Dead on Cue (16 page)

‘But Emma's vanished,' she said, leaning back and looking at him through brooks of tears. ‘She's gone – and I don't know where.'

‘Emma who?' Nick asked patiently. ‘Look, Jonquil, I think you had better tell me the story from the beginning.'

He helped her back into her chair, lent her a sensible handkerchief with the initial N in the corner – given to him by his father's girlfriend at Christmas – made shushing noises until she calmed down a little.

‘It all began at that silly Son et Lumière,' Jonquil said between sobs. ‘I was suddenly presented with tickets for
Les Miserables
on the beastly thing's first night. I'd been waiting for them for ages and lo and behold they had to come on that night of all nights. Anyway, I asked a friend of mine, Emma Simms, if she'd take the part of the bear for me. In secret, of course. You see, I wanted to see
Les Mis
so badly. I know it was wrong of me but I had been waiting for months and months to get in. Then a friend of mine – who was in it by the way – got me these couple of seats and I just couldn't resist. And now Emma's gone.'

Nick stared at her in silence, his brain beginning to race.

‘So what happened?' he asked.

‘I don't know,' she wailed. ‘Paul Silas rang me to tell me all about the murder of Gerry Harlington and then asked why I left early on the first night. I muttered something about having a headache and he said that was very unprofessional. But then I turned on the BBC news and there were pictures of Fulke Castle and a short interview with Sir Rufus, who was pleasant but obviously put out. Then there was a resumé of Gerry's career.' A small smile briefly appeared. ‘Gerry was a terrible actor, wasn't he? He could dance quite well but, boy oh boy, he deserved a Smellie for the worst performances ever given.'

‘But tell me about Emma. What happened to her?'

‘That's just what I don't know,' Jonquil said, sniffing. ‘I rang her early the next morning – that was the morning after the first night, before we knew anything bad had happened – it was at about seven thirty because she always left for work at twenty to eight – and I got her answerphone. I left a message thanking her and asking if it all went well. To cut to the chase I never got a reply. Eventually, after six or seven calls I went round there and the girl she shared the flat with told me that she hadn't clapped eyes on her since that night. She thought she'd probably gone to visit her mother unexpectedly.'

‘Has this matter been reported to the police?'

‘I don't honestly know. Perhaps Emma's flat mate did so.'

Nick took a swig of champagne and said, ‘I think it is essential that you tell Inspector Tennant all of this tonight. I'm sure what happened to the girl is of vital importance.'

‘But suppose she is with her mother? Suppose she had a call on her mobile that her mother was ill and she must go to see her at once?'

‘If that is so the police will be able to sort it out very quickly. Would you like me to ring them?'

‘Oh yes. Yes please. Would you?'

Nick sighed silently, wondering why he always got the nasty jobs to do. But looking at Jonquil Charmwood, moist eyed and pleading, how could he refuse? Taking his mobile from the pocket of his Armani jacket, he dialled the number of the headquarters in Lewes.

They telephoned Tennant in his car, heading back home, thinking that a good day's work had been done. Consequently he was not pleased with the interruption and when the voice came over the loudspeaker he listened with a certain amount of irritation.

‘But why wasn't the girl reported missing earlier?' he asked.

‘Don't know, sir. It's all a convoluted tale. Apparently the girl genuinely playing the bear didn't want to own up at first that she went to the theatre in London.'

‘Silly bitch.'

‘Anyway, the bear who went to town is called Jonquil Charmwood and she lives at number four Powdermill Lane in Oakbridge. She's there now with the Reverend Lawrence.'

‘I'm on my way,' Tennant said angrily. He turned to Potter. ‘Sorry, Potter. I know you were wanting to get home.'

The inspector felt rather than saw his sergeant grow warm. ‘Actually I had a date to play floodlit tennis tonight. I'd better ring and cancel.'

‘Shame. Mixed doubles, was it?'

‘Yes,' Potter answered enigmatically. ‘It was.'

‘Ah,' said Tennant, and relapsed into silence.

They reached Powdermill Lane thirty minutes later, Potter driving at top speed, to find the front door opened by the vicar. He held out his hand.

‘Good evening, Inspector. I'm sure that this is the last thing you wanted but I honestly felt you ought to know.'

Thankfully Jonquil had regained her composure and having dived into the bathroom for ten minutes had more or less restored her face. She offered Tennant a glass of wine which he accepted with alacrity, Potter as usual had a cup of coffee. Glancing at Nick, Tennant thought he was somewhat the worse for wear but said nothing, thinking that the poor fellow was probably suffering with a bad case of wrung withers. He turned to look at Jonquil.

‘Now tell me the story from the start,' he said, which she proceeded to do. Potter wearily got out his notebook.

When she had finished Tennant asked, ‘And this girl, Emma Simms, you say is a friend of yours?'

‘I don't know her all that well. In fact she's always struck me as rather a pathetic person. She's been in love for years with a married man who treats her like dirt and is quite happy about the situation. Anyway, I thought I would get her interested in the Odds and that's how she came to play the bear. To see if she liked the people. I smuggled her into the dress rehearsal – an earlier one. I thought she would pick up what she had to do from that.' Jonquil's lower lip trembled. ‘I feel terrible now. Suppose something awful has happened to her.'

Tennant looked at his watch. ‘It's just gone nine. I think it's a bit late to go calling on her flatmate. Give me her contact details and we'll get to her first thing in the morning. Thank you very much for the information, Miss Charmwood. I suggest you have a good night's sleep. I've always wanted to say ‘Come along, Vicar' and now I'm going to get my wish. Come along, Nick, we'll give you a lift home. I somehow feel you'd fail the breathalyser tonight.'

Jonquil looked contrite. ‘Oh, you poor thing. We haven't had anything to eat yet.'

‘Oh, never mind,' said Nick cheerfully. ‘I can have a cheese sandwich when I get back.'

‘Must you go?'

‘I really think I should. I'll come and fetch the car in the morning.'

‘It's up to you, Vicar,' said Tennant, quite seriously. ‘You can stay with Miss Charmwood by all means.'

‘Well, I think I'll take you up on your kind offer,' said Nick rather hastily. ‘I have had quite a fair amount to drink this evening.' On the doorstep, he turned to the inspector. ‘I kept sipping that wretched champagne while Jonquil was weaving her tale.'

‘A strange story,' said Tennant reflectively.

‘Very,' Nick answered sombrely.

They got into the car and he looked at the two policemen's heads from his seat in the back and wondered what they were thinking. It seemed odd to him that an unofficial understudy should go missing on the same night that Gerry Harlington had been thrown over the battlements. Was there a serial killer on the loose again? He said a silent and heartfelt prayer that the answer was no, remembering the horror and bloodshed of his previous encounter with such a creature. Yet he could see no thread linking a rather shy girl helping out a friend and an American hip-hop dancer turned movie actor. In fact there was none.

Nick shook himself. Emma Simms had probably gone off suddenly to see her mother and not left anyone a note. That was the most likely explanation. Or, perhaps, her married boyfriend had had some time to spare and had taken her away for a naughty few days. That was the most probable explanation of them all. The vicar sighed and fell asleep in the back of the police car.

T
he Oakhurst Dramatists and Dramatic Society was in an emergency committee meeting. Paul Silas, fittingly clad in black trousers and a dark polo neck looked sombrely round the foregathered company and nodded his head in silence. He resembled Macbeth about to launch into his
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
speech. So much so that Annette Muffat, the large blonde, had to control an unseemly fit of the giggles. But the rest of the members, particularly Mike and Meg Alexander, who were dying to take over the entire society, glared round them with cold, snake-like eyes.

Barry Beardsley spoke up. ‘Well I know you got us here because of the present situation, Paul. But what particular aspect do you want us to consider?'

‘The funeral, old boy,' came the answer in sepulchral tones.

‘Have the police released the body?' asked Estelle Yeoman, the ex-professional.

‘It is the coroner who does that. Not the police,' said Mike Alexander snappishly.

‘All right, all right. Whoever. Has the body been released?'

‘Not yet. But the day draws nearer I believe.' Paul sighed heavily. ‘I shall go representing the Odds. Who will join me?'

Several people put up their hands, including Robin Green who announced, ‘I have been interviewed by the police several times. I think they regarded me as prime suspect. But I believe I have finally got the message through to them that there were two different people involved and that I was neither of them.' He laughed, puffing an odour of milky tea into the atmosphere.

‘What do you mean, two?' asked Barry Beardsley, who had had a simply dreadful day digging out corns and was in no mood to be trifled with.

‘I've already told you a dozen times,' answered Robin. ‘Somebody poked my legs with a stick which caused me to lose balance. While I was blinded by the helmet I heard the door to the other spiral staircase open and somebody made a sound—'

‘That was our black friend,' interrupted Mike.

‘It was an exhalation, just like when you push someone. Anyway I've told this to the police over and over again. They must have taken note of it by now.'

Cynthia Wensby, plain as a trodden-on sultana but an excellent treasurer for all her want of looks and talent, said eagerly, ‘They've been to see me – twice.'

‘They have been to see us all, my dear Cynthia,' said Paul in a bored-to-death voice. ‘I had a charming little lady come round. Delightful wee creature – quite ravishing in fact. All violet eyes and smiles. We struck up quite a rapport.' He looked roguish.

‘I tell you something,' said Annette Muffat into the sudden hush that followed. ‘There was something funny about the bear the night of the show.' She turned to Jonquil Charmwood. ‘Did you have a date, my dear, that you arrived so early and left before the end?'

Jonquil, who so far had not said a word to the meeting – something most unusual for her – went a nasty shade of plum but remained silent.

Meg Alexander, keen as a whippet scenting a hare, said, ‘Hope he was worth it, my dear. It put the rest of us out considerably.'

‘Yes, I had to dance the Charleston on my own,' Cynthia piped up, looking pained.

‘You always dance on your own,' said somebody nastily.

Jonquil cleared her throat. ‘I may as well tell the truth. I've told the police everything so I've nothing to hide. It wasn't me. I was given tickets for
Les Mis
and I went to see the show. I got someone else to understudy for me. Her name was Emma Simms and now the horrible thing is that she has vanished.'

There was a profound silence broken by Paul speaking as if he were sounding the death knell.

‘What exactly do you mean by that?'

‘What I just said. She disappeared four nights ago. She hasn't been seen since the Son et Lumière.'

‘How very peculiar,' said Estelle. ‘Are the police making enquiries?'

Silently, Jonquil started to cry. ‘They've been to see her mother in the Isle of Man. I believe they've even been to question her boyfriend – which must have shocked the miserable bugger. They have looked everywhere but they can't find her. I think they are turning it into a murder enquiry.'

There was another protracted silence broken by Robin Green saying, ‘The two things have got to be related. Perhaps your friend Emma saw something. Perhaps she saw the person who hit me on the legs – and she had to be silenced.'

‘What rubbish you talk! How could witnessing someone playing a practical joke on you lead to the poor girl being murdered?'

‘But she probably did see something,' put in Barry, and his tone was serious. ‘Remember she hadn't been rehearsed properly and didn't know the lie of the land. She probably wandered about a bit, then I think the poor creature must have witnessed something happen and paid for it with her life.'

Now there was total silence from the committee broken only by the sound of Jonquil, who had put her arms down on the table and was weeping bitter tears of guilt.

Tennant was feeling depressed as he nearly always did when a case came up against an apparent dead end. Furthermore he had received the analysis of the substance beneath Gerry Harlington's eyes and been told it was salt water – tears. The fact that the black man had died slowly, weeping, and in enormous pain was too much even to contemplate. One wouldn't wish it on one's worst enemy. And now to muddy the waters entirely had come the strange disappearance of Emma Simms, as clean-living a girl as one could have hoped to meet providing that one overlooked her affair with Mr Garth Thorney, managing director of a small manufacturing company and the biggest bullshitter alive, at least in Tennant's opinion.

He had given Potter so much grief on the telephone that the inspector had intervened and called Mr Thorney into Lewes to make a statement about his relationship with Miss Simms. This had caused some blustering and the eventual threatening of Tennant with dire consequences because Mr Thorney played golf with his superior officer. But for all that he had agreed to report to police headquarters tomorrow morning. Another thing to add to Tennant's feeling of total despondency.