‘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
‘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
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
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
‘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
