocket of the raincoat he had put on over Sergeant Clump's damp blue uniform. A quick slurp might pick him up again. Just the one. Really. Then a quick bite to eat when they got back to the hotel. Nothing to drink and a very early night.

What else could he do to make himself feel virtuous? Ring Frances? But no, he decided on consideration. The memory of the previous evening was too raw for him to risk speaking to his wife. In his current abject state he'd probably confess everything. And that was hardly going to advance the cause of their
rapprochement
, was it?

He didn't want anyone on the production team to see him drinking. It wasn't that he was a secret drinker, he told himself – the circumstances were exceptional. He just needed this one drink to get him through the rest of the day's filming. (He conveniently forgot that there was unlikely to be any more filming that day.) Then, after that one drink, no more. Nothing that evening. Maybe have a few days on the wagon. No booze at all for a while. Good idea, yes.

He walked away through the remains of the keep, along the ruins of the new bulwark and down toward the south-west gatehouse. Around the corner of that, at the foot of the old bastion, he would be sufficiently out of sight to have his quick medicinal drink. (Guilt made his planning so elaborate; given the heavy mist, he could in fact have nipped around the corner of any outcrop of masonry and felt pretty confident of being unobserved.)

As he sloshed through the long, wet grass at the foot of the keep, he thought he heard something. Hard to tell through the deadening mist where it came from or exactly what the sound was. A cry, perhaps an animal's cry, and a heavy thump.

He thought nothing of it as he moved forward. He took the half bottle out of his pocket and heard the reassuring click as he broke the seal on its golden top. He raised the bottle to his lips and was about to take a long, restorative swallow when he saw an indistinct shape on the ground ahead of him.

He walked toward it, feeling suddenly cold.

The shape had a human form. But it looked foreshortened, the head unnaturally folded under the body.

He recognised the clothes but turned the dead weight over to confirm his worst fears.

It was Tony Rees. Still warm. He had only just landed. The thump Charles had heard had been the impact that had so immediately and thoroughly broken the A.S.M.'s neck.

The mist suddenly swirled and lifted, and Charles could see up to the window in the broken wall of the keep some thirty feet above him.

No one was visible in the dark frame of the window. But a few minutes earlier, Charles felt certain, someone had been there.

The person who had pushed Tony Rees to his death. Who was also, Charles would have risked a substantial bet, the person who had murdered Sippy Stokes.

‘OF COURSE it was murder,' said Charles, looking moodily out of the window of Will Parton's room at the foggy darkness of Swanage Bay.

‘You have no reason for saying that,' the writer argued. ‘In those conditions, with the wind and the fog and the stones all slippery, anyone could have lost their balance and fallen off that windowsill.'

‘Yes, but why would anyone
be
on that windowsill in the first place? Tony'd have had to climb all the way up there. Why would he do that – unless he had arranged to meet someone?'

‘I've no idea, Charles. It seems to me that playing Sergeant Clump is going to your head. You're seeing murders everywhere.'

‘Doesn't it have that effect on you – working on the series? Don't you start to see murders everywhere?'

‘No. All I start seeing everywhere is more bloody
rewrites
! Like this one.' Will Parton gestured at the screen of his lap-top computer. ‘Just because Russell Bloody Bentley doesn't want his screen image tarnished by a whiff of incest. Personally I think that'd do it a lot of good – first interesting characteristic he's shown in his entire film or television career.'

There was a silence. Will Parton tapped away at his keyboard.

‘You don't suppose Russell could have killed him, do you, Will?'

‘Oh, for Christ's sake, Charles, shut up! I can't imagine Russell killing anyone . . . or doing anything else that requires any exercise of the imagination, come to that. And what possible motive could Russell have had for killing Tony Rees?'

‘I don't know. Blackmail, maybe? Tony was into everything . . . anything he could use to screw a bit of money out of people. I wouldn't be surprised if he was into blackmail. If Russell had some dark secret –'

‘Russell's only dark secret is that he's as thick as two short planks. And it's not much of a secret; it's self-evident to everyone who meets him.'

‘I do like this blackmail idea, though. Maybe not Russell. Jimmy Sheet, perhaps? He's scared witless his wife's going to find out about his dalliances with other women.'

‘He doesn't appear to have any dalliances with other women at the moment.'

‘No, but it seems he did with Sippy Stokes.'

‘Certainly looked that way, yes.' Will Parton stared at Charles in sudden alarm. ‘Oh, my God! Sergeant Clump doesn't think that Sippy Stokes was murdered, too, does he?'

‘Yes, I do.'

‘Charles, why do you have to get into all this? Why pretend you're as good as Stanislas Braid? Why not be content to remain as Sergeant Clump and be baffled?'

‘I have good reasons for thinking Sippy Stokes was murdered.'

‘Do you? Well, I have good reasons for wanting to get this bloody rewrite finished. The main one being that as soon as I have finished it, I am going down to the bar to treat myself to a very large drink. Look, why don't you just go down there, get yourself one in, and wait for me? If I can get a run at this
without interruptions
, I'll be through in about twenty minutes.'

‘No, I've decided I'm not going to drink anything this evening.'

‘Oh, Goody Two Shoes. Afraid of getting into more inappropriate beds, are you?'

Charles blushed. Will Parton grinned and returned to his keyboard.

‘Of course,' Charles mused after a time, ‘Tony Rees might have had something on Rick Landor.'

Will Parton slammed his fist down on the table. ‘Charles, will you please shut up!'

‘No, but listen, I've had a thought. Suppose Tony Rees actually witnessed the murder of Sippy Stokes.'

‘Assuming that such an event ever took place.'

‘And then he tried to blackmail the person who had done the murder?'

Will Parton yawned.

‘Which was why he got killed.'

‘Yes, well, thank you,' said Will in the tone of someone ending a conversation. ‘I don't promise anything, but I'll see if I can get that into ep. five as a subplot.'

‘Oh, my God!' said Charles suddenly.

‘What the hell is it now?'

‘I've just thought – You remember how I was behaving last night?'

‘Hard to ignore it, I'm afraid, old man. Hard for Joanne to ignore it, either, I would imagine.'

Charles ignored the gibe. ‘You know, I was talking at dinner about Sippy Stokes possibly having been murdered.'

‘Yes.'

‘And I did sort of imply that someone might have witnessed the killing.'

‘Hmm.'

‘You don't suppose the murderer then got suspicious of Tony Rees and that's why Tony got murdered?' The enormity of the idea that Charles might have inadvertently caused someone's death turned him cold.

‘No, I don't, Charles,' said Will in the last stages of exasperation. ‘All I suppose is that if you don't shut up, there'll be another murder. You will be the victim, and
I
will be the perpetrator. Got that?'

‘Yes. Sorry.'

‘Now will you please leave me alone to finish this bloody script! You've got your own room, haven't you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, go to it. Give me twenty minutes; then we'll go and have a drink.'

‘But I –'

‘You can have Perrier.'

‘Well, I –'

‘Go to your own room, sit down, read a good book. Failing that' – Will picked up an old hardback from the table and flung it across to Charles – ‘read
this
.'

It was a copy of
The Seashore Murder
by W. T. Wintergreen.

‘Thanks very much,' said Charles without enthusiasm.

His lack of enthusiasm proved justified. W. T. Wintergreen may have seen Frances through her romantic teens, but she wasn't really Charles's sort of writer. He found the style distinctly arch, or perhaps ‘twee' was a better word?

But the extracts he read considerably raised his estimation of Will Parton's technique. The adaptations had filleted their originals with great skill, stylising the old-fashioned elements in a way that made them much more acceptable to modern tastes.

He could also understand Russell Bentley's objections better from the book than he could from the scripts. Once again Will had done a good job in diluting the W. T. Wintergreen text. In the book the Stanislas Braid/Christina Braid relationship was nauseatingly sugary.

He threw
The Seashore Murder
down onto his bed – it had only taken ten minutes for him to get bored with it – and focused his mind on Tony Rees's death.

The blackmail idea did appeal. It conformed with what he knew of the A.S.M.'s character, and it also provided an obvious link between the two deaths.

If Tony had witnessed Sippy Stokes's murder and then started to blackmail its perpetrator, that would provide a perfect reason for him to be silenced.

But it needn't have been the murder. Tony Rees might have known another secret about someone involved in
Stanislas Braid
. Who could say what indiscretions the various suspects might have committed in their pasts?

There was of course one person who probably
could
say. Charles shuffled through the back of an old out-of-date diary from which he had never bothered to transfer his address list, found a London number, and dialled it.

‘Hello?'

‘Maurice, it's me, Charles.'

‘What on earth are you ringing me at home for? There's nothing in this business so urgent that it won't wait till the morning.'