Act of Murder (28 page)

Another roguish wink. You sly dog, you!

*

Five people preparing for a performance.

Death, too, his patience growing thin, waiting in the wings.

10

Constable Bowery squeezed into his seat and gloomily regarded the crimson velvet curtains. ‘Doesn’t seem natural, sat here watchin’ a turn an’ no pint
to slurp.’

‘
The Silver King
isn’t regarded as a “turn”. It’s a play. A full-length five-act melodrama that has stunned audiences all over the world.’

The words ‘full-length’ seemed to depress Bowery even more. He shifted in his seat, getting himself settled for what was doubtless going to be a very long night.

‘I don’t see why we had to come, sergeant.’

Slevin shook his head slowly, suggesting that the reason was much too complicated to explain. Yet, if the truth were known, he couldn’t really explain their presence either. They had to be
here, of course, because he had worked out much of what had happened and why, but he could easily have carried out his duties and made his arrest backstage. Why sit here and watch the whole play
before taking action?

He had tried to avoid any examination of what his motives for being here as a mere spectator could be. But he knew, deep down, what those motives were.

Ever since he had set eyes on Miss Coupe, he had been struck not only by her beauty, which was prodigious, but by her vulnerable and innocent eyes. Was it too much of a betrayal of Sarah to sit
through one of her performances and simply admire her from afar? Looking at Miss Coupe began with what he might like to characterise as detached admiration, but at what point would that slide into
desire, conjuring up concupiscent images?

As the orchestra struck up their opening strains, he recalled other concupiscent images he had recently seen. The vile filth that had filled the screen in the Public Hall, the face of that young
girl as she lay there, naked and completely at the mercy of her defiler, and the way she gazed up at him with all the pain of hell in her eyes . . .

‘Sergeant?’ Bowery’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘You all right?’

‘Yes,’ Slevin said with a catch in his voice. ‘I will be.’

*

The music reached its climax and the lights began to fade around the auditorium. Before them, the footlights grew brighter with a sharp hiss as the gas was raised and the
curtains slowly drew apart to reveal the opening scene of
The Silver King.

It was strange, thought Slevin, as Jonathan Keele made his entrance, how very different he looked from when they had spoken. He moved with more agility, and his voice had a richness, a grandeur
almost, that was in sharp contrast to the hoarse crackle that had previously marked his speech.

‘Well, he’s a bit wild,’ said Keele, ‘but there ain’t no harm in him.’

A few moments later, there was a noise of confusion and disturbance as James Shorton made his startling entrance through the gate leading to the skittle alley of the Wheatsheaf
.
Will
Denver was obviously drunk, and his clothing was dishevelled and full of the dust of the road, as if he had spent too much time stumbling his way from the racecourse where he had lost heavily yet
again.

‘Home!’ he yelled, and Slevin noticed how the word echoed around the theatre with the force of Shorton’s voice. ‘What should I go home for? To show my poor wife what a
drunken brute she’s got for a husband? To show my innocent children what an object they’ve got for a father?’

‘Is he actin’, sergeant? ’Cos he looks drunk as a drayman to me!’ Bowery stared at the stage, having evidently set aside his distaste of the theatre for the moment.

Slevin shook his head. ‘Oh he isn’t drunk, constable. He’s simply acting.’

‘Well, I’ve collared soberer buggers than him.’

Benjamin Morgan-Drew entered as Samuel Baxter, detective. He looked cautiously around the room before going to the bar and taking hold of a large pewter pot of ale. Denver had taken out a
revolver and was gazing down at it as a source of comfort, a possible way out of his financial mess.

‘If you don’t know what to do with that,’ Morgan-Drew said in a low voice, ‘I’ll take care of it for you.’

But Shorton sullenly returned it to his pocket.

Suddenly a brash young chap, Henry Corkett, sauntered arrogantly into the room, an unlit cigar dangling from his mouth, brandishing a thick roll of banknotes.

‘Have some champagne!’ Herbert Koller called to all and sundry in the room, waving his money around. ‘Tubbs! It’s my shout. Champagne for everybody!’

Morgan-Drew sidled up behind the extravagantly confident young man and whispered, ‘You young ass! Put those notes in your pocket and go home to bed!’

But the policeman’s words had obviously fallen on deaf ears, for Corkett took out a match, struck it and held it to a banknote he had peeled from the wad in his hand.

The audience gasped as he lit the cigar with the banknote and inhaled deeply, the strong swirl of smoke curling upwards into the darkness above the stage.

‘There!’ Koller declared. ‘That’s a five-pound note! That’ll show you what I’m made of! Money ain’t no object to me . . . object to me . . . object . .
.’ Koller broke off in a fit of coughing, and stared down at the cigar with a look of mounting horror and revulsion on his face.

Slevin saw Morgan-Drew move towards him, and some of the other actors on stage, including Shorton, who was supposed to be drunk and slumped in a chair by the bar, ran quickly to help the young
actor, now clutching his throat and retching in a manner that left Slevin in no doubt about what he was witnessing.

‘He’s bloody good, sergeant! Bloody good!’ Bowery was watching keenly, his hands gripping the back of the seat in front.

But Slevin knew this was no part of the act. The way Morgan-Drew held Koller’s head and tried to drag him from the stage, and the way the others clustered around, told him that something
very serious was taking place before their eyes, and it had nothing to do with make-believe. The actor-manager shouted something to the wings and suddenly the curtains began to draw to a close.

‘That was bloody quick!’ said Bowery. ‘They’ve hardly begun.’

‘I think they’ve actually finished,’ Slevin whispered urgently as others around them began to murmur in confusion and protest at the unexpected turn of events. He stood up and
forced his way along the row of seats, with Bowery following him into the centre aisle and down towards the steps leading to the side of the stage.

Slevin caught sight of the manager of the theatre, running down the side of the auditorium with an anxious look on his face and uttering feeble assurances to the members of the audience nearest
him.

Once the two policemen reached the wings, they were met with a scene of utter confusion. Slevin forced his way through a tightly knotted group of actors and stage-hands gathered around the now
prostrate Herbert Koller, who was writhing in speechless agony on the floor of the stage, with Benjamin Morgan-Drew cradling his head in his lap and screaming at him to take deep breaths.

‘Let me through!’ Slevin ordered. The crowd parted to allow both Slevin and Bowery access to the young actor. It was a horrific sight. His eyes were bulging and his cheeks were
flushed a deep red, while his mouth seemed blistered and contorted.

‘Has anyone called for a doctor?’ yelled Slevin as he kneeled beside Koller.

Jonathan Keele stepped forward. He had been standing a little apart from the group. ‘Benjamin has sent for one.’

Slevin looked up at the old actor, a curious expression on his face. ‘Will everyone please stand farther back!’ he ordered. ‘Give the chap some air.’

They all did as they were bidden, apart from Benjamin, who flatly refused to let go of Herbert and was frantically stroking his moist, clammy forehead.

Slevin began to loosen the cravat around Koller’s neck, simply out of a desire to do something, anything, that might alleviate the man’s suffering.

Beyond the closed curtains they could hear yells and protestations, voices raised in anger and confusion. The manager of the theatre, who had stepped onto the apron of the stage, was informing
the audience of an ‘unfortunate accident’ and asking them all to ‘leave in an orderly and dignified manner’.

A few minutes passed, during which Koller’s breathing became more and more strained and his eyes slowly began to retreat, to flicker and glaze in surrender. Slevin, checking his pulse,
felt it beat so rapidly that he wondered how long it would be before his heart simply exploded. Then, as one of the stage-hands announced the arrival of a doctor, and as a small, wiry individual
rushed from the wings to examine the patient, Herbert began to shake uncontrollably and Benjamin could no longer hold his head in his lap.

‘He is convulsing,’ the doctor announced. ‘Please! Let me . . .’

But before he could finish the sentence, the spasms stopped. Someone sobbed, and Benjamin let forth a feral howl that startled everyone.

Herbert Koller was dead.

*

Slevin had given strict orders that no one was to leave the theatre after the audience had been ushered out. He had a dozen men surrounding the building within ten minutes, and
another half-dozen constables placed in strategic positions inside the theatre itself. The doctor had formally confirmed that Herbert Koller was dead, and Slevin himself had draped a cloth over the
corpse, which lay there still.

There had been protests when Slevin also gave orders for the entire cast and stage-hands to be assembled on stage a matter of yards away from the body, which lay there in its makeshift shroud, a
macabre reminder of what they had all witnessed.

‘But this is abominable!’ James Shorton stood before the detective sergeant and glared at him. ‘To force us all, especially the ladies, to stay here with . . .’ He
glanced sharply at the corpse, then briefly at Miss Coupe, whom he had been consoling.

‘I assure you all that you will be allowed to leave within a very short time. I merely wish to ask a few questions which will help my investigations.’

‘Into what, exactly, sergeant?’ asked Jonathan Keele, who now came and stood beside Shorton.

‘Into what we have just witnessed.’

Benjamin, who all the time had been standing before the body with his head bowed and hands clasped in an attitude of prayer, spoke for the first time since Herbert had died. ‘
Odi et
amo
,’ he said in little more than a whisper.

‘What’s that?’ Slevin turned to Keele, who was shaking his head sadly.

‘It’s Latin, sergeant. A line from Catullus. “I hate and I love.”’ He searched Slevin’s eyes until he saw the significance of the quotation dawn on him.

‘I see,’ he said, and gave a curt nod.

Slevin then strode purposefully to the centre of the stage and stood with his back to the closed curtains. He surveyed the scene: the painted backdrop, the wooden bar, the scattered stools and
tables, the frightened and resentful company of actors and actresses.

‘According to the doctor, who has now left to make arrangements for the transfer of the victim to the local infirmary, Herbert Koller appears to have been poisoned.’

The word seemed to send a ripple of shock, of fear, through the entire company.

‘Constable Bowery?’ Slevin called out.

Bowery, who had been standing in the wings, made his entrance. He held something in his right hand, and when he reached stage centre he held it out for Slevin to take. They all looked at a small
narrow box, around ten inches in length, which the detective slowly opened.

‘Those are Herbert’s cigars!’ said one of the group.

‘Indeed they are. And as each one of you is responsible for providing your own props – is that the correct word? – then it is safe to assume that Mr Koller purchased enough
cigars to last the entire run of performances. He lights how many cigars during each show?’

‘One,’ said Jonathan Keele.

‘And he always makes sure he has his cigar with him before coming on stage?’

‘Of course. He places it in a small box by his dressing-table.’

‘So the cigar he had for tonight’s performance will have come from this batch. Obviously. And now, Constable Bowery?’ Slevin held his hand out once more, as Bowery reached into
his side pocket and pulled out a piece of cloth, which he handed to his sergeant. Slevin unfolded the cloth to reveal a cigar similar in length to the ones in the box. ‘This is the cigar he
was smoking tonight just before he collapsed. The doctor thinks it will be found to contain poison. Cyanide, probably, from the rather distinctive odour of bitter almonds on the late Mr
Koller’s mouth.’

There were several gasps.

‘And of course there are only two possibilities, aren’t there? Suicide or murder. We can immediately discount accidental poisoning, as cigar manufacturers tend not to use cyanide in
their processes. Those of you who knew Mr Koller well will doubtless realise how preposterous the idea of suicide is. So that leaves us with murder.’

He allowed the word to resonate among them, and watched their reactions carefully. He knew of course that these were actors, people trained in the art of disguise and concealment.

Well, he was good at his profession, too.

‘Mr Morgan-Drew? Would you do us the honour of joining us?’

Benjamin looked up, as if aware of their presence for the first time. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘Yes, of course.’

Slevin watched him move slowly, almost painfully, to join their gathering. He gave the shrouded body a parting glance.

‘Good. Now, I hope this won’t take long, and I appreciate your patience, but we are dealing with the death of one of your company and I am sure you wish to discover the truth about
the way he died. We need to ascertain exactly what happened here tonight. There is only one question you need to consider: Who saw anyone enter or leave Mr Koller’s dressing-room? My
constables will take down your statements and then you will be free to leave. Again, thank you for your understanding.’

‘You surely don’t think anyone in the company could have done such a thing?’ said Morgan-Drew. His eyes were moist with tears, but he spoke now with the outraged tones of a
father whose children are being falsely accused.