Simon Brett - Situation Tragedy

Yes, it could have fallen of its own accord. But it was a substantial piece of terracotta and there had been no wind. Perhaps a bird could have flown into it or a rabbit or something brushed against it. . or maybe the vibrations of one of the passing cars had dislodged it, but it all seemed pretty unlikely.

Maybe one of the cars had scraped against the wall and bumped the urn off. . But logic was against that too. Whereas one could imagine that the ancient Barton Rivers, at the wheel of his huge Bentley, might be less than secure on the tight turns of the drive, he and Aurelia had not been the last people to go down it. Bernard Walton had followed them and, apart from the fact that he must have known every curve of the approach to his house perfectly, he was unlikely to scrape the gleaming surface of his precious Rolls. And he wouldn’t have been able to drive over the urn if Barton’s Bentley had dislodged it before him.

So either it just fell, or someone deliberately moved it. And if it had been deliberately moved, it must have happened just after Bernard’s Rolls had driven past.

If it was a murder, and if it had been planned, then the perpetrator was likely to be someone who knew the layout of Bernard’s grounds, someone who had been there before. The list included Bernard himself, obviously, and, from what they had said during the day, Aurelia and Barton and Peter Lipscombe. Presumably the unfortunate Scott had also been down on a recce to check the location, and who knew how many people would have accompanied him? Certainly the Designer, certainly the Location Manager, possibly Janie Lewis, the PA, possibly dozens of other people. That was the trouble with a crime committed in television — there were always so many people about, it was difficult to reduce lists of suspects.

Charles concentrated, and tried to remember where everyone had been at the moment of Bernard Walton’s departure in the Rolls. The conjectural saboteur of the urn need not have been in a car; he, or she, could have walked down the hill and moved it. But the picture didn’t come back to him with any clarity. He just remembered a lot of people milling about, clearing up; he couldn’t place individuals.

No, he came back to one fact: if the urn was moved in order to cause an accident, then the person with the best background knowledge and the best opportunity to do it was Bernard Walton.

And it was also Bernard Walton with whom Sadie Wainwright had had a blazing row just before her death.

But why? Why should a highly successful television and theatre star hazard everything by committing murder? Charles supposed that if The Strutters had been being made at the expense of What’ll the Neighbours Say? then Bernard might be seen to have a motive for sabotaging production of the new series, so that it would have to be cancelled and replaced with the older one. But that motivation didn’t work, because the options on the next series of What’ll the Neighbours Say? had been taken up and, though Bernard didn’t know that at the time of Sadie’s death, he certainly did when Scott died. Nope, it didn’t work.

But, as a theory, it did contain one attractive element, and that was the idea of sabotage to the production. If the violence was directed against the whole series rather than individuals, then the random nature of the murder schemes made more sense. Maybe the saboteur had fixed the railing on the fire escape to injure Sadie Wainwright or anyone else connected with The Strutters pilot. The dislodged urn, too, might have been a random act of violence.

This idea answered a doubt that had been nagging at Charles ever since Scott’s death. Any theory that assumed murder directed specifically at the young director also assumed an enormous amount of luck. There was no guarantee that Scott was going to be the next person down the hill after Bernard. He might well have chosen to leave last of all and demonstrate the powers of his Porsche by overtaking everyone else on the motorway back to London. Even if the murderer could have predicted the bet with Peter Lipscombe, he couldn’t have known that the producer would offer the opportunity for the director to go first. (Unless of course the producer were the murderer. . But no, that was a blind alley; it was Scott who had suggested the race.)

And, as well as having no guarantee who his victim would he, the conjectural murderer had no guarantee that he would murder anyone. A more prudent driver than Scott Newton might have been going slowly enough to stop safely when he saw his path obstructed. And, even given Scott’s precipitous speed, he might well have survived his descent on to the main road. No murderer, however much of a criminal mastermind, could have arranged the simultaneous arrival of a Spanish juggernaut to finish off his victim.

So, if any crimes had been committed, it looked as if they were just random sabotage. And the only person who had ever had a motive for such actions, Bernard Walton, had had his motive removed by the guarantee of a new series of What’ll the Neighbours Say?

Unless, of course, the acts of sabotage were the work of a psychopath. Oh dear, Charles did hope not. Psychopathic crimes offered no prospect of satisfaction; if their motivation was without reason, then no amount of reasoning was going to provide a solution to them.

So what was he left with? Two deaths. Both, according to police findings, accidental. And nothing to make him disagree with those findings except for a few ambiguous overhead words relating to the first one.

All he could do was watch and listen, and wait to see if anything else happened.

On Monday, June 4th, Charles arrived at the Paddington Jewish Boys’ Club for the first Strutters read-through, and found Peter Lipscombe predictably cooing over Aurelia Howarth. She appeared just to have given him a brown paper parcel.

‘Of course I’ll read them, Dob love, of course I will.’

‘I don’t know, I just think there might be something there, darling. They’re old-fashioned, but might adapt into a rather jolly series. Just an instinct I have about them.’

‘And when have your dramatic instincts ever been wrong?’ asked the Producer with a sycophantic laugh.

Charles moved over to sit beside George Birkitt, who was reading the Sun . ‘How’s tricks, as the white rabbit said to the conjuror?’

George brandished the newspaper. ‘Look at this — bloody Bernard Walton all over it.’

Charles glanced at the page. ‘MY FIRST DATE — In our series of the Famous with Two Left Feet, BERNARD WALTON, hilarious star of TV’s What’ll the Neighbours Say? describes the visit to the pictures that went riotously wrong. .’ He didn’t read any further. There was a half-page picture of Bernard, pulling one of the gauche expressions that was a feature of the character he played in the sit com (and indeed of every other character he played; whatever the part, he always gave the same performance).

Charles shrugged. ‘So what?’

‘I don’t know. I just get a bit sick of it,’ George Birkitt complained. ‘I mean, you just can’t get away from him. He’s always doing all these bloody interviews, and popping up on quiz shows and all that rubbish. All the Blankety-Blanks and Star Games and Celebrity Squares when that was around. Or he’s opening supermarkets or being photographed at premieres.’

‘I agree, it must be hell. But that’s the life he’s chosen. One of the penalties of being a star, you have to be on show all of the time.’

‘Yes,’ said George, with a tinge of wistfulness.

‘Surely you don’t want to get involved in all that, do you?’

‘Good Lord, no,’ he protested. ‘No, no, I value my privacy. I’m the last person to want to become a public property. No, no, I was just thinking from the financial point of view. I mean, there is quite a bit of money in all those spin-off things. And I think, you know, if you get the chance to do them, well, you shouldn’t turn them down from high-minded principles about the sanctity of your art. You should take advantage of whatever’s going.’