Act of Murder (30 page)

‘Mrs Throstle said that on the night he was murdered her husband couldn’t find his room key, that she heard him fumbling outside the door. She put it down to mere drunkenness, but
perhaps he simply didn’t have it. Perhaps you had already taken it from his coat pocket as you helped him on with his jacket.’

Shorton gave an appreciative nod. ‘You are no fool, sergeant.’

‘So when they go to bed, when Mrs Throstle locks the door with her own key and they settle down for the night, you wait.’

‘Throstle told me his wife had taken a powerful compound. He told me, with a nod and a wink, that he had paid the pharmacist a little extra to ensure it contained enough chloroform to
allow her a restful night.’

At this point, Constable Bowery came up and whispered something in his sergeant’s ear. Slevin nodded, and almost immediately two constables, carrying a long wooden stretcher, walked over
to the body of Herbert Koller and placed him on it. All eyes were on the shrouded body as it was borne past them.

Once it had disappeared through the wings, Slevin turned once more to Shorton. ‘I won’t of course dwell on the details of what you did in that room . . .’

Susan Coupe gave a bitter laugh. ‘I was his director, sergeant. There’s no need to protect my sensibilities. They were numbed a long time ago. What James did to that man he did under
my direction. To the letter. Or rather, to the telegram. From his shrew of a wife. It was cast into the canal. Wrapped around a bloodied knife.’

Slevin gave a small nod. There was a part of him that acknowledged the justice of the act – justice in its strictest, most biblical sense.

‘But why then, Mr Shorton, did you leave Mrs Throstle alive? There she was, asleep and defenceless, and you could have killed her there and then. Why did you leave her?’

Shorton gave a slow shrug. ‘Lady Macbeth,’ he said.

‘Pardon?’

It was Susan Coupe who explained. ‘Lady Macbeth goes to the chamber of King Duncan, whom she and her husband are planning to kill. She finds him in his kingly bed, asleep and defenceless.
His guards are drugged. But she cannot do it. That most wicked of women cannot bring herself to plunge the dagger into that kingly throat. “Had he not resembled my father as he slept, I had
done it.”’

Shorton went on. ‘Only with Duncan it was different. He was pure, innocent. To kill him was a vile and horrendous act. The woman who lay there was as guilty, in my view, as the one who
perpetrated the foul defilement of a beautiful and innocent creature. No. It was simply a matter of courage. I lacked the courage to kill a woman. In that moment, I failed Susan.’

She reached up and clasped his hand. ‘Nonsense. I had asked more of you than anyone had any right to ask. It was I who later devised the way that foul fiend of a woman should die.’
She turned to Jonathan Keele and gave him the saddest of smiles. ‘I have Jonathan to thank for that. He spent an hour one day regaling us all about his time working for his son-in-law, who is
a chemist. Remember how you said it was a poisoner’s paradise, Jonathan? How quickly or how horrifically those poisons acted? “For a delayed death, use phosphorus, my dears. For an
instant one, cyanide’s the thing!”’ Her voice had taken on the slow sonorous tones of the old actor. ‘It was I who bought the rat poison and urged James to mix it into her
medicine.’

Slevin looked at her afresh. He saw a human being, one of the most beautiful creatures he had ever set eyes on, who had become someone less than human. There was a darkness inside her that had
extinguished the glow of life that could have thrived there if it hadn’t been for that evil monster. He saw something else, too: she had become an actress because it gave her a stage on which
to perform, where for a few short hours every night she could escape her demons and become whoever she wanted to be.

Shorton went on. ‘I saw Georgina Throstle in the hotel dining room with her brother. That gave me the opportunity to deliver the lethal mixture. The foolish woman had left her door
unlocked. When I set foot outside that hotel, I knew that I would never be returning. Even if you connected Jenkins with the murders, you would be looking for an invisible man.’

At this point, Benjamin walked slowly towards him. ‘Can you explain why Herbert had to die? Is there a space in this dramatic monologue for some simple dénouement where Herbert is
concerned?’

Slevin placed a hand on the actor-manager’s shoulder and said, ‘I think I can explain, Mr Morgan-Drew.’

Benjamin stopped and turned his attention to the detective.

‘Mr Koller knew about the slides, the ones containing those vile pictures of Miss Coupe as a child.’

‘But how could he possibly know of them?’

‘He had seen them.’

Jonathan Keele stepped forward. ‘Herbert was wild, Benjamin. You must know that. Whichever town or city we stopped in, Herbert would be out trying to seek the sort of immoral solace he
desired. Those occasions he told you he needed to explore the town? He was walking down very dark pathways, my friend. In both a literal and a metaphorical sense.’

‘But he had
me
!’ Benjamin cried out.

‘He told me he wanted money.’ Susan Coupe spoke in little more than a whisper.

‘What?’

‘He followed me as I was on my way to meet James in the park. He said he needed a thousand pounds. For an investment. He had the gall to ask me to give him the means to invest in the very
business that destroyed my childhood.’ Now her voice had almost become hysterical. ‘He had the means, he said, to destroy my reputation for ever. Certain influential people in London
would make sure my past was made known to Irving and whoever else might become my sponsor.’

Slevin saw her eyes grow wide and fierce, and realised how close she was to a complete loss of sanity.

Benjamin gave a hollow laugh. ‘The fool! I had such a surprise for him tonight. After the show. He would have become my partner in the business. I had such a surprise . . .’ He felt
Jonathan Keele place an arm around him, and he gave way to the sobs that had simmered for so long.

‘The man was evil. He deserved to die.’ Shorton’s voice cut through the air. ‘So we planned the most public form of death. No actor likes to “die” on stage.
He should have breathed his last, as it were, last night, but poor Toby Thomas stepped in to replace him and we had to remove the cigar we had planted in Herbert’s costume and replace it with
a harmless one. Herbert’s cigar contained rat poison, incidentally. Soaked for hours, then dried. Not a phosphorus base, mind. We needed something quick-acting so that he would be unable to
point any accusing finger. Besides, phosphorus would have provided a link with Georgina Throstle’s death. So I bought a rather more instant compound. Its cyanide base comes highly
recommended. Amazing what one can buy in this town.

‘Still, we had to act quickly yesterday afternoon. When I returned to the theatre to become Shorton once more, I was still in a state of confusion after my wrestling match with that
clapping idiot, so Susan declared that the revolver was also missing, which allowed me to regain some sort of composure and get you out of our hair for a diversionary time, sergeant. No one was any
the wiser. Tonight, though, well, you saw how well it went.’

The longer Shorton had spoken, the more Slevin realised how much the man had been affected by what he had done. He had no doubt that, before the idea of revenge was planted inside his head by
his lover, he had been a man of normal sensibilities, a man who would baulk at any suggestion of wrongdoing the way a non-swimmer would shy away from the water’s edge. But once he had been
thrown in, once he had become a part of this gruesome undertaking, his feelings had gradually become numbed until the distinction between justice and revenge became completely blurred. He had
allowed the rôle to take over.

‘Why did you break into the Public Hall and daub the place with threats?’

Susan Coupe spoke, her voice low and tremulous. ‘We needed to find the slides. Destroy them. That was my idea. But when James found it impossible to get into the safe, he came up with the
idea of daubing the walls. If the police thought Throstle had been killed for a crazed religious purpose, it would divert attention from the real motive for his death. And of course lay blame on
others when his witch of a wife met her end.’

Shorton held up his hands in an attitude of surrender. ‘I suppose we will now be taken into custody?’

Slevin nodded.

Before he could move, Shorton had reached into his coat pocket and extracted a revolver, which he levelled at Slevin’s head. Constable Bowery, who was standing in the wings, made a move
towards him, but Shorton gave a warning yell. ‘Stay where you are, constable!’

Jonathan Keele stepped forward. ‘James. This is foolish. The gun is a prop. It’s a futile gesture.’

Shorton smiled and raised the revolver. He pointed it at one of the painted skittles on the backdrop and fired. There was a loud report and the scenery swayed as the bullet tore through the
skittle, leaving a gaping hole and the stench of cordite in the air.

‘You damned fool!’ Slevin shouted. ‘Give me the bloody thing before someone is hurt.’

But Shorton, a look of manic confidence now spread across his face, moved quickly towards Susan Coupe. ‘The presence of police made me nervous,’ he said. ‘Better to have some
form of insurance, is it not?’ He waved the gun before them. ‘Come on, Susan!’

She gave Slevin a look before allowing Shorton to lead her slowly through the disrupted scenery that had represented the Wheatsheaf.

‘Ironic, isn’t it?’ Shorton added. ‘Will Denver runs away even though he is innocent. Whereas we . . .’

Jonathan Keele walked towards them, his right hand extended. ‘If you don’t know what to do with that,’ he said, ‘I’ll take care of it for you.’

Slevin recognised it as one of the lines from the play. A line delivered by the detective, Samuel Baxter. Morgan-Drew moved to restrain the ageing actor.

‘Jonathan! Please!’

Shorton laughed. ‘Thank you, Jonathan, but I do know what to do with it, much obliged for your advice.’

He kept a wary eye on Keele as he and Susan backed away towards the far wings. But Keele kept moving forward.

‘Oh Master Will!’ he said, adopting now the rural accents of the faithful Jaikes. ‘I can’t tell you what she’s had to go through! It’s been a terrible hard
fight for her, but she’s borne up like an angel.’

Shorton blinked, as if he had misheard what the old actor had said. ‘Jonathan? Are you mad? This is no play and this is no prop. Please do not make the mistake of thinking that we can all
take our bows at the end and share a convivial drink together.’

Susan Coupe stood silent, like an obedient child, her head bowed low.

Slevin moved slowly to stand alongside Keele. ‘Leave this to me, sir,’ he whispered. ‘He’s killed three times. He may have a taste for it now.’

Jonathan Keele shook his head. ‘I will be faithful to him to the end. It’s what Jaikes would have done.’

Slevin thought at first he was talking about Shorton, for the character Jaikes was indeed the epitome of fidelity, never wavering in his loyalty to Wilfred Denver. But he saw the old man glance
across at Morgan-Drew, who was watching with a barely concealed sense of horror.

‘Jonathan! It’s not what I want! Herbert is gone! He’s gone the way everyone goes. Sacrificing yourself for some ideal of fidelity – it’s futile.’

Shorton held the gun steady, aiming at Keele but keeping a wary eye on Slevin and Bowery. But the old actor inched forward once more, in small, measured steps that took him closer and closer to
the fugitive lovers.

‘Jonathan! That is close enough!’ There was a wavering in Shorton’s voice now. ‘Please. You don’t want to die!’

‘He that cuts off twenty years of life cuts off so many years of fearing death.’

‘The philosophy of the fatalist, old man! And a false philosophy at that. Cassius didn’t mean those words. He was overwrought after killing Caesar, that’s all.’

Slevin saw Susan Coupe reach up to touch Keele’s face in a tender gesture of affection which distracted Shorton, who turned to her briefly. This was all Slevin needed.

‘Bowery!’ he screamed as he launched himself towards Shorton.

A startled look flashed across the actor’s face as he frantically raised the gun and fired in the direction of the detective, who ducked. The bullet tore through his left ear, sending
blood splashing wildly into the face of Jonathan Keele, whom Constable Bowery was even now dragging backwards by the stiff collar he was wearing. A woman’s scream ripped through the theatre
as the full weight of Slevin’s body slammed into Shorton, sending him crashing through the stage set, the gun falling to the floor and sliding along the wooden boards. Shorton lay on his
back, blood streaming from a gash on his forehead. His eyes flickered, and as he tried to raise his head from the mess of shattered scenery all around them, something drew him back and he gave a
long, slow exhalation, turning his head to one side, where Slevin saw the thick wooden splinter from one of the shattered frames planted deep in the back of his neck. His eyes were screwed shut in
an agony caused not merely by the pain of the injury.

Quickly, Slevin removed his coat, and with a show of making the man more comfortable, spread it over the terrible wound, so that it was now hidden from view.

Susan Coupe rushed towards her lover and dropped to her knees beside him. She touched his head wound carefully and looked around frantically for something to wipe away the blood. Finally she
reached down to tear a strip from her own dress, the dress Nelly Denver wore in the play’s opening scene, and began to clean the blood from his face.

Slevin stood up and reached a hand to his left ear. Only now was it beginning to sting.

Behind him, Bowery was helping Jonathan Keele to his feet, the old man wheezing and fighting hard to catch his breath, his hands pressed hard against his stomach.

Suddenly he heard James Shorton begin to speak. His voice was hoarse and faint, and the words came out haltingly, with none of the bravado Slevin had heard earlier.