Act of Murder (29 page)

Slevin held his gaze steady before replying so that everyone could hear. ‘Do you think anyone from outside this company would know where Herbert Koller kept his cigars?’

The question was met with a stunned silence.

*

Once the last of the statements had been written down in slow, laborious longhand, Slevin announced that everyone could leave with the exception of Benjamin Morgan-Drew,
Jonathan Keele, James Shorton and Susan Coupe. Although several eyebrows were raised among the rest of the company, they filtered out through the wings feeling a mixture of relief and anxiety.
Herbert Koller’s body was still
in situ
, and Slevin appeared to be in no particular rush to be rid of it. He knew everyone was acutely aware of its shrouded presence, and if it became
useful as his own peculiar prop, then he would not hesitate to use it.

‘Is there any particular reason the four of us should remain, sergeant?’ Jonathan Keele asked.

Slevin noticed him place a comforting arm on Morgan-Drew’s shoulder.

‘I wanted to ask some rather more pertinent questions, without the presence of an audience,’ said Slevin with a thin smile. ‘Mr Koller was a man of ambition, wouldn’t you
say?’ He addressed the question to no one in particular, but it was Benjamin Morgan-Drew who answered it.

‘He was an actor. By definition, all actors are ambitious.’

‘But his ambitions stretched beyond the stage, did they not?’

Morgan-Drew shrugged.

‘Yes, you’re correct,’ said Jonathan Keele, ignoring the sharp glance from his old friend. ‘It’s time for the truth, Benjamin.’ He half-turned towards the
body. ‘Once the performance is over we shed our disguises, do we not?’

James Shorton said, ‘Is it really necessary for Miss Coupe to remain? I mean, it is most distressing to be here with . . .’ He too turned towards the body.

Slevin looked at Susan Coupe’s eyes and their gentle, demure regard. ‘This won’t take much longer, sir. I assure you.’

Shorton moved to Miss Coupe’s side. Slevin saw his hand grasp hers gently.

‘Mr Koller, as I say, was a man of ambition. And when he met Richard Throstle, it appeared to him to be a heaven-sent opportunity to realise that ambition.’

‘How?’ Shorton asked.

‘By making money. As simple as that, Mr Shorton. You see, Herbert Koller was driven by his desire to make a great deal of money, and he knew full well that the stage was only a limited
source of funds. No, if he wanted to make the sort of money he had his heart set on, then it had to be away from the stage. So when he met Throstle in Manchester, he . . .’

‘What?’ Benjamin almost yelled the word.

‘Koller met Throstle in Manchester.’

‘When?’

‘According to Mrs Throstle, about a month ago. You were performing in Manchester at that time, I believe?’

‘Yes. At the Prince’s Theatre.’

‘He met Throstle – we don’t know how – but they struck up what you might call a professional friendship.’

Benjamin seemed unable to take in what he was being told. ‘But how could this Throstle character make Herbert’s fortune?’

Slevin coughed and looked quickly in the direction of Miss Coupe. The indelicacy of what he was about to reveal was not lost on him, but he was obliged to continue. ‘Mr Throstle had, shall
we say, made certain modifications to his slide shows. For certain audiences he gave presentations of a rather more salacious nature.’

Shorton pulled Susan Coupe closer to him.

‘Without going into detail, I can say that the slides in such shows were vile and degrading. But there are men in our society who take pleasure in witnessing the subjugation and the
humiliation of others. Some of his models were willing participants, it must be said, but most were innocents – young innocents – who suffered greatly at the hands of such a
monster.’

Jonathan Keele inhaled deeply, as if he were about to dive into icy water. Beside him, Benjamin stood motionless, gazing not at Slevin nor any of the others, but at the shrouded body of the boy
he had once loved. Susan Coupe was sobbing quietly, Shorton’s arm holding her to his chest.

But Slevin could not stop now. Not until the guilty one confessed.

‘One of Throstle’s victims discovered that he was here, in Wigan, showing his gruesome
Phantasmagoria
at the same time as
The Silver King.
That victim had suffered
greatly, but now it appeared that Fate had sent its message. Throstle was here, and the opportunity might never arise again. So, what to do? How to get close enough to this vile man in order to
exact revenge?’

Jonathan Keele stepped closer to Slevin. ‘There’s no need to continue, Sergeant Slevin.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I am now making my confession. I killed Richard Throstle.’

Benjamin lifted his head, which he had bowed low as the policeman had been speaking. ‘What nonsense is this?’ he exclaimed. ‘Jonathan?’

The old actor turned and gave him a smile. ‘No nonsense, I assure you.’ He turned to Slevin and gave a heavy sigh, his shoulders sagging in resignation. ‘It would be best if
you took me away from this place, sergeant. These people have suffered enough.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t arrest you, Mr Keele.’

‘Whyever not?’

‘Because you are too old.’

Jonathan Keele raised his eyebrows in amusement. ‘Too old? I hadn’t realised there was a statute in law that precluded the arrest of old men.’

‘No, sir, but there is a statute precluding the arrest of innocent old men.’

‘What?’

‘When I said you were too old, I meant exactly that. In order to get close enough to Richard Throstle to commit the crime, the murderer had to do what actors do every single time they walk
on stage.’

‘And what is that?’ Shorton asked.

‘Why, they put on an act, Mr Shorton. Just as you did when you became Mr Jenkins, the travelling salesman.’

As he said the words, Susan Coupe collapsed in a heap. Shorton caught her just before she hit the hard wooden floor, and he laid her down with great tenderness, brushing the hair from her eyes
and saying her name over and over again. Gradually, her eyes flickered back to life.

‘What is this?’ Benjamin asked, looking at Jonathan Keele for an explanation he couldn’t give.

Miss Coupe sat up and was helped to one of the chairs from the set. As Shorton made sure she was comfortable, Slevin looked on with a mixture of regret and pity in his eyes.

‘You see, Mr Shorton is deeply in love.’

Both Benjamin and Jonathan now regarded the two lovers, Shorton on one knee beside a now weeping Miss Coupe, and on both their faces a look of understanding was slowly registering.

‘I remember Mrs Throstle telling me that her husband would do anything to help a damsel in distress. A most noble man, she said.’

‘Noble?’ Shorton sneered.

Susan Coupe placed a restraining hand on his arm and spoke for the first time since they had been left alone on stage. Her voice was surprisingly clear, despite an initial hesitancy. ‘It
seemed as if I was stepping into the infernal regions, sergeant. My fellow travellers thought it was something akin to an attack of the vapours upon seeing black-faced colliers. I ask you! But the
first face I saw when I walked through the station portals here in Wigan was indeed the face of a devil, the face of a man I thought I would never see again. He didn’t recognise me, of
course. I was no longer the child he . . .’

She was looking directly at Slevin, and once more he found himself catching his breath. But he wasn’t looking at a young woman whose beauty and whose acting had lit up the world of the
stage from Wigan to London. He was instead looking into the eyes of a small girl whose defilement had for ever been recorded on a set of lantern slides, the most heart-rending expression of terror
he had ever seen on any victim, alive or dead. He had recognised her doleful eyes immediately, magnified a hundred times for the seedy delectation of depraved men.

Susan Coupe brushed aside the ministrations of her lover now. She held her head high, a defiant and somehow pathetic gesture, and spoke in the steady tones of a well-rehearsed soliloquy.

‘I was introduced to Mr Richard Throstle by his friend and my governess, Georgina Malvern, who was later to become his wife. An unholy alliance! She told me he was looking for photographic
models to illustrate a new set of slides he was calling his “Life Model Series”. They are slides that tell a story. You will no doubt have seen similar, Sergeant Slevin.’

Slevin nodded. He and Sarah had sat in the Public Hall and watched such narratives as
Beware, or the Effects of Gambling
and
The Little Hero.
They had taken Peter to see the
latter, a moral tale of a young stowaway and his wicked stepfather. They were a world away from the contaminated filth Throstle was creating.

‘Once he did what he did to me, he said I was to tell no one, for how could my parents live with the photographs he had taken of me? Would they still love me if they saw what I had been a
party to, what I had allowed to happen of my own free will? They said they would shield my wickedness from my parents, and Throstle would ensure my features would be blurred for the final slides,
but only if I said nothing.’

Her voice, which hitherto had been controlled and measured, now broke, but she held herself erect and continued.

‘I had told James nothing of this. How could I? But when he saw the way I had reacted that day we arrived in Wigan, it didn’t take him long to reach the truth – there can be no
secrets between lovers, can there?’

Benjamin flushed and looked away for a few seconds.

‘So,’ said Slevin, ‘you devised a plan, a plan of revenge.’

‘Yes.’

‘Which involved Mr Shorton here presenting himself at the reception desk of the Royal Hotel in the guise of a travelling salesman.’

Shorton gave a bitter laugh. ‘It was an easy task. I had already played Mr Jenkins in the past.’

Benjamin frowned. ‘Jenkins? The hosiery salesman?’

‘Yes,’ said Slevin, curious. ‘How did you know he was a hosiery salesman?’

‘
Two Roses
, sergeant.’

‘What?’

‘If you were an aficionado of the theatre you would immediately recognise the character. He appears in the play by James Albery. It was a great success for Henry Irving at the Vaudeville
Theatre back in ’70. Irving was a great success as Digby Grant . . .’ His voice trailed off, as if he realised that he had begun to ramble.

‘I affected a rather ponderous persona for the man,’ said Shorton. ‘And with the right application of make-up and a suitable wardrobe, well, you know how effective they can
be.’

‘My compliments, Mr Shorton. Your disguise was, in many ways, perfect. It fooled me.’

Shorton frowned. ‘Then how did you know it was a disguise?’

Slevin shook his head. ‘I knew Mr Jenkins was not only bogus but was probably an actor from this company.’

‘How?’ Despite the situation, there was a note of irritation in Shorton’s voice, rather as if he’d read an unfavourable review.

‘We found traces of asbestos dust on the body of Richard Throstle.’

‘So? That could have come from anywhere.’

‘True. But then we found traces of the same dust on the body of a local miner.’

‘A local miner?’ Now Shorton was alarmed. It was one thing being arrested for crimes you had committed, but to be arrested for a murder you are guiltless of was quite another.

Slevin saw the alarm on his face. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Mr Shorton. Enoch Platt died quite by accident. But he had traces of the same asbestos dust on his clothing, and you – or
rather Mr Jenkins – and he had been seen arguing quite violently on the steps of the Royal Hotel.’

Shorton blinked as the memory came back. ‘Yes. He made a lunge for me and began screaming about how I was the Devil.’

Susan Coupe looked up. ‘Was it the same man who accosted us the day we had been along the canal?’

‘Yes, I think it was.’

Slevin took up the narrative. ‘He was heard to mutter something incomprehensible about seeing the Devil, with two eyes and two heads. But of course, if he had already seen you, if he had
stared into your eyes, which was one of his most disturbing habits, then he had seen your eyes. The irony is that poor Enoch, or Clapper as he is known generally, was merely checking your eyes
– anyone’s eyes – for traces of dust. Not asbestos dust, but coal dust. He was trapped down the mine for three days after an explosion, and when they found him he was cradling his
brother’s head in his arms. Brushing the dust away from his eyes. But what really sent him over the edge was the fact that he was cradling only the head – they never found the rest of
him.’

There was a heavy silence on stage now as Slevin’s words created their own horrific image.

‘So Enoch saw your eyes. But I’m guessing that what he couldn’t understand was how those eyes of yours, Mr Shorton, could be framed inside two different heads. Seeing those
same eyes on a completely different face – the face of Mr Jenkins the hosiery salesman – was something his muddled brain could not take in. So you became the Devil. With two eyes and
two heads. I knew, because Miss Coupe had told me when she complained about the dangers on the streets of the town, that you and Enoch Platt had already met. I simply made a reasonable deduction
that you and Jenkins were therefore the same person.’

Susan Coupe gave a strangled gasp. ‘Oh James! I . . .’

Slevin went on, his voice low, intense. ‘You booked a room at the hotel but never stayed there. Your suitcase, which of course you had to have with you for the sake of appearances, was
empty, and you merely allowed yourself to be seen in the hotel bar, and that’s where you struck up an acquaintance with Richard Throstle. I presume you had an arrangement with your landlady
to come and go as you please?’

‘For an extra ten shillings, yes.’ With a sigh, Shorton continued. ‘It wasn’t a difficult task. Throstle loved to talk about himself, although of course he never spoke of
the darker side of his business. That would have been too risky, even though I presented myself as a willing companion and someone who was up for a challenge. But I think he liked my company, or
rather, the company of Mr Jenkins.’