Simon Brett - Cast in Order of Disappearance

‘Because of you, you little sod.’ Nigel spat the words out.

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you and your bloody Detective-Sergeant McWhirter business. When you rang up that Saturday and checked the registration of the Rolls, I thought the police were on to the Theale murder.’

‘Good Lord.’ Charles had completely forgotten about the first entrance of McWhirter. It came back to him vaguely. And that had actually ruined Nigel’s crime. Charles could have chosen any excuse for the phone call and it was pure chance that he had lighted on the meaningless ‘number plate racket’! ‘So that’s what made you drive down in the Datsun, and move the plan forward, and lose a quarter of a million pounds?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good Lord.’ Charles was absolutely flabbergasted, but he hadn’t really got time to analyse his reactions. Nigel was still pointing a rather businesslike gun at him. ‘Nigel, I’d put that thing away. The police are coming. You stand a chance as things stand at the minute. They need never find out about Sweet’s murder. Just get you on the other charges.’

‘I don’t believe you, Paris. You’re bluffing. There aren’t any police coming.’

‘There are.’ Charles prayed that he was speaking the truth. ‘Joanne Menzies is getting them.’

‘So, she was involved with you. The bitch.’

‘I think you’d better hand that gun over, Nigel.’ Charles rose to his feet.

‘Don’t move! I’ll shoot you!’ Nigel held the gun away from him, as if he was afraid of the bang it would make. Charles felt himself sweating.

He tried desperately to control his voice. ‘No, Nigel, you won’t shoot me. This is cold blood, Nigel. Something you’ve got to think about. Not like shooting Sweet in a moment of blind panic. Not like doing it by remote control, having Jem set up a trip-wire. This is you committing a crime, Nigel.’

The two men faced each other. Their eyes were interlocked and the gun pointed directly at Charles’ heart. The pause seemed endless.

Suddenly the doorbell rang. Nigel tensed as if to fire, and Charles closed his eyes. Then he heard the clatter of the gun falling on to the desk. He looked at Nigel Steen and saw the glint of tears in his eyes as the young man rushed out of the door.

Charles collapsed like a glove puppet with the hand withdrawn, and stood for a long moment, sagging. The doorbell was still ringing. But before he went downstairs, he crept into Marius Steen’s bedroom.

Jacqui was still unconscious, breathing heavily under the anaesthetic. Gingerly Charles raised the sheet that lay over her thighs. There was no blood, no sign that she had been touched. As he looked down at the body he used to love, he thanked God for letting him arrive in time.

When he opened the door downstairs, he heard the roar of a motorboat leaving from the boathouse at the back. On the doorstep in front of him stood Joanne Menzies, alone. She was breathless. ‘I couldn’t get the police. Didn’t see a phone. I’ve just walked from the car.’

So it had been a bluff. Charles started laughing, clear ripples of relief shaking his body. He clasped Joanne in his arms, not for love or lust, just sheer joy at being alive.

The speedboat was found splintered against Goring Bridge. It had missed the lock and been driven full-tilt down the hard steps of the weir. Nigel Steen’s body was found in some weeds nearly a mile downstream. Whether the death was suicide, or a result of his natural aptitude for failure, was never established.

Bartlemas and O’Rourke’s tall Victorian house in Ideal Road, Islington, was like a chaotic museum. Every available wall surface was covered with memories of Kean and Macready; even in the lavatory the twin deities looked down beneficently on lesser mortals.

A battered life-size carving of Kean as Shylock greeted Charles as he entered the front door. The beak of a nose seemed strangely reminiscent of Marius Steen. O’Rourke took his coat. ‘You know, people keep saying we ought to hang coats on Shylock’s arm…’

‘But we’re sure Edmund wouldn’t like it,’ said Bartlemas, appearing from nowhere in a shiny apron with an advertisement for ‘Camp Coffee’ on it.

‘No, he wouldn’t. The party was really Bartlemas’ idea…’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that, O’Rourke. Let’s say we arrived at the idea mutually…’

‘Yes, let’s. Nearly everyone’s here. Do go through. Bartlemas, do you want a little succour with your vinaigrette?’

‘Wouldn’t say no, O’Rourke. Excuse us. Titivating the goodies. Do go through…’

‘Just toddle through…’ They vanished in a shimmer of saxe-blue silk shirts.

The sitting-room had two walls devoted to prints of Edmund in all his greatest roles, and the other two to William. Between them, sitting with drinks, were Joanne Menzies and Gerald Venables. Gerald rose to greet Charles in typical style. ‘Hello, old boy. What’s the budget going to do to your savings then?’

‘I haven’t got any.’

‘Wise feller.’ Charles greeted Joanne and helped himself to a large Scotch. Gerald continued. ‘Do you realise, Charles, that if these Labour Johnnies go and slap on this gift tax they’re talking about, crimes like young Nigel Steen’s won’t be worth committing.’

‘His wasn’t worth committing anyway, as it turned out.’

‘No. Fascinating, though, from the legal point of view. Do let me in on any more of your detective work, won’t you, Charles?’

‘There won’t be any more, Sherlock Holmes.’

‘Oh, I’m sure there will. How’s the arm?’

‘Healed up long ago. A nice scar though.’

‘And a good story to go with it.’

The conversation drifted. Joanne talked about her new job in a concert agency. Bartlemas and O’Rourke came in and talked about the first night of Gielgud’s Prospero (‘Doing it again, dear’) at the National. Charles felt detached and rather sad. A little parcel had arrived through the post that morning from the old people’s home at Tower Hamlets. Harry Chiltern had died, and asked that all his possessions be sent to Charles. It was depressing to think that he was the closest friend that the old man had, and it stirred all the usual guilt feelings-should have gone to see him more often, and so on. The package contained a watch, a silver cigarette case, a Ronson lighter and Stanley Matthews’ Book of Football.

It suited Charles’ melancholy mood well. Nothing much seemed to be happening. He had finished shooting the rescheduled scenes of The Zombie Walks without meeting Felicity again. (However, the episode was not without profit, since the film company had paid very substantial compensation for his ‘accident’.) He was now involved in a dreary radio serial, which was driving him slowly mad with boredom. Life went on, at its usual alcoholic level.

A ring at the doorbell announced the late arrival of Jacqui, blonde again and resplendently pregnant in a long red and white flowered dress. It was so far from her usual style that Charles thought she must have undergone some violent change of personality. She greeted him slightly gushingly, and that again struck a false note.

The reason for the change soon became apparent. Given Jacqui’s simple character, it could only be a man. Her escort followed her into the sitting-room. It was Bernard Walton.

‘Hello, Charles. Dear boy. Joanne, darling. Hello, all you lovely people. Haven’t met you, have I, sir, but I’m sure we’ll get on. Tell you what, Jacqui and I were thinking of tootling on to the midnight matinee at the Parthenon after this lot. It’s a charity thing-something to do with April Fools’ Day. Perhaps that means it’s raising money for a looney bin. Whole thing will probably be a ghastly no-no, but everyone will be there. What do you all say to the idea?’