Dead on Cue (12 page)

The inspector looked up intently. ‘Which vicar would that be?'

‘The one at Lakehurst. Nice chap. Name of Lawrence.'

Tennant and Potter exchanged a grin.

‘Oh yes. We've come across him before. But please continue.'

‘Well, the fight was stopped and Harlington sloped off swearing revenge. And that was it really. Nothing further was seen of him. But somehow or other he must have taken the place of the man who does the stage fight with Robin Green and then – God knows how – fallen over the parapet and got himself killed.'

‘So you think it was an accident?'

‘Well, what else could it be?'

‘I'll keep an open mind on that until we have the pathologist's report. But tell me, why did no one notice that anything was amiss during the actual show?'

‘Because the fight scene was carefully rehearsed and everyone was aware it was going on. As I said, Robin Green and Adam Gillow fought up there –' he pointed to the battlements above, starkly outlined against the autumnal afternoon sky – ‘and at a certain point Adam ducked down and then threw a dummy off the battlements. And most effective it was too.'

‘I see. Anything else?'

‘There was one funny thing, now you ask.'

‘What was that?'

‘Robin tripped and lost his footing. Fell over backwards in other words.'

‘And that hadn't been rehearsed?'

‘Definitely not. It was a complete accident.'

‘And then what happened?'

‘The dummy was thrown over and the lights went out. End of scene.'

‘And the dummy? Where did that live?'

‘That was taken up to the battlements before the show began. It was lying there all the time.'

‘Most interesting.'

Tennant turned round at the sound of noises behind him and saw the familiar sight of white-clad masked figures making their way over the causeway. In their midst was the doctor – a tall, auburn-haired fresh-faced Cornish girl with whom Tennant had worked once before. She knelt down beside the body and began her examination.

Tennant turned back to Sir Rufus. ‘Can you give me any idea of the whereabouts of Mrs Harlington? That is, if you know?'

‘I should imagine that she is at home, Inspector. I really couldn't tell you.'

Did he mistake it or was the baronet now extremely pink in the cheeks? A becoming look with his red hair and tall build.

‘Well, thank you so much for your time, Sir Rufus. I'm afraid there will be some further questions but that will be all for the moment.'

Tennant and Potter turned away and crossed over the bridged causeway on foot, making their way towards the gatehouse and beyond where a police van had been parked. There they changed into their blue protective suiting ready to inspect the body at close range. The remains of Gerry Harlington, having been photographed from all angles, had now been stripped of its chain mail and was down to the garments worn beneath. These consisted of a bloodstained T-shirt bearing the slogan ‘Wasp Man For Ever – Yay' and a pair of black tights. The doctor was on the point of raising the shirt to look at the wounds beneath.

‘Is this a terrible accident do you think?' Tennant asked the Cornish girl whose name was Helena Wensby.

‘Could be. But I don't quite see how he could have toppled over.'

‘Unless he tripped and lost his balance. But then surely the other fellow – what was his name, Potter?'

‘Robin Green, sir.'

‘Green, would have raised the alarm, performance or no performance.'

‘Unless he didn't see,' said Helena.

‘Oh come on, this is getting more and more unlikely.'

‘I quite agree,' Potter answered.

The chest was covered with lacerations, mostly caused by the fall, but it was the skull that was the most terrible sight. Harlington must have landed head first, for the brains were visible and the cranium had been split in two. There were bruises to his cheeks and there were little rivulets in the dust marks caused by the helmet. Tennant leaned extremely close and the smell of drying blood filled his nostrils, making him silently heave.

‘Look at this, Potter,' he called, pointing to Gerry's eyes.

The sergeant bent low. ‘What is it, sir?'

‘It looks to me as if Gerry was crying. I'll ask the forensics team to take a sample.'

‘Good idea,' Helena answered cheerily. She stared at Tennant. ‘How can he have cried?'

‘Perhaps it took him a while to die,' the inspector answered sombrely, and, straightening up, turned to look at the moat.

A few minutes later, Tennant and Potter climbed up to the battlements to see the place where the stage fight had taken place. The sergeant, who had absolutely no head for heights, was looking somewhat grey about the gills but Tennant, stepping through the door at the top of the spiral staircase, exclaimed, ‘My God, what a place. D'you know I envy Rufus Beaudegrave. I would like to have inherited this little lot.'

Potter gasped and held on to the battlement wall, not daring to gaze round. Tennant meanwhile was breathing in and out noisily.

‘What a view. Glorious, isn't it. Good Lord, there are black swans on the moat. Take a look, Potter.'

‘No thank you, sir. I'll just stay where I am if it's all the same to you.'

Tennant glanced over. ‘Oh dear. It is a bit high up, isn't it? Come on, we'd better get on with it.'

He advanced a few feet and then stared in amazement. On the floor, man-sized and dressed in chain mail and helmet, was a body. Just for a moment Tennant thought it was real and then realized by the limp manner in which it lay that it was merely a man of straw. Here was the dummy that Adam Gillow should have thrown over while the man whom it represented – himself – ducked beneath the parapet.

‘How come nobody spotted this before, Potter? I mean what about the other knight – Robin Green? Surely he must have seen it still lying there before he made his exit?'

‘I should imagine, sir, that the shock of falling over backwards which probably dislodged his helmet must have rendered him almost blind. And by the time he recovered himself the lights must have gone down on the scene and he had to concentrate like mad to get down the spiral in the dimness.'

‘In other words, he didn't see it.'

‘No, and he was on his own up here, wasn't he? Wasn't he?'

‘That remains to be seen,' answered Tennant grimly.

‘And did nobody else come up? Later, I mean.'

‘Again. We'll have to find out.'

He walked over to it and leant over the battlements. Below him was the courtyard and the doctor just getting to her feet. He could also see two men with a body bag approaching the mortal remains of Gerry Harlington. So it ends for all of us, he thought. But hopefully not in such a violent manner.

Potter, sidling along, was searching the battlements on his hands and knees. He exclaimed, then said, ‘Take a look at these, sir.'

Tennant bent to see. On the wall, beneath the parapet at knee and foot height were marks where somebody had kicked the bricks violently.

‘Looks like signs of a struggle.'

‘Yes, I would say so. If somebody attacked the late Mr Harlington from behind, came on him unexpectedly and pushed him hard . . .'

‘He would have kicked out and fought as they tipped him towards the parapet.'

‘I know the guy who was fighting him had fallen on his backside but surely he could have staggered up and intervened.'

‘A very good point, Potter. I think we must go and interview him fast.'

They scoured the rest of the battlement area but found no further evidence other than a matted piece of fur that looked as if it had been torn from an ancient fur coat. It was stuck on the parapet. Tennant put it in an evidence bag, then said, ‘Get the photographer and the forensic team up here, Potter. I want these marks photographed and analysed. If they were caused by scuffling feet then I think we can say that this was a murder.'

‘Right you are.'

Potter made his way back down the spiral with a look of relief on his face. Tennant meanwhile walked along the battlements, taking in the full beauty of Fulke Castle. Far below him he saw Rufus Beaudegrave get into a Jaguar sports car and drive over the causeway, through the gatehouse to the open countryside beyond.

Tennant walked back slowly to the place where the straw body lay and stood there silently thinking. Then he crossed the space between the two staircases and, opening the door, went down the second one. He descended the stairs carefully, one slow step at a time, and eventually his patience was rewarded.

Lying near the bottom, half hidden by the shadow of the spiral was a rather smart fountain pen. Slipping on a protective glove Tennant picked it up and dropped it into an evidence bag. Expensive though it was, it was still run of the mill and could have belonged to anyone. With a sigh he stepped out of the darkness and into the autumn sunshine, looking for Sergeant Potter.

E
katerina stared blankly at the two police officers – a man and a woman – who stood opposite her in the living room of the moated manor.

‘You say Gerry is dead?' she asked them in a dazed manner.

‘Yes, Mrs Harlington. I'm afraid he is,' the WPC answered her quietly. ‘Why don't you sit down? Can I get you a cup of tea, perhaps?'

‘No, nothing thank you. But how did this happen? Where is his body? Surely he cannot have died by his own hand.'

Her Russian accent and phraseology were becoming more pronounced in her apparent distress.

‘We really don't know, Mrs Harlington,' said the man. ‘Your husband was found at Fulke Castle. From what we have been told he took part in a theatrical production there and met with some kind of accident.'

Ekaterina went white as a sail. ‘In that case he must have been killed,' she croaked in a voice so ghastly that it would have made an ordinary person shudder, though not so the stoical members of the police force.

‘Please don't jump to conclusions, madam,' said the WPC. ‘Nobody knows at the moment. We are making enquiries.'

‘But I was at the castle last night,' Ekaterina stated, sitting down hard on the sofa. ‘I didn't see anything happen. Gerry wasn't in it. You must be mistaken.'

‘I don't think so, Mrs Harlington,' said the male police officer firmly. ‘Your husband has been identified by someone who knew him. Now, have you any friends locally? Somebody who could come and stay with you perhaps?'

‘I am new here. I only know my masseur and the cleaning lady. Oh, and the vicar.'

‘Then perhaps we could phone one of them for you. What is the vicar's number?'

‘It is on the pad by the telephone,' Ekaterina answered quietly.

She was stunned by the news but didn't truly believe it. She had known Gerry Harlington too long and too well to believe that he would actually allow himself to be murdered. In fact she expected him to walk through the front door at any minute and tell the police to get lost. Yet she had to admit that he had been strangely absent ever since the dress rehearsal and that was one thing she couldn't quite explain. Added to this had been her sudden panic this morning that had culminated in her phoning Rufus, only for her to get the answerphone. She had not left a message.

She vaguely became aware of the chime of the front door and heard the woman police officer go to answer it. A second later the man she was thinking of actually strode in.

‘Oh, my dear,' he said.

And with those words she knew that everything was true.

Tennant and Potter were sitting in their car, parked outside a rather austere Victorian villa, situated in a side road running off Oakbridge High Street. They were waiting for the return of Robin Green who, so they had been informed by his next-door neighbour, had gone off early with the Wayfarers Wanderlust Association.

‘He's generally home by six 'cos he likes to watch the news. I can hear it through my wall.'

Tennant had raised a saddened eyebrow. ‘Why, oh why, my dear Potter, do we always have to wait for those we most need to speak to?'

‘Sod's law, sir.'

‘A truer word was never spoken.'

They sat in silence, Potter chewing on a Double Whopper burger, Tennant wishing he hadn't given up smoking and biting furiously on a Polo mint. It grew dark and the inspector was just glancing at his watch when they heard the sound of sensible footsteps and the figure of a man in brown shorts worn over skinny legs, together with an enormous pair of walking boots and grey knee socks, appeared through the gloom. Tennant was out of the car in a flash leaving Potter to swallow the remainder of his Double Whopper in an indigestible lump.

‘Mr Robin Green?'

‘Yes,' said the figure, peering suspiciously.

‘Inspector Dominic Tennant, Sussex Police. We'd like to ask you a few questions please.' Tennant flashed his badge.

‘Oh dear, yes. Is it about the dustbins?'

Tennant smiled. ‘May we come in for a second? It's getting rather cold out here.'

They made their way into a truly boring living room furnished in shades of Elephant's Breath grey. Robin pulled the dusty curtains and, turning a switch, a nasty and unappetizing electric fire came on with imitation coals giving off a feeble flicker.

‘Take a seat please. Can I get you anything?'

They both refused though Tennant was sorely tempted to say ‘A large vodka please.'

‘Now, gentlemen, what can I do for you?'

Is it possible, the inspector thought, that he doesn't know? He asked a question of his own.

‘What time did you leave this morning?'

‘About seven. We ramblers set off earlier in the summer but these autumn mornings can be a bit sharp.'

‘Then you probably haven't heard the news.'

‘What news?' Robin looked nervous, like a startled rat.