Dead on Cue (20 page)

‘Jonquil, my dear, tell me what is the matter. I am here to help you, remember.'

She looked at him for the first time and Nick thought he had never seen such a change in anyone. Gone was the laughing, vivacious blonde who had called on him only a short while ago to ask his opinion of Gerry Harlington. In her place had come a caricature of the girl that once was. Her hair hung limply, her face was unmade up, her lips were pale and drawn.

‘Oh Jonquil,' he said, and gave her a spontaneous hug.

She gazed up at him and he thought her eyes looked newly washed, brimming with tears that she had yet to shed.

‘Oh Nick, it was so awful. That's why I couldn't come to supper last night. I couldn't have seen anyone. It was the sight of poor Emma lying there. The trouble was I hardly recognized her. And then came the realization that I had sent her to her death. That if it hadn't been for me and my stupid theatre trip she would be alive today.'

Nick, who was beginning to think that Jonquil was prone to weeping bitterly whenever she saw him said, ‘Oh come now, that is hardly true, is it?'

‘But it is. Think about it.'

And the vicar had to admit that what Jonquil had just said was undeniably a fact. Nevertheless he did his best to dissuade her.

‘Look, Jonquil, people have been saying what you just said from time immemorial. Think about those on the Titanic. I'm sure the women in the lifeboats must have thought that as they gazed back at their stranded men.'

He was talking rubbish and he knew it, for what the mighty marine disaster could possibly have to do with a poor dead girl he could not possibly think. Jonquil, too, looked puzzled.

‘Do you mean that they were all drowned?'

‘Yes,' said the vicar, clutching at straws, ‘that is exactly what I meant.'

Jonquil stared at him in tear-stained awe and finally let out a sob-laden giggle.

‘What you're saying makes no sense.'

‘No, I know it doesn't. But at least it made you stop crying.'

‘Oh Nick,' she answered, and collapsed in his arms once more, but this time no longer weeping.

Tennant and Potter had thoroughly searched the battlements and the spiral staircases leading thereto and had come away empty handed. The trail to the killer had gone stone cold – not that it had ever been hot.

A car was drawing up as they were about to get into theirs and they paused a moment to see who was arriving at Fulke Castle. Out of the back seat came two little girls in school uniform, their blonde hair flying behind them, their little faces bright with the joy of living. On seeing the two policemen they hurried forward and introduced themselves.

‘Hello, I am Ondine . . .'

‘And I am Perdita . . .'

‘Beaudegrave,' they finished together.

‘Can we help you?' asked the older of the two, giving Tennant a marvellous smile.

With a glance at Potter he solemnly shook their respective hands.

‘How do you do? I am Inspector Dominic Tennant and this is my Sergeant, Mark Potter.'

‘Are you policemen?' asked the smaller one, Perdita.

‘Yes, we are. Do we look different from other people?'

‘No, not really. But you have an official air.'

Tennant cracked into a laugh. ‘Really? You do surprise me. I always thought we blended in.'

Two pairs of eyes regarded him seriously. ‘You do and you don't,' answered Ondine.

‘You have beautiful names, the pair of you. Did your father choose them?'

‘Actually Granny put in her twopenn'orth,' answered Perdita, and grinned at Potter, who grinned broadly back. ‘I like you,' she continued. ‘Will you come and have tea with us? It's only in the kitchen I'm afraid.'

‘I think we ought to get your father's permission first,' said Tennant.

‘Oh he's out riding with Mrs Harlington.' The two men exchanged a glance. ‘That's why Tom fetched us from school.'

‘I see. Well in that case we would be delighted to accept.'

‘Oh goody,' said Perdita.

The children led them through the shadowy recesses of the castle's many rooms until they finally passed through a door and into a bright and cheerful kitchen. Big by anybody's standards, its amazing amount of copper utensils, obviously passed down in the family for a considerable length of time, gleamed where they hung on two huge dressers. A big pine table stood in the centre of the room, laid with a blue-and-white gingham cloth. Sir Rufus's housekeeper looked up in some surprise as the two policemen entered the room.

‘Oh, good afternoon, gentlemen. I didn't realize you were coming to tea.'

‘Miss Ondine and Miss Perdita invited us.'

‘Does Sir Rufus know?'

‘Oh, don't be stuffy, Miggy. Of course he does,' answered Ondine swiftly.

‘Very well. I'll lay two more places.'

At this point the rest of Sir Rufus's brood came in; Araminta, black haired and beautiful, and Iolanthe, with hair like a fox's coat. Tennant could visualize them in the future, at parties, clutching a glass, laughing, the very centre of attention. The inspector suddenly envied Rufus and wished life had turned out differently for him.

‘Aren't you both policemen?' asked Araminta pointedly.

‘Yes they are and they are my guests,' answered Ondine, very hoity-toity.

Araminta shrugged. ‘Whatever.'

Tennant broached the subject that interested him. ‘Did any of you girls see the Son et Lumière?'

‘Yes, we all did,' said Perdita, widening her doll eyes. ‘We saw the dress rehearsal – and the night of the murder. We thought Gerry Harlington was an absolute prat.'

‘Really? Why's that?' asked Potter, halfway through a sandwich.

‘That ridiculous dance he did on the rehearsal night. Talk about out of place,' Araminta put in.

‘Don't you like hip-hop?' asked Tennant innocently.

‘I like it well enough but not done in the middle of an Elizabethan Fair scene. I mean, he came on looking as if he'd just come out of a dustbin and proceeded to cavort. I was told there was an awful punch-up at the end. Even the vicar was involved.' She giggled.

Tennant smiled. ‘It sounds well deserved to me. Tell me, did you see all of the dress rehearsal?'

‘Yes. Daddy was sitting in the audience but we went to the Tudor dining hall and looked out of the window.'

‘And what about the performance? Did you see all of that as well?'

‘Oh yes. This time we were officially in the dining hall. It was really very exciting to watch.'

‘Did your father sit downstairs again?' asked Potter.

‘No he was with us. And so was that beautiful Russian woman. Ekaterina.'

‘I didn't realize they knew one another,' lied Tennant.

‘Oh yes. They are quite friendly,' said Iolanthe, the afternoon sun filtering through one of the windows turning her foxfire hair molten.

There was a sudden silence, Tennant longing to ask if anyone had left the room for any length of time but not quite certain how to put it. He could feel Potter looking at him, then heard his sergeant clear his throat.

‘Did anyone go out for anything?'

Araminta's voice was steely as she answered, ‘If you mean did Daddy or Ekaterina leave the room for a while, the answer is no. Daddy went to get some more logs for the fire and was gone five minutes. Ekaterina went to the lavatory during the interval and I went with her because she didn't know where it was. So neither of them could have done the murder if that is what you wanted to know.'

‘Yes,' Potter answered honestly, ‘that is what I was asking. You see, Miss Beaudegrave, when somebody is killed one has to follow every lead, however hurtful it might be. I do hope you will accept my explanation.'

She turned on him a face which spoke of generations of good breeding.

‘Of course. You are only doing your job. Would you like a piece of cake?'

‘Yes please,' said Potter, and the moment passed.

Outside the two men looked at one another and as soon as the car had started began to talk.

‘Well, that's that line of enquiry buttoned up. You did well, Potter. I was terrified to ask.'

‘Thank you, sir. Nice girls, aren't they? Going to be stunners when they get older.'

‘Indeed they are. Now we'll be just in time to join Mike and Meg Alexander who should be pouring out a glass of preprandial sherry. I can almost smell it from here. Let's go.'

And they drove out of the gatehouse and away in the direction of Oakhurst.

Jonquil had cheered up, that is to say that she was only crying once an hour as opposed to once every ten minutes. Nick, who had grown quite fond of her, was trying to talk her out of her conviction that she had sent Emma Simms to her death. Yet it was difficult, because it was more or less true. The vicar had considered musing about God's mysterious ways but had decided against it. Jonquil had the look of someone determined to wallow in despair. And yet, he thought, this mood could not possibly last for ever. Hidden deep within was a bubbly person who would insist on eventually returning. Jonquil was by nature a cheerful creature and no disaster, however daunting, would diminish that side of her character. So he let her maunder on until eventually she ran out of steam and put on some make-up and accepted his invitation to supper and decided to be as jolly as was possible in the circumstances.

Mike Alexander answered the door and regarded Tennant with a gimlet eye.

‘Yes?' he said, in the voice that one might use to an unwanted canvasser.

The inspector flashed his badge at the same moment that Potter produced his. Neither of them had met Alexander before and they watched his features undergo a rapid change, adopting a hail-fellow-well-met expression.

‘Ah ha,' he said cheerily. ‘An Inspector Calls and all that. Did you see that marvellous production at the National? Many years ago now. Do you go to the theatre, Inspector?'

‘Yes, whenever I get the time, I do. May we come in?'

‘But of course. Certainly, certainly.'

He bowed them into a living room that Tennant felt shouted fussiness. There were bows everywhere – on the curtains, on the cushions, in the hair of a small dog that sat peevishly growling on the hearth rug. There was even a festoon of fake flowers and wheat cuttings adorned with a bow that hung on the outside of the door. The inspector, who was once more collecting Staffordshire pottery, looked with distaste at a cabinet full of crinolined ladies making moues and girls from the twenties with simpering faces.

Meg Alexander, who was sitting on the sofa with a glass of sherry in hand – Potter gave Tennant a surreptitious wink – was not at all what he had anticipated. Theatrical she might indeed be but she looked far more like a retriever-walking woman from the Home Counties. She was not fat but large, tall and big-boned, with a head of silver hair swept back in an old-fashioned pleat. She had ample feet, presently encased in a low-heeled pair of shoes in navy and white, and hands like a man. She looked up enquiringly as the two policemen entered the room.

‘Inspector Tennant, darling,' called Mike jovially. ‘And Sergeant Pitter.'

‘Potter actually, sir.'

‘Of course. How foolish of me. Gentlemen, take a seat. Can I get you a drink?'

‘No, thank you. On duty and all that.'

‘You won't mind if I have one?' Mike continued in the same merry tones. ‘Steady the nerves before my grilling.' He laughed at his own joke and nobody joined in.

‘I believe you saw one of my other officers,' said Tennant by way of an opening gambit.

‘Oh yes, a delightful girl. Very lovely eyes.'

From the sofa Meg waved a large and languid hand. ‘I didn't know they made police officers so pretty. Mike quite fell for her, didn't you sweetie?'

‘I'm pleased to hear it,' answered Tennant, straight faced.

She gave him a sharp look but he smiled at her urbanely and said, ‘I expect you're wondering why I am here as you have already been interviewed. The answer is that we are now making enquiries about the death of Emma Simms.'

‘Yes, of course,' said Mike, foregoing the sherry and pouring himself a large scotch. ‘The poor girl who played the part of the bear during Miss Charmwood's little theatre excursion.'

‘That's the one,' put in Potter cheerfully.

Meg sat upright and looked Tennant directly in the face. He couldn't help but notice that her eyes were an odd colour, the kind of grey that his mother would have described as ‘Walrus Whiskers'. They also had a coldness about them that he did not altogether trust.

‘Sad little wretch,' she said, exuding a smell of Poison by Dior as she moved. ‘That girl should never have gone off like that. I am referring to Miss Charmwood of course. That's the trouble with the Odds, they lack a true sense of theatrical responsibility. Mike and I were both members of the Tooting Bec Acting Society, you know. Now there was a drama group of which one could say one was proud to be a member. Not any old actor could join, in fact quite the reverse. There were strict auditions and when I say strict I am speaking of National Theatre standards. Mike, who was chairman, saw to that.'

A horrible picture was beginning to form in Tennant's mind of a stultified drama group, run by the Alexanders, who considered themselves God's gift to the stage and let everybody know it. They would have gathered round them a clique of yes-men and nobody else would have stood a chance of a part, particularly those with genuine talent.

‘Did you ever play Lear?' was on his lips before he knew it.

Mike stood still, whisky glass in hand. ‘Alas no,' he said sonorously. ‘Of course it's my ambition to so do – who would not wish to take such a role? – but with the Odds there is no chance of it coming to pass. Or if it did that man of mediocrity, Paul Silas, would make sure he played the lead. It's a sad thing that we ever had to leave the Tooting crowd.'