Dead on Cue (11 page)

He was still in good shape, there could be no doubt about that. Pulling his stomach in and holding his breath he looked like a man of thirty – or thereabouts. Fit enough nonetheless to play the Scarlet Pimpernel, which was one of the titles that the Odds were considering for their next production. Naturally Mike and Meg Alexander wanted to do a two-hander,
Heloise and Abelard
, but Paul had informed them in no uncertain terms that they must hire a hall and put it on privately if they wished to continue down that route.

Stark naked, he walked to the kitchen and boiled the kettle to make some coffee in the cafetière and while he waited played back the answerphone messages from last night. There were two that hung up rather than speak to a machine, a third call for Elspeth, then came the fourth – and Paul shivered as he heard it.

‘Oh hello, this is a message for Paul Silas. It's from Eileen Gillow, Adam's wife. Adam is terribly sorry but he won't be able to make the performance tonight. There's been an accident at Waterloo station and all the trains are being diverted via Redhill. He's phoned to say he won't be back till ten at the earliest and to make his apologies. Sorry for any inconvenience.'

Paul could hardly believe his ears and he sank back in a chair as the full import of the words bore in on him. Somebody had fought Robin Green up on the battlements but that somebody had not been Adam Gillow. So who the hell was it? And without waiting for anything further to happen, Paul picked up the phone and dialled a number.

Ekaterina woke at dawn and gazed up at her ceiling, which was tinted pink with little ripples from the moat reflected on it. Just for a minute she lay thus, thinking about how good the show had been last night and how much she liked Rufus and how she, who had never particularly wanted children, had felt the stirring of an unknown feeling when she was in the company of his four well-behaved daughters. And then anxiety struck her as she suddenly realized that for the second night running Gerry had not appeared in the bedroom and, indeed, she had not set eyes on him for nearly forty-eight hours. Getting out of bed and pulling on her dressing gown she ran down the corridor calling his name.

Opening the door of every guest room she peered within but they were all empty, the beds undisturbed. Now she was starting to panic and rushed down the stairs and straight to the big room at the back where he had a gym plus sound equipment. The stillness frightened her. There was nobody around and the very air of the house told her that he had not been inside it for hours. She looked at the kitchen clock and saw that it was only a quarter to seven. Perhaps he had finally walked out on her, given up on their farce of a marriage. Yet she held the purse strings – in fact she was the sole source of Gerry's income – so she doubted very much that he would sacrifice such a lucrative situation. And yet, of course, if he were to divorce her he would be entitled to half her estate and that would be worth a fortune. Suddenly Ekaterina didn't care any more. She was sick of him. As far as she was concerned he could have the money and was welcome to it. The ugly duckling he had married had turned into the queen of the swans and from now on he could go his own way. Ekaterina had mentally swatted the Wasp Man and she laughed to herself at the thought.

Rufus Beaudegrave had hardly slept, full of excitement at the splendour of the Son et Lumière and the reception of the audience. The Odds might well be a mismatched bunch of amateurs but they had come together and delivered excellent performances in this particular show. And it had been made all the more wonderful by Ekaterina – that lovely, warm and tremendously beautiful Russian woman – bursting into tears of joy at the end. He pulled himself up, remembering that she was married to that American actor, the one who had ruined the show at the dress rehearsal of the Elizabethan Fair by executing the most ghastly dance he had ever seen. Rufus admitted to himself that he had smiled broadly when Gerry had been leapt on by the funny little man who always wore shorts. It was only when he had seen that the chap was strangling the life out of the creep that he had made a move to stop it. But too late. The struggling couple had vanished in a pile of arms and legs and that had been the end of that. But how that lovely girl had ever become entangled with the Wasp Man Rufus had no idea.

As dawn had crept over the moat and lit the castle with its early-morning pallor Rufus got out of his four-poster bed – which had been in the family for two hundred years though now with a thoroughly modern mattress – and put on jeans and a sweater. Going to the kitchen he made himself a swift cup of coffee and whistled to the old spaniel that lay patiently in its basket, regarding him with a mournful brown eye. Then the two of them set forth for a morning walk round the island on which the castle was built. Going round the Victorian addition first, Rufus slowly made his way towards the setting of last night's Son et Lumière and felt a swell of pride at his tremendous ancestry. Mind you, with the castle entailed as it was, it would all pass to his wastrel of a brother when he died. But there you are, there was nothing he could do about it. Unless, of course, he were to remarry and produce a son. Rufus drew in a breath hard. He was daydreaming and it would do neither him nor anybody else any good.

He had arrived under the ancient battlements where the mock fight had taken place last night and was just about to move away when his dog, old Moses, suddenly started to whine then began to sniff and paw at something lying there.

‘Come on, Moses,' shouted Rufus. ‘Leave it, whatever it is.'

But the dog persisted and in the end his owner crossed over to see what it was that was so interesting.

It was the dummy that had crashed so convincingly on to the cobbles below. But something about it was so strangely lifelike that Rufus paused for a moment and nudged it with his foot. The helmet shifted slightly and Rufus's attention was riveted. Instead of the stitched up man of straw that he had expected to see he could glimpse a human eyelid, closed. Suddenly he was shaking all over as he knelt down and gingerly removed the helmet, which he had to struggle to take off. Inside, a smashed skull covered with a congealing mess of sticky blood lay together with what was left of a black man's face. The Wasp Man had danced for the very last time.

I
nspector Dominic Tennant was having an easy morning. Last night he had appeared on Meridian News talking about a homophobic assault that had ended with the victim dying of multiple stab wounds in an alleyway in Brighton. Fortunately there had been a number of witnesses, one of whom had been able to give the police names. There had been subsequent arrests and the perpetrators had been charged. As far as he was concerned the case was closed.

He had stood by a police car for the interview, wearing his long coat, his curly hair accentuated by the street lamps, and had spoken clearly and directly to the girl from Meridian.

‘Can you tell us, Inspector, whether this murder was racially motivated?'

‘No, it was a gang of gay bashers –' Tennant had paused and put it into polite English – ‘homophobes – who are said to have caused Mr Kazir's death. The fact that he was of Asian origin was coincidental.'

‘And they are now in prison?'

‘Yes. They will be tried at Lewes Assizes later this year.'

‘Thank you, Inspector.'

The Meridian interviewer had insisted on him taking her card and had smiled at him quite saucily. In return, Tennant had presented his card with a flourish and had then got into a car and been driven home. And now he was having a relaxing morning pottering about his new flat.

It was situated on the top floor of a Victorian mansion, built in the quiet part of Lewes, away from the one-way system and in an area that had once been genteel and in a way still was. Professional people lived nearby and the children who played outside were controllable and polite. Tennant liked it very much and had taken considerable pleasure in furnishing it to his taste. The walls of his living room were a rich, riotous red and curtains in a matching shade hung to the floor. After that his money had become somewhat stretched and he was doing the rest of the work at his leisure, or rather when he felt in funds.

He was standing in the rather tired-looking roof garden, which had been started by the previous owner, thinking he must definitely put some work into it before the spring when the telephone rang. Somehow the very sound of the bell had a slightly menacing tone. Reluctantly Tennant picked up the receiver and said his name.

‘Hello, sir, sorry to bother you but something rather important's come up.' It was Potter.

Tennant groaned silently. ‘I was meant to be having a day off.'

‘I know, sir. But I think you're going to like this one.'

‘Tell me.'

‘The body of an actor has been found at Fulke Castle . . .'

‘That's not far from Lakehurst, isn't it?'

‘About eight miles away. Anyway, we've had a call from Sir Rufus Beaudegrave, the owner. He sounded extremely shaken. Apparently he and his dog found the body on an early morning walk. The dead man was Gerry Harlington, who played the part of the Wasp Man in films. He was also a hip-hop dancer.'

‘Good God! What part did you say he took?'

‘The Wasp Man. I saw
The Revenge of the Wasp Man
a couple of years ago. It was pretty terrible but my nephews enjoyed it.'

‘I'll come in.'

Fifteen minutes later Tennant walked into the sprawling police headquarters in Lewes and as luck would have it bumped into Superintendent Miller on the stairs.

‘Ah, Dominic, good man. Come to my office in five minutes will you.'

‘Yes, sir. Anything in particular?'

‘Indeed. It's about the death at Fulke Castle. I've had Sir Rufus Beaudegrave on the phone and he feels very concerned about the whole thing. Fact is, I've met him socially on a couple of occasions and I rather liked the fellow. Anyway, we'll discuss the whole thing in depth in a few minutes.'

It was obvious that the boss man was heading for the loo and Tennant stood to one side to let him pass, then made his way to his sergeant's desk. Potter was not there but Tennant tracked him down at the coffee machine.

‘Get one for me, will you.'

Potter, as neat and as orderly as ever, duly pressed the button for a black coffee without sugar and waited while the liquid poured into a plastic cup.

‘There you are, sir.'

‘I think we're on the Fulke Castle case,' said Tennant, sipping the rather unpleasant brew.

‘I hope we are,' Potter answered enthusiastically.

‘Why? Are you a fan of the hip-hop dancer?'

His sergeant pulled a face. ‘No. It's just that I like the castle. I went on a tour there once and I thought it was wonderful. It's fully moated, you know.'

‘How do they get on and off then?'

‘Oh, they've built a causeway. Did you see the remake of
Ivanhoe
on television last year?'

‘Yes. Was that Fulke Castle?'

‘It certainly was, sir. Apparently the owner, Sir Rufus Beaudegrave, manages to keep the place running by letting it out for God knows what. It's been in his family since the Conquest and he's determined to keep it that way.'

‘An enterprising fellow.'

‘Very much so, I believe.'

At that moment they were called into Superintendent Miller's office and half an hour later were driving out into deepest Sussex. The local policeman had been called in and was standing by the body, which had been left exactly as it was, protected by the usual police tape which had been stretched across the archways surrounding it. Tennant and Potter, approaching, looked down silently on the upturned face of Gerry Harlington, the knight's helmet that had hidden it still lying where Rufus had placed it. Sir Rufus himself was standing just outside the tape, talking to another policeman who was treating him as if he were royalty. Tennant approached.

‘Good afternoon, sir. I'm Dominic Tennant of the Sussex police and this is my sergeant, Mark Potter.'

‘How do you do,' said Rufus politely.

‘I believe it was you that found the body, Sir Rufus. Can you tell me more about that please?'

‘Certainly. I knew the victim vaguely. His name was Gerry Harlington and he was a small-time actor in Hollywood. He also . . .'

Tennant interrupted tactfully. ‘I have had a run down on the man's career already but if you could help me with any new information I'd be awfully grateful.'

‘Such as?' Rufus enquired.

‘I believe he and his wife moved to Lakehurst recently, buying the moated manor house out at Speckled Wood. And then he volunteered to direct some play or other for the Oakbridge Dramatists and Dramatic Society, which was to be performed here at the castle. Could you tell me about that.'

‘It was not a play, it was a Son et Lumière, and it was the history of the castle being re-enacted in scenes. It was written by a professional writer – Bob Merryfield, he used to work at the BBC – and I must say it was a profoundly colourful and moving show. But unfortunately Bob died during rehearsals and that's when Gerry Harlington stepped in.'

‘He wasn't popular?'

Rufus's colour suddenly came up and Potter shot his boss a look of surprise.

‘He tried to ruin the whole thing. First of all he wanted to turn it into a musical – songs written by himself, of course. When the Odds objected he decided to introduce a hip-hop dance into the Elizabethan Fair scene. And he actually did one at the dress rehearsal. That's when the proverbial hit the fan, I can tell you.'

Tennant looked at Potter who was scribbling like mad in his notebook.

‘What happened?' Tennant asked.

‘He was physically attacked. Robin Green actually leapt on him and there was a terrible melee.' A smile briefly lit Rufus's face. ‘Even the vicar was involved.'