An Act Of Detection, page 26
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Because Charlie Cochrane couldn’t be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice—like managing a rugby team—she writes. Her mystery novels include the Edwardian era Cambridge Fellows series, and the contemporary Lindenshaw Mysteries. Multi-published, she has titles with Carina, Riptide, Endeavour and Bold Strokes, among others.
A member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, Mystery People and International Thriller Writers Inc, Charlie regularly appears at literary festivals and at reader and author conferences with The Deadly Dames.
Copyright © Charlie Cochrane
This edition published in 2018 by Williams & Whiting
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
ISBN 9781912582310
Williams & Whiting (Publishers)
15 Chestnut Grove, Hurstpierpoint,
West Sussex, BN6 9SS
An Act Of
Detection
Charlie
Cochrane
WILLIAMS & WHITING
The Case of the Overprotective Ass
London 1950
Chapter One
“Not so haughty, milady. You’re on the Swift Apollo now and the captain’s word is law.” Toby Bowe was a handsome man, but the innate cruelty in his voice was reflected in his expression, coarsening his naturally good looks. His slim mouth was curled in a leer and his blue eyes shone dark.
“Captain? You’re not fit to bear the title. You’re a black-hearted pirate and I won’t bow to your commands.”
“You won’t? What if you were made to?” Toby loomed over his prisoner. “Your fine Commodore Neville can’t come to your aid here. Look at the ocean, milady—there’s not a sail to be seen.”
“You’re not worthy to sup at the commodore’s feet, you scurvy knave…”
“Scurvy, am I? Just wait, you saucy wench…oh, I can’t go on with this, Alasdair. How can anyone talk such twaddle? Even Fiona can’t believe in any of it.”
Toby laid down his script with a sigh and ran his hands through the sort of unruly hair that even a pirate would have been ashamed of. His dark blond locks—usually slicked back with Brylcreem for the better depiction of fighter pilots or His Majesty’s soldiers—were hanging rakishly loose. “Why do we get given such rotten scripts?”
“I don’t think the studio’s bothered about the quality of dialogue so long as the cinema goers suspend disbelief.” Alasdair Hamilton, ‘The Man with the Golden Frown’, employed his trademark expression. The trio of Bowe, Hamilton and Fiona Marsden were the darlings of post-war British cinema, a touch of glamour and excitement in a world where austerity still hadn’t been shaken off. And when they weren’t lighting up the screen, they lit up the gossip columns, story after story and photo after photo of their latest exploits. Toby (hair carefully controlled on these occasions) was generally depicted with some heiress to a retail empire on his arm while Alasdair squired one of the minor European royals, usually chosen because the olive shades of her skin brought out the dark auburn of his hair.
Landseer wasn’t bothered if people said they went for formula over art, Alasdair always getting the girl, Fiona, and Toby suffering nobly as second fiddle. Toby didn’t complain, not given the off-screen perks; Fiona always got Alasdair by the time the credits rolled, but Toby kept him to go home with. Somehow or other the newspapers never seemed to get wind of that juicy little tidbit.
“Anyway,” Alasdair got up from the chair where he’d been taking Fiona’s part and ran an elegant finger along his friend’s sleeve, “you’ll be a wonderful pirate king.”
Toby snorted. “Judging by the costume sketches, I’m more Prince Rupert of the Rhine than Long John Silver. Perhaps if La Marsden’s dress shows enough cleavage, the people who’ve paid good money to see this tripe won’t notice how the plot’s been stolen and the dialogue resembles…” He struggled for an adequate metaphor. “Something you’d scrape off the ship’s head. It’s worse than your costume.”
Alasdair swiped the side of his lover’s head with the script they were supposed to be learning. It was a lovely day, the sun streaming through the drawing room windows, and no amount of either hard work or insults were going to spoil his mood. “The wardrobe girls think I’ll look very authentic.” He raised his left eyebrow—the one newly ensured with Lloyd’s and said to be worth fifty thousand pounds in box office takings. “Do you suppose that any officer in King George’s navy wore quite so much braid or so many flounces?”
“I think you’ll look like the Queen of the May. Not unattractive, though.” Toby stroked his friend’s chin. “Better than La Marsden.”
“At least you get to kiss her in this film—that makes a change.”
“And is that any sort of a consolation? Especially when she blacks my eye straight afterwards. I’d rather,” Toby’s fingers started to insinuate themselves under Alasdair’s collar, “be kissing the commodore.”
“Have you ever come across these modern acting theories? About inhabiting the role?” Alasdair, rather unsportingly, broke the clinch and the romantic mood.
“They’re worse tripe than this bloody script. Why on earth do you ask?” Toby was tetchy. It wasn’t fair, really. Under the constant scrutiny of the gossip columns, they had to be jolly careful to wangle any time together and rehearsing was a perfect excuse to be alone. They had to make the most of it—they should be making the most of it right now—and someone was insisting on ruining the mood.
“Because I thought we could employ it here, see if we can make this wretched script come alive.” If there was a bit of a spark in Alasdair’s eye, Toby didn’t notice it.
“Thinking myself into the role of Pirate King, you mean?” Toby shut his eyes and imagined a little frigate, all elegant lines and a Jolly Roger at the masthead. “It might work…”
“Ah. I had more in mind that I’d be the pirate for this particular exercise. You, my love,” Alasdair gently withdrew himself from smacking range, “need to find some empathy with Lady Jennifer.” He suddenly pounced, grabbing Toby and pushing him towards the Chesterfield. “Now, milady, you’ll find out what life aboard a pirate ship is really like.”
Toby shrieked. An impressive, feminine shriek, a good octave above his normal register. “Scurvy knave, unhand me.” He tried to swat Alasdair’s arm away, half-heartedly; the settee was big and comfy.
“Sheathe your claws, ma’am. I’m tired of grog and I mean to drink from your lips tonight.”
“Oooooooooh.” Toby gave a marvellous impression of Fiona’s standard on-screen response to anything frightening or annoying or surprising. Ex-public schoolboys were said to find it particularly stimulating, because it reminded them of sick bay and Matron. “Touch me not, my name’s…actually temptation won’t really work, will it, Alasdair, cut that line…touch me not in the name of Saint Hyacinth!”
“Don’t call on yer saints to ‘elp ‘ee now, missy.” They were at the edge of the Chesterfield now and one slight tip was going to send Lady Jennifer into grave peril and Toby into delight.
“Elp ‘ee now, missy? You’ve gone awfully common all of a sudden—distinct shades of Mummerset, as well. I thought Black-Hearted Fitzroy the pirate king was supposed to be rather posh, wrong side of the noble blanket and all that? Gone to the bad when the love of his life died of smallpox? That’s how I’ve been trying to play him.”
“Oh for goodness sake, are you going to allow me to try to ravish you or not?” Alasdair, giving up on the script entirely, grabbed his lover’s face between his hands and kissed him heartily. “Anyone would think you didn’t want to be snogged.”
“Lady Jennifer doesn’t.” Toby grabbed the script, fanning himself with it demurely as he went back into role. “Prithee, sir, do not divest me of my maidenhead.”
“That’s never in the script—the censor wouldn’t allow it.” Alasdair grinned. “If you’re going to improvise, at least do it realistically.”
“Spoilsport. Oh prithee, sir, do not molest me.” Toby looked coyly over the top of the thick wodge of paper. Lady Jennifer might be saying no but Toby was a different kettle of fish. That settee was calling and it was singing a dirty song. “Actually, Alasdair, if you were Fitzroy, I’d be inclined to say to hell with the Commodore, cast aside my corset, put on breeches and join your pirate band.” Toby threw down the script and threw himself onto the Chesterfield.
Alasdair sat down next to his lover, worming his arm around Toby’s waist, squeezing the succulent flesh lurking just underneath his silk shirt. “I’d say there’s nothing like it, milady. Especially if you get to share the captain’s hammock.”
“There’s an idea. That could be modern acting at its very best.” Toby reached up and ran his fingers through his Alasdair’s hair. “Come on, the script can wait.” He pulled his friend’s face towards him. “And if you’re a good boy, while we’re about it, you can talk to me like a pirate.”
“Ah, milady. Then I’ll be a-takin’ these here breeches of yourn and…”
Unfortunately, all pirate talk, real or feigned, had to be put on hold as Morgan, Alasdair’s incredibly discreet manservant, knocked loudly, gave enough time for those present to make themselves decent, then e
***
“The Old George theatre, please.” Toby settled himself into the cab, wondering how Morgan had managed to conjure one up so quickly and from almost nowhere.
“Actually, drop us in Trafalgar Square, if you would.” Alasdair settled down beside his friend. “I wouldn’t mind a few minutes’ walking and talking time before we face Johnny and whatever so-called crisis he’s dreamed up this time.”
“I suspect there won’t be any crisis at all. He’ll just be after money for charity. He usually is.” Toby watched the pedestrians struggling with umbrellas in the drizzle. London wasn’t at her best-behaved today, despite it being June. “We’ll be soaked through, in spite of our overcoats, but I’ll take the risk. I’ve always had a soft spot for St. Martin’s Lane, ever since Wings of Love débuted there.”
“Ah yes, of course.” Alasdair turned his gaze out onto the streets, too, thoughts turned inwards to a flood of memories.
Wings of Love had been the first production for the threesome, five years previously. Alasdair remembered reading the in-production press releases for the film with an ironic smile. The words that he was quoted as saying—I look forward very much to beginning filming, especially with so lovely a co-star—had been used as evidence of the likely blossoming of a classic on-screen partnership with Fiona Marsden, something that Landseer pictures would have loved. Worth pounds at the tills.
He’d never said the words, but they couldn’t have been more fitting.
Whichever bright spark in the press office had actually written his comments, they’d inadvertently hit on the entire truth, but it wasn’t La Marsden, as she was beginning to be called even then—though never to her face—who’d been the object of his anticipation. Right from the first meeting when they’d taken the pre-publicity stills, it had been Toby Bowe who’d got his leading man all of an internal flutter, on set and off.
Alasdair had heard of the term love at first sight, of course, although he’d pooh-poohed it as being fit only for a fairy tale. It had never happened to him, and therefore it couldn’t exist. But when Toby strolled into the room, a hint of swagger in his gait and a huge grin on his face, Alasdair had realised that such a thing not only could but did happen, and it had just come around the corner and thumped him one.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
“Not in public,” Alasdair whispered. Aloud, he said, “I was just thinking about Fiona’s dress, the one she wore for the opening night.”
“Dress? Is that what it was? I’ve seen more material in a handkerchief. Ah, we’re here.” From Trafalgar Square, they took to a series of small roads and back alleys to get to the theatre.
“I was worried the cabby was going to ask about Fiona. As usual.” Toby pulled up his collar.
“Tell me about it. Questions concerning Fiona always seem to end up with enquiries about whether we’re knocking around together.” Alasdair sounded cross, not just at the weather.
“I heard a rumour she’s got some sprig of the nobility on the hook. Maybe she’s given up on you at last.” Fiona would never catch Alasdair...but it was fun watching her try.
“Maybe. And maybe Johnny has given up on you, as well.” Alasdair gazed straight ahead, never giving Toby even a sideways glance. It was always the same when the topic of Johnny Fisher got broached. His attempted seduction of Toby in Brighton—and the various passes which he’d made before and after—were perennially held up and used in evidence against him. Alasdair couldn’t stand the man.
“I should jolly well hope so. He’s not even my type.” Toby drew his collar up even further. “I know what you’re up to, trying to delay our arrival at the theatre so you can work yourself up sufficiently for whatever scene you anticipate playing out. Well, I’m not prepared to dilly-dally about, not in this weather.” He broke into something like a trot and scooted along the street, bounding through the door of the theatre shaking the water off himself like a dog. Alasdair sighed and followed, at a more leisurely pace.
The Old George theatre sat back from St Martin’s Lane, trying to look both classy and brassy at the same time. It dated back to the Naughty Nineties and, inside, the opulence of the era hadn’t faded—neither bomb nor death watch beetle had got to it, nor had the damp risen in its walls or dripped into its timbers. It was currently riding a wave of popularity, giving theatre goers the sort of entertainment they craved. You could sail a damn sight closer to the wind than in the cinema, if you were canny enough.
Johnny Fisher had been left the place in his great uncle’s will, and a better legacy a man couldn’t have had. The theatre was in his blood—while he hadn’t been born in a trunk it had been a damn close run thing—and his family had expected him and his brother to enter what had been the Fisher profession these last four generations. Johnny had taken up his expected role quite willingly and trod the boards from Fleance through Ernest onwards and upwards. Now he picked and chose his stage roles, preferring to manage his little nest egg and to direct productions.
Johnny’s secretary, a lad with the biggest Adam’s apple Toby had ever seen, ushered them into his office—his splendidly opulent office—and Johnny produced a bottle of whisky. “Thank you for coming so promptly. I wasn’t interrupting anything vital, was I?”
“Just going through a script, that’s all.” Alasdair’s voice seemed convincing, although a touch too airy and light to suggest complete candour. “Practicing our lines.”
“Ah, the glamorous life of the actor.” Johnny took an elegantly tooled silver case from his pocket and offered both men a cigarette. Both refused, although they encouraged their host to carry on in spite of them. “I have a favour to ask the two of you.”
“Which set of waifs and strays has caught your eye this time? Shall I get the cheque book out straight away?” Toby made an elaborate mime of reaching into his inside pocket.
Johnny laughed. “Not on this occasion, although keep me in mind next time I organise a war widows’ treat and want you to act in it.”
“I think I’d rather pay the protection racket money and just give you fifty quid straight up.” Alasdair rolled his eyes.
“As you wish. It’s only a theoretical question, at the moment.” Johnny lit his cigarette; it looked like an actor’s gesture, aimed at ladies in the front row of the circle. “What I do have in mind is all too real and all too puzzling.” He paused, his wrist and hand forming a stylish angle, clearly all for effect.
“Out with it, then.” Alasdair didn’t want Toby getting impressed with the grace of the actor-manager’s movements.
“My secretary has disappeared. He didn’t turn up for work just over a week ago and I’ve not seen hide nor hair of him since.” Johnny looked genuinely concerned, although he was such a natural actor that any appearances had to be taken with a whole cellar of salt, let alone a pinch.
“Then who was that lad who let us in? The one with the Adam’s apple?” Toby tipped his head towards the door.
“Haven’t we all got Adam’s apples?” Alasdair raised the uninsured eyebrow.
“Not ones the size of a melon, we haven’t. Not a bad looking lad apart from that.” Toby held up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I can’t help noticing these things.”
“His Adam’s apple or the fact that he’s pretty?” Johnny said, grinning. “That’s Hampson. I got him from an agency the day after Robin disappeared, just to tide me over. There’s something about him I can’t quite pin down—he lacks a sense of humour and that unnerves me, I suppose. With Robin I could have a laugh.”
“A bit of friendly banter?” Toby nodded. “Makes for a good working relationship.”
“Exactly, but with Hampson, it’s different. There’s no point in teasing the unteasable. It’s like,” he reached over and tapped Toby’s hand, “trying to seduce the unseducable.” A glint in his eye suggested he was doing it in part because Alasdair would be miffed.
“That would be me, then.” Toby whacked the hand that was molesting him. “Any complaints about his work?”
