He landed with a terrible jolt that rearranged every cell in his body. He was winded and may have passed out for a few moments. Time seemed to have elapsed when he became aware of his surroundings.
Two men in lumberjack checked shirts lay on the studio floor with him. Both looked dazed and were rubbing various of their extremities. Around the three prone figures a little semi-circle of technicians had gathered.
One of the men on the floor found his tongue. ‘Bloody strike-breaker,’ he grumbled. ‘Where the hell did you come from?’
Charles pointed weakly up to the top of the bank of seats, where the back rail hung loose and the outline of his tipped-up seat showed.
‘You’re bloody lucky we’re not seriously injured,’ continued the man in the lumberjack checked shirt. ‘Bloody lucky.’
‘He didn’t fall on purpose,’ a voice said defensively.
‘Comes to the same thing whether he did or didn’t. Falling down on top of union members — that’s the sort of thing that could cause a strike.’
‘But we’re already on strike.’
‘Oh yes. Bloody lucky for him we are.’
The other lumberjack checked shirt groaned.
“Ere, you all right?’ asked his mate.
The only reply he got was another groan.
The speaking shirt turned accusingly to Charles. “Ere, you really hurt him. I reckon falling actors comes under industrial accident. We’ll take the company for a lot of insurance on this.’
That thought seemed to make his own injuries worse, and he too groaned.
‘You’ve chosen a bad time for that,’ observed one of the watching cameramen. ‘Now we’re on strike, the company’s not liable. In fact, with the security men on total strike, even the building isn’t insured.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Both the lumberjack checked shirts stopped groaning, stood up, and walked off, grumbling.
Charles lay still. He didn’t know if it was shock or genuine injury, but he felt numb, unable to move. There was no pain, just a lassitude, an unwillingness to come back to the real world.
He vaguely heard voices asking if he was all right and vaguely felt hands lifting him. With infinite caution, he put weight on first one foot, then the other.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ He focused on the anxious face of a young cameraman. There should be a nurse on duty in the building. I don’t know if she’ll have gone on strike yet. I could ring. I think the phones are still working.’
Slowly, Charles’s faculties were coming back to him. He tried his voice and it seemed to work. ‘No, no, I think I’m all right. Just shock, really. And I feel as if I’m a bit bruised. Let me go. I’ll see if I can walk.’
He could. Just. It hurt. The feeling had come back to his body as well as his mind.
‘Thank you. Thank you very much. I’ll be okay.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Thanks.’
He moved very slowly out of the studio. Each footstep, however gently he tried to place it, jarred his back, and he felt himself sweating with the pain.
But he had no doubt about what he had to do. Or where he had to go. With pain, but determination, he moved slowly towards Dressing Room Number One, which had been allocated by The Strutters new PA to Aurelia Howarth.
He knocked, and her husky, cultivated voice gave him permission to enter.
She was sitting at the mirror adjusting her make-up. Her usual diaphanous gowns and the ones she wore for the show were so similar that he couldn’t tell whether she had changed or not.
Barton Rivers was not there.
Charles’s appearance shocked her. ‘You survived,’ she gasped.
He nodded, which he found a rather painful action.
Aurelia seemed to be in the grip of a strong emotion and it was a moment before she managed to murmur, ‘Thank God.’
‘Yes, I survived. Unlike Sadie and Scott and Robin.’
Tears glinted in huge unfocused eyes. ‘I’m so sorry. I kept thinking he’d stop.’
‘Death Takes A Back Seat,’ said Charles. ‘I never got to read that one.’
She looked at him with surprise, but also a touch of relief, relief perhaps that now her terrible secret was shared. ‘So you worked it out from the books?’
‘Yes. But I was stupid today. I kept thinking it’d be the samurai sword.’
She gave a strained smile. ‘Of course. Death Takes A Short Cut. I’m afraid I’d given up trying to work out what would happen next. I just kept praying it would all stop, but it went on, and on.’
‘He’ll have to be put away,’ Charles said gently.
Aurelia inclined her head. ‘I suppose so. That’s what I feared. That’s why — once I knew — all I could do was beg him to stop. I couldn’t actually betray him. Not my husband.’
‘No.’ Charles felt the stirring of a deep emotion, sympathy for her pain. ‘But why? I see that he was following the murders in the books, but he must have had some reason, some logic, however bizarre.’
Aurelia Howarth shrugged. ‘Barton just said it had to be done. He said that von Strutter was the mastermind behind every evil and the series of The Strutters was part of a plot to take over the country.’
‘But in the books it’s von Strutter who commits the crimes, not Maltravers Ratcliffe.’
There was a little humourless laugh. ‘It’d be funny if it weren’t so tragic. Barton said that the only way to counter the Teutonic devil’s schemes was to use his own methods.’
‘I see.’ Yes, in the mind of a madman, that was a kind of logic. ‘How long has he been like this?’
Strangely, as he said it, the line seemed to echo Claudius’ response to the demented Ophelia, ‘How long hath she been thus?’
Aurelia sighed. ‘It was the war. The war left many scars, and the worst of them were invisible. For Barton, it destroyed everything. First, there was the film of Death Takes A Short Cut. That had been set up with great difficulty, with a great deal of money, but it promised so well. It would have been the two of us working together, as equals, working on scripts from his book. Barton hoped it would be the first of a series of films and would make his career. But it was cancelled as soon as war was declared. So the war, the Germans, to Barton’s mind von Strutter, ruined that chance.
‘And he wasn’t even allowed to revenge the affront personally. He was turned down for active service because he was too old. I went off to entertain the troops all over the place, and once again Barton was left behind.
‘But that was not the worst. .’ Aurelia’s voice broke, but she regained control quickly. ‘Our son was of an age to fight for his country. In January 1944, we heard that he had been killed on active service.’
‘Your son’s name was Hilary?’
She nodded, unable for a moment to speak. Charles waited until she could continue.
‘From that time on, Barton was changed. He stopped writing, said that he would never write again. And he started to get ideas, strange, grotesque ideas. He started to dress and talk like this character and to plan revenge on von Strutter. At first he was convinced that Hitler was von Strutter in disguise, and that he would win the war and we would be overrun by the Germans.’
‘His mind went?’
She nodded again, very slowly. ‘But I always thought he was harmless. And then. . this started. At first I couldn’t believe it was true, then I just hoped it would stop. Now I still wish it could be kept secret. But you’ve worked it all out. .’ Her hands dropped helplessly on to her lap.
So there it was. Bizarre, yes, ridiculous, yes, but true. Charles’ grotesque theory had been proved correct. He felt a slight dissatisfaction. He’d never liked the idea of psychopathic murders; always felt more comfortable with a logic of motivation he could understand. Still, Barton Rivers was his culprit, and Barton Rivers had to be found. One crime, the murder from Death Takes A Short Cut, had not yet been recreated.
‘Where is Barton now, Dob?’
‘In the building. Not far away.’ She spoke distractedly.
‘He must be found.’
‘Yes.’ A listless monosyllable. Then, in a different tone, ‘I still think it’s remarkable how you worked it out. I suppose you saw the books in Peter’s office.’
‘In Peter’s office?’
‘Yes. You know I lent them to him. Barton gave me a set years ago, and forgot about them when he threw out all his copies.’
‘Those were the books you thought might make a series?’
‘Yes.’
Charles felt a great surge of excitement. Something had happened. He hadn’t worked it out in detail yet, but his mind was suddenly racing away in a new direction.
He looked piercingly at Aurelia. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
He thought out loud, piecing it together as he went along. ‘Those books would never make a television series.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ she said frostily.
‘No, it’s not, it’s a matter of fact. They would have made a pretty peculiar set of films in the 1940s, but a television series in 1979 — never.’
‘Perhaps not. I just thought, hoped that — ’
‘No, you didn’t. The idea is a bummer and you know it.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Yes, you do. If there’s one quality which has distinguished every moment of your career, it’s your judgement. You have always done the right thing, chosen the right show, the right part. You know what works and what doesn’t.’
‘Perhaps I did once, but as we get older, our judgement gets less reliable.’
‘Your judgement is as good as it has ever been. And yet I heard you say to Peter Lipscombe on two occasions that you thought those books would make a good television series. I didn’t know what the books in question were at that stage or I’d have smelt a rat earlier.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Nor do I completely, but I’m getting there.’ Charles paused and built his thoughts up slowly. ‘You knew, of course you knew, that those books had no potential at all for television and yet you still very deliberately brought them to Peter Lipscombe’s attention. Why? I think you wanted them read, you wanted someone to see the parallels with the crimes that surrounded the Strutters series. Yes, in spite of what you say about wanting to keep your husband’s crimes quiet, I think you were deliberately trying to draw attention to the books’ parallels with what he was doing. And, if you’d given them to anyone other than a television producer, the connection might have been made a lot earlier.’
Aurelia looked crestfallen. ‘All right, so what if I did? I couldn’t actually betray Barton, but by offering the books I was at least opening up the possibility that someone might work out what was happening.’
Charles was almost seduced by her meekness, but not quite. ‘If that was the case, why didn’t you offer more help, show the books to the police or something, tell someone? And why did you sound so disappointed when I said I’d worked out the connection just now?’
Aurelia now looked angry. ‘You’re talking nonsense, Charles. Why else would I lend the books?’
He looked at her very straight. ‘I think you lent them as an insurance policy. So that they were there if anyone started connecting the deaths. And so that if suspicion started to move towards you, it could be diverted towards Barton.’
He wasn’t sure, but he knew that he had to hold her stare until she gave way if he was to have any chance of finding out the truth.
It took a long time, but eventually she lowered her eyes. ‘So. . it’s confession time, is it?’
‘I think so.’ With caution and discomfort, Charles sat down. ‘You killed Sadie Wainwright?’
‘It was an accident. Really, an accident.’ The wonderful blue eyes looked totally sincere, but Charles was getting suspicious of their messages. ‘It was a stupid thing. She had been being unpleasant about Cocky all day, really offensive. Then, when we were walking up the fire escape, she said something even viler and I lost my temper. I pushed her and the railing gave way. That is the truth.’
‘So Cocky was the motivation?’
‘Yes. And after that night’s filming, I thought you’d worked it out. That’s why I poisoned him.’
‘Poisoned Cocky?’
She nodded. ‘I thought if you saw how little I was affected by his death, you’d discount him as a motive against Sadie. But then Romney came along with his wretched card and I broke down, so it. .’
Charles tried to slow things down, so that his mind could accommodate the new information. ‘Okay, Sadie’s death you say was an accident.’
‘Yes, and she was such a peculiarly unlovely person I can’t think that anyone was too upset by it.’ She spoke with a kind of blind selfishness, the murderer s immunity to other people’s existence. ‘Anyway, I didn’t want investigations and things. I had my image to think of.’ Image — the star’s eternal motivation. Was the perfect marriage to Barton just another reflection of the image?
Charles nudged on. ‘But Sadie’s wasn’t the only death.’
‘No. As I say, she was an accident, really. I thought she would soon be forgotten, but. .’
A new set of facts fell into place. Scott Newton had been in a terrible state after the recording of the Strutters pilot, Scott Newton had wanted a private word with Aurelia at the first read-through, Scott Newton had been suddenly affluent at the filming at Bernard Walton’s house. ‘But,’ suggested Charles, ‘Scott Newton had seen Sadie die and, being under a certain amount of financial pressure, had started to blackmail you.’
Aurelia nodded. ‘I gave him one big pay-off, but he wasn’t going to be satisfied with that. So he had to go.’ It was said very matter-of-fact.
‘You moved the flower-urn yourself?’
‘Barton did it.’
‘You told him all about the — ’
She laughed unattractively. ‘I told him that Scott was one of von Strutter’s spies, and that we had to destroy him. And I said the only way we could thwart the Teutonic devil was to use his own murder methods. The way Sadie died had been a coincidence, but I suddenly saw that it could fit very conveniently into a pattern.’
‘And Bar ton didn’t question what you were suggesting?’
‘Not at all. He took to it instantly. It was what he’d been waiting for all his life, for someone to share his delusions.’ She spoke of her husband as one might of a large and inconvenient pet.
‘And it was after Scott’s death that you gave Peter Lipscombe the books, so that he could make the connection between the two crimes if he chose to?’
‘Yes. He mentioned the possibility of their being connected in one of his little notes and that got me worried.’
‘And, if they ever were discovered, you’d set it up so that Barton would get the blame.’
‘He’d never betray me. Never betray a lady,’ she said dismissively’.
Charles sighed. ‘That still doesn’t explain the deaths of Rod Tisdale and Robin Laughton.’
‘No’ Aurelia agreed. ‘It doesn’t.’ She let out a sudden peal of laughter. It was a famous sound, a sound that had been heard on millions of recordings of I Dream of Dancing, but at this moment its gaiety was not infectious. ‘I’m afraid I was hoist with my own petard.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I am afraid I had planted the idea of a von Strutter conspiracy rather too firmly in my poor husband’s head. He started recreating the other murders completely off his own bat. Obviously what I had asked him to do had struck a chord. Barton was happy, happier than he had ever been. I think he felt that murder was going to be the one thing in his life that he had ever been good at.’
‘So you had nothing to do with the last two deaths?’
‘Nothing at all. Mind you, they were not without convenience. They shifted suspicion from me. The death of that tiresome Floor Manager put you off the scent, for a start.’
She smiled. It was the same famous smile, but its charm had gone. Charles recoiled from the image of this woman playing on her husband’s illness, winding him up like some demented clockwork mouse to the random murders of people she regarded as irrelevant. That was it, he realised — through all the charm, she had never recognised the relevance of anyone in the world but herself. Perhaps, given more understanding, more care from his wife, Barton’s descent into insanity could have been checked.
But it wasn’t the moment for conjecture. ‘And Barton’s attack on me — was that just random?’
She shook her head slowly, with another little smile. ‘No, I’m afraid that was my suggestion. I planted the idea, I have to confess. Your inquisitiveness was becoming rather disturbing, and I saw a good way of satisfying my husband’s lunacy and removing a danger to me.’
‘I’m honoured.’
‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘Now, of course, you represent even more of a danger to me.’ She looked at her watch and Charles realised why she had vouchsafed him this long confession. She had been playing for time, awaiting the return of her demented assassin.
The door opened, and Barton Rivers entered with his customary idiotic gallantry. He seemed totally unsurprised to see Charles. ‘Bung-ho, old boy,’ he said. ‘Lovely weather for it.’
‘Barton,’ commanded Dame Aurelia Howarth, ‘Mr Paris is being rather tiresome.’
The death’s head turned to face him. ‘I say, old boy. Mustn’t worry the little lady. Perhaps you ought to be off.’
‘I didn’t mean that, Barton,’ she snapped. ‘I mean, get rid of him.’
‘Eh?’
‘He’s one of von Strutter’s spies.’
‘Oh, can’t have that, eh? Don’t understand the rules of cricket, that lot.’
‘Kill him, Barton!’
The old man stepped forward, the claws shot out and Charles felt himself lifted out of his chair. The strength was enormous and terrifying. His arms were clamped to his sides and, in his weakened state, he was unable to move.
The eyes in the skull-face glinted at him, horribly close.
But then they seemed to lose focus, to waver, and change to the confused eyes of a senile old man.
‘Difficult, you know, old girl,’ said Barton. ‘Only one of the Teutonic devil’s tricks we haven’t used is the old samurai sword, and I’m afraid I haven’t got one of those on me.’
‘It doesn’t matter how it’s done,’ Dame Aurelia Howarth hissed. But she was up against the unassailable logic of lunacy. ‘Oh, but it does, old thing. There’s a right way and a wrong way, you know.’
‘Just kill him!’
‘Have to find a sword first, my angel. Have to think. I wonder if there’s anything else we could do, or has von Strutter finally triumphed?’
Charles Paris felt very tired, while this surreal discussion about his death went on. He wanted to laugh, but hadn’t got the energy.
Then the door opened again and he looked up with relief to see the startled face of Mort Verdon. ‘Oops, sorry, boofles. Thought you’d all gone.’
Barton Rivers did not appear to notice the new arrival, but relaxed his hold on his victim’s arms. Aurelia fixed Charles with an expression of hatred, but seemed to recognise that nothing could be done with Mort there. ‘Come on, Barton.’
The living skeleton did not react.
‘Maltravers,’ she murmured.
He came to life. He gave her a gallant little bow, and offered his arm. ‘Of course, Eithne, my angel. We’ll soon get this ghastly business sorted out.’
She took his arm almost reluctantly. She seemed hypnotised by him, half-attracted, half-repelled. And there was something else in her look, which with a shock Charles recognised as fear. As Barton led his wife out of the dressing room door, he seemed very much in command of their relationship.
‘Come, let’s away, my fair one, and we’ll be there in two twos.’
Relief, and the expression of amazement on Mort Verdon’s face, reduced Charles to helpless laughter. As amazement changed to concern, he realised he was hysterical.
‘Oh God,’ he finally managed to say, ‘I’ve never been so glad to see anyone.’
Mort Verdon flicked an eyebrow with his little finger. ‘I bet you say that to all the boys.’
Charles giggled again and then sobered up. ‘You look a worried man, Mort.’
‘I am, boofle, I am.’
‘Why?’
‘Always the same when you’ve got something valuable in the studio. It gets nicked.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The samurai sword has completely disappeared, dear. Completely.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Charles realised that his ordeal was not yet over.
‘That’s why I’m going round the dressing rooms and — ’
‘Mort,’ said Charles.
‘Yes, dear.’
‘Would you mind walking out with me?’
Mort Verdon’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Well now,’ he said, ‘there’s a novelty!’
There was no sign of the Bentley or its owners as they left the dead stillness of W.E.T. House, but a cruising taxi was passing and Charles hailed it. He’d feel safer inside than exposed on the streets.
He was going to give the Hereford Road address, but suddenly panicked that Aurelia might know it. He felt certain they’d be out to get him, but he didn’t know how. Perhaps there would be a clue in the R. Q. Wilberforce books. He asked the driver to take him to Hampstead.
Stanley Harvey objected that it was very inconvenient and ill-mannered, but Charles was in no mood to be stopped. He bulldozered his way into the little man’s library and flicked quickly through Death Takes A Short Cut.
It was unhelpful. Then Charles remembered Stanley Harvey had mentioned some other R. Q. Wilberforce papers in the filing cabinet, and he demanded to see them.
It was the only thing he could think of. Perhaps there would be some further clue, some pointer that might help him avert the final tragedy.
With bad grace, Stanley Harvey opened the filing cabinet. Charles riffled through the piles of manuscript and letters at speed, not certain what he was looking for, but convinced that there must be something.
In a few minutes he found it. A pointer, yes, but it didn’t point in the way he had expected.
There was just one sheet. It was headed as if it were the start of a new book, but at the bottom of the page, a thick line had been ruled. All that was written below that was the date, 30th January 1944.
DEATH TAKES THE HONOURABLE COURSE
by
R. Q. Wilberforce
CHAPTER ONE
THE TRIUMPH OF EVIL
Maltravers Ratcliffe looked at his wife as he put down the ‘phone, and felt the glow of wonder and gratitude that her visage always aroused in him. The golden hair! The heavenly blue eyes, more precious than a Rajah’s treasure store! Eithne’s small face was set in the lines of courage, as together they listened to the distant, ominous boom of the guns.
‘London has fallen, my angel,’ he announced with his same old debonair carelessness.
She gasped: though it was the news that she had feared, to hear it confirmed was still a profound shock to her sensibilities.
‘So von Strutter has triumphed!’
‘Triumphed over this sceptred isle,’ her husband rejoined with the spirit, ‘but never over Maltravers Ratcliffe!’
‘It is inevitable that the Teutonic devil will seek you out to exact his ghastly revenge.’
‘Inevitable,’ he confirmed. ‘But let him seek! To seek is not to find! Come, my angel, we will go for a drive! Tell Wallace to provide a luncheon-basket and tog up in your gladdest rags!’
They drove towards the South. The Bentley swallowed the miles keenly, relishing the open road. Never had the Garden of England looked more beauteous! Never had Maltravers and Eithne Ratcliffe been so much together, so equal in their love! They took their luncheon in a flowery dell and chattered amiably of cricket and of their happiness.
Then the great Bentley, smoothly seeming to sense its destination, headed towards the sea, towards those white cliffs which, until this last devil, had hitherto daunted every foreign invader.
As they neared the cliff-top, Maltravers Ratcliffe, without diminishing the great car’s speed, took his wife’s small hand in his. ‘Take heart, my angel!’ he cried cheerily. ‘We may thank our stars that we have had each other. Onward now, my fair one — and we’ll be there in two twos!’
The news of Aurelia Howarth and Barton Rivers’s fatal car crash was on the radio the following morning. It wasn’t the first item. That was of course the ITV strike.