Murder in Transit, page 23
‘Yes, I’d like a private conversation with you.’
It sounded like a threat.
When he found the rehearsal room, Colbeck was in time to see the last scene of Twelfth Night. The powerful hand of Nigel Buckmaster had everything completely under control. In the role of Malvolio, the pompous steward at Olivia’s house, he limped into view in a dreadful state. He had been locked up, teased, tormented, and deprived of his former dignity. Olivia was shocked to see him so pitilessly abused. Alone of those onstage, she had sympathy for him.
Alas, poor fool, how have they baffled thee!
Feste, the clown, added further mockery of Malvolio, goading him into a wild threat.
I’ll be revenged on the whole pack of you!
His howl of pain and humiliation rang around the rehearsal room. When he stormed off stage, it was left to Feste to bring the play to a close with a song. As the only member of the audience, Colbeck clapped his hands enthusiastically. Buckmaster rounded on him.
‘This is a private rehearsal,’ he snarled. ‘You have no right to be here, sir.’
‘I was hoping for a word with you, Mr Buckmaster,’ said Colbeck.
‘I have no time for conversation with strangers. Please depart immediately, Mr …’
‘Colbeck – Inspector Robert Colbeck.’
‘Then I’m delighted to see you,’ said Buckmaster, spreading his arms wide and moving forward to enfold his visitor in a warm embrace. He turned to the cast. ‘We will have a break for thirty minutes,’ he announced. ‘Come back on time or there will be consequences.’
The actors drifted away, allowing him to turn his attention to his old friend.
‘It’s wonderful to see you again, Inspector,’ he said, pumping his hand.
‘I could say the same of you.’
‘What brings you here?’
Colbeck smiled. ‘I’m hoping that you may be able to help me.’
When he saw how distressed his wife was, Paul Blanchard did his best to calm her down, assuring her that she was not to blame for his mother’s disappearance. He then helped her into the waiting trap. Climbing in beside her, he snapped the reins and set the horse off. Verity kept apologising.
‘It was not your fault,’ he told her. ‘You can’t watch Mother twenty-four hours a day.’
‘Then why do I feel so guilty?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. Had she been behaving oddly?’
‘No, Paul, I sat with her for hours. Then she asked to be left alone because she was tired.’
‘When did Marion discover that she was no longer in the house?’
‘It was about half an hour later.’
‘How could she sneak out without being noticed?’
‘That’s what we kept asking ourselves,’ said Verity.
Because of the pace at which he was driving, they soon reached the police station. After helping his wife to the ground, Blanchard led the way into the building. Inspector Ruggles was on duty. He looked up from his desk.
‘We have an emergency,’ said Blanchard. ‘My mother has left the house on foot, and we have no idea where she is. We need every officer you’ve got, Inspector Ruggles.’
‘No, you don’t, sir,’ replied the other.
‘Do as I say, man!’
‘There’s no need to shout at me, sir.’
‘Then do as you’re told – or there’ll be repercussions.’
‘I can understand your anxiety but there’s really no need for it. A report came in some time ago of an elderly woman in a nightdress, wandering alone near Bembridge Windmill.’
‘What on earth is she doing there?’ demanded Blanchard.
‘You’ll have to ask her, sir.’
‘Is she safe and well?’ asked Verity.
‘Yes,’ said Ruggles. ‘As far as I know, anyway. The problem is that she’s refusing to leave the spot or one of my officers would have driven her home. People of that age do behave strangely at times,’ he went on. ‘In fact …’
He got no further. Grabbing his wife’s hand, Blanchard ran out of the police station. They got back into the trap and rode away.
Gwendoline Cardus was the victim of her own sense of guilt. Taken aside by the Queen, she feared that she might be sternly reprimanded or even summarily dismissed. In fact, she found the older woman remarkably sympathetic. Gwendoline was taken by surprise.
‘Will you take my advice?’ asked the Queen.
‘Of course, Your Majesty.’
‘It may be that you have been pushing yourself too hard.’
‘You deserve the finest support and that is what I’ve always strived to give you.’
‘Indeed, you have. Your commitment has been extraordinary. Until,’ added the Queen, ‘recently, that is. Your mind has wandered, you’ve made mistakes and you’re clearly upset about something. Since you won’t explain what it is, I’m suggesting that you take some time off.’
‘No!’ cried Gwendoline. ‘I don’t want to let you down, Your Majesty.’
‘Frankly, you’re no use to me at the moment.’
‘Then I apologise deeply. I’ll make amends.’
‘Only after you’ve had a rest from your duties.’
‘But it’s my work here that has helped to keep me sane.’
‘Take a week off,’ counselled the other. ‘A fortnight, if necessary. Forget about us and enjoy your mother’s company instead. She’s a virtual newcomer here. Isn’t it high time that you took her on a tour of the island?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose that it is.’
‘That’s settled then.’
‘But I don’t want to leave Osborne House, Your Majesty.’
‘You’re little use to me in your present state of mind, Gwendoline. Since you’ve no wish to confide in me properly – and that is your right – you are better off confronting your demons somewhere else. When you have done that, you will be welcomed back with open arms.’
Colbeck was patient. Before he could explain why he had come in search of the actor-manager, he had to wait while Nigel Buckmaster boasted about the theatrical triumphs he had had since they last met. Sitting back in his chair, he then gestured for his friend to speak. Colbeck gave him a summary of the murder investigation, stressing the facts that the killer had been able to pass as a naval officer and as a clergyman without arousing suspicion.
‘In short,’ he said, ‘I think that he may be in the same profession as yourself.’
‘That may well be so – except that he is no longer able to find work as an actor, and has turned to crime instead. But he is of less interest to me than his female accomplice.’
‘Why is that?’
‘She is the real performer,’ explained Buckmaster. ‘The man may have strangled someone to death, but the woman is the key figure in what happened afterwards. She has established a link with these poor women who were deceived and exploited by this latter-day Don Giovanni. Each of those victims was different in character. The person who approached them would have had to make subtle adjustments to the way she spoke to each one. That is why she was entrusted with the role.’
‘I see what you mean.’
‘Of the two of them,’ concluded Buckmaster, ‘my guess is that the woman is the true thespian.’
‘But do you have any idea whom she might be?’ asked Colbeck.
‘I can think of half-a-dozen actresses who would lower themselves to such a crime.’
‘May I have their names?’
‘Don’t rush me, my friend. I need to concentrate. Let me go back to the murder on that train. You think that there were three people in that compartment?’
‘Yes, I do. The woman might somehow have enticed Mr Blanchard to follow her on to the train. He clearly had an eye for a beautiful woman. Before he could take advantage of her – this is guesswork on my part – they were interrupted by the arrival of another passenger.’
‘This naval officer – pretending to be drunk, perhaps, and going off to sleep.’
‘A good suggestion. It would explain why Blanchard felt able to assault the woman. My theory is that things got out of hand and the woman was in genuine distress.’
‘That was when her friend strangled the fellow,’ said Buckmaster. ‘After he’d been killed, they emptied his pockets and realised they had found a very different source of money.’
‘It was safer, involved no violence and gave them great power over the women.’
‘So they started to fleece their victims.’
‘One of whom has admitted how she was blackmailed,’ said Colbeck. ‘Can you think of a former actress ruthless enough to frighten those women into paying her money on a regular basis?’
‘I can think of two or three capable of that.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Wait, Inspector. I need time to think this through.’
Buckmaster went off into a long, brooding silence. All that Colbeck could do was to wait quietly. While he admired the man’s extraordinary gifts as an actor, he was acutely conscious of his reputation among women in his profession. Every time they met, Buckmaster had had a different actress on his arm – and they seemed to get younger each time.
At length, the actor sat up abruptly and snapped his fingers.
‘Bethany Drake,’ he declared.
‘Who?’ asked Colbeck.
‘She was a young, talented actress I met some years ago. Bethany had all the skills needed to reach the upper tier of the profession, but she had a besetting sin.’
‘What was it?’
‘She had criminal tendencies,’ said Buckmaster. ‘I hardly need to tell you what they are, do I? You must be an expert on the ways that a criminal tendency can corrupt the mind of weaker vessels. When I engaged Bethany Drake to play the part of Desdemona on tour, we were bedevilled by crime. Money disappeared, personal belongings went astray, and bickering broke out among the cast. It was only when I had the sense to dismiss her from the company that the whole mood improved instantly. We all realised why,’ he said. ‘Bethany was the culprit.’
‘Why didn’t you hand her over to the police?’
‘She disappeared before I could do so. Naturally, I spread the word and no management would touch her with a bargepole. She had to resort exclusively to crime.’
‘What about the man who is her associate?’
‘At a guess, he’s another outlaw from the profession. Bethany was very desirable. She could pick and choose her lovers.’ He sighed. ‘To be honest, I always envied them.’
It was Leeming’s turn to come up with a good idea. Hitherto, Hinton had garnered the praise. He had traced items stolen from the murder victim to a jewellery shop in Chichester, and he had also found the church from which clerical garb worn by the killer had been taken. Having failed in an earlier search for a woman named Christina, he thought of another way to find her.
‘We could go to church, Alan,’ he suggested.
‘Whatever for – it’s not Sunday.’
‘The information we need is there seven days a week.’
‘Stop talking in riddles.’
‘What happens when you get married?’
‘It’s no use asking me,’ said Hinton with a laugh. ‘I’m still a bachelor.’
‘Your time will come. When the ceremony is over, bride and bridegroom retire to the vestry to sign their names. Think of Mrs Venn.’
‘What about her?’
‘How old would you say she was?’
‘Oh, I’m not sure – no older than forty, I’d say.’
‘Then the woman named Christina will be roughly the same age. Blanchard was attracted to experienced married women in their thirties. If we visit the churches here in Chichester, we can go through the records of weddings that took place ten or fifteen years ago. Who knows?’ said Leeming with a grin. ‘A Christina might just pop up.’
Hinton was dubious. ‘It’s a bit of a long shot.’
‘I’ve explored most of the obvious avenues. Let’s at least have a try.’
‘If it’s that important to you, I’m happy to search church records.’
‘It’ll be good experience for you, Alan,’ said Leeming, winking at him. ‘When you finally get married, you’ll know exactly what you need to do in the vestry.’
‘I’m happy being a bachelor.’
‘That’s what I thought until I met Estelle.’
‘I’m not looking for a wife at the moment.’
‘Wait until you meet a woman looking for a husband,’ said Leeming with a grin. ‘When that happens, you’ll start to think differently.’
Bembridge was on the east coast of the island. Having been built over a hundred and fifty years earlier, its windmill had withstood the test of time and was still in good, if noisy, working order. The sails were turning in the wind when Paul Blanchard and his wife arrived in the trap. Standing close by were two uniformed policemen, talking to an elderly woman with a blanket wrapped around her. Bringing the horse to a halt, Paul jumped out of the trap, helped his wife to the ground then ran across to the three figures. ‘What are you doing here, Mother?’ he asked.
‘Oh, hello, Paul,’ she said, turning to him. ‘I told these gentlemen that you would come to get me. I wasn’t going to move from here until I saw you.’
‘Mrs Blanchard refused to let us take her home,’ said one of the policemen.
‘That’s what Inspector Ruggles told us,’ recalled Blanchard. ‘Thank you for looking after her. I’m very grateful to you. My wife and I will take over now.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Where did this blanket come from?’
‘One of the neighbours kindly brought it out. They saw your mother shivering in this breeze.’
‘We’ll return it,’ said Blanchard.
He waved the policemen off then turned his attention to his mother. Verity had already put an arm around the older woman and was talking quietly to her. Catherine was pleased to see her son and daughter-in-law. She showed no sign of distress.
‘I knew that you’d find me,’ said Catherine.
‘But why did you come here in the first place?’ asked her son.
‘Yes,’ added Verity. ‘When I realised that you were no longer in the house, I was alarmed. I drove to the office to tell Paul what had happened.’
‘You caused us a lot of distress,’ he said.
‘I just went for a walk, that’s all,’ explained Catherine. ‘I’m entitled to do that, surely.’
‘Not in your nightdress, Mother.’
‘And why did you come here?’ asked Verity.
‘Ah, well,’ said Catherine. ‘I had a good reason.’
‘If you’d told me what it was, I’d have come with you.’
‘I had to be alone, Verity. Don’t you realise that?’
‘Frankly, Mother, we don’t,’ said Blanchard. ‘You scared us.’
‘I didn’t mean to, Paul. I just had this urge and so I came.’
‘But why here?’
Catherine smiled. ‘This place is very special to me.’
‘It’s just a creaky old windmill.’
‘It’s much more than that to me – and to your father. This is where he proposed to me, you see, so it holds wonderful memories. That’s why I had to come.’
‘But you didn’t have to do so alone,’ argued Verity. ‘If it was that important to you, I would have been happy to bring you here.’
‘I had to be on my own. Don’t you understand?’
‘Frankly, I don’t.’
‘And neither do I,’ added Blanchard.
‘My whole life changed in the shadow of this windmill,’ said his mother.
‘That doesn’t mean you have to sneak out of the house to come here, Mother.’
‘No, it doesn’t and I’m sorry if I upset anyone, Paul.’
‘You scared us unnecessarily,’ he chided.
‘I didn’t mean to, honestly. I just had this urge to see the windmill once again and bask in some happy memories.’ Catherine gave a hopeless shrug. ‘Since your father died, memories are all that I have left.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Robert Colbeck had found his brief reunion with the actor-manager exhilarating. It not only brought back happy memories of the time when they first met, he was also reminded of the fact that Nigel Buckmaster was a true titan of the stage. Even in polite conversation, the man was a master of gesture and speech. He made the most insignificant sentences sound as if they had been extracted from a well-known play. Where words were insufficient on their own, his eyes took over, flashing, glaring, narrowing, and widening dramatically whenever necessary.
Colbeck had felt as if he had a front-row seat in a London theatre.
Buckmaster had been so confident when he identified the woman who had been in the same compartment as Giles Blanchard on the night in question that Colbeck’s hopes had been raised. At least he now knew the name of one of the people he was after. Finding out who her male companion was would, however, be more difficult. At the time he had employed the actress, Buckmaster remembered that Bethany Drake had always courted male attention. She had a string of actors vying for her favours. He had recalled the names of three of them. Colbeck wrote the names in his notebook. Bethany Drake might have lured a man into a first-class compartment, but it was her companion who had committed the murder. Who was he?
On the train journey back to Portsmouth, he had ample time to review the information he had gathered. When Colbeck had mentioned his visit to Osborne House, he had been forced to listen to accounts of when Buckmaster had been there, entertaining selected guests by declaiming famous speeches from Shakespeare’s plays. It occurred to Colbeck that it was highly likely that Giles Blanchard might have been present at some of those occasions – and so had Gwendoline Cardus. Coincidences were starting to build up.
Having already explored several churches, Alan Hinton was not looking forward to doing so again, but he soon changed his mind. The churchwardens they met were universally helpful. When they heard that their records might contain information relating to a murder investigation, they allowed immediate access to the list of marriages in their respective churches. The detectives learnt that, since the reign of Henry VIII, parish records of births, marriages and deaths were to be kept by law, turning churches into a rich source of information.
