twenty-one

Rex phoned Penny at half past eight the next morning, asking if she might be free for a brief chat that day. He could come to the school if necessary.

“My first class isn’t until one,” she said. “I’m off to a doctor’s appointment now, but we could meet back at my house, say at eleven?”

He told her that would be perfect and rang off, feeling energized with a new sense of purpose. From across the kitchen table, Helen glanced up from her coffee cup. “Doesn’t look like we’ll be setting off for Edinburgh today, am I right?”

“We might still make it if my hunch falls through, but I’d better tell Mother not to expect us for dinner, rather than have to cancel this afternoon. What remains to be done here?”

“Not much. I’ll run to the shops if we’re staying, and I can lend Julie a hand moving in. It shouldn’t take long. She only has a few bits and bats of furniture.” Julie had lived with a succession of boyfriends and had never had a place to call her own.

Rex set out his notes on the table. Nothing concrete existed so far to support his hunch, and he was anxious to meet with Penny and see if he was on the right track. An hour later, he took off in the car, arriving early at Penny’s address, where a white Volvo was parked in the driveway.

The French teacher opened the front door before he could ring. “I just got back. Come on in,” she said, removing her pantsuit jacket and hanging it on a peg along with her handbag. “I’ll make some coffee.”

“How did it go at the doctor’s?” he asked.

“Okay, I think; fingers crossed. It was my annual checkup. I won’t get the results till next week.”

She invited him into a compact, ultramodern kitchen with a breakfast bar and stools, and he sat down on one while she proceeded to tip two helpings of ground coffee into a percolator on the counter. A plush grey cat stalked into the kitchen, raised its nose at Rex, and continued towards Penny, weaving around her ankles as she reached for two mugs in an overhead cabinet.

“It’s not time for your lunch, Doucie,” she cooed, lifting the cat up in her arms and stroking its head. A droning purr erupted, competing with the burble of the coffee machine. “You’re not allergic to cats, are you?” she asked Rex.

“Not at all.”

“She usually runs away when men come to the house. She must like you.”

“Cats are such discerning creatures,” he said with a smile.

She deposited the pet on the floor and returned to preparing the coffee. “Sugar?”

“Aye, but I shouldn’t. What blend of coffee do you use?” he asked. “It smells delicious.”

“A premium French roast. I got spoilt in Paris. I hope you like yours strong.”

“I do.”

The mug she placed in front of him featured Théophile Steinlen’s 1896 black cat poster advertising Le Chat Noir cabaret.

“I feel transported to France,” he said, helping himself to the matching jug of milk Penny had set on the breakfast bar beside the sugar bowl.

“I admit to feeling a bit nostalgic, but I’m going back this summer, possibly with Tony. He studied art for a year in Paris when he was a student.” She parked herself on the stool next to Rex. “Were you able to talk to Paul Reddit? Is that why you wanted to speak with me?”

“I spoke to him last night by phone, and later went to see Timothy Holden at the police station. He was taken in for questioning as well as Christopher Ells.” Rex filled Penny in on as much information as he felt able to tell her. “It was during my talk with Holden that I became all but certain there must be another major player in the case.”

“Who?” Penny asked in surprise.

Rex held up his hand, forestalling her question. “Bear with me just a minute. At the beginning, there were many potential suspects, but only a narrow window of opportunity. Agreed?”

Penny nodded.

“By cross-referencing alibis, I was able to whittle down the number of suspects to practically zero. Of course, it’s always possible someone mistakenly thought they saw someone, or is confused about the time they saw them, or else people are providing false alibis.”

Penny stared at her coffee with a puzzled frown. “You really think more than one person could be involved?” She swivelled round on her bar stool and met his gaze full on. “An accomplice?”

“First I need to know more about the actor who was originally in Peril at Pinegrove Hall.”

“You mean Darrell, who had Father Brown’s part before Tim. Yes, but he’s in LA. He emailed me a photo of himself, standing in front of the Hollywood Hills.”

“When was this?”

“Friday morning. He was wishing me luck for opening night.”

“What was he like to work with?”

“Amenable, talented. He got into his role very quickly. I was disappointed when he had to abandon it. It wasn’t a big part, but he made it his own.” Penny cupped the mug in her lap. “Timothy did his best but he was a poor substitute.”

“Why, if Darrell was a talented actor, did he not get a bigger role in your play?”

“Actually, we did consider him for Henry Chalmers. He had the looks and was suave enough, but Trey was taller and had more natural polish, and he sounded more like I imagine Henry Chalmers would speak.”

“You mean posh?”

“But without sounding stilted or affected. We had Darrell read Henry Chalmers’ lines, and he did a good job, but for Trey it was more his natural speaking voice. Thank goodness Darrell wasn’t the leading man. Leaving us in the lurch with that role to fill would have been a catastrophe.”

The play had turned out to be a catastrophe nonetheless, Rex noted privately. “Do you have a photo of him?”

“Yes.” Penny got up and left the kitchen, returning shortly with her phone and a bright green folder. “This is the photo from Hollywood.” She handed Rex her smartphone.

A young man with brownish-blond hair and wearing a black tee-shirt that showed off gym-honed arms and chest muscles smiled with confidence into the camera, the undulating letters of the Hollywood Sign gleaming white behind him in the frame.

“It’s a bit dark, so I brought you this headshot of him from my file,” Penny said, opening her folder.

Rex returned her phone and took the black-and-white print of Darrell Brewster: Age 26, 5'8'', as stated at the bottom of the sheet. “He looks a bit like a young Viggo Mortensen.”

“Or a young Liam Neeson.”

“My wife likes him.”

“All women like him,” Penny said, resuming her seat and taking up her coffee mug.

“I would have thought Darrell too good-looking and athletic for Father Brown. The clergyman in the story I read was more nondescript—and older, as I recall, but it was a long time ago.”

“Darrell added some padding and wore glasses and what have you. I admit Timothy, apart from his jaw, was closer to the character in appearance, but appearances can be disguised. Anyway, it didn’t matter in the end, did it? It all came to nothing. Well, worse than nothing. I wish I had never written the silly play.”

“Don’t say that. If it were someone’s intent to murder Cassie Chase, they would have done so regardless.”

“Perhaps.” With a deep sigh, Penny got up from the breakfast bar. “I had to fast for my appointment this morning, so I’m going to make myself a sandwich. Can I tempt you?”

“Thanks, but I promised Helen I’d be back for lunch. Can I keep this?” Rex asked, holding up the headshot.

“By all means, but I don’t see why you’re interested in Darrell. He wasn’t around at the time of the shooting. And there’s no motive that I can see.” Penny opened the refrigerator and pulled out various items.

“How did he get on with Trey? No animosity there because he lost the role of Henry Chalmers to him?”

“As far as I could see it was all fine. Everyone was sorry to see him go.”

“Including Cassie?”

“I think so, although I didn’t see them together much, outside of interacting in the play. He was on friendlier terms with Susan, and would josh around with Bill, Ben, and Bobbi.” Penny glanced over her shoulder at Rex from the sink, where she was rinsing lettuce in a mesh colander. “You think Inspector Fiske has got it all wrong?” She smiled. “Or are you just hoping?”

“I suppose a bit of both,” Rex replied truthfully. “But ultimately, I just want the right person arrested. One final thing, Penny. Do you have an address for Cassie’s aunt?”

“No, but I have Joanna’s, Cassie’s mother. They both live on Rosslyn Grove. One sec.” She dried her hands on a tea towel and picked up her phone on the breakfast bar, thumbing away for a minute. “I’ve texted you the address.”

Rex thanked her and got up from his stool, taking the headshot of Darrell with him. “I’ll keep you informed.”

“Please. When are you returning to Edinburgh?”

“Tomorrow, possibly. It all depends.”

Penny saw him to the front door, midway scooping up the grey cat trotting after her. Rex waved from the driveway and clambered into the Renault, processing the new information as he drove back to Barley Close. The photos of Darrell Brewster comported more with a TV-track star, such as Holden had mentioned, than with Father Brown. Before his visit to the police station, Rex had assumed Holden’s predecessor to be more in the mould of a Timothy Holden; which just went to show it was never safe to assume, he chided himself.

However, Penny had said Darrell and Cassie had not been close, and the young actor seemed more interested in Susan Richardson, whom Dennis Caldwell had confided had had a crush on Trey in a previous production. Perhaps Darrell’s attentions were a soothing balm to Susan after Trey’s rejection of her. Rex thought about this a bit more and decided it was probably just a bit of harmless flirtation, Susan being a married woman with three teenage children and simply enjoying a boost to her confidence.

None of this gave Darrell a motive to shoot Cassie, even if he was not in Tinsel Town hoping to make a name for himself. Aiming for bigger and brighter things, as Paul Reddit had said in his office, or words to that effect.

A dead end? Rex pulled up in front of Helen’s house and sat staring at the beige pebble-dash wall, thinking at the back of his mind that when they came to sell the house, they would do well to paint it over in white to freshen up the façade. That Inspector Fiske possibly had the better of him in the case was his overriding and immediate preoccupation. Christopher Ells was looking like a more logical suspect, after all. And yet, and yet … Rex argued with himself. Something didn’t quite add up to his complete satisfaction.