seventeen

The hall was packed to capacity. Rex took a seat with Helen in the last row of chairs, while the two detectives stood at the back, trying unsuccessfully to appear unobtrusive. Antonescu looked more like a bodyguard than a policeman, his obsidian eyes glowering beneath jet-black brows and taking everything in, his facial muscles set in stone. The bereaved family members occupied the front row, along with the cast and crew. Ada Card had saved a place for Penny, waving to her in agitation as the playwright had entered the hall.

A female soprano’s voice filled the hall. Sarah Brightman’s, according to the reverse side of the gilt-edged memory card in Rex’s hand, distributed at the doors. The front showed a thumbnail photo of Cassie, the narrow dates of her birth and death, and a poetical epitaph, which he did not recognize. In front of the stage to the left, a white garland of lilies and roses was displayed beneath a blown-up publicity shot of the deceased girl, smiling amid her wavy, reddish-gold locks. Next to it, wooden pallets had been set side by side, on which stood a lectern fitted with a microphone.

Ron Wade, a pale redhead with a large, flaccid build, had assumed the role of master of ceremonies. He opened his remarks by reflecting that Cassie would not have wanted this day to be a sad remembrance of her, but rather a coming together of those she held dearest, and her profound wish would have been to inspire everyone present to reach for their dreams. Sobs arose from among the attendees. He added that he, for his part, had found her to be an indispensable asset in Peril at Pinegrove Hall, where she had proved to be a selfless team player. Rex inwardly groaned; Ron Wade sounded as though he were in one of his sales meetings. He then announced that Cassie’s aunt, Belinda Stokes, would now come up and speak.

A trim woman with a youthful face and silvery hair to the shoulders of her loose-fitting, dark purple dress approached the platform and took Ron’s place behind the lectern, adjusting the mic stand to her shorter stature. In a steady voice, she talked about her niece’s talent, her devotion to her disabled mother, and her cheerful and giving nature.

One by one, friends, coworkers, and fellow actors followed to further praise Cassie’s optimistic disposition and generous soul, and to cite anecdotes. It transpired that she had volunteered at an animal shelter before her mother was diagnosed with MS, and had donated buns and loaves of bread to the homeless from the Ceres Bakery she managed.

Bowing over the mic in a narrow black suit that accentuated his spindly height, Christopher Ells, the butler in the play, mumbled a few words, most of which Rex could not hear from the back of the hall. In the intervening distance, his face appeared as a blank canvas punctuated by two dark holes and crowned with a mop of grey hair.

Trey Atkins went up next with Ada Card and blurted out how Cassie had been the light of his life. He got no further, his voice breaking down in despair. Ada smoothly took over and said Cassie would be sorely missed by all who knew her. She was an absolute angel and would look down on them all from heaven. Ben Higgins, dressed in a white shirt and pressed trousers for the occasion, characterized the actress as “a delightful girl and a kind spirit, who never had a harsh word to say about anybody.”

Rex knew the detectives would be watching carefully as the cast and crew of Peril at Pinegrove Hall gave their speeches. Rodney Snyder went up to the mic and relayed what a joy and privilege it had been to work with Cassie, and then Penny took her turn, tearfully conveying how the young actress had brought her play to life; an unfortunate turn of phrase under the circumstances, Rex thought as he contemplated the deceased’s picture looming beside her. Bobbi Shaw, he noted, was conspicuous by her absence. All the other actors in the play, save Tony, sitting beside Penny with his head bowed, had stepped onto the podium and expressed their sentiments.

Poems were recited, including the first four stanzas of Tennyson’s The Lady of Shalott, which drew more sobs, but whose significance other than the description of a peaceful pastoral setting was lost on Rex. He remembered best from school the third part of the ballad concerning a mirror cracking from side to side and the curse that is brought about after the sequestered maiden first beholds Sir Lancelot upon his fine steed.

“Time to Say Goodbye,” a Sarah Brightman duet with Italian tenor Andrea Bocelli, began to play from the speakers. Ron Wade returned to the makeshift podium to wrap up the service and announced that refreshments would be available at the back of the hall. Rex went to avail himself and Helen of a cup of tea, served from a commercial-size metal urn.

As he was returning to their seats, Cassie’s aunt wheeled the deceased’s weeping mother out through the doors. A handsome redhead, it was clear even in her sitting position that she was tall like her daughter. Evidently, she had not found the strength to speak at the service. Around the hall, groupings of mourners talked in subdued voices.

“Hello, Mr. Snyder.” Rex addressed the florist passing in the aisle. “That was a nice eulogy you gave.”

“Mr. Graves. Homing in on the killer yet? I heard the police were leaning more towards murder now.”

Rex wondered where the man had come by that information. The manner of Cassie’s death was still open, as reported by Inspector Fiske. “Any ideas yourself ?”

“Someone with a flair for the dramatic,” Rodney Snyder replied. “Anyone connected with the play, in fact. I’d be looking at a Shakespearean motive for murder, myself. Jealousy, perhaps.” He turned towards the blown-up photo of Cassie at the front of the hall. “She had youth, beauty, and talent. And Trey.” He tapped the side of his nose twice. “Cherchez la femme,” he whispered theatrically, and with an ironic smile went to join Andrew Forsythe, who was attired in a three-piece, dove-grey suit and leaning nonchalantly on his antique cane.

“A bit of a character, that one,” Inspector Fiske said, joining Rex and gazing after Snyder. “But then, these people take their craft very seriously, and you never know if they’re acting or not.”

“Mr. Forsythe is a case in point,” Rex agreed. “I think he believes he is indeed Peter Wimsey.”

“Did Lord Peter ever actually shoot anyone?”

“I’m not the person to ask. But Rodney Snyder suggested we look for a woman.”

“Did he now … Based on what?”

“He didn’t say. He just seems to think jealousy was a motive. Incidentally, did you find blood on the purple corduroys?”

“We did, but we don’t know whose yet.”

“I noticed a pair of glasses in the dressing room cubicle Susan Richardson used, and which she said didn’t belong to her. I got the impression from what she told me that they weren’t there when she changed into her costume.”

“No one claimed them. We took them in for analysis. They’re non-prescription, so probably come from the theatre props.” Fiske turned to the back wall, where Trey sat hunched over his memory card, one hand shielding his face, an untouched cup of tea on the chair beside him. “Could that young man inspire the sort of passion to kill oneself over? Seems to me to be a bit lacking in the backbone department.”

“Possibly,” Rex said, thinking it would be better to have had murder confirmed outright. Then the police could focus on finding the killer.

“I was hoping we’d hear a few more words from him, but apparently, he was too overwhelmed by grief. Even Ells managed a short speech, and he’s been the most reticent of the witnesses. Right, well, us cops don’t want to outstay our welcome. Perhaps you’ll hear something useful, if you haven’t already?”

“Not sure how useful yet, but I’ll let you know if something comes of it.”

Fiske nodded his appreciation and signalled to his sergeant that it was time to leave by pointing to the exit. Rex, still holding his two cups of tea, went in search of Helen and found her with Penny.

“It’s probably tepid by now,” he apologized, handing Helen her tea and offering Penny his, which she accepted.

“I saw you got waylaid by Mike,” Helen said.

“He took off. Did you speak to him?”

“Just briefly. He thanked me for lunch yesterday.”

Penny told Rex she had not had the opportunity to tell the inspector about Timothy arriving so early on Friday, but would call him when she got home. Rex asked if she knew why Bobbi Shaw hadn’t attended the service.

“Paul said she had a sore throat and had to stay at home in case it was contagious.”

“That’s a shame. How did your killer in the play interact with Cassie?”

“She acted like a big galumphing puppy around her. Bobbi liked to horse about. It provided some light relief at rehearsals, especially when Lady Naomi’s ghost places the footstool in front of her to force her character to reveal the jewels. For the actual performance, it was a challenge not to have the tripping-up scene look too comedic and slapstick.” Penny gave him a pointed look. “Why do you ask?”

“I wondered if anybody might have been jealous enough to—”

“Mind if I butt in?”

“Mr. Caldwell, isn’t it?” Rex addressed the short newcomer.

The actor was almost unrecognizable as Poirot, and certainly didn’t sound like the Belgian detective, being from Derbyshire. “Lovely service, Penny,” he praised her.

“Thank you, but I had a lot of help.”

“Do you know what the Tennyson reference was about?” Rex asked them. “I’m afraid it was a bit lost on me.”

“Cassie first acted with Trey in a rendering of The Lady of Shalott, where they played the leads,” Dennis Caldwell explained. “The girl who read the opening verses was Cassie’s understudy. I played one of the guards. We were all dressed in medieval costume.”

“It was very movingly read by that young woman,” Helen remarked, looking in the direction of a brunette holding a chubby baby and talking to two men of her age.

Caldwell nodded. “It certainly put a lump in my throat.”

“You are very active in community theatre, Mr. Caldwell?” Rex enquired.

“It’s a good way to make contacts. I’m in the insurance business.” He produced a card from his suit jacket. “I insured Cassie, as a matter of fact. Stroke of luck, really, for her mum.”

“I’m not sure I would put it quite that way,” Rex objected mildly.

“Well, obviously. But one has to be pragmatic in my line of work. I had put it to Mrs. Chase that, as her daughter was her primary caregiver, it might be prudent to take out a policy, just in case. So now, at least, Mum gets a substantial enough sum to retain the services of a nurse’s aide. And double the amount if Cassie’s death is ruled accidental or foul play,” Caldwell added in a self-congratulatory tone, while Helen and Penny quietly excused themselves and slipped away towards the refreshments. “It’s too much work for Cassie’s aunt to take on, on her own.”

“I imagine it is,” Rex agreed, his heart going out to Mrs. Chase, forced to deal with such practicalities before her daughter was even buried. “And in the event of suicide?”

“No payout. But I doubt it was suicide. Do you have any children, Mr. Graves?”

“A son, grown.”

“Any kids on your new wife’s side?”

“No,” Rex said with a sad shake of his head, knowing how much Helen regretted not having children of her own, and how much she would miss her favourites at her old school.

“Life is unpredictable,” the insurance salesman opined with a sigh. “Always best to prepare for the worst, I tell my clients. I have a dentist who contracted MS. Can’t practise since his hands started trembling, but he had the foresight to insure against misfortune, and now he can still enjoy good quality of life.”

“Ehm, I hear you,” Rex said vaguely, casting about for an exit strategy. He felt sure Dennis Caldwell would try to sell him a policy. At that moment, Paul Reddit came unwittingly or intentionally to his aid.

“Sorry to hear your niece got taken ill,” Rex said, sorry, too, not to be able to speak with her.

“Bobbi is rather susceptible to sore throats. Not a good thing for an actress. She looks as strong as an ox, but there we are. It’s due to stress, I think. Hur-rum. It was a very nice service, don’t you agree, Dennis?” The solicitor addressed Caldwell. “A fitting tribute to Cassie.”

“Mr. Caldwell was telling me that she and Trey first met on the set of The Lady of Shalott,” Rex offered.

“Not sure they hadn’t met before.” Dennis Caldwell was quick to correct Rex. “But first time acting together. Susan Richardson was his leading lady in a previous production.”

“That’s right,” Reddit stated. “Susan played opposite him in a musical production of Goodbye, Mrs. Robinson. Early last year, wasn’t it?”

“She was very convincing as a cougar. She’s forty-five,” Caldwell murmured conspiratorially, “but looks amazingly good for her age. Trey is twenty-six or twenty-seven. I heard she came on to him at rehearsals. The poor lad was too polite to rebuff her advances too brusquely. Then, at the cast party everyone got a bit tipsy, and Susan made a fool of herself, bursting into tears because the show was over.”

Reddit glanced at Rex. “Theatre gossip,” he muttered disapprovingly.

Rex rather relished gossip when a murder might be involved. “But Trey and Cassie were not going out at that point?”

“So you know about that, do you?” Caldwell asked, raising one of his almost non-existent eyebrows, which had been shaved off and pencilled in for his role as Poirot. “No, Cassie was seeing someone else in theatre. Peril at Pinegrove Hall is what brought her and Trey closer together, by all accounts.”

“By whose accounts?” Reddit contested. “More gossip and rumour,” he told Rex, who turned back to Caldwell.

“Any tension when Trey and Susan found themselves in another production together?” he asked.

“None that I noticed, but I didn’t hear about Susan’s crush on Trey until this weekend.”

“When everyone has been speculating as to motive in the case,” Rex said, nodding his head thoughtfully and wondering if Susan Richardson was “the woman” whom Snyder had been alluding to a short while ago.

The only other women in the play were Ada Card and Paul Reddit’s niece, neither of whom were serious contenders for Trey’s romantic affection, one too old, the other apparently not interested in men. However, could Bobbi have been interested in Cassie, as indicated by the immature behaviour Penny had described? Only, she wasn’t available for comment.

Her uncle had moved away to shake someone’s hand and exchange sober words about the service, and Rex left Dennis Caldwell to get himself some tea. Just then he spotted Susan, her tall frame clothed in a bottle-green chiffon dress, her dark hair, minus grey streaks, coiled down her bare back. A striking woman, he had reflected upon watching her on the podium. He could not remember much of what she had said; by the time her turn had come, all the words spoken about Cassie had begun to blur. She was now in the company of a balding, strapping man of middle years, whom Rex took to be her husband, and a girl in her late teens, presumably the daughter who attended Oakleaf Comprehensive.

Rex noted that Susan Richardson and Penny Spencer were not dissimilar in terms of age and looks, both dressed with understated elegance. The French teacher stood in a small group by the opulent wreath of white flowers, Tony by her side.

“A Penny for them,” Helen said with emphasis on the name, approaching him and following his gaze.

“I was thinking how alike she and Susan are.”

“In appearance, maybe, but Penny is a single working woman and Susan is a mother of three.”

“What does her husband do?”

“He owns a glass manufacturing business. Custom windows, I think. He travels a lot, she told me. What do you have percolating in that head of yours, Rex?”

He smiled at her amused expression. “Excuse my execrable accent, but cherchez la femme does mean ‘look for the woman,’ correct?”

“Literally, yes. Why?”

“It was something Rodney Snyder said.”

“That man is a bit of a snake,” Helen remarked under her breath, glancing in his direction. “I was complimenting him on his beautiful wreath and he started plying me for information about your investigative methods.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I said your methods were inscrutable.”

“Ah, excuse me one moment,” Rex said, having spied Timothy Holden across the hall.

“Where are you going now?”

“Chercher la bicyclette,” he answered enigmatically as he sought his next suspect.