A Mysterious Affair of Style (9 page)

Hearing these last words, Calvert, who had been nodding over each pertinent point raised in the conversation, stiffened almost as though he were immediately preparing to
apprehend, with handcuffs if necessary, the two about-to-be-designated suspects.

For his part, however, Trubshawe merely smiled.

‘If I’m not mistaken, Tom,’ he said, ‘she means us – me and her. I’m right, Evie, aren’t I?’

When the novelist nodded in agreement, Calvert shook his head.

‘You two as suspects? Come now, Miss, let’s be serious.’

‘Oh, I assure you, I
am
being serious, deadly serious. What would be the point of drawing up such a list if it weren’t both inclusive and unbiased? Eustace and I were the very first to hear, from Cora’s own lips, of the new bit of business. And even though, this afternoon, not once were we out of each other’s sight – also, as mere visitors, practically interlopers, neither of us was permitted to approach the actual performing area – we were nevertheless physically present at the scene of the murder and might well have committed it, singly or in tandem, via some incredibly deft sleight-of-hand. One of those impossible crimes you read about in the anthologies.’

‘All right, Miss Mount,’ said Calvert, ‘we’ll have it your way if you insist. You and Mr Trubshawe are Suspects 1 and 2. Now shall we get down to brass tacks? The third suspect – and, as far as I’m concerned, the first in any real sense – must be this Rex Hanway. The idea
was
his, after all.’

‘Ah, but don’t you see, Inspector, unless I’m very much mistaken, the fact that Hanway actually
directed
Cora to
drink from a glass of lemonade which turned out to be poisoned is going to be precisely his alibi.’

‘His alibi? Why, it’s the very contrary of an alibi.’

‘Not at all,’ she replied. ‘I can just hear how he might respond to any such accusation you level against him. “My dear Inspector,”’ she went on in a remarkably lifelike imitation of the director’s cut-glass vowels, “if I’d really planned to murder poor, darling Cora, do you suppose I’d have told her – in public, mark you, in public – to drink out of a glass I already knew to contain poison?”’

‘H’m,’ said Calvert, stroking his cheek, on which few traces were visible of a razor’s coarsening attentions. ‘I see what you mean …’

It was now Trubshawe’s turn to speak.

‘Hold on a sec there,’ he said. ‘Yes, Evie has cleverly shown why we need take far fewer than the original forty-two suspects into serious consideration. Hats off to her, even though,’ he added a trifle ungraciously, ‘it’s a point that one or other of us would have made eventually. But there’s something else she seems to have forgotten.’

‘Oh,’ said Evadne, ‘and what’s that, may I ask?’

‘Well, of course I don’t claim to know much about film folk, but I have had a lot of experience of murderers. Now someone who had a premeditated intent to kill might well decide to visit the scene of his intended crime with a pistol or a revolver or even a knife concealed about his person in the hope that a suitable moment would arise for committing it.
But poison? Until just before the lunch break there was no question of Cora drinking out of the champagne glass. Do either of you seriously believe that her murderer has been strolling around the set these past few days – ever since they started making this cursed film – with a flask of poison tucked inside his or her pocket? Eh? And, if not, where would they be expected to lay hands on such a flask in the two hours or so that elapsed between Hanway coming up with his new idea and Cora swallowing the poison? Answer me that.’

Calvert’s eyebrows registered the logic of the Chief-Inspector’s argument.

‘Ye-es, that’s certainly another point we ought to consider.’

‘I should think it is,’ said Trubshawe. ‘And what it means is that Hanway surely remains your number-one suspect.’

‘All right,’ said Calvert, ‘that makes three we know of, you two and Hanway. Anyone else come to mind?’

‘Philippe Françaix,’ suggested Evadne Mount.

‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’

‘A French film critic.’

‘Nuff said. I don’t have much time for critics myself. All they ever do is criticise.’

‘He’s one of Farjeon’s greatest admirers – writing a book about him, or so he claims – and he’s here in Elstree to follow the shooting of the picture. He also, pretty much at his own invitation, I should tell you, lunched with Eustace,
Cora and me in the commissary. So he knew all about the champagne glass.’

‘Any conceivable motive?’

‘Just like that, Tom?’ said Trubshawe. ‘We met the chap for the first time only two or three hours ago. Give us old lags a chance, will you.’

‘What’s your opinion, Miss Mount?’

‘On this occasion I’d have to agree with Eustace. Except … except that there was something …’

‘Something?’

‘A feeling I had,’ she replied, momentarily lost in thought. ‘Not even a hunch. Nothing worth repeating. Not yet anyhow.’

‘So. We have four suspects now. Who else?’

‘Me.’

Everyone turned, startled, to face Lettice Morley.

‘You, Miss? Are you admitting that you’re a suspect?’

‘I admit nothing,’ she answered with the always slightly off-putting self-possession that seemed to be her defining trait. ‘All I’m saying is that, if I accept the criteria by which you’re in the process of designating suspects, then I cannot fairly exclude myself.’

‘Sorry, but your name is …?’

‘Lettice Morley. I’m Rex’s – I should say, Mr Hanway’s – personal assistant. As such, I naturally have to know everything that occurs to him at the very instant it does occur to him. When he suggested to Miss Rutherford that she drink
the champagne, he at once informed me too, and I went off and told Props, so that the half-filled glass would be precisely where it was supposed to be just as soon as Rex was ready to film the shot.’

‘I see,’ said Calvert. ‘Well, thank you for being so candid. It’s most unusual, most refreshing.’

‘Not for a second, you understand,’ she carried on imperturbably, ‘am I intimating that I murdered Cora Rutherford. Even if the woman’s irresponsible antics exasperated me, there was nothing personal in my dislike of her and, as my professional future is bound up in my making good on this picture, it would have been very foolish of me to jeopardise its own future by bumping off one of the cast members.

‘However,’ she added, to her listeners’ undiminished amazement, ‘since you’ve already hit upon all kinds of clever clues, perhaps I might indicate one of my own before it’s turned against me. I’ve read quite a few whodunits in my day – yours among them, Miss Mount – and, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from them, it’s that poison is traditionally a woman’s weapon.’

She looked towards Evadne Mount for confirmation.

‘Isn’t that so?’

‘We-ell …’ said the novelist, close to speechless for once, ‘I suppose it
is
one of the conventions of the genre. But it doesn’t mean we whodunit writers believe that, every time someone is poisoned, a woman necessarily did it.’

‘No?’ said Lettice. ‘It’s certainly the impression you leave the reader.’

‘Ah but, Miss, if you
have
read Evie’s novels,’ said Trubshawe, ‘you should remember that, in at least two of them, it turns out that a male murderer used poison precisely in order to lead the police astray – hoping they’d suspect that the crime had been committed by a woman.’

‘That may be so, I suppose. I merely mention what Miss Mount called the convention to remind you that, on the face of it, the fact that Miss Rutherford was poisoned would seem to make me an even likelier suspect than the others on your list.’

Her tirade had left them all shaking their heads, both in puzzlement and in open admiration. Calvert finally broke the silence.

‘Very well. That would appear to make you Suspect No. 5. And since you’ve been so admirably frank in expressing your opinions, Miss, since you also know your way about the studio better than any of us, perhaps you yourself would propose a candidate for No. 6.’

‘Certainly,’ said Lettice with the same unruffled aplomb that she had displayed from the start. ‘Not only No. 6 but No. 7. As someone is bound to point this out to you sooner or later, it may as well be me and it may as well be now. Gareth Knight and Leolia Drake will also have to be regarded as potential suspects.’

‘Gareth Knight, eh?’ said Calvert. ‘Don’t I know that name?’

‘I should hope you do. He’s the leading actor in
If Ever They Find Me Dead
and it was I who personally alerted him. He had to know of the alteration to the script because he was due to play the scene in question opposite Miss Rutherford. I told him just before he went off to lunch.’

‘And Miss Drake?’

‘She and Mr Knight happened to be chatting together at the time. Naturally, she too was made aware of the business with the champagne glass, even though it didn’t affect any of her own scenes.’

‘Well, thank you again, Miss Morley, you’ve been extremely helpful, more so, indeed, than I had any right to expect.’

He rubbed his two rosy-cheeked palms together and turned to face Evadne Mount and the Chief-Inspector.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m going to let everybody go home now – no point as I can see in having them hang around much longer – but, and of course I don’t know how you’re likely to feel about this – you especially, Miss Mount, seeing as how close you were to the victim – but I’d really like to proceed with a preliminary interrogation of these five suspects of ours – if you don’t mind, I’m not even going to bother including you two – as soon as possible. Tomorrow afternoon, perhaps, and here, I think, rather than at the Yard. And I wondered, in view of how much ground we’ve already covered during this little off-the-record parlay we’ve been having – well, I was hoping you might both agree to be present.’

It was Trubshawe who spoke first.

‘Tom, I’d be very pleased to lend you any assistance you need, very pleased indeed. It’ll be just like the old days, when I worked alongside your late father.’

‘But father’s not late yet,’ said Calvert. ‘I mean, he’s still alive, you know.’

‘
Is
he?’ said a surprised Trubshawe. ‘Oh, excuse me, my boy, I’m most terribly sorry!’

Then, attempting to cover up his gaffe, he explained, ‘No, no, I mean – I mean, of course, I’m delighted he’s alive. Delighted. I can’t imagine why I thought he was dead. I suppose I tend to assume that all my contemporaries are dead, since I never seem to hear from any of them.’

Conscious of being already halfway towards committing a second gaffe, he swiftly changed tack.

‘I repeat, I’d be very pleased to second you. I can’t speak for Evie, though. I imagine Cora’s murder has been quite a shock to her system.’

‘Yes, it has,’ said the novelist, ‘which is all the more reason for my insisting on joining you.’ She turned to Calvert. ‘Many, many years ago, Chief-Inspector Trubshawe and I worked together on another murder case. This time, though, it means more to me, a very great deal more.’

She squashed her tricorne hat down hard on her head.

‘This time,’ she concluded with a monumental frown, ‘it’s personal.’

Inside the studio the atmosphere had dramatically deteriorated.

The impact of Cora Rutherford’s death had been so electrifying that it had struck them all, performers, technicians and extras, as quite legitimate that they would be ordered not to budge so much as a foot from where they had been positioned when the crime was committed. Legitimate, too, that even an excursion to the conveniences had not only to be taken in the company of a uniformed police officer but also to be preceded by a rapid and thorough body-search – presumably to make certain none of them had the bright idea of flushing away some incriminating piece of evidence. In view of the fact, though, that instead of being stabbed, shot or strangled, the actress had been poisoned, a fact that appeared screamingly obvious to everyone present even if it had yet to be forensically confirmed, it was hard to comprehend just what the police imagined they might find concealed about anyone’s person.

But time passes, and nothing happens, or nothing seems to happen, and the most innocent of bystanders start to fret and fidget as even the shock of having witnessed a cold-blooded murder eventually subsides. The victim’s body had already been removed with professional swiftness and discretion, so what was the point of preventing everyone else from going home? It wasn’t doubted for a moment that the film production would be closed down, possibly for good and all, and the minds of many of those marooned inside the studio had begun to concentrate on the question of where and, even more imperatively, when they might expect to land their next engagement.

Some were gloomily forecasting that, of the very few new pictures known to be going into production at Elstree, most of the plum jobs would already have been snapped up, while others were whispering among themselves that, after all – and, yes, they realised that Cora Rutherford was only just dead and her body still warm – but still, it wasn’t showing any disrespect to the poor woman to point out that her role hadn’t been so crucial that she couldn’t easily be replaced. One cynical crew member even ventured to suggest, albeit
sotto voce,
that, for a picture titled
If Ever They Find Me Dead,
the murder, on-set, of one of its better-known actresses would at the very least generate the kind of front-page publicity that couldn’t be bought for love nor money.

The reaction, in short, was that of a typical cross-section of fallible humanity when confronted with tragedy, genuine
compassion commingling inextricably with naked self-interest.

When Calvert re-entered the studio, however, accompanied by Evadne, Trubshawe and Lettice Morley, everyone wearily stood to attention.

The first thing the young Inspector did was call over the two police officers with whom he had arrived and introduce them to his former superior.

‘Just so as you know, sir. These are a couple of colleagues of mine from Richmond, Sergeant Whistler and Constable Turner.’

As the two officers nodded deferentially, Evadne, with a hint of her natural indomitability, couldn’t resist quipping:

‘Sergeant Whistler? Constable Turner? Heavens! Sounds more like the Tate Gallery than the C.I.D.’

‘Yes, Miss,’ answered a poker-faced Calvert, ‘I believe they’ve heard that one before.’

‘Sorry. Just trying to cheer myself up.’

‘I do understand.’ He turned to the Sergeant. ‘Whistler, what have you got to report?’

‘Well, sir, the body has already been removed. And Dr Beckwith left with it. He said he’d be in touch with you when he had something definite to be in touch about.’

‘Fine, fine.’ Calvert glanced over at the waiting cast and crew. ‘Nobody getting too restless, I trust?’

‘They’re mostly all right,’ the Sergeant went on. ‘Three or four of them, maybe, growing a bit impatient. Wondering
how long they’re going to be held here. And the – the producer of the picture, I think he said he was – he’s turned up. In quite an agitated state, he is. That’s him, standing next to the camera,’ he said, pointing to a plump gentleman in his fifties who was in deep consultation with Rex Hanway.

‘Very well. I’ll have a few words with him first. Ask him to join us, will you.’

Almost immediately the producer appeared before them. He had a set of floridly jowly features, patently not of native English origin, and wore a double-breasted Savile Row suit in flamboyant grey pin-stripes from whose breast-pocket he would repeatedly pull a handkerchief, perfumed and polka-dotted, to mop his brow with. If he had been wearing a hat – a Panama by choice – you felt sure he would never stop fanning himself with it.

Calvert held out his hand to him.

‘Inspector Calvert, sir. Richmond C.I.D. I’ll be the investigating officer on the case. You are, I believe, the producer of the picture that was being made here?’

‘Yes, yes, that’s right.’

He nervously shook Calvert’s hand.

‘Levey’s the name, Benjamin Levey. And what a terrible thing to happen. So soon after … Just terrible!
Mein Gott,
what have I ever done to deserve this?’

‘Benjamin Levey?’ said Trubshawe. ‘Why, of course, I remember now. You arrived in this country in – in ’37, wasn’t it?’

‘That is so.’

‘There was almost a minor diplomatic incident, as I recall. Even the Yard had to get involved. You left Germany in quite a hurry, didn’t you?’

‘Ja, ja
,’ said Levey, suddenly wary. ‘I was late for the train.’

The Chief-Inspector suppressed a smile.

‘No, no, sir, you don’t follow. I – well, what I meant was that you had to flee the country because of the persecution you were suffering.’

Levey yanked his handkerchief out and mopped his brow.

‘
Ach
!
The persecution, yes! Those German critics!’

‘No, sorry, I meant –’ Trubshawe began all over again, then finally decided to let it go.

Evadne Mount meanwhile asked:

‘Mr Levey, didn’t you produce
The Miracle
?’

‘No, I produced the disaster.’

‘The disaster? What disaster?’

‘My production of Goethe’s
Faust
. In Berlin. You have heard of it, no?’

‘Well, apologies, but I’m afraid I haven’t.’

‘It had a really wonderful twist. A Jewish
Faust
. The Devil buys Faust’s soul – what is the English word? – wholesale? But, my dears, what a disaster! The Nazis hated it. The Jews hated it. My mother hated it. Everybody hated it. When the curtain came down, it was so quiet you could hear a pin get up and walk out of the theatre.

‘And now this. First my director is burnt to a crisp. Then one of my players is murdered, poisoned right in front of the whole crew. You know, my dear Inspector, I am not a superstitious man, but I start to believe this picture of mine is
verdammt
. But why? Why? For what am I being punished?’

‘Well, sir,’ Calvert assured the producer, ‘I’m going to do everything I possibly can to get to the bottom of it all. And I can tell you, I already have a few interesting leads. But, first, I wonder if you could be of assistance to me.’

‘Anything, anything, my dear.’

‘I’m going to let your people go home now. Before they leave, of course, the constable will take down their names, addresses and telephone numbers – those of them who are on the ’phone. I’m well aware you’ll have all these particulars on file, but there were so many people milling about on the set we have to be certain there was no one here who shouldn’t have been – and, conversely, no one who should have been but, for whatever reason, cannot be accounted for. You understand what I’m saying, sir?’

‘Yes, yes,’ replied Levey. ‘You must take all the precautions.’

‘That’s right. However, there happen to be five of them I should like to question within the next twenty-four hours, if I may. While the details of the event are fresh in their minds. I trust you have no objection?’

‘Objection?’ Levey weighed the word. ‘Have I the right to object?’

Calvert smiled a noncommittal little smile.

‘Well, no, you haven’t. I suppose I was trying to be polite. But, above all, what I wanted to let you know was that among those I intend to interview are your two stars, Gareth Knight and Leolia Drake. And who else? Oh yes, the director, Rex Hanway. I felt you ought to be forewarned.’

Levey once more mopped his brow.

‘Oy! Please go gently, Inspector. If this picture is to have a future, I would not like for my actors to be bullied.’

A hideous thought crossed his mind.

‘You are not thinking of arresting one of them, are you?’

‘No, no, nothing like that,’ Tom Calvert replied. ‘As I say, it’s merely a preliminary interro-’ – he hastily amended the word – ‘merely a prelimary chat to establish what occurred and how it occurred. Just a formality.’

Levey dolorously shook his head.

‘Just a formality, eh? How we Germans came to fear that phrase. Ah, but this is England, is it not, where such methods are unknown. Yes, Inspector, go ahead. Proceed with your interrogation,’ he concluded, without appearing to place any ironic emphasis on the last word.

‘Thank you, Mr Levey. And now I’d like to ask one very last favour of you.’

‘Please?’

‘I intend to summon – shall we say the interviewees? – for tomorrow afternoon. You understand, I’d prefer the questioning to take place before the inquest, which they’ll all be
expected to attend. I’d also prefer it to take place here, at Elstree. Less intimidating for them than at the Yard and, for all kinds of procedural reasons, I myself have got to come back down here anyway. But I shall need a room, a quiet room. An unused office, perhaps? Somewhere out-of-the-way where I can sit down and chat with them without being interrupted. Could you yourself suggest something suitable?’

‘Of course,’ Levey said unhesitantly. ‘You must take Rex Hanway’s office.’

‘I was thinking of a more –’

‘Nonsense. It’s comfortable, he won’t be needing it now, alas, and I will make certain you are not disturbed.’

‘And you yourself …?’

‘
Ach
, I must go up to London. Wardour Street. I have a meeting, you know, an important meeting with my backers.’ He suggestively rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. ‘To find out if we can still save this
verdammte
picture!’