An Act of Evil (15 page)

“
He’s forgotten his lines,” Maltravers murmured sympathetically to Tess.

“
Death triumphant…” a voice said from the wings and Knowles appeared to recover himself.

“
Death triumphant…” he began but it was obviously not enough. Before the prompter could come in again he was riskily ad libbing.

“
Death triumphant loud shall sing.” There was the fraction of a pause which many of his audience did not notice but which was recognisable to anyone who had acted as a moment of pure terror.

“
Praising the accursed thing.” He finished and swiftly made his exit. For a moment Christ looked confused; it was not the right line. Then he recovered himself and spoke his own final words which Maltravers did not hear. Jackson had told him what the note to the Bishop had said. He also remembered the sergeant’s remarks about coincidence.

Knowles
was cleaning off his exaggerated make-up when Maltravers went up to him backstage.

“
Don’t tell me,” said Knowles looking at Maltravers behind him in the mirror. “You of all people must have noticed.”

“
I’m afraid we did although a lot of people wouldn’t have. You got out of it very well. But they obviously weren’t the right lines.”

Knowles
rubbed a rough towel over his face. “No they weren’t,” he mumbled through it then pulled his face clear and examined it again in the glass. “It should have been ‘Death triumphant then shall reign, Endless night and endless bane’. God knows what mental fail-safe device threw out what I actually said. I’m afraid the fact that we’re amateurs showed up rather badly there.”

“
Don’t let it worry you,” said Maltravers. “The only actor who never forgot his lines was Harpo Marx.”

Knowles
grinned and Maltravers was again conscious of the fact that humour somehow amplified the inescapable wickedness of his features. The fact that Knowles had shown him the letter about Hibbert and the Latimer Mercy came unexpectedly back into his mind. Nothing had come of it but it could have diverted the police’s attention. And there was no proof that the letter had been genuine. Certainly its allegations had been found to be untrue.

“
Let’s hope I don’t do the same thing on Saturday night,” Knowles added. “That really is my big scene, even though I lose.”

Knowles
’s apparently spontaneous but disturbing ad lib nagged at Maltravers’ mind as they drove back to Punt Yard where Jenny the babysitter said that David Jackson had called and asked that Maltravers should ring him at home.

“
We can’t get Sinclair’s story to add up,” Jackson said when he answered. “There’s a couple of points you might be able to help us with. According to Sinclair, he hadn’t seen Miss Porter for nearly a year but one of the people he saw when he was back here has shown us a picture of them both at a party two months ago for the opening of a new London nightclub called the Seventh Heaven. According to our informant, you were there as well. Can you remember it?”

“
Oh, God, yes. Dreadful place. I only went there by chance because I was mixed up with some crowd or other that evening. I can’t recall much about it.”

“
Did you see Sinclair and Miss Porter there?”

“
I remember talking briefly to Diana but she was with some other people. I can’t remember seeing Sinclair but there were so many free-loaders and the usual riff-raff about I didn’t take much notice. I only stayed about an hour and the place was packed out.”

“
Well, he certainly was there because he’s in the picture so we’ll have to ask him to explain that. The other thing is, do you know a Mark Kenyon?”

“
Mark Kenyon? Yes, he’s a freelance cameraman. Was he there as well?”

“
He can’t have been because he left the country a couple of weeks previously and still isn’t back. He’s working on some series or other in Australia. But we’re told he was Diana’s boyfriend and at least two people reckon he’s the father of the child.”

“
They know more than I do,” said Maltravers. “I told you that our lives drifted apart a great deal. Anyway it’s more significant surely that Sinclair’s lying.”

“
Yes. We’ve asked Los Angeles police to talk to him again. The problem is that his movements can only be confirmed up to the lunchtime of the Sunday Miss Porter disappeared. After that he says he was in the flat until his flight from Heathrow on the Wednesday. He claims he had eaten something that upset him at lunchtime on Sunday and was ill for two days.

“
There’s one other thing that makes me think. He spent that Sunday lunchtime in a wine bar off Shaftesbury Avenue and the man who met him there told us that they talked about Miss Porter’s appearance at the festival. He remembers Sinclair saying ‘Fancy dying on a Saturday night in Vercaster’.

“
Now I know what that sort of remark means in the show business world but it’s an odd thing to say when you think about what’s happened, isn’t it?”

Chapter Thirteen

To MADDEN’S INTENSE annoyance, Powell’s camping spot in Wales remained undiscovered. Reported sightings were marked on the incident room map with red pins, replaced with yellow when they had been checked; the land mass beyond Offa’s Dyke took on the appearance of a pig with an unpleasant skin disorder. Madden’s irritation was compounded by the news on Sinclair, having assumed inquiries in London would clear him. He read the report gloomily.

“
After Sunday lunch, when he says he was at home being ill, he’s not got a story we can substantiate?”

“
No, sir. According to what he has told the Los Angeles police,” Jackson glanced at the papers he was holding, “he went to another show on the Tuesday after he had recovered but, as on the Saturday, he says he was alone.”

“
Seventy-two hours he can’t account for. That’s quite a long time.”

“
And it happens to cover the most vital period, sir.”

Madden
looked at the report on Sinclair again with evident distaste. It was planting seeds of doubt in his mind which interfered with the smooth pattern that led to Arthur Powell.

“
Do you want someone from here to go and see Sinclair, sir?” Jackson asked.

Madden
shook his head vigorously, rebutting the suggestion and stamping on his doubts at the same time.

“
I can see no justification for sending officers to California at the public expense on the strength of what we have so far. One chance return visit to England, some quarrel with Miss Porter a long time ago and a period he has no alibi for do not add up to a substantial case. Continue inquiries in London. Check with the theatres he says he visited. If he’s an actor they may remember him being there. In the meantime the search for Arthur Powell continues.”

The
holes in Sinclair’s story remained. The two shows he had been to see were among the most successful in the West End, drawing packed houses almost every night. The managers at both theatres were apologetic when the police called but it was impossible to remember who might have been there apart from the most well-known public faces. One produced a virtual Who’s Who of names from the worlds of show business, politics and sport who had been his patrons but did not recognise Sinclair when shown his photograph.

“
There are a great many minor actors,” he said condescendingly. “There are members of the cast in this theatre I wouldn’t know in the street.”

In
America Sinclair stuck to his story. He agreed he had been at the nightclub opening but could not remember seeing Diana there. He violently denied being specifically in her company. His remark in the wine bar was a casual comment without any meaning. He could offer no further information about his movements after Sunday lunchtime or suggest anyone who could vouch for him. The police report added that he was becoming increasingly agitated by their investigation and the producer of the television series had made a complaint about the interruptions their inquiries were causing. Jackson examined the night-club photograph again. There were several people in the crowd between Sinclair and Diana and no indication that they were in fact together. So far the police had been able to contact only one person in the picture, a show business hanger-on who did not know anybody or anything. They had been unable to establish even the names of several of the group grinning inanely at the camera.

The
only line of inquiry remaining was to talk to Mark Kenyon, allegedly the father of Diana’s baby, but he was not due back in London until early on Thursday morning. Two officers were detailed to meet his plane when it arrived at Heathrow.

*

On Wednesday Maltravers remembered the odd incident of what Knowles had said in the Mystery Plays; it had been driven out of his mind by the news concerning Peter Sinclair. He rang Jackson.

“
I’ll make a note of it,” Jackson sighed patiently. “But unless you’ve got something useful like a motive don’t expect us to do anything too drastic. You do realise, don’t you, that we’re in the middle of one of the biggest man-hunts this country has ever seen for a man we have every reason to suspect, is known to have been in Vercaster at the appropriate time and has now apparently vanished off the face of the earth? Plus this Sinclair business. Do you know how much sleep I’ve had in the last ten days?”

“
I can make a guess. It’s nothing more than an odd remark but I said I’d let you know anything that might be of use.”

“
Thank you.” Jackson sounded very tired. “Find Arthur Powell.
That
will be of use.”

*

Wednesday was market-day in Vercaster and it seemed that most of the population of the surrounding county was drawn to the city following some ancient impulse of race memory. The stalls appeared to sell unremarkable goods which could easily be purchased without the necessity of travelling several miles into the city and battling to find somewhere to park, but there was a sense of social occasion about the event.

Maltravers
and Tess took Rebecca for a walk round as another way of passing the time. He was searching through some old books on one of the stalls in the faint hope of finding something of real value when Hibbert appeared through the door of the nearby Town Hall and saw him.

“
Mr Maltravers,” he said, crossing the cobbled space between them. “There’s something I want to tell you. I’ve just been speaking to the Editor of the
Vercaster
Times
. It will be in this week’s edition.” Hibbert paused pompously, leaving a dramatic moment before his announcement. “I have offered a reward for anyone giving information leading to the apprehension of Miss Porter’s murderer. A thousand pounds.” From Hibbert’s entire demeanour, Maltravers realised that he anticipated effusive thanks for such benevolence. A thousand pounds, he reflected, was a substantial sum, excellently balanced between parsimony and tasteless flamboyance. The credit accruing to Hibbert for such a gesture would make it money well spent.

“
We’re grateful for anything that will help sort this business out,” he replied, dropping his response well below the level of gratitude Hibbert was hoping for.

“
Yes,” Hibbert continued slightly uncertainly when it was clear Maltravers was taking his thanks no further. “I imagine they’ll be contacting you for some comment on the matter.”

Maltravers
noticed the Rotary badge glinting in Hibbert’s lapel and wondered if the
Vercaster
Times
Editor was also a member; he felt certain he was. Councillor Hibbert’s offer would be handsomely reported.

“
I imagine they will,” he said evenly. The prospect of the insufferable Hibbert benefiting from Diana’s horrendous fate was unspeakably offensive. Casually he indicated the box he had been looking through. “There might be something of interest to you here,” he said mildly. “Although I think it’s only their covers that are dirty. Good afternoon, Councillor.” Hibbert watched him walk away with a look of bemused offence on his face.

*

A reporter from the
Vercaster
Times
rang Maltravers at Punt Yard the following morning.

“
Are you and Miss Davy staying in Vercaster until the end of the festival?” he asked.

“
Personally, I’m staying here until Diana is found. This was the last place she was seen and I’m not leaving until we discover what happened to her.”

“
Obviously you’re hoping she may still be alive?” Maltravers saw the angle he was looking for and gave him the reply he wanted.

“
I don’t care if the police say it’s murder,” he said. “Until I see Diana’s body, I shall hold on to the belief that she may not be dead. We all know she’s been terribly injured but there is no proof that she may not still be alive somewhere. However terrible the thought is, that’s what is keeping us going.” He could visualise the scribbling down of his eminently quotable comments but wondered bitterly if they had any real meaning or were just a continuing self-delusion. Did he really want Diana found, butchered like Lavinia but with a tongue to relate her torture?

“
Thank you very much, Mr Maltravers,” the reporter was saying. “We’re checking with the police of course, but you don’t know of any particular developments do you?”

“
Nothing special. Do you know of anything?”

“
No. There was some talk in the office about a reward yesterday but the Editor says it’s not happening now.”

“
Really? Well, I don’t think it would have been of much help at this stage.” Maltravers had a feeling of satisfaction that his barbed remark to Hibbert had struck home.

One
other thing was in fact happening, although nobody in Vercaster was aware of it. That morning an expensively dressed woman with raven black hair and a handsome, slightly hard face was thinking as she watched her children playing in the swimming pool in the garden of her home. She had just received a call from an actress friend in London who had casually mentioned the police interest in Peter Sinclair and his visit to England. She knew exactly what he had been doing from the Sunday lunchtime up to when he left to return to California. And she knew why he was lying about it.

*

When Mark Kenyon stepped off the plane from Sydney he was tired, jetlagged and had a streaming cold.

“
What the hell’s all this about?” he demanded when the police took him to an interview room. “I’m not smuggling anything.”

“
Do you know Miss Diana Porter, sir?”

“
Di? Of course I do. Why?”

“
I’m sorry to have to inform you sir, that Miss Porter has been missing for nearly two weeks and we have reason to believe that she may have been murdered.”

Kenyon
sneezed messily into a sodden mass of paper handkerchiefs. For a moment he sat catching his breath and looked at the officers with a mixture of weariness and bewilderment.

“
What? Di murdered?” He shook his head as if to clear it then sneezed again. “When? Who by? Why are you talking to me?”

“
Miss Porter was expecting a baby, sir. We have reason to believe you may have been the father.”

Groping
his way through a mental fog of infection and exhaustion, Kenyon began to comprehend what was being said to him.

“
I didn’t know that,” he said. “But it’s what was supposed to happen.”

“
When did you last see her?”

“
The night before I went away. When was that? About ten weeks ago. She didn’t say anything about it then.”

“
It’s probable she didn’t know at the time, sir. I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to give us a full statement about your relationship with Miss Porter.”

Kenyon
was overcome by another series of explosive sneezes. He fumbled in his pockets for a less useless wad of tissues.

“
Look,” he said as the paroxysm subsided. “Does this have to be now? I’m in no state to talk to anyone. Let me go home and get some sleep, then you can ask me anything. At the moment I can’t even take in what you’re saying to me.” The two officers looked at each other. “For God’s sake, I’m not going anywhere. But anything I say at the moment will be gibberish. I can hardly stay upright.”

One
officer nodded almost imperceptibly to the other.

“
We have a car outside, sir.” he said. “We can take you home.”

Kenyon
slumped in the back seat of the car and was asleep before they had left the airport. They roused him when they reached his house in Wimbledon and helped him out of the car as he fumbled for his keys.

“
Look,” he said as he opened the door. “Don’t get me wrong but I just can’t take in what you’re saying. You said that Diana’s been strangled?”

“
We didn’t actually say strangled, sir, because we don’t know. But we do believe she’s been murdered.”

Kenyon
rubbed his hand across his forehead. “Funny, I thought you said strangled. I can’t think straight at the moment.”

“
Do you mind if we wait here while you have a rest, sir?”

“
Do what the hell you want,” Kenyon said, stumbling up the stairs. “As long as I get some sleep you can end the world for all I care. Just don’t make too much noise.”

While
Kenyon slept, more inquiries were made with the television crew he had been working with. There was not the slightest possibility of him having left Australia in the previous ten weeks. His apparent lack of concern at the news of what had happened to Diana Porter and his reference to her having been strangled were put down to the state he was in on his arrival, until the police could question him further. He slept for nearly eight hours, then reappeared in the room where the two policemen were playing cards.

“
You weren’t a dream then?” he said. “Let me get a coffee and tell me all that again.”