A Mysterious Affair of Style (10 page)

The following afternoon, at two o’clock, Calvert was sitting behind Rex Hanway’s massive mahogany desk, its in-box piled high with dog-eared typewritten scripts, its out-box empty. Directly opposite him sat the first of the suspects to be invited to submit to his questioning, Hanway himself. Stiffly flanking the director, to right and left of his own desk, seated on a matching pair of upright chairs of an uncompromisingly metallic and modernistic design, were Evadne Mount and Chief-Inspector Trubshawe. Sergeant Whistler stood discreet guard near the door.

That morning Calvert had given his two unofficial colleagues confirmation that, according to the medical report which he had just received from the lab, Cora Rutherford had indeed been poisoned. The police surgeon had discovered traces, both in the actress’s empty champagne glass and inside her own body, of a widely and legally available type of cyanide, one with numerous industrial applications, notably in printing, photography and electroplating. As he had
already intimated, when on the set itself, death would have been extremely painful, but also, thankfully, all but instantaneous. The inquest was to be held three days hence, but neither Evadne nor Trubshawe were required to attend. A purely formal stage in the process, it would very speedily be adjourned by the Coroner.

Now the young police officer was ready to direct his full attention to Rex Hanway.

‘Well, Mr Hanway,’ he said, ‘I hope you don’t mind my trespassing in this way. It was Mr Levey’s kind suggestion that I borrow your office.’

‘That’s quite all right, Inspector. It’s my office only in the sense that I happen – happened – to be working on a picture next door. I can’t help feeling that, given the way things have been going, it’ll become some other director’s office before too long.’

‘Yes, yes, I do know what you mean. Thank you, nevertheless. So just let me explain to you what this is all about. I felt it might be useful to put to you – you and a few others, I should add – some preliminary questions about this dreadful business while all the details were still fresh in your mind.’

‘I’m not likely to forget them in a hurry. But I can quite see how meaningful to you one’s immediate impressions might prove. May I ask, however …?’

‘Yes?’

Hanway turned to look at the two other seated occupants of the room.

‘Forgive me for being blunt, but who exactly are these people? Surely they’re not also police officers?’

‘No, they aren’t. That’s to say, this gentleman’ – he indicated Trubshawe – ‘is an ex-police officer, Chief-Inspector Trubshawe, formerly of Scotland Yard, and this lady’ – he extended his arm in the novelist’s direction – ‘is Miss Evadne Mount, the author, you know.’

Hanway nodded politely at the novelist.

‘Of course, of course. I noticed you on the set yesterday afternoon and actually wondered where I could have seen you before. You were a good friend of Cora’s, I believe?’

‘I was, yes.’

‘My commiserations. This must be especially unpleasant for you.’

Calvert took charge again.

‘Since you’re wondering why they’re here, let me simply say that we three were discussing the case in the cafeteria yesterday and, in the course of our conversation, both Miss Mount and Mr Trubshawe came up with several interesting insights. Which made me ask them if they would accept to be here, in a totally unofficial capacity, while I conducted my inquiry. If you have any objection to their presence, you have only to say –’

‘No, none at all. I welcome whatever – or rather, whoever – it takes to solve this terrible crime.’

‘Good. Then that’s settled. We can proceed. You are Rex Hanway, the director of
If Ever They Find Me Dead
?’

‘I am.’

‘Which, as I understand, you took over after the death of Alastair Farjeon?’

‘Yes, I did.’

Evadne Mount suddenly interjected.

‘May I, Inspector?’

Though willing to acquiesce to her request, Calvert was nevertheless slightly taken aback. It’s true that it was he himself who had invited the novelist, along with his own former superior, to participate in the questioning, but he hadn’t expected that she would be so indecently prompt in taking up his invitation. Spotting a twinkle in Trubshawe’s eye, however, one that seemed to signal ‘I could have told you …’, he merely said:

‘Please, Miss Mount.’

‘Mr Hanway,’ she asked, ‘is it not true that you took over the picture under somewhat unusual circumstances?’

‘When you use the word “unusual”,’ asked Hanway in his turn, ‘do I take it you’re alluding to the circumstances of Mr Farjeon’s death?’

‘Yes, partly so. But I was really thinking of the very singular testament which he left behind in his London flat.’

‘Testament?’ said Calvert. ‘What’s this? I’ve heard of no testament.’

‘Perhaps,’ said the novelist calmly, ‘Mr Hanway would like to explain.’

‘Miss Mount is quite correct, Inspector. There
was
a testament.
I mean, there was a – queer, I think you’d have to call it – a queer document which Hattie, Mr Farjeon’s wife, discovered among his papers after he died.’

‘What sort of a document?’

‘As far as I’m aware, Mrs Farjeon still has it in her possession and will, I’m sure, be only too happy to hand it over to you. It was written and signed by Farje.’

Trubshawe now took it upon himself to intervene.

‘Was it witnessed by anyone?’

‘Not to my knowledge. Basically, it stated that, if anything happened to him – that is, to Farje – before he was able to start shooting
If Ever They Find Me Dead
, then I was to be assigned to direct the film in his place.’

A moment of silence ensued while Calvert digested this information. Then:

‘That strikes me as a most extraordinary statement.’

‘I wholly concur,’ said Hanway coolly.

‘Is this sort of posthumous delegation or deputation – however you want to define it – standard practice in the picture business?’

‘Not at all. It’s the first time I ever heard of such a thing. Whenever such a situation arises – like the death of a director in mid-shoot or even before the actual filming has begun – I would have assumed it was exclusively the producer’s prerogative to decide how to proceed, if at all. But you understand, Inspector, that’s only my assumption, as I really can’t remember it ever happening in the business.’

‘I see. So you yourself were surprised to learn of the existence of this document?’

‘Surprised? I was flabbergasted. I couldn’t believe my ears when Hattie told me.’

Now Trubshawe asked:

‘Did Mr Farjeon ever confide in you that he feared for his life?’

‘Certainly not. Nor does it sound very much like the Alastair Farjeon I knew.’

‘Assuming he
had
harboured such a fear, who would he have confided it to?’

‘I imagine that, if he confided in anyone, it would have to be Mrs Farjeon. But she never once said anything to me about it.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Trubshawe to Calvert, ‘we should have Mrs Farjeon called in.’

At that moment, prefacing his interruption with a polite cough, Sergeant Whistler announced from the doorway:

‘She’s already here, sir.’

‘What? Farjeon’s widow is in the studio?’

‘Yes, sir. I saw her arrive. About twenty minutes ago.’

‘What on earth is she doing here?’

‘It seems she’s always here,’ said Evadne.

‘Always here?’

‘So Cora told us. When Farjeon used to make his films here, his wife would always be present in the studio, sitting – also knitting – in a corner all by herself, never exchanging a word with anyone.’

‘But what is she doing here
today
?’ Calvert insisted. ‘Mr Hanway, have you any idea?’

‘Knitting as usual, would be my guess. But if you mean, why has she turned up on the set of a film which has just been closed down, I really couldn’t say.’

Trubshawe turned again to the young Inspector.

‘Whatever the reason, it might make sense for us to question her too.’

‘Good point,’ replied Calvert. ‘Whistler, go find out if Mrs – Hattie, isn’t it? – if Mrs Hattie Farjeon is still in the studio. If she is, inform her – politely, now – that I’d prefer her not to leave until I’ve had a chance to speak to her.’

With a brisk ‘Right away, sir,’ the Sergeant left the room.

‘Mr Hanway,’ was what Evadne now said to the director, ‘you’ve just admitted that you were surprised to hear of the existence of this unorthodox document. Obviously you must have been. But were you also pleased?’

Before answering her question, Hanway, as everyone observed, took the time carefully to construct a tiny Indian wigwam out of his crossed hands and fingers. Then he said:

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Were you pleased? Pleased that Farjeon had passed on his film to you?’

‘Well, of course,’ he replied at last, ‘of course, I was pleased that he had, as you put it, passed on his film to me. I would, though, prefer to use the word “honoured”. It was a great compliment to me from somebody I not only
admired, even revered, as an artist but also regarded, on a personal level, as a mentor. A father-figure, almost. And since it’s always been my ambition to direct a film of my own, and since I’ve had to wait a very long time for the opportunity to do so, there was obviously no question of my rejecting that opportunity when it finally did arise.

‘I want you to understand, however, that I was extremely close to Farje, I was his collaborator and friend for nearly a decade, and his recent death came as a huge shock to me, a shock from which I still haven’t recovered. And I believe I can claim in all honesty that my ambition was never such as to have made me wish that he might die prematurely so that I’d be free to direct my first film. If that
was
the implication of the question you’ve just asked me – if you were implying, in short, that I was pleased not just that he’d passed on his film to me but that he’d passed on, full stop – then I must say I resent it.’

‘Nothing of the kind, young man. Please accept my assurances that I was imputing no underhand motives to you. But tell me,’ she continued, affording him next to no time to be mollified, ‘and please don’t take further offence at how I express this, why would Farjeon propose you, a mere assistant, as his substitute, his heir, rather than another experienced director?’

‘Miss Mount, I don’t think you realise what it means to be a director’s assistant, a First Assistant, as we call it in the picture business. For instance, I have no notion whether
you, a writer, have an assistant or not. But, if you do have one, I imagine it must be some efficient young lady who takes dictation from you, types out your manuscripts, helps you with any research you might have to conduct and perhaps even makes your tea. A First Assistant in the film industry, by contrast, is the director’s right arm. He offers advice, makes suggestions if a scene is not working properly, even directs the odd shot or two if for some reason the director himself is temporarily unavailable. It’s a very important post and, as I say, I’ve filled it at Farje’s side for ten years. He trusted me implicitly and I have to suppose that, in consequence, he trusted me more than anyone else to take over his film.’

‘Yet, from what poor dear Cora told us, Mr Trubshawe and me, that trust of his was originally misplaced. You were a pretty catastrophic director, were you not, to start with? You were so hopeless, it appears, there was even talk of closing down the production a second time. Wasn’t that the case?’

Though he was still disinclined to step in, Calvert did find himself wincing at the novelist’s incorrigibly brutal candour; even Trubshawe, accustomed to her bulldozing style, wondered whether she hadn’t overstepped the bounds.

Hanway, for his part, remained unflinchingly calm.

‘It was indeed the case,’ he replied. ‘Miss Rutherford’s impression was entirely accurate, as I would be the first to admit. Well, evidently not the first, since she got there before
me. I won’t deny that those early days on the set were a nightmare for me. I was completely intimidated by the example, by the spectral presence, by the aura, if you like, of the great Alastair Farjeon. I kept asking myself, “What would Farje have done? What would Farje have done?” And the more helplessly I threshed about, the worse it was. A film crew, you know, is not unlike a pack of wild animals. They can sense fear in a director and, when he himself realises that that’s what they’re beginning to do, the situation becomes untenable. To be honest, I might well have packed it in before the studio did.’

‘What happened so suddenly to change everything?’

‘It was quite simple. I stopped asking, “What would Farje have done?” and I started asking what I myself ought to do. I cast off his shadow like some hand-me-down suit of clothes. I knew that I had it in me to make a good job of the film and that all I had to do was to get it out of me.’

‘Can you tell us, Mr Hanway,’ asked Calvert, feeling it was high time he re-asserted his authority, ‘exactly where you were when Cora Rutherford was poisoned?’

‘Ah, so it
was
poison. There was nothing about that in this morning’s papers. Are we supposed to keep the fact a secret?’

‘Not at all. If it wasn’t in this morning’s papers, it’s because it was only this morning that I myself was informed.’

‘I see.’

‘So let me repeat. Where were you when it happened?’

‘Where was I? I was sitting in my chair watching her, as we all were. Watching her, I mean, not all sitting in my chair.’

‘You didn’t have any suspicion of what was about to occur?’

Hanway looked incredulous.

‘Are you serious?’

‘Just answer the question, sir.’

‘Of course I had no suspicion. None whatsoever. How could I have? I was as dumbfounded – and horrified – as everyone else was.’

‘And Miss Rutherford herself? What were your feelings about her, your own personal feelings?’

‘Cora? Well …’

For an instant the director’s attention was distracted by the return of Sergeant Whistler, who communicated a message to Calvert by no more than an affirmative nod of the head. Then the young officer faced Hanway again.