The Poisoned Arrow (4 page)

We entered the odd-looking building through the main entrance. Inside was a wide foyer and beyond that was the impressively large and rather cavernous auditorium. Its sides were lined with
curtains, one or two of which were drawn back to reveal floor-to-ceiling windows which let in the last of the afternoon sunlight. Ahead of us was the stage, on which a dozen or more adults were
milling about.

‘. . . so you can clash the swords together during the fights and they sound great, but they’re not dangerous,’ said Tom. He looked over at the stage. ‘Ah! The cast are
all here. Well, now I’ve arrived we can begin the rehearsal.’

I quickly stuffed the white headphones I’d just taken out of my ears into my pocket. ‘Pardon?’

Tom blinked at me. ‘Have you heard anything I’ve said?’

‘Every word,’ I lied. ‘Fascinating. Don’t forget, when you introduce me, my name is Raymond Chandler and I’m here because I’m studying
The Poisoned Arrow
for a national essay-writing competition.’

Tom tutted. He marched ahead, down the aisle between two blocks of seats and up to the edge of the stage.

‘Afternoon everyone,’ he called. ‘This is my pal, Saxby. He’s a fan of my acting so he’s volunteered to be my Personal Assistant for the week. Here, take my school
bag, Saxby, and fetch me a glass of water. Nice and cold, please.’

I sighed. Why are undercover identities always such a problem? The detectives on TV never seem to have this trouble.

A debate was going on amongst the actors. It carried on roughly as follows:

Stage 1 – Half the actors were saying that the big battle scene (which took up most of the second half of the play) needed something a bit more spectacular than everyone running around
wielding swords. How about some horses? Horses would have taken part in a real medieval battle.

Stage 2 – The other half of the actors said that this was the most ridiculous idea they’d ever heard. You can’t have horses clomping about on the stage!

Stage 3 – The first half of the actors said no, of course not real horses. But they could use pantomime horses! Someone had a friend who had three horse costumes, which could be borrowed
for a tenner.

Stage 4 – The second half of the actors said hang on, no, wait, on second thought,
that
was the most ridiculous idea they’d ever heard.
The Poisoned Arrow
was a
historical drama, not a pie-in-the-face comedy for toddlers!

And so on, and so on.

It won’t surprise you to learn that Tom was firmly on the side of the second half of the actors. I kept well out of it.

Morag Wellington-Barnes also seemed to be keeping out of the argument. She was sitting with her legs dangling over the edge of the stage, tapping furiously at a laptop (in between nibbling at
her fingernails). She was dressed in various shades of leather and suede and wore a pair of sunglasses which were very small, very round and very dark. I could see what Tom had meant about her.
She looked like the sort of person who’d like to introduce prison sentences for anyone who drops biscuit crumbs on the carpet.

‘Morag,’ called one of the actors, ‘what’s your take on this? Are we going with the pantomime horses or not?’

Morag swung her gaze to one side and, even though her eyes were invisible behind those glasses, she speared the actor with a look which could have frozen volcanic lava.

‘Would it involve using more actors?’ she said, in a voice which could have turned lemonade to stone.

‘Yes.’

‘Then no,’ she said. ‘End of.’

She left her laptop glowing on a table that was part of a banquet scene. She gathered some of the actors in the middle of the stage and told them that the scene in which Baron Thornicroft plots
the downfall of King Lionel was coming across as a load of old rubbish and that she wanted it done with far more anger and intensity. One or two of the actors’ bottom lips started to wobble
slightly. Tom was reading through his script and practising his dramatic facial expressions – surprise! Fear! Thoughtfulness!

Meanwhile, I was watching a figure sitting quietly on a chair towards one side of the stage. Sir Gilbert Smudge (I recognised him from all those old TV shows on ITV3) was also going over his
script, his creased face and whiskery white beard held still in concentration.

He was wearing faded jeans, scuffed shoes and an old corduroy jacket that had been patched several times in different places. At first, I assumed he was simply one of those people who’s
happy being scruffy, but then I saw him search his pockets and come up with nothing but an old bus ticket and a scraggy paper tissue. His nose wrinkled up in dismay. After looking around for a few
moments, wondering what to do, he caught the eye of one of the actors who’d been given an earful by Morag.

‘Would you mind, old chap,’ he said, in deep, mellow tones, ‘advancing me a coin or two for the coffee machine? I seem to be temporarily without funds. Oh, many thanks, many
thanks, much obliged to you.’

And off he wandered to a vending machine in the backstage area. Tom had told me that Sir Gilbert was having trouble finding acting jobs, but I’d only thought about that in terms of his
acting career and reputation. It simply hadn’t occurred to me until now that someone as well known as Sir Gilbert Smudge might barely have a penny to his name! He must have
had
money
– he’d been in all those movies and TV series. He must have got through a lot of cash in the past. I felt very sorry for the guy.

Suddenly, something important occurred to me. I pulled out my notebook and re-read the notes I’d made in bed the previous night. From what I’d just observed, I now had a possible
answer to a vitally important question.

Can you guess what was going through my mind?

If Sir Gilbert was penniless these days, could I have found a motive for the crime? Could he be in serious financial trouble? Could it be that Sir Gilbert’s fund-raising
idea was a cover for a larger, sinister plan?

Sir Gilbert wandered back on to the stage, sipping at a steaming paper cup. I found it hard to believe that this distinguished, friendly-looking but rather sad figure could be involved with a
gang of villains. Then I reminded myself that some of the worst crooks I’d ever encountered had seemed equally innocent at first.

‘We’ll rehearse King Lionel’s death scene,’ announced Morag. ‘Soldiers, I want more shock from you this time, please, it’s your beloved king dying here, not a
pet hamster. And Baron Thornicroft, ease up on the evil cackling.’

Everyone took their places. Sir Gilbert put his coffee down and stood centre stage, brandishing an imaginary sword. Tom, playing Wilbert the peasant boy, crouched beside him.

‘Morag, m’dear,’ said Sir Gilbert, ‘do we know yet how many pouches of fake blood there’ll be under my shirt for this scene?’

‘Just the one, Sir Gilbert,’ said Morag.

‘
One
?’ cried Tom in disgust. (Some of the actors groaned quietly. Tom’s interruptions were obviously a regular thing here.) ‘Is that all? He’s getting a
sword through his chest – we need buckets of it! Why can’t we be realistic?’

‘Because, Tom,’ said Morag firmly, ‘we’re trying to entertain the audience, not make them vomit. OK, everyone, from the top.’

Tom huffed grumpily.

Morag, Sir Gilbert and everyone else concentrated on the scene. Which gave me an opportunity to concentrate on everything else. I sat in the front row of the auditorium, watching the goings-on
carefully in case there were any clues to be spotted.

At that point, I spotted Morag’s laptop. It was still sitting where she’d left it, its screen shining brightly. Even from a distance, I could see that she’d been writing an
email.

I told myself that snooping at other people’s emails was utterly, totally wrong. Then I told myself that planning a robbery was even worse and that a bit of snooping might be excusable
under the circumstances.

I casually stood up and took a few casual steps to the left, casually taking my phone from my pocket as I did so. I flipped the phone to camera mode and held it up, pretending to be dialling a
number. Holding the phone as steady as I could, I zoomed in on Morag’s laptop and took a quick close-up of the screen. Then I casually went back to sitting casually and looking casual.

While the rehearsal on the stage carried on, I looked at the picture I’d taken. Luckily, I’d caught the laptop just right and, with only a few minor adjustments to the image, the
open email was readable. Unluckily, only the email’s header and the last section of text had been visible on screen – Morag must have scrolled down the email before leaving it.

What I could see was this:

At first, this snapshot didn’t appear to tell me anything useful; Morag was simply having a moan at someone who’d mucked up a printing job.

However, as I glanced through it a second time, I saw something which confirmed one of Tom’s suspicions. There was evidence here that it
was
Morag who had dropped those pieces of
paper. Or, at least, that it was Morag who had drawn that plan of the theatre, showing the entrances and exits.

Can you see it too?

Halfway down that email’s text, Morag had written ‘their would be trouble’, when she should have put ‘there would be trouble’. Exactly the same
mistake that appeared on the plan of the theatre.

Meanwhile, the rehearsal was continuing. From what I’d seen so far, the play looked like it might turn out to be pretty good. Once they’d stopped arguing about the big battle scene,
anyway.

When the session finished, I had a sudden shock when I thought I’d have to endure Tom’s yattering all the way home. Then I remembered that, from there, our houses were in opposite
directions and I felt OK again.

As I headed for the bus stop, I was already jotting some thoughts down in my notebook (see opposite). Daylight was rapidly fading. I glanced back and in the large field behind the theatre I
could see two or three horses. They were cantering around and flicking their manes.

I wonder what they’d make of the pantomime horses those actors were on about
, I thought. I smiled to myself and went back to my notebook.

G
ET HERE
. N
OW.

Izzy’s texting was often straightforward and to the point, but the three-word message she sent me just as I arrived home was even more concise than usual.

I texted back:
See you at school? Just got home.