Sam’s bedsitter was above a dairy not far from Hammersmith Broadway. Patrick had expected to find it locked, but a police sergeant was there, being harangued by a middle-aged blonde in a tight red sweater and mock lizard boots.
‘It’s not as if there’ll be rent coming in,’ she said. ‘I’ve my living to think of.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Hulbert. I can’t let you take it over yet,’ said the sergeant. ‘You won’t be the loser, though, I’m sure. He owed nothing, you said.’
‘No. Paid to the end of the month,’ the woman grudgingly admitted.
‘Well, then. It’s not mid-month yet. You’ll have plenty of time,’ said the policeman.
Muttering about the need to clean up before finding a new tenant, the woman went away, casting a suspicious glance at Patrick as he stood on the landing.
‘She thinks I’m another copper,’ he remarked, entering the room. ‘My name’s Grant. I knew Sam Irwin.’
‘Oh yes, sir.’ The policeman, who was sorting through a pile of papers, looked at him sharply. ‘Can you be of any help to us?’
‘I fear not. I hadn’t seen him for some time,’ said Patrick. ‘And I’ve only just heard about this.’
He looked round the room. It was large, with two long windows overlooking the street. There were a great many books in a case running along one wall, and an expensive high-fidelity record player, with speakers at either side of the room.
‘He was quite a reader,’ said the sergeant.
‘He’d been a schoolmaster,’ Patrick remembered. ‘History – that was his subject. Yes.’ It was confirmed as he studied the titles on the shelves; H. A. L. Fisher was well represented. There were also a number of books about musicians: biographies of composers and performers, and the librettos of some operas. Patrick took out Falstaff and looked at it curiously.
‘Was he, sir? Where did he teach?’ asked the sergeant.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ said Patrick.
‘Let’s sit down, sir, shall we?’ The sergeant pulled up a chair and took out his notebook. ‘Maybe you can fill in a few gaps for us, concerning the deceased.’
‘What? Oh, very well.’ Patrick, who had briefly forgotten why he was here because he had been so surprised to find himself reading what seemed to be The Merry Wives of Windsor couched in romantic Italian, put the book hastily back and sat down on the sofa, a loose-cushioned, comfortable one, but shabby. ‘Had he lived here long?’ he asked the sergeant.
‘Two years. Didn’t you know?’
‘No. The last time I saw him was in Oxford about a year ago – he was on tour with a play. I never knew his home address,’ said Patrick.
‘Your full name and address, sir, please,’ said the sergeant, becoming formal and Patrick supplied it.
‘St Mark’s College, Oxford? Then it was you who helped Detective Inspector Smithers with that Greek art job,’ said the sergeant.
‘You could put it that way,’ agreed Patrick wryly. ‘But how do you know about it? You’re not from Scotland Yard, are you?’
‘No, sir. I have my contacts,’ said the other impressively. ‘Bruce, my name is, sir. I suppose it was through Detective Inspector Smithers that you knew where to come today, as you didn’t know the home address of the deceased.’
‘Quite right,’ said Patrick, who was still taking in the details of Sam’s room.
‘Not very luxurious, is it, sir?’ remarked the sergeant. ‘But these actors – up one minute and down the next. I’d never heard of him – not by name, that is – but I’d seen him on telly. That pays well, I think.’
‘I imagine so. But unless you’re in a series, it’s not very steady,’ said Patrick. ‘He wasn’t well known – he just never quite made it. But he was a very good actor.’
‘Fond of music.’ The sergeant waved a hand at the equipment and pointed to a long row of records.
‘He was a cultivated man,’ said Patrick. It was dreadful to be talking about Sam in the past tense like this.
‘We’re having a problem finding out about friends,’ said Sergeant Bruce.
‘Can’t they help you at the theatre?’
‘Not really. No one saw him much away from there – he used to vanish after performances, it seems. But no one had any harsh words to say about him.’
‘I’m not surprised. He was far from harsh himself – he wouldn’t provoke a harsh reaction in others,’ said Patrick. ‘He was a quiet, self-contained man, not at all like one’s notion of an actor, performing both on and off the stage. What was he going to do when the season ended at the Fantasy? It has only a short time to run, I think.’
‘Oh—has it? I didn’t know about that,’ said Bruce, making a note. “The superintendent may, of course.’
So a superintendent was paying attention to this case: well, that was routine, no doubt.
‘What do you think happened?’ Patrick asked. He had better keep quiet about what he already knew, since perhaps Colin should not have told him.
‘Looks like suicide, on the face of things,’ said Bruce.
‘You’re taking a lot of trouble, then.’
‘There are some puzzling features,’ said Bruce. ‘Do you know if the deceased could swim?’
‘I’ve not the faintest idea, but I’d imagine so. Can’t most people, after a fashion?’
‘Not at all. You’d be surprised how many can’t,’ said Bruce. ‘Particularly older people. Most kids get a chance to learn these days.’
‘Hm.’ How old was an older person?
‘Perhaps you’d tell me how you met the deceased?’ prompted Bruce.
‘Oh, it was in Austria, about four years ago,’ said Patrick. ‘In a little place called Greutz. The village got cut off by avalanches from the rest of the world. We both happened to be staying there at the time.’
‘Ah yes. Not much you can do, cut off like that, is there?’ said Bruce.
‘Not a lot, no,’ agreed Patrick. But the experience had been far from uneventful. Sam, at the time, had shown unexpected resource by playing the piano for dancing when a power failure had put the discotheque out of action. ‘Why should he commit suicide?’ he asked now. ‘Were there bills all over the place? He seems to have been well ahead with the rent.’
‘No. There’s no sign of any serious debts,’ said the sergeant. ‘But this isn’t much of a place.’
‘Is there just this one room?’
‘Yes. He shared a bathroom on the landing below with two other tenants. No proper cooking facilities either – only that ring in the grate.’ The sergeant indicated a gas ring on the hearth. Then he got up and opened a cupboard. ‘He kept his stores here.’
Patrick saw sugar, a jar of instant coffee, a tin of soup, a packet of Earl Grey tea and one or two oddments. It was not unlike his own small store at St Mark’s.
‘I expect he ate out most of the time. He wouldn’t want to cook after the performance,’ he said. ‘And then he was away on tour quite often. Keeping a better place might have been uneconomical.’
‘Maybe he toured to get away from it.’
‘He toured because he took what work was offered, you’ll find,’ said Patrick. ‘It’s all clean and well kept.’
The walls were painted grey, and the curtains were a faded jade colour; an elephant-coloured haircord covered the floor, with a worn rug on it in front of the fireplace. The decor seemed more likely to be Sam’s choice than that of his gaudy landlady.
‘It’s drab,’ said the sergeant. ‘Not artistic.’
‘You’re disappointed because he was an actor and didn’t live in a Habitat setting, Sergeant Bruce,’ said Patrick. ‘It’s anonymous, certainly, but Sam was like that; he was quiet, fading into the background. He took colour from the parts he played and then came to life.’ Was that the only time? Had Sam lived only vicariously through his acting? ‘Have you found any photographs?’ Patrick asked.
‘No, not one. There’s no sign of a girlfriend – or a boyfriend, come to that,’ said Bruce.
‘If there is anyone they’ll show up soon, won’t they?’ Patrick suggested. ‘Weeping, and what-not?’
‘I would expect so. If you think of anyone – or of anything else that might be helpful – will you get in touch with me at the station?’ said Bruce. ‘I’ll give you the number to ring.’
‘Of course I will, sergeant.’
Sergeant Bruce opened a drawer in a small cabinet and took from it a bottle of capsules, blue bullets, instantly recognisable.
‘You know what these are, don’t you, sir?’
‘Indeed yes. Sodium amytal.’
‘Right. If I’d these, and wanted to commit suicide, I’d take the lot, not jump in the river. Wouldn’t you?’
‘Er—yes. Yes, I suppose I would.’ The question was a difficult one for Patrick to answer; though he often found life disappointing, he had never seriously thought of denying its challenge. ‘Perhaps he didn’t intend to commit suicide,’ he said.
‘Exactly, sir.’
Patrick had better not mention the marks on Sam’s wrists, or the fibres under his nails.
‘An accident, you mean?’ he said.
‘A gesture – a cry for help,’ said Sergeant Bruce reflectively.
If he thought that, then he was ignoring the marks and the fibres too.
‘Not just before a performance,’ said Patrick. ‘He was too professional. I know what you mean – I’ve seen it in Oxford, more than once. But Irwin would have waited until the play’s run ended.’ And he would not succumb to an attack of nerves at the end of a run, surely: the start, when he was perhaps unsure of his own ability, would be a more likely time. Besides, he would never have contrived the binding of his own wrists and ankles in a bid for help and sympathy. No, he’d snap completely, or not at all. ‘Well, I’ll let you get on,’ Patrick added. ‘I’m sure you’ll soon get to the bottom of it, sergeant. We’ll meet again, I hope.’
‘I hope so, sir, I’m sure,’ said Bruce.
‘Oh—and give my regards to Inspector Smithers, if you’re in contact with him again,’ Patrick said blithely. Let Colin sweat, wondering what he had revealed of his privileged knowledge. Sergeant Bruce had been very forthcoming, on account, no doubt, of the fact that he had heard of Patrick before. But why did Colin know so much about the case himself when it was not a Yard matter?