‘I’m talking about the day he died. Did he test it that day?’
‘Presumably not. How should I know?’ The man looked desperately unhappy, as if he knew that his weak personality could not withstand even the mildest of interrogations.
‘I think you do know.’
No, it didn’t take long. He broke immediately. ‘All right. He did test it.’
‘With his ringmain tester?’
‘Yes, he came down onstage at the beginning of the interval like he always did and tested out his gear.’
‘And presumably it was all right?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘If it wasn’t, he would have said something about it. Unless he was trying to commit suicide.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Why didn’t you say anything at the inquest?’
‘Nobody asked me.’
Charles thought that pretty unlikely. The police were sure to have asked all of the company whether they had any information relevant to the accident. So what was Norman del Rosa hiding?
‘Why were you onstage in the interval?’ The question was asked very gently.
‘I. . um. . I left some music on the piano.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with that. You could have told the police that. But it’s rather strange, because I saw the show and you played throughout your spot without music.’
Norman del Rosa looked even unhappier. And yet Charles sensed that he did want to tell, that it would be a relief to get it off his chest.
‘Well, the fact is. . I didn’t want Vita to know I was on-stage. The fact is, there’s a place in the wings where there’s a sort of crack in the wall. It’s just by the dressing room where the dancers. .’ He halted in embarrassment.
‘I see,’ said Charles softly.
‘The fact is, Vita had once caught me looking through this. . crack and. . You must promise you won’t tell her.’
‘Of course not,’ he reassured.
Norman del Rosa looked relieved. The confession had made him feel easier. Charles felt a wave of pity for the little man in his ridiculous wig. A Peeping Tom. The fact that he was spying on dancers made it even more ironic, since most of them were totally without shame, used to anyone and everyone wandering through their dressing rooms while they were changing. Still, in a way he could understand. Somehow he couldn’t imagine Norman having much of a sex-life with the fastidious Vita Maureen. A man who had been married to her for a few years could be excused worse deviations.
‘I’m glad I’ve told you, actually, Charles. Weight off my mind. You won’t tell anyone, will you?’
‘Of course not. You know what this means?’
‘Well, I suppose it means that whatever was wrong with the cable didn’t go wrong until after Bill Peaky had tested it.’
That was a rather naive way of putting it. But it was typical of Norman del Rosa’s timorous nature not to follow the logic through to its unpalatable conclusion.
Cables don’t just go wrong. The cable which killed Bill Peaky had been incorrectly wired. The Live terminal had been attached where the Neutral should have been and vice versa. If the mains tester had not revealed this fault in the interval after the new cable had been installed, then it was a reasonable supposition that at that moment the wiring was correct. So it was a reasonable supposition that the wires had been subsequently reversed by a person or persons unknown. Which made it a reasonable supposition that Bill Peaky had been murdered.
CHAPTER THREE
COMIC: I say, I say, I say, what’s the best way to serve turkey?
FEED: I don’t know. What is the best way to serve turkey?
COMIC: Join the Turkish army.
Polly, the solicitor’s husky-voiced secretary, connected Charles with Gerald Venables. ‘Hello,’ the actor said buoyantly. ‘I think I’ve got another one.’
‘Another what?’ asked Gerald cautiously. In the office he was all solicitor, very formal.
‘Another murder.’
‘Really? OK, spill the beans.’ The interest was instantaneous, signalled, as ever, by Gerald’s descent into American slang.
‘Oh, I thought you’d gone off murder.’
‘No, it’s still more fun than contract-fiddling.’
‘I mean, you didn’t give me much help when Charlotte Mecken was murdered.’
‘No, but dammit, her husband was a friend of mine.’
‘True. Have you seen Hugo Mecken recently?’
‘Couple of weeks ago. Met in a restaurant.’
‘What’s he doing these days?’
‘Drinking himself to death, so far as I could tell.’
‘Yes, I was afraid that’s what would happen.’ Charles paused, swamped by a wave of depression. What was the point in his dabbling in detection when his efforts brought so little happiness to the people involved?
But Gerald wouldn’t let him brood. ‘Come on, come on. What is it this time? Spear-carrier impaled on his spear? Stripper garotted with her G-string?’
‘No. Did you read about Bill Peaky?’
‘That comedian who got electrocuted out at Great Yarmouth?’
‘Hunstanton, yes. I was there with Frances.’
‘Ah, you two back together again. That’s good.’
‘Were back together. I’m afraid we’ve had another row.’
‘Oh God — ’
‘ANYWAY. .’ Charles changed the subject forcibly. ‘About Peaky. .’
‘What, you think his death may not have be all it seemed?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘But surely the inquest. .’
‘The inquest may have been working on incomplete evidence.’ Briefly Charles outlined Norman del Rosa’s revelation.
‘I see. Yes, it certainly does sound possible. Anything I can do?’
‘I’m sure there will be in time. For the moment I just wondered if you have any background on Peaky.’
‘No, nothing, except what one reads in TV Times or a newspaper. He was one of these showbiz mushrooms who spring up overnight. One day nobody’s heard of them, then they do a television and — bang — everyone’s talking about them. But I don’t know anything about Peaky personally. Not really my end of the business, I’m afraid.’
‘Nor mine. Though it may be soon.’
‘What do you mean?’
Charles told Gerald about his booking on The Alexander Harvey Show.
‘Oh, I remember. Wilkie Pole. That terrible character you used always to be doing at parties after we came down from Oxford.’
‘Yes.’ Into the accent. ‘Bepardon?’
‘God, that takes me back. Look, Charles, get me a ticket for the show. I’d like to be in the audience.’
‘What, to see me do my act?’
‘No, to see Alexander Harvey. He’s a client. I did his divorce.’
‘Divorce? I didn’t think women were his thing.’
‘He’s not the first to have made a mistake. I think he still kicks with both feet, anyway.’
‘Interesting.’
‘Is there any rehearsal for the show?’
‘Just the day before the recording. But Walter Proud’s taking me out to lunch today to meet Lennie Barber.’
‘I thought Walter was with the BBC. The Alexander Harvey Show’s the other side, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Walter’s freelance now. Sort of throwing ideas around to all the companies.’
‘I see. Thought he was rather well placed at the BBC.’
‘Yes, but he left. I don’t know, reading between the lines, I think there may have been some sort of row.’
‘Hmm. Anyway, you’ll get a better lunch on ITV expenses. Where’s he taking you?’
‘Restaurant called Great Expectations.’
‘I hope they’re realized. Let me know when you get anywhere on the murder.’
Great Expectations had recently opened in that Notting Hill area which is so convenient for lunching from BBC Television Centre. It was a concept restaurant, themed wittily around the works of Dickens. A bust of the author greeted patrons outside the door and inside the walls were covered with prints from his novels. The motif was carried through to the table-mats and napkins; menu and wine list were held in leather folders like first editions. The waiters and waitresses looked as though they had escaped from the chorus of Oliver!