HE WAS LUCKY. The violence of his vomiting saved him from worse harm, flushing his body out as effectively as a stomach pump.
But it left him drained and feeble, slumped on the pavement. He was glad the good burghers of Great Wensham kept sober hours. They would not welcome dust- and puke-covered strangers littering their tidy streets.
The desk sergeant at the police station to which he staggered wasn’t very welcoming either. The sight of a dust- and puke-covered stranger presenting him with a half-bottle of Bell’s, a jar of powder and some garbled story about a serial poisoner brought out his highest level of scepticism.
And DI Dewar, the bored-looking detective to whom Charles was passed over, looked equally disbelieving.
‘So let me get this right, Mr . . . Parrish was it?’
‘Paris.’
‘Paris, then. You are saying that the contents of this bottle have been adulterated with some fungoid poison?’
‘So I believe.’
‘And that it was done deliberately by someone trying to kill you?’
‘Yes.’
‘When would they have had the opportunity to put the poison in the bottle?’
‘It was in my jacket pocket hanging in the dressing room right through the performance.’
‘And you weren’t there all the time?’
‘No, I was acting, for heaven’s sake.’ Surely that’d be obvious even to someone who didn’t know anything about the theatre.
The detective gave him a look that suggested raising his voice hadn’t been a good idea. Charles didn’t care that much what the detective thought. He felt ill and weak; all he wanted to do was crawl into a warm bed.
The detective tapped his pencil on the desk tetchily. ‘You implied you had an idea who this person who’s trying to kill you might be . . .?’
Charles gave an ambivalent shrug.
‘But you’re not going to share your suspicions with me?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
A good question, and yet Charles didn’t yet feel certain enough to point a finger at Tottie Roundwood. In spite of the chain of logic he had worked out, she might still somehow prove to be innocent, and it can prove tricky to mend fences with someone you’ve accused of murder.
No, it would be better to go one step at a time – first get the whisky tested for the poison, then look for the culprit.
‘I’m not absolutely sure who it is,’ Charles replied evasively.
‘You mean there are a lot of people it could be?’
‘Well . . .’
The detective had his little joke. ‘Have a habit of making yourself unpopular with your workmates, do you, Mr Parrish?’
‘Look, I’m sure there is something criminal going on. And I think it’s related to Sally Luther’s death.’
‘Really?’ Now he had got the detective’s attention. ‘That case is currently under investigation, Mr Parrish.’
‘You mean you’ve got proof that she was poisoned too?’
But Charles’s eagerness was quickly slapped down. ‘Listen, if you think I’m about to give you information on the state of an investigation, then you have a very false idea of how we in the police force go about our business. Miss Luther’s death was unexpected, so a post-mortem was required. We will be kept informed of any developments that may concern us.’
And that was all the detective would give. His attitude remained wary. There was a strong chance he was dealing with a crank. He had an instinctive distrust of theatre people, which Charles’s appearance and unlikely story had done little to dispel.
DI Dewar did grudgingly say, however, that he’d arrange for the contents of the bottle and jar to be analysed. He took the address of Charles’s digs, confirmed how long the company was going to be in Great Wensham, and said he’d be in touch.
Charles felt so weak he called a cab to take him back to his digs. When he got there, he lay on the bed in his clothes and instantly passed out.
He stayed in the following morning. For one thing, he was still feeling very battered after the poisoning. His throat burned and his stomach muscles felt as though they had been pulled inside out.
He was also not keen to get back among the Twelfth Night company until he had to. Whoever had poisoned the whisky – and he was assuming it had been Tottie Roundwood – was going to realise that he had escaped, and might well be moved to make another attempt on his life.
And he was hoping to hear something from the police before he had to go out to Chailey Ferrars for the evening’s performance. Once the poison in the whisky had been identified, then the whole machinery of official criminal investigation could be set in motion, and Charles Paris would cease to be under threat.
He tried to read a book, and toyed with the crossword, but his thoughts kept slipping past the words. He wanted to talk to someone. Frances. But he didn’t feel up to the inevitable recriminations such a call would involve.
He couldn’t concentrate; he kept coming back to Tottie Roundwood. How much of what had happened had she planned? Had she known from the start that Alexandru wanted to direct Twelfth Night with Russ Lavery playing the double role, or had the elements of her plan come together piecemeal? How had she got into the company in the first place?
Well, that at least was a question he could get answered. And it would give him something to do. He went to the phone and dialled Gavin Scholes’ number.
The new wife answered. In an appropriately hushed voice, she said, ‘Yes, I’m sure he’d like to talk to you. But not for too long. Be careful you don’t tire him. Phone for you, Gavin,’ she called out.
Another extension was picked up. ‘Hallo?’
‘Morning, Gavin, it’s Charles Paris.’ Then, unthinking, he asked, ‘How are you?’
‘Not so bad, all things considered,’ the director replied nobly. ‘It’s quite a relief, actually, to have had it confirmed.’
‘Had what confirmed?’
‘Oh, didn’t you know?’ Then, with considerable pride, he announced, ‘I’ve got cancer.’
‘Oh. Gavin. I’m so sorry.’ The condolence came out automatically, but Charles’s mind was already racing with the implications of the news.
‘That’s very kind of you, Charles.’ A great complacency came into Gavin’s voice. ‘I was pretty certain that’s what it was from the start, but my consultant just wasn’t convinced. Goodness, the barrage of tests I’ve been through – you just wouldn’t believe it. I mean, first I had to –
‘Gavin, are you saying that it was cancer you were taken ill with after that day at Chailey Ferrars?’
‘Yes, of course I am. Stomach cancer. That’s what I told my consultant straight away. But would he listen? Now of course he’s very apologetic and says he should have paid more attention to me from the start, and he’s moving heaven and earth to get the radiotherapy under way but . . .’
Charles did not manage to get off the phone for half an hour. For a hypochondriac like Gavin Scholes the diagnosis of a life-threatening disease was a vindication of his entire life. No one could doubt him any more. He really was ill.
In the event, Charles didn’t ask about how Tottie Roundwood had come into the Twelfth Night company. It didn’t seem relevant.
Because if Gavin Scholes had been ill with cancer from the start, then he hadn’t been poisoned at Chailey Ferrars. His inability to continue as director had been purely accidental.
And the logic of the case Charles Paris had been building against Tottie Roundwood totally fell apart.