Still holding the triangle, the old man seemed to be gasping for air. He dropped the instrument, which struck a jarring note as it hit the ground, and staggered down from his platform. The spotlight followed him, as if the lighting technician couldn’t take his eyes off the horrifying scene. The percussionist held out his arm towards the conductor in a mute plea for help, then raised both hands to his throat, as if defending himself from an invisible attacker who was trying to strangle him. He fell to his knees and there was a chorus of muffled screams, most of the people in the front row rising from their seats. Members of the orchestra surrounded the percussionist and called desperately for a doctor. A man made his way along our row and on to the stage. I stood to let him pass and couldn’t help following him.
Inspector Petersen was already with the musicians and I saw that Detective Sergeant Sacks too had jumped up on to the stage, gun in hand. The percussionist lay face down in a grotesque pose, his hand still gripping his throat, his face a bruised blue, like a marine animal that had stopped breathing. The man who had pushed past me was a doctor.
He turned the body over, pressed two fingers to the neck to check the pulse and closed the eyes. Crouching beside him, Petersen discreetly showed him his ID card and spoke to him for a moment. He then made his way through the orchestra to the percussionist’s platform and began searching the floor. The triangle was lying by the steps and he picked it up with his handkerchief. I turned and saw Seldom in the crowd behind me.
Petersen was motioning for Seldom to join him in one of the empty rows of seats. I pushed through the throng until I reached Seldom and followed him, but he seemed not to notice me. He said nothing and his expression was impossible to read. We made our way slowly back to our seats. Petersen had climbed down from the stage and was now approaching us from the opposite end of the row. Seldom stopped suddenly, frozen at the sight of something on his seat. Someone had torn a couple of phrases from the programme and formed a short message. I managed to read them before the inspector moved me aside. The first said: “The third of the series.” The second was the word ‘triangle’.
Sixteen
Inspector Petersen motioned peremptorily to Sacks. The detective inspector, who had been standing guard over the body, made his way towards us through the crowd, showing his police badge.
“Don’t let anyone leave,” ordered Petersen. “I want the names of all the people here.” He took out his mobile phone and handed it to Sacks, together with a small notebook. “Contact the car park attendant and make sure he doesn’t let any cars out. And get a dozen officers here to take statements, another officer to watch the lake, and two more to intercept anyone who gets on to the road via the woods. I want you to do a head count of the audience and compare it with the number of tickets sold and seats occupied. Talk to the ushers and find out how many extra seats they set out. And I want another list that includes the palace staff, members of the orchestra and people organising the fireworks. One more thing,” he said as Sacks was about to leave. “What were your orders this evening, Detective Sergeant?”
Petersen was staring at him severely and Sacks turned pale, like a student faced with a difficult question.
“To watch anyone who came near Professor Seldom,” he answered.
“In that case perhaps you can tell us who left this message on his seat.”
Sacks looked at the two little pieces of paper and his face fell. He shook his head despondently.
“I really thought someone was strangling that man, sir,” he said. “That’s what it looked like from where I was sitting: as if someone was trying to throttle him. I saw you take out your gun and I ran on to the stage to help him.”
“But he didn’t die of strangulation, did he?” asked Seldom quietly.
Petersen seemed to hesitate a moment before answering.
“Apparently, it was spontaneous respiratory arrest. Dr Sanders, the doctor who went up on the stage, operated on him two years ago for pulmonary emphysema and gave him five or six months to live. It was a miracle he was still standing, his respiratory capacity was so reduced. The doctor’s initial diagnosis is that the man died of natural causes.”
“Yes,” murmured Seldom, “natural causes. It’s remarkable how skilled he’s becoming, isn’t it? A natural death, of course, the logical extreme, the most perfect example of an imperceptible murder.”
Petersen took out his glasses and again leaned over the pieces of paper.
“You were right about the next symbol,” he said, looking up at Seldom. He still didn’t seem sure whether the professor was an ally or adversary. I could understand why: there was something in Seldom’s way of reasoning that was inaccessible to the inspector, and Petersen wasn’t used to having someone one step ahead of him in an investigation.
“Yes, but as you can see, knowing it was no help.”
“There are a few strange differences from the other messages: this one doesn’t have a time. And the strips of paper have ragged edges, as if they were torn out carelessly, and in a hurry, from the programme.”
“Perhaps,” said Seldom, “that’s exactly what he wants us to think. Wasn’t the entire scene, with the spotlight and the climactic moment in the music, like a consummate magic act? In fact the death of the percussionist wasn’t the important thing; the real trick was leaving these two bits of paper under our very noses.”
“But the man up there on the stage is dead. That’s not a trick,” said Petersen coldly.
“Yes,” said Seldom, “that’s what’s so extraordinary: the reversal of the routine, the major effect at the service of the minor effect. We still don’t know what the figure is. We can draw it now, we can follow the outline, but we can’t see it, at least, not yet as he does.”
“But if what you thought was right, showing him that we know the continuation of the series might be enough to stop him. Anyway, I think we’ve got to try-to send him a message right now.”
“But we don’t know who he is,” said Seldom. “How can you get a message to him?”
“I’ve been wondering about it since I received the little note with your explanation. I think I’ve got an idea. I’m hoping to ask the psychologist about it this evening and call you afterwards. If we want to get ahead of him and prevent the next murder, we’ve got no time to lose.”
We heard an ambulance siren and saw that an Oxford Times van had also drawn up. The passenger door opened and a photographer appeared, followed by the gangling reporter who had interviewed me at Cunliffe Close. Inspector Petersen carefully picked up the two little strips of paper by their edges and put them in his pocket.
“For the time being this is a natural death,” he said. “I don’t want that reporter to see me talking to you.” Petersen turned towards the crowd gathered round the stage. “Right,” he said with a sigh, “I’ve got to count all these people.”
“Do you really think he might still be here?” asked Seldom.
“I think whether the head count is complete or somebody’s missing, we’ll know something more about him.”
Petersen moved away a few steps and stopped to talk to the young woman who had been sitting beside him during the performance. The inspector motioned in our direction and the girl nodded. A moment later she headed resolutely towards us, with a friendly smile.