“I don’t ever want to do that again,” Jayne said once we were back in the Miata and driving sedately toward town.
“You didn’t do anything,” I said, “but stand in a lovely patch of woods on a pleasant evening.”
“The tension alone was enough to kill me. I wonder if it’s too late to call Eddie and tell him I’ve finished the work I had to catch up on.”
“It’s too late.”
“It’s not even eight o’clock. Where are we going anyway? This isn’t the road to my place.”
“Take off those clothes I gave you.” I pulled into a parking lot.
“Gladly. What are we doing at McGillivray’s?”
“Gerald has some explaining to do. Fortunately, I know where he is.” I parked the car, took off my jumper, and tossed it and most of the contents of my pockets into the back. I got my handbag—a cute little red leather number—out of the boot of the car and put on a pair of giant gold hoop earrings. Black trousers, gray T-shirt, red bag, and gold jewelry. Perfect for a pub evening.
Jayne shook her head.
Uncle Arthur, who is exceptionally well-traveled, tells me he’s never been to a country that doesn’t have an Irish pub. Some towns barely have any people, but they all seem to have the need for an imitation Irish pub.
McGillivray’s is the West London version. Just like being back home. Except that you don’t have to line up at the bar to get served. I like that.
On a Sunday night, the place was half-empty. The sign on the door informed us that a troupe of Irish balladeers playing “Traditional Songs From the Old Country” would be performing at nine. I hoped we’d be finished by then.
Gerald had taken a booth and sat hunched over a pint of dark ale. The glass was almost full, and I assumed it wasn’t his first.
He wasn’t alone. That had not been part of my plan.
Irene Talbot looked up as we approached. A bottle of beer, as well as a digital recorder and notepad, was on the table. “Hey, it’s the dynamic duo.”
“What do you mean by that?” Jayne said. “We don’t go around doing strange things, you know. I’ve been at home . . . all evening . . . I . . .”
I tripped over a loose floorboard and “accidentally” jabbed her in the ribs. “Jayne’s had a long day. Those strawberry tarts don’t bake themselves. Mind if we join you?”
“Hardly,” Gerald said, “considering that I’m here because you suggested it. How’s your car?”
“Fine. A stupid little thing. I ran out of petrol.” I tittered. “Silly me.”
Irene threw me look. I squeezed onto the bench beside her, leaving the seat next to Gerald for Jayne.
“What can I get you?” the waitress asked, laying beer mats on the table in front of us. She wore a black T-shirt and a short red-checked kilt. The first time I’d been in here, I’d told the waitress the kilt was traditionally worn in Scotland, not Ireland. She’d replied, “What’s a kilt?” I could have also pointed out that it was not worn that short, and never by women, but I decided to save my breath.
“I’ll have a glass of white wine,” Jayne said.
“Tomato juice, thanks,” I said. “You do know, Gerald, that this woman, as nice as she is, is a reporter.”
“I’m not exactly undercover here, Gemma.” Irene indicated her recording equipment.
“Just making sure.”
“I’m happy to talk to the press,” Gerald said. “Sir Nigel deserves to be remembered. He was a giant of English theater, as well as a kind and generous man.” He sniffled and buried his nose in his beer.
“Have you worked for him long?” I asked.
“Ten years. Not nearly long enough.” He wiped his dry eyes. Gerald might move in the theater world, but he was a heck of a lousy actor.
“Know of any reason anyone would want to kill him?” I asked.
“Gee,” Irene whispered to Jayne, “even I was going to approach that question obliquely.”
Gerald shook his head. “Everyone loved him. I was telling this lady about the charitable foundation he was setting up in London. ‘The Play’s the Thing,’ he called it. It would give poor children an exposure to theater in a playful yet educational environment.” I made a mental note to look up this charity. I’d bet my last copy of The Sign of the Four, narrated and signed by the late Sir Nigel Bellingham, that if the charity existed, it was just a shell, an attempt to restore some of Nigel’s rapidly fading status among his peers. Said peers would be asked to give generously.
“That’s so nice,” Jayne said.
“Was he murdered?” Irene said. “The police are being noncommittal. They haven’t come out and said they’re investigating it as a homicide, but Ashburton and Estrada have been questioning everyone who was there.”
“What do you think happened, Gerald?” I asked.
“A tragic accident. He wandered too close to the cliff. Lost his footing, perhaps. He wasn’t a young man.” Gerald hastened to add, “Although he was in perfect health. More than capable of putting on a regular series of performances.”
“If you say so.” I wondered why Gerald was lying. Was he trying to protect Nigel’s reputation out of a sense of loyalty? Perhaps. He’d been close to the man for ten years, although Nigel hadn’t been at all nice to him. Some people lied simply for the sake of it. And there was that “not speaking ill of the dead” thing. But Gerald didn’t look to me like the sort who’d let a little thing like that stop him.
Was he lying because he’d killed Nigel? He’d have no trouble getting close enough to push the man off the cliff. I thought about the stale sandwich and the pastry crumbs. If he stole food, what else might he have nicked? A Sherlock coloring book?
Was Gerald, not Nigel, the thief? Had Nigel discovered that his PA had sticky fingers and blackmailed the man? They had adjacent hotel rooms, and the door was unlocked. Had Nigel discovered the stolen goods in Gerald’s room and taken them as evidence?
Blackmail was a powerful motive for murder.
“Sir Nigel had been married four times,” Irene was saying. “I don’t suppose any of his ex-wives were out for revenge.”
“Out of the question,” Gerald said. “They might have been divorced, but he got on extremely well with all of them. They remained great friends.”
“That’s not what I read in the gossip columns,” Irene said. “That incident in the National Gallery got a lot of press in the UK.”
“Malicious gossip,” Gerald said. “Gross exaggeration. Miss Fotheringham got her heel caught in the carpet, that’s all. I thought you were a respectable reporter with a respectable newspaper. If that is not the case, then this interview is over.” Rather than leaping dramatically to his feet and storming out, Gerald took another mouthful of beer.
“If any of Nigel’s ex-wives had been at the tea party,” Jayne said, “they would have been noticed.”
“I have several publicity pictures of Sir Nigel on the computer in my hotel room,” Gerald said. “I’ll send you some, and you can select the ones you want to use. Perhaps one as he appeared in Roman Wars would be a good choice. Remind your readers that he had a successful screen career, as well as in theater.”
“Didn’t he hate Roman Wars?” Jayne said. “Do you think he’d want that being his obituary picture?”
Gerald hid a grin. Oh, yes, I thought, Gerald will get his revenge in his own way. Revenge for what was the question. For being an unkind employer or for being a blackmailer?
“I suppose you have no reason to stay on in West London,” Jayne said. “You worked for Nigel directly, right? Not the theater company?”
“As charming as your delightful little town is,” Gerald said, “I would love nothing more than to be on my way. Your overzealous police have told me I’m not to leave.”
“Then they must be thinking it’s a murder. Don’t you agree, Gemma?” Jayne said.
“Not necessarily,” Irene said. “They like to keep all their options open.”
“Let me assure you, I didn’t kill him,” Gerald said. “I don’t know anything more about it than anyone else. I told them that.” He finished his beer and raised his hand to summon the waitress to bring him another.
The troupe of “Irish balladeers” arrived and began setting up their equipment. As they talked among themselves, I caught not the merest suggestion of a brogue. They were as Irish as the waitresses’ kilts.