The Strangling on the Stage Read online

  Jude, remembering how Janie Trotman had described her involvement with Ritchie Good, thought she could see a pattern emerging. She waited for more from Gwenda.

  ‘And then of course at that point he had to disappoint them. He had to point out that he was happily married. To me.’ There was huge complacency in the way she said these words.

  And to Jude it all made perfect sense, explaining the gut feeling that she had had when alone in the Crown and Anchor with Ritchie. He was, as she’d thought after her chat with Janie, the male equivalent of a cock-teaser. He would come on to women, chat them up, get them to the point where they would agree to go to bed with him, before suddenly announcing that he couldn’t go through with it because of his undying loyalty to his wife.

  That was how he got his kicks. And then he would add the refinement of telling Gwenda exactly what had happened – or at least his version of what had happened. And their marriage would be strengthened. In fact, Jude suspected, Ritchie’s descriptions of his skirmishes with other women were the dynamo of his relationship with Gwenda. As she had frequently thought before, human imagination can hardly cope with the variety of what goes on inside marriages.

  Gwenda Good was still smiling smugly as she dried off a figurine of Minnie Mouse as cheerleader. She didn’t seem to feel the need to initiate further conversation.

  So, after a lengthy silence, Jude said, ‘I’m still not quite clear why you asked me here. Have we talked about what you wanted to talk about?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Gwenda blandly.

  ‘Well, could you tell me what it was?’

  ‘Of course. I just wanted to know that you agreed Ritchie’s death was an accident.’

  A part of Jude wondered why that question couldn’t have been asked on the telephone. But a more substantial part of her wouldn’t have missed the morning she’d just experienced for the world.

  ‘Why was that important to you, Gwenda?’

  ‘Because of the Life Insurance. I didn’t want there to be any delay on the Life Insurance, and that could have happened if there was any doubt about the circumstances of his death.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose there could have been.’

  ‘And if there were a question of suicide the cover could be invalid.’

  ‘Well, I just asked you about that, and you said there was no chance that Ritchie would ever have committed suicide.’

  ‘Oh yes, I know that. But I wondered if anyone had been spreading contrary rumours around.’

  ‘From everything that I’ve heard discussed at rehearsals, nobody seems to think there was any question of suicide.’

  ‘Oh, good.’ The smug smile grew broader. ‘Ritchie worked in Life Insurance, you see. And so he himself was very well insured. He used to say to me quite often – it was one of our little jokes – “I’d be a lot more valuable to you dead than I am while I’m alive.”’

  And Gwenda Good laughed. ‘So I think when it all comes through,’ she said, ‘I’ll be allowing myself a real splurge on eBay for more of my precious Minnies.’

  TWENTY

  As she travelled back on the train to Fethering, Jude went over in her mind the conversation she had just shared. And the more she thought about it, the more bizarre it seemed. Through her work as a healer, Jude had come across mental illness in many forms, but she had never met anyone who behaved like Gwenda. And indeed she wondered whether ‘mental illness’ was the right diagnosis. Though undoubtedly agoraphobic, the woman did not seem distressed at any level. But there was something definitely odd about her.

  The glee with which she’d talked about the Life Insurance windfall about to come her way made Jude wonder for a moment whether Gwenda could have had a hand in her husband’s death. Killing someone for their insurance is one of the oldest plotlines in the history of crime (and in its fictional version).

  On the other hand, if the woman really never left the house, she couldn’t have arranged the murder without the help of an accomplice. The more Jude thought about it, the less likely it seemed that Gwenda had been involved.

  Still, she had plenty of news to share with Carole so, on her way back from Fethering Station, she called at High Tor to invite her neighbour round for coffee. And, once inside Woodside Cottage, because it was so near lunchtime, opening a bottle of Chilean Chardonnay seemed simpler than the palaver of making coffee.

  After the exchange of their news, Carole asked, ‘What do you think of Neville’s idea that Davina had a motive to kill Ritchie?’

  ‘Well, he’s certainly right that she’s more relaxed without him around. He totally destroyed her confidence as a director. She just kowtowed to him, whereas with Olly as Dick Dudgeon, she orders him about all over the place.’

  ‘And, of course, after you, she was the first one into St Mary’s Hall to discover Ritchie’s body. Maybe she was checking up that her little ploy had worked.’

  ‘Possible.’ Sceptically, Jude screwed up her face. ‘Doesn’t seem likely, though. And your mentioning that reminds me that Hester Winstone was also present. She was in the hall before I got there.’

  ‘Alone with Ritchie – alive or dead. And tell me again, Jude, what was it exactly that Hester said?’

  ‘“It’s my fault. I’m the reason why he’s dead.”’

  ‘Which could be an admission that she had killed him.’

  ‘It could … except for the fact that the police released her after interviewing her. I can’t imagine Hester was in a robust enough emotional state to lie convincingly, so she must have provided an explanation for her presence in St Mary’s Hall that let her off the hook.’

  Carole sighed. ‘It’s a pity we can’t contact Hester. I think she could provide answers to many of the questions that are troubling us.’

  ‘I agree. I tried ringing her home again yesterday. Once again the phone was answered by Mike, not very pleased to hear from me. Once again he said Hester was “staying with a friend”.’

  ‘Do you think that’s true?’

  Jude shrugged. ‘Could be. No way of finding out.’

  ‘I think we should keep an eye on Davina at rehearsal tomorrow night. See if she gives anything away.’

  ‘What, like confessing that she murdered Ritchie? I don’t think it’s very likely she’d provide chapter and verse on—’

  ‘Don’t be trivial, Jude. You know what I mean.’

  ‘Well, yes, I do, but—’

  Jude was again interrupted, this time by the phone ringing. She answered it, and heard an elocuted female voice ask, ‘Is that Jude?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How nice to hear you. This is Elizaveta Dalrymple.’

  ‘Oh.’ That was a surprise.

  ‘I gather I have to congratulate you, Jude.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On taking over from me as Mrs Dudgeon and, from all accounts, being rather splendid in the part.’

  ‘Well, I’m doing my best.’

  ‘I’m sure you are. And also I gather you’ve got a friend of yours involved too, in the role of prompter. Carole Seddon, isn’t that right?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ For someone who was boycotting the production of The Devil’s Disciple, Elizaveta Dalrymple seemed very well informed about it. Jude wondered who was reporting back to her. Olly Pinto seemed the most likely candidate.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Elizaveta, ‘I was wondering whether you – and your friend Carole – might be free on Saturday evening …?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘It’s just for a little “drinkies thing” at my place. Totally informal. Say about six o’clock …? Would you be free?’

  ‘Well, I know I am. I’m not sure about Carole.’ At the mention of her name Carole looked puzzled. ‘But actually she’s here. I’ll ask her.’

  ‘Oh, she’s there?’ said Elizaveta. ‘I didn’t realize you two cohabited.’

  ‘No, we don’t. We—’

  ‘Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.’

  Jude suppressed a giggle. It wasn’t
the moment to put Elizaveta right, to say no, in fact she and Carole were not a lesbian couple. She wondered whether the misapprehension would lead to interesting misunderstandings on the Saturday night. That is, assuming Carole was free.

  Jude looked across at her neighbour and said that they were being invited for ‘drinkies’ at Elizaveta Dalrymple’s. And was able to relay the glad news to their hostess that Carole Seddon would be able to come too.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Carole when Jude had put the phone down.

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘Neville Prideaux told me that these “drinkies” sessions of Elizaveta’s have been going on for years. Something she started when the much-adored Freddie was around. He described them as part of her “power base”.’

  ‘So why have we been invited?’

  ‘Well, Jude, I’m sure it’s not just for the charm of our personalities. According to Neville, Elizaveta Dalrymple always has an ulterior motive.’

  ‘So we just have to find out what it is.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Carole. ‘We do.’

  They were both at rehearsal on the Thursday evening and, as agreed, they kept a watching brief on Davina Vere Smith. It was undeniable that since the death of Ritchie Good she had relaxed considerably in her directorial role. And she enjoyed having Olly Pinto as a punchbag.

  He still wasn’t on top of Dick Dudgeon’s lines, so Carole was once again kept busy as prompter. And the further he got into rehearsal for his leading role, the more clearly his inadequacies as an actor were exposed. He just didn’t convince on stage. While he should have been projecting the sardonic insouciance of Shaw’s anti-hero, he looked insecure, uncertain not only about his lines but also in his whole demeanour.

  Increasingly Carole wondered if what Neville Prideaux had suggested might be right. That, in spite of her boycott, Elizaveta Dalrymple had encouraged Olly to take part because she knew he would ruin the production.

  There was one confrontation during that evening’s rehearsal which caused Carole and Jude to exchange covert looks. Davina Vere Smith was working on a scene in Act Two, the first time Dick Dudgeon and Judith Anderson are left alone together. Storm Lavelle, who by then had her words indelibly fixed on the interior of her cranium, was being very patient as Olly Pinto stumbled and paraphrased, as ever. And even when he got the lines right, he managed to get the intonations wrong.

  Each time they had to go back on the scene, the tension in Davina increased. Eventfully, she could stand it no more and burst out, ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Olly! Don’t you have any idea of the basics of acting?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do. I’m just used to working with more sympathetic directors.’

  ‘Oh, are you? Well, let me tell you, I can be a very sympathetic director when the talent of the people involved justifies my sympathy. Come back, Ritchie Good – all is forgiven!’

  ‘You weren’t sympathetic to Ritchie,’ objected Olly. ‘You were just afraid of him.’

  ‘I was certainly not afraid of him.’

  ‘Yes, you were. You never argued with him. Whatever he suggested, whatever he wanted to do, you just went along with it.’

  ‘That was because I trusted him. Because I’d worked with him many times before on other productions and I respected his instincts. I knew he was a good actor, and it was worth putting up with a few disadvantages – like his ego, for instance – because a really good performance would emerge at the end of the process. Why else do you think I put such effort into persuading him to be in the production?’

  It was at this moment that Carole and Jude exchanged looks. Somehow they’d both thought that Ritchie Good had been foisted on to Davina Vere Smith by the power brokers of SADOS. But if it was she who had brought him into the Devil’s Disciple company, that rather changed their views on the situation.

  The last thing Davina would have wanted would be to lose her original Dick Dudgeon.

  Jude had a call the following morning from a friend she hadn’t heard anything of for a long time. They had first met when Isabel, known universally as ‘Belle’, worked as a nurse in one of the big London hospitals. It had been on a course about healing. Belle, increasingly disillusioned by the shortcomings and iniquities of the NHS, had a growing interest in alternative therapies, but she found there was still a scepticism about them amongst the more traditional medical practitioners. Her ambition was to see the alternative integrated with the professional.

  The two women had seen a lot of each other when, both between marriages, they had lived in London, but since Jude had moved to Fethering their contact had reduced to the occasional phone call. So when Belle rang on that Friday morning in April they had a lot of catching up to do.

  They checked up first on each other’s love lives. Both were currently unattached, Belle’s second marriage having come to ‘as sticky an end as the first one – God, men are bastards’. She asked whether her friend had had any recent ‘skirmishes’ but, normally very open to her intimates about such matters, Jude didn’t mention her recent involvement with a real tennis enthusiast called Piers Targett. Even though months had passed since she had last seen him, it still hurt.

  ‘Anyway, what about work?’ she asked.

  ‘Big changes,’ said Belle. ‘I’ve left the NHS.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, it was just getting so dispiriting. They kept bringing in new schedules. I wasn’t being allowed to spend the kind of time with patients that I wanted to. I was leaving every shift feeling totally frustrated by the fact that I hadn’t achieved as much as I wanted to.

  ‘Anyway, the one good thing that came out of my second divorce was that I got a bit of money from the bastard. Not much, but enough for me to take some time out from being employed, so I gave in my notice at the hospital.’

  ‘Not early retirement?’

  ‘God, no.’ Belle was about the same age as Jude. ‘I like to think I’ve got a few more useful years in me. But I took the opportunity to do a couple of courses. Like the healing one when we first met, though I’ve decided I haven’t really got what it takes to be a healer.’

  ‘I thought you were very good.’

  ‘I was OK, but I hadn’t got the magic. Not like you have.’

  Jude did not demur at the compliment. She knew, when it came to healing, she was blessed with a gift, and she was no believer in false modesty.

  ‘So,’ Belle went on, ‘I thought I should concentrate on a more practical kind of therapy. I did a course in reflexology, which I found very interesting, but I still didn’t think it was quite for me. And then I did a course in kinesiology.’

  Whereas when Storm Lavelle talked about going on courses, Jude suspected a level of faddishness in her, she never doubted the complete seriousness of Belle.

  ‘Funny you should mention that. I’m getting very interested in kinesiology,’ she said. ‘Been reading up about it. I think it really works.’

  ‘Me too.’ The enthusiasm grew in Belle’s voice. ‘No, the further I got into the subject, the more I realized it fitted me like a glove.’

  ‘So have you put a shingle on your door and set up on your own as a kinesiologist?’

  ‘No, I’m not quite ready for that yet. And when my money from the bastard ran out, I needed a regular income, so I got another nursing job.’

  ‘Not back in the NHS?’

  ‘By no means. Private sector. In a convalescent home. I’ve been there for five months. And I’ve been intending to ring you all that time, but I’ve got waylaid by, you know, starting the job, and getting my new house – well, old house but new to me – vaguely habitable. But the reason I wanted to ring you is that we’re practically neighbours.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The home where I’m working is in Clincham …’

  ‘Wow!’

  ‘… and I’m living in a little village called Weldisham.’

  ‘Oh, goodness me. Just up on the edge of the Downs. It’s lovely up there.’ Jude remembered when she and Carole had invest
igated some human bones discovered in a barn near Weldisham. ‘Well, since you’re so close, we absolutely must meet up.’

  ‘I agree. That’s why I was ringing.’

  ‘But tell me first about this convalescent home where you’re working. Are you enjoying it?’

  ‘Best job I’ve ever had. I’ve been so caught up in it that’s another reason why I haven’t phoned you. It’s a big house just on the outskirts of Clincham, lovely setting, great views looking up towards Goodwood and the Downs. Called Casements. And the patients are, well, what you’d expect – people recovering from operations, a bit of respite care, some who’re just run down or have had breakdowns, a few terminal cases. But the doctor who runs it is the kind I’ve been looking for all my life.’

  ‘You don’t mean in the sense of a potential Husband Number Three?’

  ‘Certainly not. Rob is very happily married, I’m glad to say. He’s a qualified doctor, but he’s really found his métier as director of Casements. What’s more, he’s the perfect boss for me because he does genuinely believe in mixing traditional and alternative therapies.’

  ‘So you get to do a bit of kinesiology?’

  ‘Yes. Which is great. Rob also has people who come in to do reiki and acupuncture. I mean, none of it’s forced on the patients. And of course I do the normal everyday nursing stuff as well. But if any of the patients want to have a go with me on the kinesiology, well, they can. And I must say I’ve had some really encouraging results. Really think I’ve helped some of them. I no longer leave work feeling dissatisfied.’

  ‘That sounds brilliant. Well, look, come on, diaries at the ready. Let’s sort out a time when we can meet up. Presumably if you’re in Weldisham three miles up a country lane, you must have a car. There’s a very nice pub here in Fethering called the Crown and Anchor.’

  ‘There’s also a nice one in Weldisham called the Hare and Hounds.’

  ‘Yes, I know it.’ Jude and Carole had spent quite a bit of time there when they’d been investigating the death on the Downs.

  ‘Oh, before I forget, Jude … there was another reason why I phoned you today.’