Angel and the Actress (4 page)

I
T WAS
4 p.m. Angel was still interviewing the guests and staff of the Mansion House, and eliciting unexpected information about the personal and working life of Joan Minter. He was at the table in the little sitting room, rubbing his chin. But he wasn’t any clearer as to the identity of her murderer.

There was a knock on the door. It was Ahmed. ‘I’ve got Mrs Bell, sir,’ he said.

‘Come in, Mrs Bell,’ Angel said.

The young woman with the shining, wet eyes said, ‘It’s
Miss
Bell, Inspector, actually. But please call me Jane.’

‘Right … er … Jane. Please sit down.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, wiping her cheek with a tissue.

Angel waited. He contented himself looking at her and smiling to try to put her at ease.

She looked up at him and said, ‘Excuse me, may I ask if you are
the
Inspector Angel, the one in the papers that they say is like the Canadian Mounties because he always gets his man?’

Ahmed smiled as he watched Angel’s reaction.

The inspector was always embarrassed at this question and wanted to get it quickly out of the way. ‘Well, yes. I suppose I am.’

‘I’ve seen you on the television, I’m sure. They say that you’ve always solved the murder cases you’ve been given. I read it in a paper or a magazine somewhere.’

‘Yes, well … I do what I have to do.’

Her eyes filled up again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I just can’t control myself. I’ve never been so close to a … to somebody who died.’

Angel knew the feeling well. After all, over the years he had had to deal with many tragedies involving all kinds of people including mature men, sometimes some of whom broke down in tears, both genuine and false. If the dead person was known to be a villain, of course it wasn’t difficult to remain controlled and level-headed. But sometimes it wasn’t easy for a young woman, not much older than a girl, to control her emotions.

‘Well, you’re not to worry, Jane.’

‘Well, I do worry, Inspector. I’m afraid. I know that the murderer is here among us. I don’t know who I can trust.’

‘
How
do you know?’

‘Stands to reason, Inspector. Nobody saw a stranger in the dining room or anywhere in the house. Nobody has come forward and said that they saw a stranger. There is no stranger. If there is no stranger, then the murderer must be one of the guests. If a guest wants to murder Miss Minter, an icon and one of the nicest ladies in the world, well, there’s no telling who else he might want to murder. He might want to murder me. Well, I’ve never done anybody any harm … not knowingly, anyway. And if
I had, I would certainly want to apologize and put it right.’

Angel nodded. ‘At the moment, Jane, it seems that there
was
a stranger in the house,’ he said. ‘That he crept in behind everybody while you were watching Miss Minter giving her speech from the top of the piano. That he chose his time, switched off the lights, shot her, then let himself out by the front door and disappeared into the night.’

‘I think a strange face among that crowd of celebrities would be bound to have been recognized by one of them and reported, Inspector. I certainly didn’t see anybody.’

‘Jane, I said that it
seemed
that a stranger crept into the place. I didn’t say I agreed with it.’

‘But, Inspector, I didn’t know until just now that the gun that killed her had been found, and that it had been found on the lawn on the way to the main gate. Surely that’s evidence that it
was
a stranger making his escape after all?’

‘Not at all,’ Angel said. ‘All the murderer had to do was go upstairs to the first floor, go into the bathroom or the lavatory, lock the door and throw the gun out of the window. You wouldn’t have to be a medal winner at the Olympics to manage that. Any old biddy would have been able to do that.’

She looked at Angel, and sighed. ‘Oh. Oh yes,’ she said with a smile. The smile quickly faded. A hand went up to her face. ‘That means that the murderer is still here. It’s somebody in the house, then!’

It was 5 p.m.

Angel was still in the small sitting room at the Mansion House. He had let Ahmed cadge a lift to the
police station in the SOCO van. Angel would like to have called it a day himself and gone home but there was still one interview that wouldn’t wait.

There was a knock at the door.

Angel quickly took the small recording machine out of his pocket, switched it to Record and put it on the desk in front of him.

‘Come in,’ he called.

‘Ah, Mr Trott,’ Angel said. ‘Come in. Please sit down. I understand that you wanted to see me?’

‘I’ll stand, sir. If you don’t mind,’ Trott said. ‘Yes, sir. It’s an organizational and financial matter.’

Angel frowned and looked at him closely.

‘Mr and Mrs Jones, the caterers, are still here feeding the guests and they should be paid,’ Trott said. ‘And they need to know how much longer they are required to be here. After all, they were only contracted to supply and serve four meals, three yesterday and one today. They’ve already been here two nights. All the guests are still here and have to be catered for.’

Angel’s eyes narrowed. ‘
Two
nights?’ he said.

‘They came Saturday to check out the facilities, the electric sockets for their cooking equipment and hotplates and the layout of the rooms and so on. They now need to restock with victuals. They cannot manage any longer without going to the market and they also need some money to be able to pay for what is needed. The question is, how much longer are they to be here, and who is going to pay them? In addition, the house being full of guests, I am now also urgently in need of the services of a housekeeper and a chambermaid. I cannot on my own maintain
the standard of cleanliness and service that Miss Minter would have expected from me.’

‘Well, Mr Trott, it really has nothing to do with me. If the guests were not eating and sleeping here, they would be eating and sleeping
some
where. It just happens that they were away from home when this murder occurred. I think this matter should be worked out between Miss Bell, you, the Joneses and the guests. Perhaps each guest would like to pay an appropriate sum for their keep, or maybe Miss Bell has access to some petty cash of Miss Minter’s. I really have no other suggestions to make.’

The corners of Trott’s mouth turned downward. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said without conviction. ‘Could you say how much longer it will be necessary for the guests to remain here?’

Angel wrinkled his forehead, then sighed and rubbed his chin. ‘I believe that I have now seen everybody. I am only waiting for the gunshot residue results from Wetherby lab, which could be here sometime tomorrow.’

‘Very well, sir,’ he said. ‘That does mean we will have to manage another two meals and another night at least. I shall immediately convene a meeting between the parties you suggest and see what can best be done. Thank you, sir.’

He turned towards the door.

Angel said, ‘Mr Trott?’

He turned back.

Angel said, ‘I seem to have overlooked a question I should have asked you earlier.’

‘What’s that, sir?’

‘When Miss Minter was on the piano addressing the guests, just before she was shot, was the front door locked?’

‘I have to confess, sir, that I don’t actually know. It should have been, but as I did not check it myself I don’t expect that it was.’

‘I’ll take it that it was
not
locked, then.’

Trott nodded, looking forlorn.

Angel said, ‘In the drawing room, you were standing quite close to the piano, weren’t you?’

‘I was, sir.’

‘So you had a similar view of the guests to that that Miss Minter had?’

He pursed his lips. ‘Well, yes, sir.’

‘Was there a stranger, a person who should not have been there or anybody you didn’t know among the guests listening to her?’

‘I didn’t see anybody, sir, but you will understand my eyes were more on Miss Minter than the guests. I was concerned that she did not fall. The piano was highly polished and she was standing on the top in very slippery silk stockings.’

Angel sighed. ‘Right, thank you, Mr Trott.’

The butler went out and closed the door.

Angel pulled a face. None of Trott’s answers had actually been helpful. He looked at his watch. It was 5.15 p.m. He had had enough. It was time he was going home.

Angel arrived home at 5.35 p.m. He locked the BMW in the garage, walked quickly along the path to the back door and let himself in. The door opened straight into the kitchen. It was warm and a pleasant smell of cooking
pervaded the kitchen. The lids of two pans on the gas oven were rattling, giving out a lot of steam. He peered down at the rings, turned them down a little, then noticed a light showing through the glass door of the oven. He could see a casserole dish inside. He smiled, then pursed his lips and began to blow a tune through his teeth. It was vaguely like ‘I Feel Pretty’ from
West Side Story
. He reached into the fridge for a can of German beer, found a tumbler in the cupboard and poured some out. He took a sip, nodded approvingly, then ambled into the hall. He looked in the sitting room. There was nobody in there. He went to the bottom of the steps and called out.

‘Mary. Mary.’

‘Coming, love,’ she called.

‘Are you all right, darling?’ he said.

Mary came to the top of the stairs. ‘You’re early,’ she said as she ran down.

She was smiling.

He looked at her and thought she looked as alluring and desirable as the day they were married.

He glanced at his watch. ‘Am I?’ he said.

They kissed. It was just a peck.

‘Any post?’ he said.

‘On the sideboard,’ she said as she made for the kitchen. ‘It’s always on the sideboard.’

Angel screwed up his face. He went into the sitting room. On the sideboard he saw a colourful envelope. He reached out for it. ‘I know it’s always on the sideboard,’ he said, ‘except when it’s in your coat pocket, between the pages of your library book, behind the clock, on the kitchen table or in your handbag.’

‘Oh. I’ve had a letter from Miriam,’ she said.

Angel ambled into the kitchen and tore into the colourful envelope he had picked up. ‘Where is it? What does she want
this
time?’

‘I’ve got it. I want to talk to you about it.’

Angel pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes. ‘Oh,’ he groaned. ‘What’s the matter with her?’

Mary hesitated. She breathed in through her nose loudly to show her annoyance, then snappily she said, ‘There’s
nothing
the matter with her. You haven’t read the letter and you are already making judgements.’

He sighed, turned away and took the letter out of the envelope he had just torn open. He quickly read it, sighed, then read it again. Then, holding it up to her, he said, ‘What do you think?’

‘Excuse me, love,’ Mary said. ‘Tea will be ready in a couple of minutes. Tell me about that later, do you mind? Would you like to set the table?’

He blinked. ‘Eh? Oh yes. All right.’

He stuffed the letter back in its envelope and put it on the table. He opened a drawer in the kitchen table and took out some cork mats with hunting scenes on them, and the cutlery, and set them out. He stood up and took the cruet and the side plates from the cupboard, then put them also in position on the table.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Oh, it’s lamb shanks. You might want the mint sauce.’

He turned back to the cupboard and found the mint sauce, then he rummaged around in the table drawer for a suitable spoon and put it by the jar.

Mary began serving out.

Angel stood up, took off his suit coat, went into the hall and hung it on the newel post. Then he returned to the kitchen rolling up his shirtsleeves. He ran the tap, found some soap and washed his hands enthusiastically.

Mary arrived at the sink with a pan of boiling cabbage and a colander. She looked at him and breathed in through her nose noisily. ‘You could have done that job in the bathroom,’ she said.

‘I only want to wash my hands,’ he said.

Angel reached out for the tea towel. Mary snatched it off him and pushed a hand towel at him.

‘You could have done it earlier,’ she said, pushing steaming potatoes onto the plates with a fork. ‘Now sit down, out of the way,’ she said.

Angel thoroughly enjoyed the lamb and afterwards the fresh raspberries and ice cream. He moved into the sitting room carrying two cups of coffee. He settled down in his favourite chair and reached out for the
Radio Times
. As he scanned the programme pages, he could hear Mary in the kitchen, banging pots and pans and slamming cupboard doors.

He couldn’t find anything on the television he wanted to watch. He tossed the magazine to one side and called out, ‘Your coffee’s getting cold.’

‘I’m coming,’ she said.

He reached into his pocket, took out the letter, reread it and clenched his teeth. ‘Huh!’ he grunted.

Mary arrived. She quickly sat down in the other easy chair and lifted her feet onto the pouffe, then reached out to the library table and picked up the coffee cup and
saucer. She took a sip, swallowed, smiled and said, ‘Ah.’

She looked at the television screen, turned to Angel and said, ‘Nothing on?’

‘No.’ He waved the letter he had been looking at. ‘I want to talk to you about this.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Let me show you Miriam’s letter, first.’

He shrugged. ‘If you want.’

She leaned forward, twisted round and took a blue handwritten envelope from behind a cushion.

Angel smiled. That was another place that
wasn’t
the sideboard. He held his hand out.

Mary saw it. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Let me read it to you.’

‘I can read it myself,’ he said. ‘I’ve been able to read for years!’

‘No. No. No.’ She pulled out the single sheet of notepaper and began to read: