Cast For Death (15 page)

‘Do you think this Hugo fellow was having an affair with Tina, and then she dropped him for Sam, and so he pushed Sam in the river?’ Jane asked. ‘It’s a bit unlikely, isn’t it?’

‘When you say it like that, yes,’ said Patrick. ‘But these things do happen. I’m not surprised if Hugo Barry was having an affair with her. His wife seems a very tough nut – and she’s got that awful little dog.’

‘If she’s got a philandering husband that’s why, I expect,’ said Jane tartly.

‘He seemed an amiable sort of man,’ said Patrick.

‘Maybe he beat her. Or indulged in horrid practices,’ said Jane.

‘How gruesomely your mind works, darling,’ said Michael. ‘No one would think it to look at you. It must run in the family.’

‘I wonder what Tina looked like,’ Patrick said. ‘It might help to see a photograph of her.’

‘What difference does it make?’ asked Michael.

‘Well, you can make an assessment of someone when you know what they’re like in appearance,’ Patrick’The niece would have a photograph, wouldn’t she?’ Jane suggested.

‘I suppose she might,’ said Patrick, brightening. To ask her for one would give him an excuse to find out more about the pictures.

‘I’m surprised you didn’t think of that yourself,’ said Jane drily. ‘But really, Patrick, I think you’re exaggerating all this. It’s just two tragic suicides, with no connection.’

‘Maybe,’ said Patrick. ‘But what I’m not exaggerating is finding a stolen picture.’

He told them about Gulliver’s Gallery and what had led him there.

Jane and Michael listened in silence.

‘Well,’ said Michael at the end of the account, ‘I must hand it to you. You certainly get results. I wouldn’t like to have some skeleton in my cupboard I wanted to keep from you. You do have an uncanny instinct.’

‘If I do, then that’s what’s telling me there’s something suspicious about poor Sam’s death, and Tina’s too,’ said Patrick.

‘You think Tina’s tasteless paintings were cover-ups too, do you?’ Jane asked.

‘I do. Some Tudor portraits were taken a few weeks ago from near Birmingham – do you remember that? There have been a lot of art robberies lately – there must be quite a gang at work. Gulliver may be just the camouflager and middleman.’

‘It’s all so complicated,’ Jane complained.

‘Yes, it is. But it’s like teasing a splinter out of your finger – you worry away at it, thinking it’s small, and suddenly up comes a great spike,’ said Patrick. ‘There’s only one thing certain, and that is that Tessa Frayne, the niece, is not mixed up in anything, even if her aunt was. She’d never have told me about Gulliver’s Gallery, if she was.’

‘I’m surprised he told her who he was, if he’s a crook,’ said Michael.

‘His business is authentic enough. The more straightforward his manner, the less he had to fear from her,’ said Patrick. ‘He must have passed those pictures on promptly. They were too big for a tourist to carry out – he may have other outlets.’

‘Could Sam have been an art thief?’ Jane said. ‘Perhaps he thought he’d been discovered and killed himself before he was arrested.’

‘I can’t see Sam as a villain, somehow,’ Patrick said. ‘He was more the victim type.’

‘Could he have got carried away by some part he was playing? If he had to act an evil role every night, it might have become a habit.’

‘I doubt it – not unless he was schizoid. But he was playing Macduff, and he’s not a villain,’ said Patrick.

‘Well, the police will be chasing up this picture, won’t they?’ Michael said. ‘They’ll soon get to the bottom of it. If Sam was mixed up with the art thieves, they’ll find out and that will give them a line on his death.’

Patrick supposed that this was fair reasoning.

When they had finished their meal, the two men went into the sitting-room while Jane made coffee. Patrick sank down on the large, sagging sofa, and Michael put on the television news. The main item was a kidnapping in America; they saw distraught relatives and shots of FBI men with guns. Looking relieved at having a pleasant item to relate, the announcer then declared that Sasha Tamaroff, the son of the pianist Ivan, had arrived in London for his concert tour and for his first meeting with his father for many years. They were to perform together at the Queen Elizabeth Hall the following week and give other concerts in different parts of the country. There was film of the violinist’s Aeroflot plane arriving at Heathrow and of father and son embracing. Then they were shown driving away in a large limousine.

‘We saw him at Stratford – the father,’ Patrick said. ‘In the audience for
Othello.
Must be rather poignant for them. I hope they like one another.’

‘I’m rather surprised they’ve let Sasha come,’ said Michael. ‘Do you think he’ll go back?’

‘Maybe he’s left a wife or someone behind as a hostage,’ said Patrick.

‘Ivan Tamaroff was to have played at the Festival Hall tonight,’ the announcer was continuing. ‘But unfortunately he injured his hand recently and is unable to play. He is confident the injury will clear up in time for his first appearance with his son.’ And he went on to explain that another well-known pianist had taken his place as the solo player with the London Symphony Orchestra. Father and son were in the audience instead. Shots followed of the two entering the Festival Hall, smiling broadly, the father white-haired, with strongly marked brows above dark eyes, and the son slighter, looking very youthful. Ivan Tamaroff’s hand was tucked into a narrow sling and rested on his chest.

‘Wonder what you’d look like wearing a white wig and bushy eyebrows, Mike,’ Patrick mused.

‘Rather old, I should think,’ said Michael. ‘What an odd speculation.’

‘Mm. I just thought Ivan looked a bit like an actor I once saw made up as Gloucester, in
Lear?
said Patrick. ‘It’s amazing how they can alter their faces.’

‘Yes, false noses and things. But what are you getting at?’

‘I’m not quite sure,’ said Patrick. ‘But I’m thinking of something that Dimitris said. It’s a question of identity.’

The picture concealed under Othello was the missing Corot. It was quite undamaged; the new painting had been done on a fine canvas stretched across the back of the original. Humphrey Wilberforce was very excited about it.

It was the next morning; he and Patrick were both in Humphrey’s rooms, talking to Detective Chief Inspector Frobisher who was investigating the Midlands art robberies. The police would descend on Tessa now and upset her: it was unfortunate, Patrick felt, but could not be helped. But the chief inspector had different ideas. ‘Please keep very quiet about this, Dr Grant,’ he said. ‘We need to get whoever’s behind it all. This Gulliver may be just a link in the chain. And the late Mrs Willoughby another, very likely.’

Patrick saw a ray of light. ‘So you won’t be seeing Miss Frayne?’

‘Not at once, though we shall need to eventually.’

‘I could do it for you,’ Patrick suggested. ‘I could lead the conversation around to her aunt. And look about for more pictures at the same time, perhaps.’ Since he meant to do it anyway, he might as well acquire official blessing.

The chief inspector had heard something of Patrick’s reputation by now, but had not yet decided if it was an advantage or not.

‘Well, yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Perhaps that would be an idea.’

‘What do you particularly want to know?’ Patrick asked. ‘I could go to Stratford today.’

‘Anything at all that you can manage to find out. Perhaps Dr Wilberforce would go with you,’ suggested Frobisher. ‘His knowledge of art might be useful. Or one of our trained officers, in plain clothes.’

Patrick thought that a plain clothes officer, even if he did not look like a policeman, would give out an aura.

‘How about it, Humphrey?’ he asked. ‘It seems a good thought.’

Humphrey could scarcely wait to be off.

They departed after lunch, in Patrick’s car.

‘What are we going to do?’ Humphrey asked. ‘How shall we tackle this assignment?’

‘We’ll improvise,’ said Patrick. ‘We’ll ask Tessa how long her aunt had had those paintings, and if she knows where they came from, but we’ll wrap it up subtly so that she barely notices.’

When they reached the cottage, Tessa was not to be seen. The young man whom Patrick had met before was in the garden in the spring sunshine, in a semi-kneeling position, sitting on his heels on a rug on the lawn. His hands were clasped behind his back and he gazed at the sky, seeming unaware of their approach.

‘Meditating,’ said Patrick calmly, and stepped heavily on the flagged path so that his footfalls were loud.

The young man took no notice.

‘Hullo! Is Tessa about?’ Patrick cried heartily.

The young man blinked, then focused on them.

‘No – sorry – she’s shopping. She won’t be long. Go in and wait for her, won’t you?’ he said.

‘Right, we will. Don’t let us disturb you,’ said Patrick.

The young man needed no such instruction; he bent forward and touched his head to the ground in front of his knees, remaining there, motionless, Patrick gave Humphrey a meaningful look and hurried on into the cottage.

‘We can have a look round,’ he said when they were inside. ‘Before she gets back, I mean. The guru will be oblivious for hours.’

‘They say it’s good for the nerves,’ remarked Humphrey.

But Patrick had no time to discuss yoga techniques now.

‘I’m nipping out to look at something in the garage,’ he said. ‘Give a shout if Tessa comes back. And watch out generally, Humphrey. There are others here – she’s got more than one lodger.’

He went through to the kitchen, opened the back door and strode rapidly over the lawn to the garage. The sacks which he had seen on his earlier visit had disappeared.

‘That was quick,’ said Humphrey when he reappeared. ‘What were you looking for?’

‘Tell you later,’ replied Patrick.

He moved round the sitting-room, which was rather untidy, peering at the objects scattered about. There were papers heaped on several chairs, and a marked copy of
Henry V
lay open, face downwards, on an arm of the sofa.

Patrick picked it up and saw, rifling the pages, that the part of the boy was underscored.

‘Looks as if someone here’s got a few lines to say after all,’ he said.

Humphrey was looking at the porcelain. He picked up one or two objects that were on a window sill and inspected them.

‘Pretty, but not of any great value,’ he said, and began prowling round looking at the paintings. There were some landscapes, one with a windmill by a stream, the other of a tree bent in a gale; they were starkly done, quite compelling, obviously modern.

‘Harmless,’ he pronounced.

‘No hidden masterpieces?’

‘Not at first glance.’ Humphrey tapped the paintings with a fingernail, then lifted them away from the wall. ‘No, they’re just what they seem to be,’ he said.

Patrick had been diverted by the bookcase, where he found a row of modern novels in paperback, some poetry, and various classic authors including Hardy and Jane Austen.

‘Tessa reads,’ he said. ‘That’s good.’

‘Might be the deceased aunt,’ Humphrey answered, coming to examine the collection.

They looked inquisitively inside various volumes but found no names inscribed. Both were sitting quietly reading when the blond young man reappeared from the garden, Humphrey with a book of verse in his hand, and Patrick absorbed by wartime Athens in Olivia Manning’s
Friends and Heroes.
They glanced up, smiled benevolently at him, and resumed their reading.

The youth crossed the room, picked up the marked copy of
Henry V,
and turned its pages.

‘Would one of you mind giving me my cues?’ he asked.

‘What? Oh, hear your lines, you mean? Yes, certainly,’ said Patrick.

‘I’d like to run through them,’ said the youth, looking severe. ‘I’m understudying the boy, in
Henry V.’

‘Oh—splendid! I’d like to say I hope you get the chance to perform, but that would be hard luck on the principal,’ said Patrick.

‘Well, you never know. He’s understudying the Dauphin. We might all change round,’ said the young actor hopefully.

‘Come on, then.’ Patrick was eager to help. ‘Give me the book,’ and he began, before he had the right page open, ‘”Oh hound of Crete, think’st thou my spouse to get?”’ and went on to the end of the speech before the boy’s entrance without once glancing at the text.

The actor’s jaw had dropped; even Humphrey was impressed.

‘Come on, come on,’ said Patrick. ‘”Mine host Pistol—” on you go.’

‘You know it,’ said the actor.

‘Of course I know it,’ said Patrick testily.

Humphrey began to titter.

‘You two can never have been properly introduced,’ he said.

‘You’re not in the business, are you?’ asked the young man in accusing tones.

‘I lecture about Shakespeare at Oxford,’ said Patrick. ‘Now, come along.’

When Tessa returned some time later, she could hear them before she entered the cottage. One voice, somewhat declamatory, which she had heard speaking the part before, described the flea upon Bardolph’s nose; a deeper, firm voice replied, and doubled for the part of Nym, while Pistol spoke in rather unnatural tones and stumbled over the bit about oaths being straws and faiths wafer cakes, a real tongue-twister, as she knew. She listened outside for a minute, and then came in as the scene ended. The paid-up member of Equity stood on the hearth-rug, looking dramatic, while beside him was Patrick Grant, hair flopping over his brow, hazel eyes shining behind his spectacles. An unknown man, looking rather frail, with a high domed forehead and slightly receding sandy hair, held open a book and declared as she entered: ‘”Let housewifery appear: keep close, I thee command.”’

Tessa stood on the threshold of the room, shaking with laughter.

‘Right on cue,’ she said.

Humphrey and Patrick both shared her mirth, but the genuine actor looked outraged.

‘There’s a rehearsal tomorrow. I must be ready,’ he said.

‘Of course you must, Adrian. And you are,’ said Tessa. ‘Let’s all have tea. I’ll put the kettle on while you run through it again.’