Simon Brett - Situation Tragedy

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 I Dream of Dancing. I was rather pleased with that. And I remembered that Cocky used to like those Good Boy chocolate drops.’

‘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. . evenements . .?

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.’

‘Yes, I know that, but what job do you do?’

‘I don’t have a job. I came into a bit of money when my mother died, so I gave up my job. I just do the collection now.’

‘Oh, I see. And are you going to use all the material to write a book about her?’

‘Oh, no, I couldn’t write a book. It’s just an interest, you know,’ Romney Kirkstall replied in a voice which suggested that the only thing strange about the conversation was Charles’s need to ask the question.

‘So you spend your days collecting?’

‘Yes, looking around for stuff a lot of the time. I’m a lot younger than her, you see, I’m only forty-three, so I wasn’t around to collect programmes and things at the time. But I go around junk stalls and book shops. It’s an interest,’ he repeated.

Only forty-three. Charles was surprised. Romney Kirkstall could have been any age, but forty-three seemed very young to have developed this kind of obsession. Maybe, Charles reflected, it was a sign of his own age. When the loonies start looking young.

‘Actually,’ Romney Kirkstall continued, ‘I thought of you today.’

‘Oh?’

‘I was looking for some stuff in a bookshop in the Charing Cross Road — a place Barton Rivers recommended to me, actually — and I came across that book you were talking about.’

‘What book?’

‘Well, you were talking about the film, but it had the same title. Death Takes A Short Cut.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘They’d got a copy of it there. I looked at it, but it hadn’t got anything to do with Dob, so I put it back. But, since you asked about it, I thought you might be interested.’

‘I am. Thank you. Who was the author?’

‘R. Q. Wilberforce. Didn’t mean anything to me. You heard of him?’

Charles grimaced. ‘It’s vaguely familiar. Think he could have been one of those Thirties detective story writers, like E. R. Punshon or Freeman Wills Croft.’

‘Never heard of them either,’ confessed Romney Kirkstall.

‘Well, if you could give me the name of the bookshop. .’

Romney supplied it. ‘I must go,’ he said. Then he hesitated, as if to impart some vital piece of information. ‘Do you know why I was called Romney?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘My mother named me after Romney Brent. Friend of Noel Coward’s.’

‘Ah.’

‘Yes.’ Romney Kirkstall turned tail and scuttered out.