The new will was passed over to Gerald Venables, who got in touch with Harold Cohn of Cohn, Jarvis, Cohn and Stickley, and the law began the grindingly slow processes on which it thrives. Charles thought that the whole affair was now out of his hands, and, though it was unsatisfactory that so many questions remained unanswered, at least some kind of justice had been done. Nigel got most of the estate, but would be more than a little embarrassed by estate duty; and provision for Jacqui and her baby would be sorted out in time. If the police persevered they were bound to crack Audrey Sweet’s defence and find out about the family blackmailing business. Then they had only to check through the photographs and the Sally Nash guest lists (which, as the case at the Old Bailey trickled on inexorably, were becoming public property anyway) to find their murderer. Charles even felt a twinge of pity for Mrs Sweet. She was a desperate woman, her incompetent attempts at blackmail motivated only by a desire to get as much money as possible in her new widowhood. It was now three days since Bill Holroyd had promised to bring her ten thousand pounds and by now she must realise the likelihood of his appearance was decreasing.
It was Saturday 15th December. Christmas was coming, but without much conviction in a darkened Britain. The cold shops with their sad gas-lamps were full of Christmas shoppers feeling sorry for themselves, and shoplifters having a field-day. The ever-present possibility of bombs made buying presents even jollier.
Charles rose late and managed to beat one of the Swedes into the bathroom. He returned to his room wrapped cosily in his towelling dressing-gown and sat in front of the gas-fire with a cup of coffee. Now that the excitements of the last fortnight were over, he would have to think again about getting some work. True, he’d got The Zombie Walks coming up, but that wasn’t going to make him a millionaire, and the old overdraft was getting rather overblown. Perhaps the answer was to write another television play. But, even if he could write the thing quickly, all the subsequent processes took such a bloody long time. Getting the thing accepted, rewritten, rewritten, rewritten, rehearsed, recorded, edited, scheduled, rescheduled, rescheduled, rescheduled ad infinitum. Not much likelihood of getting a commission either. Charles Paris wasn’t a big enough name these days. And no doubt, with the prospects of a three-day week and early closedown, none of the television companies would commit themselves to anything.
But as he tried to think of his work (Charles had long since ceased to grace it with the name of ‘his career’), his thoughts kept returning to the Steen situation. There was something fishy about the whole set-up. He tried to think himself into a detective frame of mind. What would Sherlock Holmes do in the circumstances? He would sit puffing on his pipe, Dr Watson goggle-eyed with admiration at his side, and suddenly, by a simple process of deduction, arrive at the complete solution. Somehow Charles Paris, sitting on his own in a towelling dressing-gown, hadn’t quite the same charisma. Or the same powers of deduction.
Reflecting sadly on his inadequacy, Charles rose to get dressed. He opened the dull grey wardrobe and pulled a pair of trousers off a hanger. As he did so, he noticed that there was a dark smudge on the seat. It smelled of petrol. He was about to put his trousers back and take out another pair, when a sudden thought stopped him in his tracks.
The trousers he was holding were the ones he’d been wearing at Streatley the previous weekend. And he must have got the mark on them when he slipped over in Steen’s garage. The scene came back to him with immediate clarity of detail. The enormous bulk of the blue Rolls illuminated by his torch, then suddenly his feet going from under him, slipping in a pool of petrol, landing on a spanner and a piece of tubing.
A piece of tubing. And the Rolls petrol gauge registered empty. Joanne Menzies’ words about the Datsun came back to him-‘It’s pretty good on petrol, but not that good. Might just about make it one way without registering, but certainly not both.’ But what was simpler than to drive the car to Streatley, siphon petrol out of the Rolls into it (possibly even siphon some into a can as well, to top it up near London) and then drive back? Charles decided that a visit should be paid to Mr Nigel Steen.
Joanne Menzies still looked drawn and strained when she ushered Detective-Sergeant McWhirter into Mr Steen’s office on the Monday afternoon. The policeman thanked her and stood deferentially until he was invited to sit down.
The man who made the invitation was very like his father, but without the vitality that had distinguished Marius Steen. Nigel had the same beak of a nose, but, without the dark eyes, its effect was comic rather than forceful. His eyes were blue, a legacy from the English rose whom Marius had married; and his hair was light brown rather than the black which his father had kept, only peppered with grey, until his death. The general effect was of a diluted Marius Steen, ineffectual and slightly afraid.
Nigel was ostentatiously smoking a big cigar to give an illusion of poise. He flashed Charles what was meant to be a frank smile. ‘Well, what can I do to help?’
‘I’m very sorry to bother you,’ said Detective-Inspector McWhirter slowly, ‘and I do very much appreciate your putting yourself out to see me. Particularly at what must be a very distressing time for you.’
‘That’s quite all right. What is it?’ With a hint of irritation, or was it anxiety?
‘I have already spoken to your secretary on the matter and she proved most helpful.’ Charles reiterated his lies about the theft in Pangbourne on the Saturday night.
‘But you see, since I spoke to her, we have had another witness’s account of having seen a yellow Datsun in the Goring area. And they identified your number plate. I mean, you can never trust members of the public; they are extraordinarily inaccurate in what they claim to remember, but I can’t discount anything. All I’m trying to do is to establish where your father’s Datsun was on that night, and then stop wasting your time.’
‘Yes.’ Nigel drew on the cigar and coughed slightly. He was clearly rattled. Not a man with a strong nerve, and certainly on the surface not one who could carry out a cold-blooded murder. He capitulated very quickly. ‘As a matter of fact, I was in Streatley in the Datsun on that Saturday night.’
Charles felt a great surge of excitement, but Detective-Sergeant McWhirter only said, ‘Ah.’
‘Yes. I’d phoned my father in the evening, and he didn’t sound too well, so I drove down to see how he was.’
‘And how was he?’
‘Fine, fine. We had a few drinks together, chatted. He seemed in very good form. Then I drove back to London.’
‘Still on the Saturday night?’
‘Yes. It’s not far.’
‘No, no, of course not.’ Charles was about to ask about the subterfuge of the full petrol tank, but decided that Detective-Sergeant McWhirter might not be in possession of all the relevant facts for that deduction. As it happened, Nigel continued defensively without needing further questions.
‘You’re probably wondering why I didn’t mention this fact before. Well, to tell you the truth, your boys asked me when had I last seen my father alive and I said Friday instinctively, and then by the time I’d realised my mistake, it was all written down, and, you know, I thought if I changed it, that’d only create trouble.’
It sounded pretty implausible to Charles, but Detective-Sergeant McWhirter gave a reassuring nod. ‘Yes, of course, sir. And you’re quite sure that while the car was down in Streatley, the thieves who I’m after wouldn’t have had a chance to take it and use it for their break-in?’
‘No, that would be quite impossible. I put the car in the garage and I’m sure I’d have heard it being driven off. Anyway, I wasn’t down there very long.’
‘No. Oh well, fine, Mr Steen. Thank you very much.’ Detective-Sergeant McWhirter rose to leave. ‘I think I’d better start looking for another yellow Datsun.’
‘Yes. And… er… Detective-Sergeant…’
‘Yes?’
‘Will you have to mention the discrepancy in my story-you know, my confusion about when I last saw my father-?’
‘Good Lord, no. That’s quite an understandable mistake in a moment of emotion, sir. So long as an account’s written down somewhere, no one’s going to fuss about the details. After all, there wasn’t anything unusual about your father’s death. If there had been any grounds for suspicion, it’d be a different case.’ And Detective-Sergeant McWhirter laughed.
Nigel Steen laughed too, Charles thought a bit too heartily. But perhaps he was being hypersensitive and letting his suspicions race like Jacqui’s.
‘Anyway,’ the Detective-Sergeant continued, ‘I don’t have anything to do with your father’s death. Different department, you know.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Well, goodbye, Mr Steen. And thank you again for your help. If only more members of the public were as co-operative as you have been, our life would be a lot easier. They shook hands. Nigel’s felt like a damp face cloth.
Detective-Sergeant McWhirter went through into Miss Menzies’ anteroom. ‘All sorted out now?’ she asked brightly.
‘Yes, thank you, Miss Menzies.’
‘Hmm. We’ve seen quite a lot of you lately.’
‘Yes,’ said the Detective-Sergeant casually, unprepared for what happened next.
Miss Menzies suddenly stood up, looked him straight in the eyes and said, ‘Do you know it’s a very serious offence to impersonate a police officer?’
‘Yes,’ said Detective-Sergeant McWhirter slowly, waiting to see what came next.
‘I rang up Scotland Yard to tell you something this morning, and they’d never heard of you.’
‘Ah.’
‘And from the start I thought your accent was a bit phoney. I know a lot of people who come from Glasgow.’
‘Yes.’ There was a pause. Then Charles continued, still in his discredited Glaswegian. ‘Well, what was it you rang up the Yard to tell me?’
Joanne Menzies looked at him coolly. ‘You’ve got a nerve. But I think you’re probably doing something I’d sympathise with, so I’ll tell you. I checked with Morrison, the chauffeur at Orme Gardens, and he was suspicious that the Datsun may have been used on the Saturday night.’
‘Yes, I know. I’ve just got that from Mr Nigel Steen.’
‘Ah.’ She sounded disappointed that her information was redundant. ‘You’re suspicious of him too, aren’t you?’
‘Maybe.’
‘No maybe,’ she said, ‘you are. Incidentally, “Detective Sergeant”, what’s your real name?’
‘Charles Paris.’
‘Ah.’ Her eyes widened and she nodded slowly. ‘Very good.’ It was a warming compliment, from someone who knew about the theatre. ‘Well, Charles, if there’s anything else I can tell you, or I can find out for you, let me know.’
‘Thanks.’ As he was leaving, he turned and looked at her. ‘You hate Nigel Steen, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she said simply.
Christmas intervened and the business of investigation was suspended. Charles told Jacqui the new information he’d gleaned, but met with little luck in following it up. When he rang Joanne to check Nigel’s movements in the week before Steen’s death, a strange female voice answered and informed him that Miss Menzies had already gone up to Scotland for her Christmas holidays. Gerald Venables was getting a very slow response from Cohn, Jarvis, Cohn and Stickley on the matter of the new will, and also seemed preoccupied with family arrangements and Christmas drink parties. His enthusiasm for the cloak-and-dagger business of detection seemed to have waned.
Charles felt his own sense of urgency ebbing too. Though he got excited at each new development in his investigations, he soon became disillusioned again. And Joanne’s seeing through his disguise made him a bit wary. He had no particular desire to break the law. Detection was a serious business, and perhaps he should leave it alone. The days of the gifted amateur investigator were over. It was better to leave everything to the police, who with superior training and equipment must stand a greater chance of uncovering crime.
And each time Charles looked at his progress it seemed more negative. Though he had enjoyed his little investigations and masquerades, his only real discovery was that Nigel Steen had tried to disguise the fact of driving down to Streatley on the night of Saturday 8th December. And though the visit could have given him an opportunity to kill his father, and then drive down the next day to discover the body, that was the one crime which every logical motive screamed against. By killing Marius then, Nigel would have been sacrificing a great deal of money. Duties at 80 per cent on an estate of a million, only reduced by 30 per cent, because of the donor’s death before the end of the sixth year (to borrow Gerald Venables’ terminology) would mean that Nigel would be paying more than half a million in estate duty. Whereas if he only waited till the seven years were up, all the given property would be his without any tax. It’s a rare character who commits murder in order to lose half a million pounds.
And the only other fact, hanging around in the background, was Bill Sweet’s death, which, by some fairly dubious reasoning and some circumstantial evidence, could be laid at Marius Steen’s door. But Marius Steen was dead. Why bother him now?
The Montrose was open over Christmas and so, along with a lot of other divorced and debauched actors, Charles Paris spent a week sublimely pissed.
He was feeling distinctly drink-sodden when the phone rang on the morning of the 3rd of January, 1974. He wanted to be picked up and wrung out like a floor cloth to get the stuff out of his system. He lay in bed, hoping the phone would go away or someone would answer it. But the Swedish girls were still in Sweden for the holidays and he was alone in the house. The phone went on ringing.
He stumped savagely downstairs and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello.’ His voice came out as a croak.
‘It’s Jacqui.’ Her voice was excited again, bubbling. ‘Charles, I’ve been to the police.’
‘What?’
‘About Nigel. I went to Scotland Yard this morning and saw an Inspector and told him all about our suspicions, and about how we knew Nigel had been down at Streatley that Saturday-’
‘I hope you didn’t tell him how we found out.’
‘No, I didn’t. I didn’t mention you at all.’
‘Thank God for that.’
‘Anyway, the Inspector said it all sounded very suspicious and he’s going to authorise an aupopsy-’
‘Autopsy.’
‘Yes. Anyway, he’s getting an order to have Marius exhumed and check the cause of death. He took everything I said very seriously.’ The last sentence was pronounced with pride. There was a pause; she was waiting for him to react. ‘Well, what do you think, Charles?’
‘I don’t know. In a way, I think it’s asking for trouble…’
‘Oh, Charles, we’ve got to know whether or not Marius was murdered.’
‘Have we? It’s all sorted out. The baby’s being looked after …’
‘Charles, do you mean that?’
‘No.’
‘We’ve got to know.’
‘Yes. When’s the exhumation to be?’
‘Quite soon. Probably next Monday.’
‘And when will the results be known?’
‘End of next week. There should be an inquest on Friday.’
‘You realise that, by doing this, you have virtually made a public accusation of murder against Nigel?’
‘Yes. And that is exactly what I meant to do.’
Ten days passed. In America, with the tide of Watergate rising around him, President Nixon celebrated his sixty-first birthday. In England wild storms swept the country, and commuters were infuriated and inconvenienced by the ASLEF dispute. Housewives started panic buying of toilet rolls. And in a churchyard in Goring, the body of Marius Steen was moved from its grave after a stay of only four short weeks. Then it was opened up and samples of its organs were taken and analysed.
All of these events, international and domestic, seemed unreal to Charles. Since sobering up after Christmas he had degenerated into a deep depression. Inactivity and introspection left him lethargic and uninterested in anything. His usual solutions to the problem-drink and sex-were ineffectual. He drank heavily, but it gave him no elation, merely intensified his mood. And his self-despite was so strong that he knew reviving an old flame or chasing some young actress would only aggravate it. He tried to write, but couldn’t concentrate. Instead he sat in his room, his mind detached, looking down on his body and despising what it saw. Forty-seven years old, creatively and emotionally sterile. He thought of going to see Frances, but didn’t feel worthy of her warmth and eternal forgiveness. She had sent him four stout dependable Marks and Spencer shirts for Christmas, nursing him like a mother who respects her child’s independence. He’d sent her Iris Murdoch’s latest novel. In hardback, which he knew she’d think an unnecessary extravagance.
His only comfort was that the following Monday he was to start filming The Zombie Walks. Though he didn’t view the prospect with any sort of enthusiasm (he’d been sent a script, but hadn’t bothered to read it) he knew that activity of some sort, something he had to do, was always better than nothing. Eventually, if enough kept happening, the mood would lift without his noticing its departure and he would hardly remember the self-destructive self that went with it.
But as he walked through the dim streets of London to Archer Street on the Friday evening, the mood was still with him. He felt remote, viewing himself as a third person. And he had a sense of gloom about the findings of the inquest.
When Jacqui opened the door of her flat, he knew from her face that his forebodings had been justified. She was silent until he’d sat down. Then she handed him a glass of Southern Comfort and said, ‘Well that’s that.’
‘What?’
‘According to the coroner, Marius died of natural causes.’
‘A heart attack?’
‘They had some fancy medical term for it, but yes, that’s what they said.’
‘Well.’ Charles sighed. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. Jacqui looked on the verge of tears, and, as usual, converted her emotion into a violent outburst. ‘Little Arsehole’s been clever, the sod. He must have given Marius an electric shock, or injected air into his veins, or-’
‘Jacqui, you’ve been watching too much television. That sort of thing just doesn’t happen. I’m afraid we have to accept the fact that Marius did die from natural causes, and that all our suspicions of Nigel have been slander, just based on dislike and nothing else.’
‘No, I don’t believe it.’
‘Jacqui, you’ve got to believe it. There’s nothing else you can do.’
‘Well, why did he go down to Streatley on the Saturday night, and make such a bloody secret of it?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps for the reasons he said. He was worried about his father, so he went down, they had a few drinks, then he came back to London.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, that won’t wash.’
‘Why not?’
‘He and Marius didn’t get on at the time. We know that from the new will and the letter to me and-’
‘Perhaps they had another reconciliation.’
‘Piss off, Charles. There’s something fishy and Nigel’s behind it. Marius was murdered.’
‘Jacqui, the most sophisticated forensic tests have proved that he wasn’t.’
‘Well, they’re wrong. They’re all bloody wrong. Nigel paid them off. He bribed them.’
‘Now you’re getting childish.’
‘I am not getting bloody childish! ‘Jacqui stood up and looked as if she was about to hit him. Charles didn’t respond and after a frozen pause, she collapsed into a chair and burst out crying. When he had calmed her, she announced very coolly. ‘I’m not going to stop, Charles. I’ll get him. From now on there’s a war between Nigel and me.’
‘Well, you certainly nailed your colours to the mast by setting up the post-mortem.’
‘Yes. And I’m going to win.’ Thereafter she didn’t mention anything about either of the Steens for the rest of the evening. She cooked another of her frozen meals (country rissoles) and Charles drank moderately (a rather vinegary Spanish Rioja). Then they watched the television. She had just bought (in anticipation of her legacy) a new Sony portable (‘I’ll be sitting about a lot when I get very big’). There wasn’t much on the box, but that night it was preferable to conversation. At ten-thirty, by Government orders, came the close-down. Charles rose and after a few mumbled words about thanks, and keeping in touch, and being cheerful, and seeing himself out, he left.
Jacqui’s flat was on the top floor and the bulb in the light on her landing had long since gone and not been replaced. As Charles moved forward to the familiar step, he felt his ankle caught, and his body, overbalancing, hurtled forward down the flight of stairs.
The noise brought Jacqui to the door and light spilled out over the scene. ‘Charles, are you all right? Are you drunk, or what?’
He slowly picked himself up. The flight was only about ten steps down to the next landing, and though he felt bruised all over, and shocked, nothing seemed to be broken. ‘No, I’m not drunk. Look.’
And he pointed up to the top step. Muzzily outlined in the light was a wire, tied tightly between the banisters on either side. It was about four inches above the step. Jacqui turned pale, and let out a little gasp of horror. ‘Good God. Were they trying to kill me?’
‘No!’ said Charles, as he leant, aching, against the wall at the foot of the flight. Suddenly he realised the flaw in the will Marius Steen had so hastily improvised in the South of France. ‘I don’t think it was you they wanted to kill. Just your baby.’