A Series of Murders (15 page)

‘We've got to go on,' said the floor manager gently.

‘No! We will not go on until that last scene has been done right!'

The floor manager was silent for a moment, receiving instructions in his earpiece. No doubt having filtered out the obscenities, he announced diplomatically, ‘The Director says he's the Director of the show and we've got to get on with the next scene.'

‘I am the writer of the W. T. Wintergreen books, and I say we don't go on until we get it right. I will not have actors massacring my characters.'

‘Hardly massacring the characters, old girl,' protested Russell Bentley, as oblivious of W. T. Wintergreen's name as he was of anyone else's, ‘just making the characters a bit more realistic.'

‘I wrote them realistically.'

‘Yes, they are completely real!' Louisa chipped in.

‘Well, I'm afraid the kind of reality people expect nowadays is a bit different. Listen, I have a reputation in television. If the public see that a show's got Russell Bentley in it, then they –'

The star's thousandth reiteration of this routine was surprisingly interrupted. By Ben Docherty. And, even more remarkably, by Ben Docherty being decisive.

He burst into the studio like a whirlwind. No doubt he was well fuelled by his lunch, but whatever its cause, his performance was impressive.

‘Right,' he roared. ‘That's enough!'

The entire studio was silent.

‘We've wasted quite enough time on this sort of discussion! We're slipping behind schedule, and we can't risk doing that. Miss Wintergreen, the directors and I have been very patient. We have listened to your suggestions and followed many of them. But now I'm afraid you are just becoming disruptive. I must ask you and your sister to leave the studio and to keep away from W.E.T. premises until the production of
Stanislas Braid
is finished!'

‘What?'

‘You heard what I said.'

‘But I wrote the books. I created Stanislas Braid.'

‘That is neither here nor there. You must leave!'

W. T. Wintergreen stood her ground, preparing to defend herself. But then Louisa Railton began to cry, weakly, feebly, like a child. Winifred put her arm around her sister's shoulder and said quietly, ‘Very well.'

‘Tony.' Ben Docherty summoned the Assistant Stage Manager. ‘Will you please escort Miss Wintergreen and her sister out of the building.'

Tony did as he was told. The three of them, a small funeral cortege, trooped out of Studio A in total silence.

Charles realised it was his chance. He was not needed in the next scene. He moved surreptitiously to the edge of the set, then slipped behind, just as he had seen Tony Rees do earlier in the day.

There was no one in sight, no one to interfere with this search. He gauged how far along Tony had gone and dropped to his knees.

At the bottom of the flats there was a roll of excess canvas. Charles probed along its length, feeling for some unexpected shape.

He found it. Through the canvas it felt thin, hard, and metallic.

He unwound it from its hiding place.

It was an Italian stiletto. The point felt wickedly sharp.

He thought back a fortnight. Once again he saw Tony Rees rising guiltily from something he had hidden at this very spot.

While they were recording ‘The Brass Candlestick Murder,' Sippy Stokes had been killed with a candlestick.

Now they were recording ‘The Italian Stiletto Murder.' Who was
its
victim intended to be?

‘IS THERE another murder on your mind, Charles?'

‘Well, there might be, Frances. Why do you ask?'

‘You sound preoccupied. You sound like you do when you're investigating a murder. Is it that actress whose death was in the papers a week or so back?'

‘Mm.'

‘And do you reckon you know who killed her?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then go to the police.'

‘I haven't got any evidence. In my experience, when I go to the police with no evidence, they laugh at me.'

‘Yes. Well, one can see their point. Anyway, be careful, Charles.'

‘The fact that you say that must mean you care, Frances.'

‘Stop fishing for compliments. Of course I care.'

‘Good.'

‘But don't assume that I'm particularly happy about the situation.'

‘No.' A little, prickly silence on the telephone line. ‘I did mean what I said, Frances. I really would like us to get back together again on a permanent basis.'

‘Huh. No other women?'

‘No other women.

‘Suggest it again when you've gone a whole year without making love to any other women and maybe I'll listen more seriously.'

‘A year from today?'

‘Yes. You know you'll never manage it, Charles.'

‘Of course I will. Easy-peasy.'

‘We'll see. Is it tomorrow you're off to Dorset?'

‘Late afternoon, yes.'

‘And is your murder suspect going with you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, don't do anything stupid.'

‘You see, you
do
care.'

‘Don't push your luck, Charles Paris,' Frances growled.

Why was it, he reflected, that coach journeys took adults straight back to infantile behavior? As soon as the
Stanislas Braid
team entered the coaches chartered by W.E.T. to take them to Swanage, the silliness began, and it continued all the way to Dorset. Songs, party games, impressions of members of the production team, paper darts, all helped along by the bottle of wine someone had thoughtfully provided. They were weak with laughter by the time they arrived.

He certainly had no chance to talk to Tony Rees. Just as he had had no chance to talk to Tony Rees for the last week. The A.S.M. avoided him deliberately. For the journey to Dorset, he waited to see which coach Charles got into and deliberately got into the other.

Still . . . ‘The Italian Stiletto Murder' had been safely recorded, and no real-life murder had marred the proceedings. Charles was beginning to doubt the strength of the chain of logic that had seemed so strong when he had found the hidden weapon. At times he even questioned his conviction that Sippy Stokes had been murdered. Time blurred things. The more days went by and the less new evidence came to light, the lazier his interest grew.

And even if she had been murdered, did it actually matter that much? Everyone was happier for her death. Even Rick Landor, back in charge as Director of this episode, seemed restored to his normal good humor.

Charles did not believe in absolutes of right and wrong, the necessity that for every crime there must be a matching retribution. As he travelled down in the coach to Swanage, diverted by the silliness around him, and particularly by the chatter of Joanne Rhymer, he could entertain the possibility of Sippy Stokes's death slipping quietly out of his mind. Never to return.

The W.E.T. contingent arrived in Swanage about five and checked into their various accommodations. Charles was delighted to find that his new-found status as a regular character in a television series entitled him to a room in an AA three-star hotel, along with Russell Bentley, Jimmy Sheet, Will Parton, Joanne Rhymer, and Rick Landor. Other members of the cast were scattered in various two-star hotels. The W.E.T. staff members, following many years' experience in the management of expenses, had mostly opted for hotels cheap enough to ensure that they made a profit on their overnight allowances.

Charles checked into his room, which commanded what would presumably be a good view of Swanage Bay when the weather wasn't so dull. The sky had gotten darker and damper the farther west the coach went, and by the time they arrived in Swanage, everything was shrouded in a thick sea mist. The limited visibility did not augur well for the next two days' filming.

Still, that was Rick Landor and Ben Docherty's problem, not his. At times, the passivity of being an actor almost drove Charles Paris to distraction, but there were also times, like this one, of gleeful irresponsibility in his chosen profession. And, as ever, being in a strange hotel room gave him a lift. It seemed to recharge his identity, give him a feeling of starting afresh, the sensation that nobody had any expectations of him and he could behave in any way he chose.

The way he chose initially was not very different from the way he might have chosen at any other point in his life. He decided to take advantage of his ‘resident' status and go down to the hotel bar for an out-of-hours drink.

On the way he met Will Parton, in a towelling dressing gown. The writer was going down to the hotel swimming pool. So were most of the others, except for Jimmy Sheet, who was going to work out in the hotel gym. Did Charles fancy joining them?

Well, no, actually. He had swum in his time and quite enjoyed it, but the effort of all that changing and getting wet and getting dry and changing back again always seemed to Charles disproportionate to the amount of pleasure involved. And when the charms of diving into a swimming pool were set against those of diving into a large Bell's . . . well, there was no contest.

He had a couple of large Bell's and, having agreed with the barman in about half a dozen different formulae of words that it was very foggy, decided, since none of the rest of the
Stanislas Braid
team had reappeared, that he would go out for a walk before dinner.

He hadn't bothered to go up to his room for his coat and was surprised at how wet the mist was when he got outside. In fact, rain was driving with some persistence through the murk. By the time Charles had gone a couple of hundred yards down toward the front, he had decided that he must either curtail his walk or risk the final disintegration of his sodden sports jacket, so the sight of a pub was a welcome one. A quick drink, he reckoned, and the rain might have eased off a bit before he went back up the hill to the hotel for dinner.

Inside the pub, the light seemed as murky and steamy as it did outside. A few people stood around in raincoats and anoraks. It was only just after seven, so the pub was not yet very full.

But sitting facing him in an alcove at the far end of the room, Charles saw a figure he recognised: Tony Rees.

On the evidence of the last week, Charles fully expected the A.S.M. to walk straight out of the pub and was amazed to see Tony rising with a half of lager in his hand and coming to intercept him with an expression on his face that could almost be described as genial.

‘Charles, good evening. Can I get you a drink?'

‘Well, why don't I get you one, Tony?'

Charles made for the bar but was diverted by the A.S.M., who took him firmly by the arm and led him to a seat in the alcove adjacent to the one from which Tony had just risen. ‘Now, what's it to be?'

‘Large Bell's'd be good.'

‘Fine. Large Bell's it shall be, Charles Paris,' said the A.S.M. loudly and bonhomously.

While Tony was at the bar, Charles puzzled over what could have brought on this sudden affability but had reached no conclusions by the time his drink arrived.

Tony Rees sat down opposite him, still with the same half of lager. ‘Cheers.'

‘Cheers.'

‘You said you wanted to talk to me, Charles.'

‘Yes. Yes, I did.' He was again taken aback by the ease with which he was being offered the interview, which had been evaded all week.

‘Well, what was it about?'

‘Candlesticks . . . for a start.'

‘Oh,' said Tony Rees, and his face fell. ‘How much do you know?'

‘I know that a candlestick was moved off the set of Stanislas Braid's study on the Wednesday of the first episode, just before Sippy Stokes died.'

‘I see.'

‘And I know what happened to it subsequently.'

‘Do you?'

‘Yes. You also know what happened to it subsequently, don't you?'

‘Well . . .'

‘Yes, you do, Tony. You know exactly what happened.' The A.S.M. looked horror-struck. He reached forward for his drink, but his hand was shaking too much to hold it. The half-pint leaped from his hand onto the table, cannoning its contents out into Charles's lap.

‘I'm so terribly sorry.' Tony Rees was instantly at his side with a handkerchief, making ineffectual efforts to mop up the mess.

‘Don't worry, Tony. Hasn't made me much wetter than I was already.' Charles indicated two heavily anoraked figures who were just leaving the pub. ‘Don't envy anyone who's going back out there at the moment. Come on, let me get you another drink.'

It was a pleasure to stand up. The lager-drenched trousers didn't cling to his legs quite so clammily in a vertical position. He bought another half and, since his own drink seemed mysteriously to have emptied itself, another large Bell's.

When he sat down again, he continued in a businesslike fashion. ‘I haven't forgotten what we were talking about.'

‘No.'

‘Candlesticks . . . and stilettos.'

‘Yes. You saw me going to get the stiletto that lunch break when I didn't realise there was anyone in the studio.'

Charles nodded.

‘Well, what are you proposing to do about it, then?'

‘I don't know, Tony. It depends really on how much you are prepared to tell me. Then maybe I suppose we go to the police.'

‘The police! Over something like that? But everyone does it.'

If Tony Rees's speech had sounded flabbergasted, then Charles's reaction to it sounded even more so. ‘Everyone does it!'

‘Yes.'

‘What are we talking about, Tony?'

‘Nicking stuff from the studio.'

‘Oh, are we?'

‘It's like a perk of the job, Charles. And it's not as if W.E.T. can't afford it,' said Tony Rees, echoing Mort Verdon's words.

‘So you nick stuff on a regular basis?'

‘If you put it like that, yes. Not big stuff. And stuff I know I can get rid of without too much bother.'