A Series of Murders (7 page)

But even as he had the thought, he knew he'd never do it. It wasn't really lack of money, it wasn't his environment either that was at fault. It was him. Wherever he was, he would still be Charles Paris. And Charles Paris would always feel transitory, never quite committing himself to an environment, a community, perhaps even an identity. That was the reason he was an actor. So much easier to channel yourself into other personalities than to stand up and be counted on your own.

Anyway, he felt more at ease – or if not more at ease, at least less challenged – living in anonymous surroundings, seeing as little of them as possible, and then ideally through a permanent haze of Bell's whisky. That was just the way he was.

Having dispelled from his mind the idea of moving, Charles found it quickly filled with thoughts of Sippy Stokes's death, or as he preferred to think of it, Sippy Stokes's murder.

Maurice's words about the police still investigating encouraged this conjecture. Yes, it could have been an accident, but why should the shelves suddenly have toppled over when Sippy was in the props room? Why should she have been in the props room, anyway? And why should she have had the bad luck to be hit by a randomly falling object?

The idea of her having been hit by a carefully aimed object was much more attractive. And the idea that that object was the temporarily removed candlestick was even more appealing.

Charles thought back forty-eight hours and tried to remember the exact sequence of events.

On the Wednesday morning, when the studio broke for coffee after recording Russell Bentley's cutaway shot, Charles remembered seeing Sippy Stokes alive and well. She had turned down his casual invitation to join him in the canteen. It was only about half an hour later that he had found her body, still warm and bleeding, in the props room.

The actual coffee break had only been twenty minutes, but Charles thought it reasonable to assume that that was when the murder had taken place. Then the studio and its environs would have been almost deserted; to commit a murder once the cast and crew had returned would be much more risky.

But who could have been in the studio during the break to do the deed? Charles focused his memory, trying to re-envision who had been in the canteen and for how long.

Rick Landor hadn't been there at all. Nor had Russell Bentley. Nor, come to that, had W. T. Wintergreen and her sister. Any of them could have been anywhere during the break.

Will Parton had been in the canteen but been dragged away before the end of the break by Ben Docherty and Dilly Muirfield. However, their proposed script discussion hadn't taken place, so any of those three could in theory have gone back to the studio to dispose of Sippy Stokes.

Jimmy Sheet had left at the same time as Will, claiming he was going to look through some lines in his dressing room. But then, if he was planning a murder, he wouldn't have balked at lying about his intentions.

Mort Verdon had stayed chatting with Charles until after the end of the break, so he seemed to be in the clear, but the quiet A.S.M., Tony Rees, had left at the same time as Jimmy Sheet. And, Charles suddenly remembered, Tony Rees had looked very guilty when surprised around the back of the set, just before the discovery of Sippy's body. Yes, that young man certainly merited investigation.

But what motive might he have had to kill the actress?

What motive might any of them have had, come to that?

Charles scanned the possibilities:

Rick Landor was having an affair with Sippy Stokes and seemed angry that Jimmy Sheet was trying to ace him out.

If Jimmy Sheet was involved with her, maybe he had some motive of jealousy or anger.

Ben Docherty had already made the decision to sack the actress, which surely ruled out any reason for trying to get rid of her prematurely.

Russell Bentley was unhappy with the recording that they'd done so far, but even for someone with an ego as big as his, it was a little fanciful to imagine that he'd resort to murder to get the episode remade.

Dilly Muirfield and Will Parton appeared to have no possible motive for killing Sippy Stokes, unless they felt extremely strongly about the effect her dire performance was having on their series. And surely, though television people were notorious for how seriously they took television, that was going a bit far.

Oh, and then presumably W. T. Wintergreen and her sister might also have been snooping around the set during the coffee break. But again, except for the benefit of ridding the world of a dreadful actress, they didn't seem to have an obvious motive.

Insufficient information, Charles concluded. I'm going to have to find out a great deal more before I can start coming to any conclusions about the case. And do a lot more thinking.

But fortunately he was prevented from doing any more thinking at that moment by the ringing of the phone on the landing.

‘Hello?'

‘Oh, good morning. Is that Charles Paris?'

‘Yes.'

‘This is Winifred Railton speaking.'

‘Oh.'

His monosyllable must have revealed how little the name meant to him, because the elderly, cultured voice explained, ‘You probably know me better as W. T. Wintergreen.'

‘Oh, yes. Funny, I was just thinking about you.'

‘Nothing bad, I hope?'

‘Ah. Well . . . um . . .' He couldn't really say that he'd been assessing her suitability as a murder suspect, could he? ‘No, no, of course not.'

‘Look, Mr. Paris, I was wondering if it would be possible for us to meet.'

‘Yes, I'm sure it would. But we'll be meeting on Monday at the read-through, anyway, won't we?'

‘Oh, yes, I'll certainly be there. But I was meaning meet in a more private way. It's so impossible to talk on those occasions.'

‘Yes. Well, perhaps a drink after rehearsal . . .'

‘I wondered if you would like to come to tea with me and my sister on Tuesday afternoon,' W. T. Wintergreen said firmly.

‘Oh. Um . . . Well, I'm not quite sure what the schedule –'

‘I've checked. You won't be required for rehearsal on Tuesday afternoon.'

‘Well, then, what can I say? Yes, of course I'd be delighted. Where would you like to meet?'

W. T. Wintergreen had it all worked out. ‘If you come to our cottage at half past three, that will be fine.'

‘And where is your cottage?'

‘Ham Common.'

‘Oh.' Sounded to Charles a hell of a way to go for tea. Still, he'd said yes. And it could be rather interesting.

‘I'll give you the precise address on Monday. Louisa and I will look forward to seeing you then. I trust you have a pleasant weekend. Good-bye, Mr. Paris.'

Well, thought Charles as he put the phone down, what on earth was all that about?

On Saturday morning Charles rose late, more or less reassembled himself with coffee, and by half past eleven was feeling ready to go out to his local for a few pints and maybe even one of their range of Designer Ploughman's Lunches. What would it be today? A Brie Ploughman's? A Boursin Ploughman's? A Terrine de Canard Ploughman's? A Bratwurst and Sauerkraut Ploughman's?

He sometimes wondered what had happened to pub food in the last few years. In the old days, when you ordered a Ploughman's Lunch, you got a chunk of dry bread, a slab of hard cheese, a gold-wrapped packet of butter, with a tomato and maybe a pickled onion by way of garnish. Whereas now the Ploughmen really seemed to have moved up the social scale to become at least Gentlemen Farmers.

Charles blamed the Common Market. Most totally inexplicable developments in modern Britain had something to do with the Common Agricultural Policy.

It was while he was indulging these thoughts that he realised he was at that moment uniquely qualified to ring his wife. ‘When you're sober,' Frances had said, and not a drop of alcohol had passed his lips for nearly twelve hours.

He rang her Highgate flat and was gratified to find her in. He felt suddenly very close to her. Yes, he had decided while the phone was ringing, they should meet up the next day for lunch. Sunday lunch, just like the old days. He could take her out somewhere on his W.E.T. loot. Or, better still, she might offer to cook lunch for him. Now that really would be like old times.

‘See, Frances, here I am, ringing you at a reasonable time of day and stone-cold sober. What more could you ask?'

‘A divorce?' she suggested, but her tone was not as hard as her words.

‘You don't want one really, Frances. You love being unmarried to me.'

‘Ha. Ha. Anyway, tell me about this job you've got.'

He told her. She was impressed. ‘Three-month contract – running character. You realise you're in danger of becoming a success, Charles Paris?'

‘Oh, I don't think that'd ever happen,' he said in mock self-depreciation.

‘No, nor do I,' Frances agreed dryly. ‘Still, I'm glad they're doing W. T. Wintergreen. I used to like her books.'

‘I have to confess I'd never heard of them until the job came up.'

‘They're good, if you like that sort of thing.'

‘Having read the scripts, I'm not sure that I do. They're totally unrealistic.'

‘That's part of their charm. Stanislas Braid is one of those completely unbelievable superman-sleuths who know everything about everything. School of Lord Peter Wimsey. And he has these wonderful and totally unrealistic relationships with everyone around him. Blodd, the chauffeur . . . the delightfully innocent and deeply loved Christina. Yes, totally unbelievable, but comforting.'

‘Hmm. I think I prefer my detective heroes a bit more realistic.'

‘No, no. Couldn't disagree more. The last thing I want is reality muscling in and spoiling a good detective story. I'm a great believer in the “Warm Bath” school of crime fiction – you know, books that are all snug and soothing and reassuring, books in which the Goodies are Good and the Baddies are Bad and you need never have a moment's anxiety about the fact that Good Will Triumph.'

‘I find some of them a bit arch and mimsy-pimsy.'

‘Wimsey – mimsy-pimsy?' asked Frances in mock horror.

‘Oh, shut up. When did W. T. Wintergreen write her books?'

‘I don't know exactly. Maybe she still
is
writing them?'

‘Surely not still about Stanislas Braid? Not still set back in the thirties? In that old country-house time warp?'

‘No, perhaps not. I'm not sure. I know she published a few before the war, and at that time apparently they were spoken of in the same breath as Dorothy Sayers and Margery Allingham. Then I think she went on till . . . late fifties, maybe? I certainly haven't been aware of any new titles since then. But I'm really not up-to-date. Ages since I've read one. Mind you, they were very important during my adolescence. Read all of them then; it felt like dozens. I had these fantasies of marrying someone as suave and debonair and brilliant as Stanislas Braid.'

‘Good heavens. Did you really?'

‘Yes, I did. And look what I ended up with.'

‘Thank you, Frances, for those few kind words. Anyway, you will no doubt be impressed to hear that I am going to have tea with W. T. Wintergreen herself on Tuesday.'

‘Are you really?'

‘Mm. Shall I tell her my wife's a fan?'

‘Yes, by all means.'

‘Right, I will.' A silence hung between them. ‘Frances, I was actually ringing to see if we could meet up.'

‘Ah.' She didn't sound one hundred percent welcoming to the idea.

‘We did talk about it.'

‘
You
talked about it.'

‘Yes. Well?'

‘When do you want to meet?'

‘Soon. Sooner the better.'

‘Well, I'm leaving this afternoon to go and stay with some friends for the weekend.'

‘Oh.' He felt a stab of disappointment.

‘School as usual next week, and at the moment I find I'm too tired really to enjoy going out weekday evenings. Next weekend, perhaps?'

‘Yes.' Now he was near to clinching the date, Charles felt unaccountably gauche and unwilling to firm it up. Almost as nervous as he had felt in such circumstances during his teens. And this was with his own wife, for God's sake. ‘Well, look, I'm not absolutely certain of the schedule on the series for this week. They add odd days of filming and things. I think next weekend'd be all right, but can I get back to you on it?'

‘Yes, fine,' said Frances. But she made it sound as if it didn't really matter to her a great deal whether he did or not.

He had his designer lunch in the pub. Dutch Rollmop Ploughman's. That really was taking the Common Agricultural Policy too far, he reckoned. Still, it gave him a good thirst for the beer.

He felt pretty good, really. Almost content. There was no one in the pub he knew more than to nod at, but that suited him fine. And of course no one recognised him as an actor. He wondered idly if that situation would change once
Stanislas Braid
was being funnelled into the nation's sitting rooms. Six months thence, if he sat on the same chair, would he be aware of people on the fringes of his vision nudging each other and whispering, ‘Isn't that . . .?' The idea seemed ridiculous. But the extrovert in Charles Paris, the part that made him an actor, wasn't wholly repelled by it.

He picked up a tabloid newspaper that someone had left on the table and glanced through it. World news didn't seem to get any less depressing. In fact, now it seemed to him that the bits that weren't depressing or horrifying were just boring. He tried to remember when he'd last read something in a newspaper that had
interested
him. A very long time ago. Dear, oh, dear, he was becoming a cynical, desiccated old stick.

His eye was caught by a familiar name on the gossip-column page, and he read the snide little paragraph with fascination.