And yet he felt he was missing something. There was something he had heard recently that was important, something that he should have been able to relate to the sequence of deaths. But he couldn’t for the life of him remember what it was.
The final recording of the first batch of
‘Rod Tisdale — what a great writer!’ Peter Lipscombe was heard to observe in the bar between buying drinks for people. ‘What a terrific talent! Tonight’s episode just said it all — still experimenting, never content, always looking for new avenues in the comedic field. What a loss he’ll be. You know, I reckon, if someone brought out a book of his scripts, he’d really get the recognition he deserves. He’d be up there with the Sheridans and the Wildes and the Shaws, no question. But of course no publisher would ever do it, no publisher would have the imagination to do it.’
Willy and Sam Tennison, the archpriest and priestess of the arch, were also there, and, while agreeing absolutely, but absolutely with what Peter said about Rod, who really had been a terrific writer and such a good chum, they had been delighted with the way their little scene had gone, promised well for the future, didn’t it, darling, oh yes, darling, really promising, darling, whole show going to be such fun, wasn’t it, darling, yes, darling.
The cast was animated, too. They were lifted by the audience’s reception of the show, but, more than that, they had the prospect of a couple of weeks’ rest after the hectic pace of the recent schedule. In fact, given extra filming days and an early read-through, the break was only going to be nine days, but that was better than nothing and they were all looking forward to it.
George Birkitt put his complaints to one side and, with the prospect of no new lines to forget for a few days, was jovially expansive. Even Dob Howarth seemed to be bearing up pretty well after her loss. She and the grinning Barton stood in the bar like royalty, accepting the servile tributes of its inmates.
Only once did her gracious exterior crack and emotion threaten. Romney Kirkstall was there, as ever, and eventually engaged the attention of his idol. ‘Dob,’ he said, ‘I was terribly upset to hear what happened.’
‘Thank you.’ She inclined her head and very deliberately changed the subject. ‘It’ll be good to have a few days’ rest. Imagine the luxury of the occasional breakfast in bed.’
But her fan persisted. ‘Cocky meant a lot to me as well as to you. Anyone who’s important to you is important to those of us who hold you dear.’
‘Thank you.’ She was polite, but wanted the subject dropped.
‘So I’ve made you a small tribute.’ Romney Kirkstall reached into his duffle bag and produced a large cross, made from silver cardboard and decorated with sprays of silver tinsel. In the centre of it was a colour photograph of Cocky under a fur-clad arm, cut out of some magazine.
‘It says on it,’ Romney Kirkstall continued inexorably, “To Cocky, for many years a dear friend and companion”.’
Tears glistened in Aurelia’s huge blurred blue eyes. ‘Yes, darling, it’s very sweet of you, but — ’
‘And I’ve written a poem that goes with it. I do occasionally write poems,’ Romney Kirkstall admitted modestly. ‘It goes:
Ah, Cocky, though you’re far away,
I dream of dancing with you still.
In stead of a Good Boy chocolate drop,
How sad you ate death’s bitter pill.’
A deep sob broke Aurelia’s customary self-restraint, but her fan did not seem to notice the effect his tribute was having. ‘I hope you noticed I got in the reference to
‘Yes,’ Aurelia managed to say, but she was suffering intensely. ‘Barton,’ she hissed, ‘get rid of him.’
The angular blazered skeleton moved forward with surprising speed and took a firm hold on Kirkstall’s sports-jacketed arm. ‘Look here, old boy,’ he said with a ghastly grin as he steered the fan away, ‘little lady’s a bit upset. Want to talk to you about the team the selectors are putting up for the Oval. A bit rummy, to my way of thinking.’
The language was still bizarre and dislocated, but the actions were very positive. When it came to defending his wife, Barton Rivers was a daunting figure.
Charles Paris was left with Aurelia.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. ‘It’s just it’s so recent. I had managed to put the poor darling out of my mind, and then to have him going on and on about it. . He’s a dear boy, but. .’
‘I understand. Can I get you a drink or. .’
‘No, I’ll be fine in a second. I just. .’ She sobbed again.
The gentlemanly thing to do would have been to start a new inoffensive subject, but Charles couldn’t leave the little dog’s death yet. Romney Kirkstall’s inept rhyme had started a new train of thought. Suppose Cocky’s death had been another in the sequence of apparent accidents. . Suppose he had been poisoned by someone who wanted to get at Aurelia. . It opened up a whole new range of motivations.
‘Dob,’ he began. He used the pet name to increase their intimacy. ‘Dob, we are all very upset to hear about Cocky’s death.’
‘Thank you, darling. I just want to forget about it, please.’
‘Of course.’ He’d have to be direct. ‘I’m sorry, I have to ask. Did you think there was anything strange about it?’
‘Strange?’
‘You don’t think he could have been poisoned?’
Shock registered on her face, but very swiftly understanding followed. ‘I see what you mean, darling. Another of these unfortunate. .
Charles nodded.
‘No, darling. He was just a very sick boy. The vet had said he hadn’t long. No, he just. . slipped away in the night.’ A sob broke her voice.
‘I’m sorry. I had to ask.’
‘Of course. I understand.’ She took his hand between both of hers. ‘And I do appreciate what you’re doing for us. There have been too many deaths. They must stop. I’m sure they’re just accidents, but, if there is a sequence, if there is a solution, then I’m sure you’re the one to find it.’
And she gave him the full beam of those wonderful eyes.
Charles reeled. He was flattered that she seemed to know about his hobby of detection, but he felt much more than that. He felt inspired by her confidence. Here now was a lady in whose honour to pursue his knightly quest. He understood more than ever before why princes had courted her, and young men toasted her, why husbands had dreamed of her while they made love to their wives, and why young soldiers had marched to their deaths with her image imprinted on their minds.
He returned the pressure of her hand. From now on he was determined to solve the accumulating mysteries. For her.
She and her husband left soon after and Charles went across to comfort Romney Kirkstall, who stood forlorn in the bar, drinkless as ever, his duffle bag dangling ineffectually from his hand.
‘Do you think she didn’t like it?’
‘I think it was just the wrong moment, that’s all. It made her think about the dog too much.’
‘Mmm. I mean, I have done her things before. You know, cards and so on. And poems too. She’s always liked them before.’
‘And I’m sure she’d have liked this one, but it was just too soon after the event.’
He mulled that over. ‘Yes, I suppose so. I could post it to her.’
‘I’d leave it a week or two, if I were you.’
‘Yes.’
The little man seemed downcast, so Charles tried to make conversation. ‘What do you do, Romney?’
‘Do? I collect stuff about Dob.’
