Simon Brett - Cast in Order of Disappearance

‘How do you know he found the body? It wasn’t in the papers.’

‘I rang Morrison. He told me.’

‘Who’s Morrison?’

‘Sort of odd-job man at Orme Gardens. He was meant to be the chauffeur, but Marius liked driving himself. I rang Morrison and he told me Nigel had driven down to Streatley and found the body dead in bed at about quarter past eleven on Sunday night. Well, Marius never went to bed before one, so I don’t believe that for a start.’

‘I think you may have to believe it.’ Charles told her about his movements on the Sunday night, concluding, ‘… so it must have been the arrival of Nigel’s car that made me run out of the place.’

‘And you are sure Marius was dead?’

‘Quite sure. He was cold. He had been dead some time.’

‘Perhaps Nigel had come earlier and killed him and then arranged to come back and find the body.’

‘I hate to sound like a detective, but there was a puddle outside the front gate and only one new set of tyre-marks between the Saturday night and the Sunday night. They must have been Steen coming back on the Saturday. I know he did come back because of the new tape on the Ansaphone.’

‘Perhaps Nigel killed him on the Saturday night.’ Jacqui was desperate to hang on to her theory, but she could feel it slipping away. Charles shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Jacqui, but you must face the facts. Marius had a history of heart trouble-you say he’d had a minor attack before you went to France in the summer. He was a man of 68-worked hard all his life-never made any concessions to age. Is it surprising that he should die a natural death from a heart attack? Apart from anything else, if there were suspicious circumstances, the doctor wouldn’t have signed a certificate. So far as we know there’s been no suspicion of foul play.’

‘The doctor must have been in league with Nigel,’ Jacqui insisted truculently.

‘If there was any mark on the body, the undertaker would notice.’

‘There are poisons which don’t leave any trace.’

‘Jacqui, my love’ — he deliberately sounded patronising. Having chosen the role of the infinitely reasonable older man, he was determined to stick to it-you have read too many detective stories.’

That finally silenced her. She sat still for a full five minutes, then stood up brusquely. ‘I’ll get you some food.’

It was another of Jacqui’s frozen meals. This time fish steaks with still-frozen centres and bright slivers of French beans. Charles consumed most of the Valpolicella and tried to steer the conversation away from anything to do with Marius Steen. It was difficult. Small talk kept erupting into some new accusation or burst of crying from Jacqui. Charles found it a strain and was relieved when the meal was over and he felt he could decently leave. ‘You get to bed, Jacqui. You look absolutely knackered. I’d better be off.’

‘Yes. Charles.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you mind staying?’

‘No. OK.’ He lied. She obviously needed him, and so the awkwardness must be prolonged.

‘I don’t mean… you know…’ she said feebly, and the waif-like expression on her strained face made it difficult to grasp immediately what she did mean. Then he realised she was referring to sex. It seemed incongruous in relation to the events of the last week.

‘Of course not. No, I’ll stay. As long as you need someone around.’

‘Just for the night. I didn’t sleep at all last night. It was awful. I kept hearing things and imagining. Just tonight. I’ll be all right tomorrow. Got to be. Sort out what I’m going to do about the baby. I’ll have to get rid of it.’

‘Jacqui, you must keep the baby.’ Charles had long since ceased to delude himself that he had any immovable principles on anything, but he felt something approaching that on the subject of abortion. Without having a particular reason, like Catholicism, he found it unjustifiable. He tried to argue in his mind against this conviction, because he was frightened by feelings of such strength. Granted, he’d say to himself, I’ve never been in a situation where an abortion has been necessary. Natural caution has prevented me from getting anyone into trouble. If it happened, no doubt that principle would crumble like any other. But the instinct remained strong.

And as Jacqui’s suffering face looked up at him, he knew he had said the right thing. There was relief and determination there, in spite of her words. ‘But I can’t look after a baby on my own. I can hardly look after myself.’

She sounded so plaintive that Charles laughed and Jacqui even managed a brief grin. ‘Don’t worry’ — at his most avuncular-‘something’ll happen.’

‘What? Nothing can, now Marius is dead.’

‘Something will happen,’ he repeated with a confidence whose basis he didn’t like to investigate. ‘Now, where am I going to sleep?’

‘Oh, with me. It’s daft for you to get a stiff neck on the sofa when there’s room in my bed.’

So they settled down, Charles in shirt and underpants, Jacqui in silk pyjamas, cradled in his arms. It was eight days since they had last lain on the bed together, and sex seemed as far away now as then. But this time Charles’ feelings were mellower. It seemed all right that this sad and trembling body should lie in his arms. There was a lot to be said for cuddling. Now he seemed to find it even more attractive than screwing. Perhaps it was the approach of old age, sliding into impotent fumblings. As he fell asleep, Byron’s lines floated through his fuddled mind.

We’ll go no more a-screwing

So late into the night,

Though the heart is still as loving

And the moon is still as bright.

When he woke, he was alone in the bed. He could hear Jacqui being sick in the bathroom. It was a nostalgic sound, taking him back to the flat in Notting Hill where he and Frances had started their married life; and started Juliet; and, in a way, started living apart. Nappies boiling on the gas-stove, the sweet smell of breast milk-it all came back. ‘I am degenerating into a sentimental old fool,’ he thought as he rolled out of bed.

Jacqui came in as he was pulling on his trousers, and sat down, looking drained. ‘OK?’ he asked.

‘I will be. I hope I will. It’s ghastly. Look.’ She closed her eyes grimly and pointed at the table. There was a letter which had been opened and shoved back into the envelope.

‘Can I read it?’ Jacqui nodded. Charles pulled the papers out. There was a short letter and a smaller envelope, which had also been opened. The letter was on paper headed ‘Cohn, Jarvis, Cohn and Stickey-Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths.’

Dear Miss Mitchell,

On the instructions of my client, Mr Marius Steen, I am sending you the enclosed letter. I have no knowledge of its contents, but was instructed to send it to you as soon as I heard news of Mr Steen’s death.

Yours sincerely,

Harold Cohn.

‘Can I read the other one?’

‘Go ahead.’

He opened the envelope. The letter was written in a sprawling hand, writing that had once undergone the discipline of copperplate, but long ago broken loose from its restrictions and now spread, thick and unguarded, over the page.

2nd November

Dear Titty…

Jacqui was studying Charles’ face and anticipating his reaction. ‘Marius always called me that.’ Charles continued reading.

If you get this letter, I am dead. So I’m sorry. The old heart or some other bit of my body has given out and fouled the system and I’ve gone. So that’s a pity. Not because I haven’t had a good run, just that I’d like the run to continue. I’m a winner and I want to go on winning. And when you came on the scene, I started enjoying my winning even more.