three

A pair of men in plain clothes entered the hall through the double doors at the back and proceeded down the aisle beside the untidy rows of chairs. Standing at the top of the left set of steps leading to the stage, the elder of the two identified himself as Detective Inspector Mike Fiske from Derby North police. His partner was Detective Sergeant Antonescu.

Without further preamble, DI Fiske informed his silent audience that Cassie Chase had been shot, but by her own hand or someone else’s had yet to be determined. He asked everybody to remain in their seats for just a while longer. Police officers would be making the rounds to take eyewitness accounts, starting with the front row. Everyone’s cooperation would be greatly appreciated, he added. As he was a man of commanding build, it seemed to Rex he was not one to be trifled with lightly.

“Are you Mr. Graves QC?” he asked, approaching. His grey suit was crumpled, his tie askew, and it looked as though he had already had a long day.

“I am.”

“Ron Wade, the play’s producer, put me on to you. He said you might be a good person to talk to in view of your professional and private experience in such cases. And you must have seen anything there was to see from here.” The detective grabbed a spare chair and sat down opposite Rex, his big hands clasped loosely in his lap. “Did you happen to notice anything unusual?”

“Nothing I construed as being unusual at the time,” Rex replied. “I must admit to having nodded off briefly before the final scene. We drove down from Edinburgh early this morning,” he explained by way of excuse. “I saw the young actress standing onstage holding a gun and the silhouette of a dagger in the background. The curtains closed and a scream rang out. A second later, I heard what I took to be a shot, and assumed as did the rest of the audience that it was part of the play until Penny Spencer, who wrote it, told us it wasn’t.”

“Can you describe the shot for me?”

“Certainly. It was a dry report, perhaps with a faint echo from the acoustics onstage, loud enough to make me jump out of my skin, but not as ear-splitting as the scream. But that was supposed to be in the play, I understand. Although I’m led to wonder, in light of what happened, whether the scream was not all too real …”

“Thank you, Mr. Graves.” The inspector produced a spiral notebook from his sagging jacket pocket and scribbled in it with a blue Biro.

“Was Lady Naomi’s gun the one that went off ?” Rex enquired.

Fiske hesitated before replying. “An old Webley service revolver was found on the floor by her right hand, recently fired. Could that have been the gun you saw?”

“Possibly, but I didn’t get a good look. Has Miss Chase’s body been moved yet?”

“Very soon, I imagine. The medical examiner is with her now.”

“Would it be possible for me to take a quick look?” Rex hoped he did not sound too eager. The inspector shook his head, about to speak, but before he could apologise, Rex interjected. “Seeing the scene of the crime, as it came to be, may help jog my memory.”

Inspector Fiske looked at him for a minute as he reconsidered, and then relented with a resigned intake of breath. “Very well, Mr. Graves. Come with me. But I’ll have to ask you to keep to the outer perimeter.”

Helen, who was being questioned on her side, arched an eyebrow at Rex in knowing amusement as he got up from his chair. “I’ve known Penny Spencer for about a year,” she was telling a uniformed officer.

“So, the playwright is known to your lady friend?” Fiske asked as he escorted Rex to the near set of steps leading to the stage, where a constable stood on guard.

“My wife,” Rex corrected, holding up his ring finger. “We were married last weekend.”

“Congratulations. First time?”

“For Helen, aye. Getting back to your question, Ms. Spencer teaches French at Oakleaf Comprehensive where my wife was working until recently as a student counsellor. I’d not met Penny until this evening. She is more of an acquaintance of my wife’s than a friend. At any rate, Helen did not invite her to the wedding, but possibly because, in the end, we decided to cull the guest list to fifty.”

Even then it had been a logistical nightmare, most of the guests having to be put up in hotels near his retreat in the Scottish Highlands, where the reception had been held. Nearly half of them had travelled up from England; his son had flown in from Florida and Helen’s father from Australia.

“A lot of fuss and bother, weddings are,” Fiske pronounced as the constable stepped back to let them pass. “I’ve been through three of my own.”

He swept aside the curtain, and the two men entered the main stage. The area in front of the grey screen was now brightly illuminated by arc lamps, and paper-suited figures were packing up their equipment.

“Should we be putting on shoe covers?” the inspector called out, and was told that the prints had already been taken.

The scene before Rex looked unreal, more unreal even than the enacted one had been. The dead girl in 1930s dress lay crumpled on the wood floor facing into the set, her right arm flung behind her. A numbered evidence marker stood by her hand, which was protected by a transparent bag.

“The gun’s been taken to the lab,” the inspector said, following Rex’s gaze. “No cartridges left in the cylinder. No exit wound, from what I could see.”

Careful to maintain a wide berth, Rex moved around to the far side of the body and peered over at the young woman’s face. Golden-brown eyes stared out from beneath false eyelashes, her lips and cheeks enhanced with stage makeup. She looked like a doll, a pretty doll with smooth waves of red hair spread around her head. Blood had soaked the left side of her white satin blouse and left a sticky patch on the floor. Rex gave an involuntary shudder.

“Shot through the heart,” pronounced a man in a white half-mask holding a thick carrying case in his hand. “There’s sooting and stippling around the entry wound in a perfect starburst pattern, showing the gun was fired at close range.”

“And level,” Rex added.

The man turned to him, unhooking the mask from his right ear. “Excuse me?”

“What you said indicates the gun was not angled when it was shot—if it’s a perfect starburst pattern.”

“Correct.”

“Any other injuries, Doc?” the inspector asked.

“Yes, I was coming to that. There’s a contusion at the back of the head, presumably from when she fell.”

This too suggested to Rex she had been standing. Had it been suicide, he reasoned, the young woman would more likely have been kneeling or sitting on the floor, with the gun in both hands to steady it, especially if she was not used to firearms. Then there was the awkward manoeuvre involved in pointing a gun inwards to one’s heart, even if one was right-handed. More probable, she had been shot by someone standing before her, no more than an arm’s length away. However, Rex kept these observations to himself as he did not want to be seen as overstepping the mark.

“Right, well, I’ll be off,” the medical examiner announced. “I should have more for you by Monday,” he told the inspector. “I’ll let you know then when we can release the body.”

“Thank you.” Fiske turned to Rex as the man left the stage by the back. “The first thing we checked for was any visible blood on anyone who’d been back here, and we’re testing for gun residue on hands and sleeves, including the victim’s.”

“The butler was wearing white gloves,” Rex recalled aloud. “And the lady’s companion, Robin Busket, had on leather riding gloves, and Miss Marple a pair of fingerless lace mittens, which I noticed as she knitted away onstage.”

“Observant of you. I didn’t see the play, of course. None of the actors are wearing gloves now.”

“I was trying to determine the time period by the costumes. It was a bit of a hodgepodge.”

“Of course, nothing at this point precludes the possibility that Miss Chase turned the gun on herself.” Fiske’s craggy features softened. “Either way, it’s a terrible blow for her mother. It seems Cassie lived at home and helped take care of her.”

A good reason for the lass not to have taken her own life, Rex rather thought, adding it to his list of reservations. However, he knew nothing about the victim beyond her brief bio and what he had seen of her playing Lady Naomi—portrayed as a wilful young woman fiercely loyal in love. How this comported with Cassie’s real nature, he had yet to ascertain; all being well.

“Shall we?” The inspector led Rex back off the stage and down the polished wood steps.

The noise in the hall had increased in volume as people responded to questions from the police and talked in groups among themselves. Those who had brought flowers to present at the finale now lay them at the edge of the stage.

A pert blonde in a short grey skirt and a multi-hued striped top confronted Fiske, holding a smartphone up to his face. “I’m Cindy Freeman from the Derby Gazette.”

The inspector declined an interview. He gave Rex his card and strode up the aisle towards his sergeant.

The reporter turned on the Scotsman. “Any comments from you, sir?”

“Did you know the victim, by any chance?” Rex asked. “You’re about her age.”

The young woman’s eyes widened. “Not well,” she faltered, clearly taken aback by the question. “I mean, we were at school together, but Cassie was a year ahead. She always had a major role in the school play. I really can’t believe she’s dead!” Ms. Freeman tucked a short lock of hair behind her ear. “I only came to review the play for my paper. The features editor is now insisting I get a story. This could be a big break for me, but it doesn’t seem right, somehow,” she added, mostly, it seemed, for appearance’s sake.

“Och, you’re just doing your job.”

“Are you a colleague of Inspector Fiske’s? I saw you go up to the stage with him.”

“I’m a barrister, an advocate as we call them in Scotland, but I have an interest in solving murders as well as prosecuting those who commit them. I don’t know much more than anyone else at this point, and even if I did, I would not talk to the media about it,” Rex added with a kindly smile.

“But you saw the body?” the young woman persisted with a catch in her voice, lifting the phone closer to his face.

“Aye, I did. She looks lovely even in death.”

“Can I at least quote you on that?”

“If you must, but I didn’t see anything amiss during the play.”

“I found out from the writer of Peril at Pinegrove Hall that the scream was part of the play, but that the shot wasn’t.”

“She told us the same thing.”

“Could I get your full name?”

Rex complied and wished her the best with the story and with her journalistic career, hoping she would not overstate his importance in the case. He found Helen waiting for him by their chairs in the front row.

“Was it gruesome up there?” she asked with a sympathetic frown.

“Not so much gruesome as unreal. In fact, it almost looked staged. Or perhaps it was just an effect of the costume and setting.”

“It’s tragic, isn’t it, especially when you consider that her mother was in the audience? I’m sure Cassie Chase didn’t kill herself. Who would do that to their mother, especially since she’s confined to a wheelchair?”

“That’s what I thought. What’s been going on here?”

“The officer asked if I had seen anyone slip out from behind the curtains after the shot went off, which I didn’t, and whom I know from the play, and if I could vouch for the person sitting next to me, you included. I told him that one spectator in our row had got up during the play and returned about five minutes later, but that was halfway through the act. I suppose they’re checking to see if anyone didn’t return before the interval. The ticket attendant was in the lobby and didn’t see anyone come in from outside after the play started.”

“Who told you that?”

“He was talking to the woman behind us, the one who was complaining about you obstructing her view,” Helen murmured, since the lady in question was still in her seat. “Did you learn anything from Inspector Fiske?”

“Aye, he’s been very amenable so far.”

“That’s good.” Helen glanced towards the back of the hall. “His subordinate is questioning the cast and stagehands.”

“So I see. I think I’ll go and take a wee look. Are you all right here for a few minutes?”

“Of course.”

The cast members, along with two men in matching tee-shirts and jeans, were assembled in the far corner by the window. Penny stood among them, holding an animated conversation with “Hercule Poirot,” whom Rex could see, as he drew closer, was heavily made-up with black eyeliner, pencilled eyebrows, and reddened lips—reminding him of a vaudeville actor.

The long-limbed young man with light brown hair who had played the seductive Henry Chalmers sat weeping in a chair, his face in his hands, while a teary-eyed Miss Marple draped a consoling arm around his shoulders. She had removed her white wig to reveal fading chestnut hair cut in a no-nonsense style, but her lace-trimmed dress in pale blue moiré silk gave her away.

Sherlock Holmes and Lord Peter Wimsey, who had taken off his false nose, lounged despondently against the back wall. The bespectacled Father Brown, cross-legged on the floor in his cassock, dazedly thumbed his phone. A nondescript man, other than having a noticeable overbite, he could have been in his thirties or forties.

Dorkins the butler awkwardly hugged Aunt Clara, who had switched her calf-length black skirt for a pair of purple corduroys and unpinned her dark mane. Rex could not tell if the grey streaks were natural, but either way, Susan Richardson was younger than her character. Rex noticed she kept looking over at Trey Atkins, and there was a depth of feeling in those green eyes. Was it maternal?

The ungainly woman with short, crimped auburn hair who had played her companion conversed with the solicitor by the open window while smoking a cigarette, one hand tucked under her armpit as though she were cold, despite the mild May evening gradually fading outside over the grounds.

The question of who among them had been front-stage when Cassie Chase was shot featured uppermost in Rex’s mind as he reviewed each suspect in turn.