Cool Repentance

  The cause of death - asphyxiation - was not too difficult for Dr Lamb

  to suggest, especially as neither Marie nor Mrs Tennant had removed the plastic bag. Marie, after one horrified look, had fled screaming for Mrs Tennant. The manageress, rushing up the stairs - 'Hush, Marie, for goodness' sake, you'll wake Mrs Cartwright; and Marie, what have you done with that tray?' - had fallen back at the grim quiet sight on the pillow. No wonder poor Marie had backed away. It looked as if some lumpish grey cuckoo had entered Miss Wain's bed.

  Mrs Tennant had the presence of mind to touch her hand, and on finding it cold, she felt for her pulse. Finding none, she felt next, for a heart beat - equally in vain. She did not however attempt to remove the plastic bag - something Mrs Tennant could not explain to herself afterwards, but for which, since nothing could have been done for the old woman anyway, the police were duly grateful.

  At least it was some consolation to Mrs Tennant that Old Nicola's body was taken away down these back stairs when Detective Inspector Harwood finally authorized its removal. Her corpse was now encased in a protective black plastic covering - so much cleaner and newer-looking than her own grey knitting-bag had been, but equally a shroud; it looked shrunken by death into a very small size indeed. The room itself, after being subject to the most thorough scrutiny that the wit of Matt Harwood could devise for fingerprints and other clues, was then locked up. Now all the patient investigations, takings of statements, siftings, collations of evidence which had taken place after the death of Nat Fitzwilliam would begin all over again.

  All of this was still not more testing to Jemima - perhaps because the routine of police work had become familiar to her - than the ravings of Cy Fredericks.

  'You were quite right. He actually blames me for the old bird's unfortunate demise.' Thus Guthrie Carlyle, reeling away from his own call. 'The man is out of his mind. He seems to hold me personally responsible for what he calls "an extraordinarily high death-rate - even by your standards" of the population of Larminster. Naturally, he's cancelling the programme. I expected that. But what the hell does he mean - an extraordinarily high death-rate by my standards?' Guthrie ended angrily.

  'I'm sorry about the programme. After all your work. Our work.' Jemima herself was more weary than angry after her own forty-five minutes of telephonic hysteria. 'I think he's referring to the fact that one of your Greek crew, you know, the one you nicknamed Two-and-Twenty Misfortunes after the character in The Cherry Orchard, had died in a car crash. His widow has just worked out a way of suing Megalith—'

  Guthrie groaned. 'Stop, stop. Just do me a favour and never mention any aspect of Hellenic civilization whatsoever, alive or dead, to me again. I want to lead the rest of my life as far removed from the Glory that was

  Greece as possible.' Jemima wondered whether this was a tactful moment to break it to Guthrie that Cy Fredericks proposed to substitute for Larminster, as Part IV of In a Festival Mood, an eight-day Gaelic song contest on a remote island off the west coast of Scotland. In spite of his last bold words, she decided against it.

  In the course of the conversation Jemima herself had had with Cy, almost the only serious charge which he did not hurl down the telephone was that of high treason. She could only suppose this was because Cy had yet to discover political overtones to Old Nicola's death - no doubt he soon would. Words like 'betrayal' and 'conspiracy', always high on his list of expletives, tripped off his tongue. After 'conspiracy', 'lack of all consideration for Megalith Television' sounded rather tame, but was clearly intended to be an equally lethal insult on Cy's lips.

  Jemima, who had seen out these storms before, waited till there was a pause, because Cy was recovering his breath and then struck back: 'Cy,' she began in an ominously quiet voice, 'an old woman, a very old woman, as it happens, has died - been murdered, I gather from my friends the police. She was also a singularly unpleasant old woman and was probably blackmailing her killer. This old woman also happened to be an actress and she happened to have a part in one of the two productions in a Festival programme being televised by Megalith. All of this is most unfortunate. I agree with you. It's most unfortunate for Megalith because we've wasted a lot of money - and time and trouble, incidentally - on this programme and now I agree with you - I do agree with you, Cy, it has to be scrapped.'

  Jemima gathered momentum: 'It's also unfortunate for the Larminster Festival because they've now suffered two fairly macabre murders on the eve of opening, and yet they can hardly just cancel the whole affair, just like that, with all the tickets sold out, mainly to see Christabel Herrick, and suffer financial ruin. It's even more unfortunate for the King Charles Theatre Company - think of what they've been through. Their director dying on them and now a member of the company stricken down, even if she was only in one production and replaceable: at this moment the wretched Boy Greville is trying to get hold of Susan Merlin who's played the part before, and who he wanted to cast originally anyway. Most of all, you could reasonably say it's unfortunate for Nicola Wain who died on the eve of what she fancied would be an affluent retirement and will probably be mourned by nobody but her cat.

  'But none of this, Cy,' Jemima slowed down as she delivered her peroration and raised her voice a couple of decibels (she also did not think Cy's silence would last much longer for she could hear strange snortings and pan tings down the line as of a great beast seeking to free itself from control), 'none of this, not one single element of this, amounts to a conspiracy against Megalith Television. I did not kill Nicola Wain. I did not kill Nat Fitzwilliam. Nor, I would dare swear, did Guthrie Carlyle. Nor did Cherry Bronson. I would even hazard a view that Spike Thompson, whatever his expense sheets, is not a murderer and,' she threw in inspirationally, 'I am quite prepared to be his alibi if necessary. In view of all these manifest facts, Cy, and in view of your attitude to me and my colleagues this morning on this distressing occasion, I must ask you to accept my immediate resignation.'

  There was a long horrified silence, with no snortings or pantings at all. Then Cy said, in what for him was a whisper: 'Jem, Jem, you haven't -you haven't got another job? Breakfast Television? The BBC? No, Jem, you couldn't have done that to me, not you, Jem. The BBC? My God, what are they paying you? It's an outrage. Public money ... I shall raise questions ...' His voice rose, 'Listen, do nothing, Jem, do nothing at all until I have seen you. I am coming down this afternoon in the Rolls, straightaway. Miss Lewis,' he was by now shouting, 'tell Leonard I shall be going down to - to - well, wherever it is, find out where the festival film unit is, Miss Lewis, well, where is it? Find out, woman! Don't ask me which festival film unit, all right, all right, yes, of course, I know there are several, I commissioned this series, didn't I? The one lucky enough to have the company of Miss Jemima Shore. Tell Leonard I shall be leaving at two o'clock for it, wherever it is, and yes, yes, I will be back for dinner. Dinner at Mark's Club, but please telephone Lady Manfred and ask her to make it nine o'clock instead of eight-thirty—

  'My poor child,' he then crooned loudly but tenderly down the telephone, 'my poor Jem, of course you've had a terrible time—'

  It was with the greatest difficulty that Jemima convinced Cy that not only had she no other job in view, but also that his presence in Larminster, even with the incomparable Leonard at the wheel of the Rolls, would only make matters worse than they were already. The conversation thus ended amiably but sharply with the news of Guthrie's exile to the Western Isles ('You will know how to break it to him, Jem, your lady's instinct') which showed that Cy was once more quite himself.

  As Jemima predicted, the Festival Committee were in no position to cancel their programme, even if they were so inclined. The tickets were mainly sold, and the Festival had thus to pursue its course, unassisted by the presence of Megalith Television - and of course Miss Nicola Wain. The latter was easier to replace as an attraction than the former. Susan Merlin did indeed respond most sweetly to Boy Greville's appeal, and promised to arrive 'word-perfect' within a few days: Which i
s an advantage I think I can say I have over poor Nicola. She was always a slow study, but then of course she was really quite a few years older than me, even if she didn't like to admit it. ..'

  The news of the departure of Megalith Television spread rapidly through a Larminster already appalled by Old Nicola's decease - but more by its locale than anything else. Like the arrest of Jim Blagge, anything concerning the Royal Stag and its manageress struck straight at local sympathies.

  'Poor Ivy Tennant, when she's worked so hard to build the place up .. .' These words were heard far more frequently than: 'Poor Miss Wain'. Old Nicola was chiefly known as an actress for her appearances in Dickens serials in which she generally played some appropriately witchlike character: the impression of malice she conveyed had not been contradicted in real life by her behaviour at the Spring Guest House and the Royal Stag itself. Even the kind-hearted Mrs Tennant found it difficult to say many nice things about her guest, while Marie was a good deal more explicit: '"Late again, dear," she would say, sitting up in bed like an old bat. I often wanted to throw the tea things at her head. And in the end that's just what I did, except that her head—' At this point Marie collapsed in loud howls.

  The retreat of Megalith from filming the First Night was quite another matter. Father O'Brien for example found it very difficult to reconcile himself to this working of the divine will. His Christian resignation was further tested when Poll, doing a heroic stint at the theatre box office, absolutely refused to refund him for his ticket, an exchange which he requested on the grounds that the television cameras would not now be present.

  'The rules say that 1 have to tell ticket-holders in advance that the programme will be filmed. But they don't say I have to compensate them if it won't be filmed,' she maintained firmly, her long hair swishing the seat plan in front of her like a soft broom. 'You'll just have to grin and bear it, Father, won't you,' said Poll, all unaware that she was advocating Major Cartwright's own recipe for getting through a night at the theatre.

  Compared to Cy Fredericks, Major Cartwright was really a model of reason and good sense.

  'Much of this sort of thing go on in the West End theatre?' the Major enquired of Gregory. Taking his silence for assent, he went on: 'Humph. Thought so. Wonder how you ever get a show on at all.'

  'It is fair to say our disasters generally occur on the First Night itself,' Gregory replied diplomatically.' Rather than shortly before it.'

  'Bit quicker off the mark here, eh? Not quite the backward provinces, are we?' And the Major gave a ferocious chuckle.

  So far as the Festival was concerned, that was that. The Major's mixture of of taciturnity and authoritarianism enabled him to deal with such potentially recalcitrant bodies as the press and his own committee with admirable despatch. His address to the actors of the King Charles Company was certainly a model of its kind:

  'Bad show' pronounced the Major from the stage of the Watchtower to the assembled company: 'See that you give a good one tonight. Damn sure you will. Like the war. Ensa. The Windmill. We never closed.' The mention of the Windmill seemed to recall to the Major some more urgent appointment, and shortly afterwards he was seen whirling away in his Bentley, with Cherry's dark head in the passenger seat. It was left to Boy Greville to calm the understandable nerves of his actors along more orthodox lines, a task made easier by the fact that a real slap-up disaster, as Anna Maria observed, always brought out the best in him. It was noticeable that throughout the day and the night which followed it, Boy never once referred to his own physical condition nor sought any remedy for it.

  Jemima Shore was still in her suite at the Royal Stag by the late afternoon, although most of the clearing-up of the abortive television proceedings had already been done. Spike Thompson generously offered to stop over - 'We could have a real evening, dinner together, sea-food spaghetti at Don Giovanni's, or whatever it's called. Steak maison - £2 supplement, the best claret, champagne to round it all off, my place or yours. I'll pay, no, honest, my love. It would be my pleasure, I can't say fairer than that, can I?'

  He could not. Jemima still rejected the offer. She bid an affectionate farewell to Spike and watched his jaunty departure, black head held high, thumbs stuck into the pockets of his black leather jacket, with genuine regret; she would miss them both - the man and the jacket. But Jemima needed solitude, a pause for vital recollection. She needed desperately to think back over all that had taken place in Larminster and around it, if she was not to betray her famous 'lady's instinct' as Cy termed it. In short, the abandoned pagan nymph of Spike Thompson's nightly revels had to take second place to that sterner character Jemima Shore Investigator.

  Jemima sighed. And put her mind firmly to work on the whole vast problem of the Larminster murders: she knew she would not think about Spike again until her 'lady's instinct' had come up with at least some kind of interim solution.

  No solution was for the time being offered by Detective Inspector Harwood. Jemima managed to snatch a few minutes of his beleaguered time over a cup of tea at the Royal Stag. He looked tired, lifting his teacup automatically, as though it was the twentieth cup he had drunk that day - which was possibly true. The murder of the old woman following so closely that of Nat Fitzwilliam, and the arrest of Jim Blagge had obviously come as a shock to the police. It was likely that Mr Blagge's solicitor would now make representations for him to get bail, which under the circumstances the police would probably not oppose.

  'A maniac loose? That's what they're saying in Larminster, Jemima. Yes, only a maniac would kill a young man and an old woman, and for what? That's what we don't know, Jemima, assuming the two killings are linked. But what is a maniac? You tell me that. Mad or sane, these murderers never much want to be caught by the police, do they? Take X who killed Fitzwilliam, for we'll rule out the chauffeur for the moment. He took good care to cover up, didn't he? Maniac or no maniac. Take X who killed the old lady - the same X as we now think, this X wore gloves and was very careful indeed to leave no traces behind. No clues. Not altogether mad, you see. Not mad enough to be caught. Not so far. Whatever the do-gooders will say when he or she comes to trial.'

  Jemima who had no intention of arguing about the definitions of criminal insanity with Detective Inspector Harwood, if she could help it, asked instead: 'So what now? The police never give up. That I do know.'

  'They do not.' Matt Harwood sounded quite shocked. 'Hard work, that's what happens next. Hard work. Routine questions. Taking all the statements of the residents in the hotel on the night in question - a good number of them members of the Cartwright family, I understand. Funny - or not so funny - the way they keep recurring, isn't it? They were all here the night Fitzwilliam was killed too. Oh we shall plod on all right. We may be slow, but we are very very sure. We'll get him - or her - in the end.'

  'And suppose there is another murder in the meanwhile?' suggested Jemima. 'My instinct tells me ...' She realized she had gone too far.

  Detective Inspector Harwood shot her a look which somehow reminded her of Cy Fredericks - Cy in one of his more chauvinist moods. Matt Harwood's next words also reminded her of Cy Fredericks.

  'If your feminine instinct tells you there's going to be another murder, maybe the same useful instinct will tell you who's going to do it and to whom. Then you can go ahead and prevent it.' On which note of jocularity the Detective Inspector departed.

  Jemima decided not to attend the First Night of The Seagull now that there was no television work to be done. She had seen a superlative performance from Christabel the night before: she doubted it could be matched tonight, especially under the traumatic circumstances of another death striking at the company. She was not sufficiently thrilled by any of the other actors to see them twice outside the line of duty - not even Vic Marcovich whose Trigorin had been very impressive or Anna Maria Packe who had turned in an appealing Masha. It was a pleasure not to have to gaze on the rocks and fisherman's netting further. Besides the First Night at the Watchtower would be a morbid occas
ion, she suspected. She was not surprised to learn that Julian had taken his daughters back to Lark Manor. He himself planned to return later, 'But if not, well, Christabel has Gregory to support her, doesn't she?' he observed to Jemima on his way out of the hotel. Christabel herself had returned to Lark for a short rest, fleeing the confusion of the Royal Stag. Then Gregory had driven her back to the theatre.

  But Jemima's famous instinct was letting her down in allowing her to stay in her suite at the Royal Stag, instead of attending the First Night at the Watchtower. For the person who had long sought to destroy Christabel, killing three people in the process, had just chosen that particular occasion to put an end to her once and for all. After some heart searching, the person decided that Christabel should die as she had lived - in the full public eye. So that everyone should see and understand that there was no real forgiveness possible: that no one could ever come back if they had done the things that Christabel had done.

  Jemima Shore, as yet unknowing of this decision, sat in her suite and pondered on all the murky circumstances surrounding the cool repentance of Christabel Cartwright. She had just, dazedly, reached a solution -a horrifying solution - when there was an imperative rap on her door.

  Jemima came with a jolt out of the dream, nightmare really, into which her own reasonings had plunged her. Automatically she looked at her watch and was further startled to find it was very late. The Seagull must be well on its way by now. The door was locked - Mrs Tennant had insisted on that after the murder.

  'Who is it?' she called, looking round for the key.

  'Miss Shore, I must speak to you. It's desperately urgent. Please let me come in.'

  Jemima recognized the voice of Miss Kettering.

  16