Who Saw Him Die? (15 page)

Cheered by this prospect, he began to loiter as conspicuously as possible. He knew no one among the earliest arrivals, so he passed the time by taking a good look round the antechamber. It was a chill, echoing marble vault dominated by the statue of Alderman Redvers Fullerton Bell, Mayor of This Borough 1867 – 68, 1875 – 76 and 1881 – 82 and Benefactor of Breckham Market.

Yes, of course … poor old Clanger Bell's forefather. The fellow who'd built Tower House in much the same style as the Town Hall. No doubt he'd impressed his contemporaries, but at the same time he'd condemned his family and his descendants to live in permanent cold gloom. It wasn't surprising that Clanger had taken to drink.

But had Lucky Jack Goodrum really
intended
to kill him …?

The antechamber was beginning to fill. Quantrill was soon among people he knew, or people he knew Molly knew. The current Mayor and Mayoress were there, in their chains of office, and so was anyone else who was anyone in Breckham Market and district. Whether or not they came out of a sense of duty, they were all buzzing with cheerful anticipation.

Quantrill reluctantly dismissed his own concerns and set about playing the unaccustomed role of his wife's husband. Yes, he agreed, nodding and smiling to as many people as possible: Molly was busy behind the scenes, as usual! And where indeed
would
the cast be without all the members who worked so hard backstage?

Yes,
My Fair Lady
was a very good choice for this year's production, wasn't it? Very lively and tuneful. Yes, there was certainly a good turn-out for it – nearly every seat had been sold, so his wife told him! Yes, it was obviously going to be a very good evening …

With ten minutes to go before the performance started, newcomers came crowding in. Most were in couples, or parties; but among them, stiff in navy blue and fastidiously solitary, was Clanger Bell's sister, Eunice.

Quantrill was surprised to see her. He remembered that Molly had said that Miss Bell had bought a ticket for this performance, but – though he hadn't said so, knowing that the suggestion would only offend his wife – he had assumed that Eunice Bell was merely offering token support. He couldn't imagine her wanting to go to a musical, at the best of times. And it was only at the beginning of the week that her brother had been buried.

But then, as Miss Bell had said when he and Hilary interviewed her, she was making no pretence of mourning Cuthbert. Perhaps Molly had been right: with her drunken brother dead, Eunice could now hold up her head in the town. And as the sole remaining descendant of the man who'd developed Breckham Market into the civic centre of the district, she might feel an obligation to put in an appearance on a major social occasion such as this.

If she did happen to be attending as a duty, it was something that he and Eunice Bell had in common. But Quantrill avoided her eye. She was probably annoyed by his failure to come up with any proof that her brother had been murdered. Worse, she might want to take the opportunity to tell him so …

‘Good evening. Chief Inspector.'

There was no mistaking that strong, spiny, authoritative voice.

Quantrill's spirits sank, but he turned to her with a smile and what he hoped was a disarming greeting.

‘Good evening, Miss Bell! My wife told me that you'd bought a ticket. She's backstage, of course, helping with props and costumes and things –'

‘So I imagine.' Eunice Bell ducked her head in brusque acknowledgement. Then she added, unexpectedly: ‘I understand that Mrs Quantrill is one of those modestly invaluable ladies who receives scant recognition for all the work she does. After I'd bought my ticket from her, it occurred to me that she might think I had no real intention of coming to see the performance. That would have been patronising of me, and I should be sorry if she made that assumption.'

Quantrill assured her, with truth, that Molly hadn't done so. ‘But I don't suppose', he added bluntly, ‘that this sort of caper is your cup of tea, any more than it's mine.'

‘On the contrary,' said Eunice Bell. Her features cracked into a small, stiff smile. ‘I have happy memories of a summer spent with my cousins at Southwold, many years ago, when
My Fair Lady
was new. They had a recording, and we played it most of the time … I don't expect amateur singers to reach that standard, but I've come here tonight with every intention of enjoying the production. And I recommend, Mr Quantrill,' she added severely, ‘that you do the same.'

He stood rebuked. But that was better than getting an earful of complaint about the way he did his job.

Miss Bell took an audible breath, obviously in preparation for saying something far more serious. But the orchestra had begun to tune up in the main hall, drawing the latecomers out of the antechamber.

‘On the subject we discussed at Tower House –' she said, fixing Quantrill with her stern dark eyes. ‘I want you to know that my opinion remains unchanged. But this is not the place to discuss it.'

‘No,' he agreed with relief, gesturing her towards the hall. ‘Besides, it's time we went in.'

As she offered up her ticket at the door, Miss Bell glanced back. ‘Some friends are keeping a seat for me,' she said, distancing herself from him.

‘I was just about to say the same thing.'

Honours even, they gave each other a cool parting nod. Even so, Quantrill lingered to let her go in well ahead of him. Two of Molly's Op friends, who knew him by sight, were on the door and he made his number with them by giving his ticket to one and buying a programme from the other.

When he finally entered the auditorium the house lights had already been switched off and the orchestra was going full blast. He lurked at the back until the ticket collectors closed the door and took their own seats; then he slipped out into the antechamber. He gave a wink to the indifferent doorkeeper, a man he didn't know who sat in a glassed booth keeping an eye on the main doors to stop undesirables coming in, and at last made his escape to the companionable comfort of the Coney and Thistle.

What Quantrill had intended to do, as soon as he got there, was to ring the CID office and let them know where he was. If they happened to need him, he didn't want them to blow his alibi by trying to find him at the Town Hall. But his intention was forgotten when, on his way into the pub, he met PC Ronald Timms hurrying out. The off-duty constable, also in his best suit, with beer-froth on his Kitchener moustache, a worried look on his face and a ticket for
My Fair Lady
in his fist, was attempting to make the Town Hall in time for curtain-up.

Ron Timms's wife had recently been promoted assistant wardrobe mistress of the Op. He hated musicals, and everything to do with them. Only the previous day, in the canteen at Breckham Market police HQ, he had been heard to say that for the past three months his home life had been completely disrupted by the preparations for the show. He was sick of the sight of the costumes. And now that they'd finally been taken away, he was damned if he was going to waste a precious free Saturday evening by
paying
to see the things on stage.

‘What's all this then, Ron?' demanded Douglas Quantrill jovially.

‘Well … You know how it is. Thought you were supposed to be at the show yourself?'

Quantrill, who knew only too well how it was, pointed out that there were no good conduct marks to be won for actually watching the performance. He bought Ron Timms a beer and outlined his own tactics. His colleague congratulated him on his policemanly aptitude for low cunning, and bought him the other half.

And that was where they were, drinking companionably, when an urgent message for Detective Chief Inspector Quantrill was received at the Town Hall. When it eventually reached him – but not before the performance had been interrupted, to Molly's chagrin, twice – he pushed aside his mug and hurried out into the November night.

Somebody in Breckham Market had been blasted with a shotgun.

Felicity Goodrum was another middle-aged resident of Breckham Market who had happy memories of the music of
My Fair Lady
. Years ago, before her marriage to Austin Napier, she could have danced to it all night.

And so when she first heard that the musical was going to be performed in Breckham Market, she had wanted to see it. She had almost said to Jack, impulsively, ‘Oh, do let's go!'

Had she done so he would have bought tickets straightaway, of course. Dear Jack – he was practically tone deaf, and he'd never been to a theatre in his life, and the performance would almost certainly have mystified and bored him; but he would have gone with her and pretended pleasure simply for the sake of pleasing her. And that was why Felicity had eventually decided not to mention it.

She knew, without consulting him, that at this stage in their marriage he wouldn't dream of letting her go out for an evening unescorted. Nor would he consider leaving her at home alone. Though he had been gallant throughout their courtship, she had assumed that once they were married he would want to revert to some of his old habits; but when she had told him that he must feel free to spend an evening on his own occasionally – to go off to a pub, if that was what he wanted – he had declared that he preferred to stay with her. Pubs, Jack had said pityingly, stretching out his legs at his fireside like a contented dog, were for men who had nothing to go home for …

And now, of course, after the burglary that had occurred while they were out the previous Saturday, the Goodrums had an additional reason for staying at home.

What had been stolen was not significant: it was the disgusting mess that had appalled them both. Felicity had been badly shocked by it. Jack had at first been furiously angry, but then he had simmered down and tried – obviously for his wife's sake – to brush it off. The damage hadn't been directed at them
personally
, he insisted. He'd heard that was the way some wild young amateur burglars carried on, fouling their victims'property just for the hell of it. It didn't
mean
anything. Of course Felicity was upset – but she had no need to worry about it. Lightning never struck the same place twice!

Felicity was not reassured. She remembered all too well what Jack had told the police about the resentment some Breckham Market people might feel because of his new wealth. But if her husband was trying to prevent her from worrying, the least she could do was to keep her fears to herself.

She had spent a busy week replacing soft furnishings and bedding, and obsessively cleaning the house. Jack had tried to take the burden from her and her two-mornings-a-week domestic help by bringing in a team of professional cleaners, but even so Felicity could not convince herself that all traces of defilement had been removed. She felt that the house was still smeared. She felt that their privacy had been invaded, that an attempt had been made to violate their marriage.

She also felt closer to and fonder of Jack than ever. As long as she was in his company, she knew she was safe. And she was as glad as he was to spend their evenings at home – after all, it was still a wondrous novelty to be in a domestic atmosphere where there was none of the stress of her first marriage. With her second husband there was no tension, no fear of violence; nothing but trust and contentment.

Jack got up from his armchair, put another log on the fire, and sat

down again without taking his eyes from the television screen for

more than a few seconds. ‘Shot!' he crowed, as his favourite snooker player potted a difficult red and brought the cue-ball back for the black. Then he turned to his wife. ‘You're
sure
you wouldn't rather be watching something else, dear?' he asked considerately.

‘Quite sure.' Felicity, her neat gold-rimmed reading glasses half-way down her nose, was embroidering a cushion cover in petit point while glancing every now and then at the screen. ‘I'm really beginning to enjoy snooker now you've explained it to me. Bet he tries to put that second red on the left into the middle pocket …'

The player did, and Felicity felt as pleased as though she'd made the pot herself. ‘I think you should buy that snooker table you were talking about,' she added. ‘We've got plenty of room for it, goodness knows, and it'll give you a lot of interest. Besides, I'd rather like to have a go, too.'

‘Good girl! I'll order it, then. If we can get the table set up in time for the Christmas holidays, it'll be fun for young Matthew as well. Oh,
shot
! Did you see that, sweetheart –?'

Felicity hadn't seen it. What had made her look up from her embroidery was a sound she thought she heard from outside the house. And ever since the burglary, strange sounds had worried her.

‘Did you hear anything, Jack?'

He turned down the volume of sound by remote-control and cocked his head, listening. ‘Where from?'

‘The conservatory, I thought –'

Both listening, they heard the crash of breaking glass.

‘Bloody hell!' Jack leapt to his feet, shouting. He made for the glassed door that led directly to the conservatory, unlocked it and wrenched it open. Switching on the soft lighting, he illuminated the cast iron columns, the budding camellia trees, the bamboo furniture and the chintz ‘Indian Tree'cushions with their stylised birds perched on stylised branches.

There were shadows in the convervatory, but none of them was dense enough to conceal an intruder. Nothing moved except a wraith of November mist that insinuated itself through a broken pane of glass and wavered across a spotlight's beam. On the tiled floor, surrounded by shattered glass, lay a sizeable chunk of rockery stone.

‘Bloody hell –' Jack repeated.

Felicity had followed him. ‘What's happening? What is it?' she said anxiously.

‘I dunno. Somebody fooling about, probably – you get back inside, my dear, I'll handle this.'