Cast in Order of Disappearance (14 page)

But he didn't get the chance to drop his thunderbolt. Jacqui opened the door in a state of high excitement, more colour and animation in her face than he had seen since the Steen affair started. ‘Charles, come in. Bartlemas and O'Rourke are here!'

William Bartlemas and Kevin O'Rourke were a legend in the world of British theatre. They were a middle-aged couple, whose main activity was the collection of memorabilia of the two great actors, Edmund Kean and William Macready. Bartlemas had an enormous private income, and the pair of them lived in a tall Victorian house in Islington, which was filled to the brim with play-bills, prints, prompt copies, figurines and other souvenirs of their two heroes. They identified with them totally. Bartlemas was Kean, and O'Rourke Macready. In theory they were writing a book on the actors, but long since the fascination of collection for its own sake had taken over and work on the collation of evidence ceased. They spent all their time travelling round the British Isles, visiting auctions and antique shops, following hints and rumours, searching for more and more relics of their idols. But they always rushed back to London for the first night of every West End show. It was a point of honour that, if they were in the country, they'd be there, sitting in the middle of the fifth row of the stalls, both resplendent in Victorian evening dress, clutching shiny top hats and silver-topped canes. Quite what their role in British theatre was, was hard to define, but they knew everyone, everyone knew them and managements even came to regard their presence on a first night as an essential good luck charm. In the camper and more superstitious regions of the theatre world you'd often hear the sentence, ‘My dear, Bartlemas and O'Rourke weren't there. The notices'll be up within the week'.

In appearance they fell rather short of their ideals. William Bartlemas was not tall, probably only about five foot seven, but his angular body gave the illusion of height and his knobbly limbs moved with adolescent awkwardness. His head was crowned with an astonished crest of dyed hair. It had that brittle crinkly texture born of much hairdressing, and was ginger, of a brightness to which nature has always been too shy to aspire. Kevin O'Rourke was tiny, with the pugnacious stance of a jockey and all the aggression of a butterfly. He was balding, and had countered the problem by combing what remained forward in a Royal Shakespeare Company Roman Plays style. The dyed black hair was as tight as skin over his head, except at the front where there was a curly fringe like the edge of a pie-crust. The two always dressed identically—a grotesque pair of Beverley sisters. Today they were in oyster grey velvet. Meeting Bartlemas and O'Rourke was an unforgettable experience, and a fairly exhausting one. They talked non-stop in an elaborate relay race, one picking up the thread as soon as the other paused for breath.

They were delighted to see Charles. He had only met them once briefly at a party, but they remembered him effusively. ‘Charles Paris,' said Bartlemas, ‘lovely to see you. Haven't talked since that marvellous Bassanio you did at the Vic' —that had been fifteen years before—‘lovely performance.'

‘Yes,' said O'Rourke, ‘you always were such a clever actor . . .'

‘Sensational,' said Bartlemas. ‘What are you up to now? My dear, we've just been on the most shattering binge in North Africa.'

‘For months and months and months . . .'

‘In Morocco, of course. O'Rourke disgraced himself continually. So much to drink, my dear, it wasn't true . . .'

‘And Bartlemas almost got arrested more than once . . .'

‘Oh, I didn't. Not really . . .'

‘You did, dear, you did. I saw it all. This Moroccan policeman was watching you with a distinctly beady eye. And I don't think it was your perfection of form that intrigued him . . .'

‘Well, be that as it may. We go off, we leave the collection and everything, miss all those divine first nights, just simply to have a holiday, to get away from everything . . .'

‘But everything . . .'

‘And we come back to hear this shattering news about Marius. Oh, it's too sad.'

‘Too sad. We were just telling Jacqui here, we are absolutely desolated . . .'

‘I mean he was so strong. And such a chum too . . .'

‘I don't know how we'll survive without him, I really don't.'

‘It's terrifying. If someone like Marius who was so robust . . .'

‘So full of living . . .'

‘If he can just pop off like that . . .'

‘Then what chance is there for the rest of us?'

They both sat back, momentarily exhausted. Charles opened his mouth to speak, but missed the chance. ‘So of course,' said Bartlemas, ‘as soon as we heard the ghastly news about Marius, we just had to rush round here . . .'

‘Immediately,' said O'Rourke. ‘Because of
our secret
.'

They paused dramatically and gave Jacqui time to say, ‘Charles, they've got a new will. Marius made another will.'

Charles looked round at Bartlemas and O'Rourke. They were glowing with importance. ‘Yes,' said Bartlemas, ‘we witnessed the will and he gave it to us to look after it . . .'

‘Which is a pity,' said O'Rourke, ‘because that means we can't inherit anything . . .'

‘Not that he had anything we'd really like to inherit. I mean, nothing to do with Edmund and William . . .'

‘No, but it would have been nice to have a little memento, wouldn't it, Bartlemas?'

‘Oh yes. Yes, it would. You see, what happened was, we were in the South of France in the summer, when Jacqui and Marius were out there . . .'

‘At Sainte-Maxime . . .'

‘Yes. Marius' villa. Lovely spot . . .'

‘Oh, lovely . . .'

‘And suddenly, one night, after Jacqui had gone to bed, Marius suddenly said he was going to make a new will, and there was someone on holiday down there who was a solicitor—'

‘Not his usual one?' Charles managed to slip in.

‘Oh no, not dear Harold,' said Bartlemas.

‘No, not Harold,' echoed O'Rourke. ‘This was a rather sweet young man Marius found in a casino . . .'

‘And anyway, Marius said this boy was coming over and he was going to draw up a new will, and would we witness it? . . .'

‘So of course we said yes . . .'

‘Well, we were so
intrigued
. It was so
exciting
. . .'

‘And we've got it with us, and we were just about to show it to Jacqui when you arrived.'

‘Look,' said Bartlemas, and, with a flourish, produced a sealed envelope from his inside pocket. At this gesture both he and O'Rourke burst out into riotous giggles. ‘I'm sorry,' said O'Rourke when they had calmed down, ‘it's just that that was the gesture Edmund Kean is supposed to have used on the “Is this a dagger?” speech in
Macbeth
at the New Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, in 1823.'

‘Oh,' said Charles, as Bartlemas and O'Rourke went into new paroxysms of laughter. Again it took a little while for them to calm down and when they had, Bartlemas, with mock solemnity, handed the envelope to Jacqui. ‘Of course,' he said conspiratorially, ‘we know what's in it, don't we, O'Rourke?'

‘Oh yes, Bartlemas.' They both sat back with smug smiles on their faces and looked at Jacqui, like favourite uncles watching a child unwrap their Christmas present.

Jacqui opened the envelope, pulled out a document and looked at the sheet for some long time. Then she looked up, perplexed. ‘It's all in funny English.'

‘That's because it's a legal document,' said Charles. ‘They are always incomprehensible. It's a point of honour among lawyers never to be understood.'

‘You read it, and tell me what it means.' Jacqui handed the document over.

‘We could tell you what's in it,' said Bartlemas.

‘Yes, but we won't,' said O'Rourke coyly.

Charles read the will.

William Bartlemas

17, Ideal Road,

Islington

Keanophile

Kevin O'Rourke

17, Ideal Road,

Islington

Macreadophile

Jacqui was looking at him eagerly. Obviously she had understood the gist of the will and just wanted confirmation. Charles grinned. ‘Basically you'll be all right. You can afford to have that baby.'

‘What, and the baby'll get everything?'

‘Not exactly, no.' And Charles explained briefly about the gift
inter vivos
to Nigel. ‘So what we're talking about is only 25 per cent of Marius Steen's assets other than the houses. Mind you, it's still more money than you've ever seen in your life.'

Bartlemas and O'Rourke had been silent too long and burst again into stereo action.

‘Ooh,' said Bartlemas, ‘fancy all that going to little Arsehole . . .'

‘Who?'

‘Nigel,' said O'Rourke patronisingly. ‘Everyone calls him little Arsehole. Why on earth would Marius make all that over to him?'

‘It's the family thing, isn't it,' said Bartlemas. ‘Marius always wanted to found a dynasty.'

‘But I thought he and Nigel didn't get on.' Charles was still rather puzzled by the whole gift business.

‘Well, it varied, didn't it, O'Rourke?'

‘Oh yes, up and down all the time . . .'

‘I remember, there was a time when Nigel ran off to America . . .'

‘With some woman, ghastly actress . . .'

‘But ghastly. Marius was awfully upset. Nigel stayed away for two, three years . . .'

‘All of that, Bartlemas, all of that. Then he came crawling back . . .'

‘Tail between his legs. Woman had left him . . .'

‘Who could blame her? Marius really did the prodigal son bit . . .'

‘Oh yes, you couldn't move in Orme Gardens for fatted calf. All the great reconciliation, my son, my son . . .'

‘It's the Jewish character, you know. Love of the family. Terribly important to them.'

‘You're right, O'Rourke. That's what it is.' This was pronounced with finality and followed by a breath pause. Charles, who was beginning to understand the technique of conversation with Bartlemas and O'Rourke, leapt in. ‘When was it this reconciliation took place?'

‘About five or six years ago,' said Bartlemas.

‘Ah, that figures. It must have been then, in a final flush of family feeling, that he made everything over to Nigel.'

‘Yes.'

‘And, so far as one can tell, he regretted it ever after.'

‘Yes,' said O'Rourke. There was a pause. ‘Jacqui,' said Charles. ‘I didn't know your middle name was Myrtle.'

‘It was after an aunt,' said Jacqui.

XIII

Who Does the Slipper Fit?

THE NEW WILL was passed over to Gerald Venables, who got in touch with Harold Cohn of Cohn, Jarvis, Cohn and Stickley, and the law began the grindingly slow processes on which it thrives. Charles thought that the whole affair was now out of his hands, and, though it was unsatisfactory that so many questions remained unanswered, at least some kind of justice had been done. Nigel got most of the estate, but would be more than a little embarrassed by estate duty; and provision for Jacqui and her baby would be sorted out in time. If the police persevered they were bound to crack Audrey Sweet's defence and find out about the family blackmailing business. Then they had only to check through the photographs and the Sally Nash guest lists (which, as the case at the Old Bailey trickled on inexorably, were becoming public property anyway) to find their murderer. Charles even felt a twinge of pity for Mrs Sweet. She was a desperate woman, her incompetent attempts at blackmail motivated only by a desire to get as much money as possible in her new widowhood. It was now three days since Bill Holroyd had promised to bring her ten thousand pounds and by now she must realise the likelihood of his appearance was decreasing.

It was Saturday 15th December. Christmas was coming, but without much conviction in a darkened Britain. The cold shops with their sad gas-lamps were full of Christmas shoppers feeling sorry for themselves, and shoplifters having a field-day. The ever-present possibility of bombs made buying presents even jollier.