Heritage players, p.1
Heritage Players, page 1
Heritage Players
Chris Jennings
Text copyright © Chris Jennings 2020
All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover design by June Hounslow wwwprofiledesign.co.uk
CONTENTS:
Part One
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
Part Two
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
Part Three
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
Acknowledgements
A Note On The Author
For Michael Richens
Part One
1.
When I knew for certain that I would have to kill Agnes Flemming I allotted a large chunk of my planning time to work out a plausible alibi. Back then this seemed much more important than the mechanics of the murder itself. Now I look back and smile at the hours I wasted working out misleading schedules and sabotaged clocks when all the time I’d been cultivating my alibi for years. Niceness is your alibi, Irene.
It should have been obvious from the first but it took me a good while to realise it. You’re much more likely to get away with something if you’re not suspected to begin with. And who would suspect me? Niceness would be my alibi and that meant everything else would fall into place.
I’d told no one of my true feelings for Agnes, for instance. To everyone else it appeared I was very fond of her, just as I was fond of all my friends at the retirement home. Even Agnes herself, I’m sure, believed that our relationship was amicable. Right up until I killed her.
But Hester Lyons saw me. Of course she wouldn’t have suspected anything, not at first. And being stupid I knew it would take her a while to put it together. Even then she wouldn’t truly understood what I’d done. Like the rest of them she wouldn’t be able to conceive of me as a real killer; she’d simply imagine that she’d stumbled onto some unexplained embarrassment. A minor fib to cover for the fact that I hadn’t been where I said I was.
When she told me what she’d seen it was obvious what was coming next – questions, blackmail and eventual exposure – but I didn’t panic. Instead I revised my strategy.
She’d waited a week after the death until she made her move. We were in the William Terriss Room for a slideshow on Peggy Ashcroft, and I was in the side-kitchen brewing the teas, when Hester crept in and tapped me on the shoulder.
Although I had a soft spot for the woman, she was an ex-soap actress, and we all know what they’re like. In an industry of professional attention seekers they’re the worst of the lot. And brassy old Hester was no exception, with her dangly earrings and champagne coloured wig.
In normal circumstances I’d expect to hear her coming a mile off, exchanging cheery greetings with other residents or humming the theme tune from her soap, but this time she arrived without herald and when she spoke she sounded soft and subdued.
‘Irene love, can I have a word?’
I looked up from the cutlery drawer, and realised I was still frowning when she added: ‘Sorry, am I disturbing you? If you’re busy it can wait.’
Of course this was before I knew that she’d seen me at the towpath, so I wasn’t frowning because of that. I was frowning because Leonard was lactose intolerant and the staff had forgotten to restock the substitute sachets. But being confronted with an unusually pensive Hester I rearranged my features into a reassuring smile.
‘Not busy at all dear, what is it?’
‘Glad I’ve got you alone. Something’s been playing on my mind about Agnes.’
She spoke in hushed tones, glancing at the serving hatch to check we weren’t overheard.
‘The thing I can’t understand, Irene,’ she began, ‘is why she would go to the towpath in the first place. If Agnes was setting out on a walk she’d go the other way, surely? Past Gladys Abbott’s window. That was the way she always went, wasn’t it? And at the very least she’d wear her walking shoes, why would she go along the towpath without her walking shoes?’
‘Spur of the moment, maybe?’ I suggested as I reached for the sugar.
Hester frowned. ‘This is Agnes we’re talking about, darling. Spur of the moment? No, definitely not. It’s completely out of character.’
‘Well perhaps she forgot something. She was on her usual walk, realised, and depending on where she was, the towpath was her quickest cut through.’
‘No, that doesn’t work. You see Irene, even if she was on her usual walk and going right round the greenhouses, it would still be easier to double back, wouldn’t it?’
‘But Hester, Agnes’s mind wasn’t as sharp as it used to be – you know that - so she probably got disorientated.’
Hester wasn’t listening. ‘And if that was the case,’ she continued, ‘why did no one see her? If she’d gone that way Gladys would have been bound to see her. Dulcie at the very least.’
‘You’re overthinking it, dear,’ I said. ‘It was a terrible, terrible thing and you’re upset and you want to make sense of it. That’s perfectly understandable, we all feel that way. But sometimes these things just happen - awful, dreadful as they are - and we never find out the reason why, because the only person who can tell us isn’t here anymore.’
I patted her shoulder and, at my touch, Hester narrowed her eyes.
‘Did you see her?’ she asked. ‘On the towpath, I mean.’
‘I’m sorry Hester, I don’t quite understand.’ I picked up the kettle, ready to pour.
‘Well you were there, weren’t you, love? The day Agnes died. Or at least you were heading that way. I saw you.’
She’d caught me by surprise, and I covered by turning away to fill up the tea cups. ‘You must be mistaken,’ I muttered. ‘I wasn’t there, I was inside. I’ve got witnesses.’
‘But you were there, I saw you from the bench. You were by the hedgerow walking in the direction of the towpath. I’m sure it was you, I would have put money on it.’
I was holding a just boiled kettle, and I’m afraid my first instinct was to fling it at Hester and flee, but fortunately I was saved from this folly by the sudden appearance of the Nettleworth’s acting manager: Wenda Schwartz.
‘I seem to hear the tinkle of teacups in here,’ she trilled. ‘How are you ladies getting on…?’
At the sight of me in attack position with the kettle held aloft, she wagged her finger. ‘Now do be careful not to scald yourself, won’t you Irene?’
I suppose it’s inevitable that caring professions attract the hippies, but here at the Nettleworth we seemed to have exceeded our quota, with Wenda our hippy-in-chief. Trailed by an earthy smell of body odour, she wore her usual Kumbaya smile even as she conducted an on-the-spot risk assessment.
‘Here, let me do that,’ she said. And before I knew it she’d snatched the kettle from my grip, brushing me aside to get at the rest of the tea things.
‘Are you here to give Irene a hand?’ she asked Hester. ‘That’s very helpful of you. Now if you could just move a bit to your left, because this kettle is very hot and we wouldn’t want any accidents, would we?’
‘Sorry,’ said Hester as she stepped out of the way.
Wenda turned back to me to deliver her telling off. ‘Now, Irene, I know you only want to help, but it’s really best to tell someone if you’re going to come into the kitchen on your own. We talked about that before, didn’t we? Can’t have you wandering off.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean –’
‘It’s fine,’ Wenda waved a hand in dismissal. ‘No harm done, but in future let me or one of the others know if you want a cup of tea, won’t you? Both of you. That’s what we’re here for, after all.’
For a moment I’d forgotten about Hester and what she’d said. But a single glance provided a sharp reminder. She was watching me. With puzzlement rather than suspicion - but still.
It was my own fault. No doubt she’d seen my face when I was holding the kettle, ready to spring. An extreme reaction to a perfectly innocent question. If she hadn’t registered my discomfort at her mention of the towpath by then, that would have clinched it.
I’d drawn attention to myself and given her cause to wonder. I knew what would happen, she’d go away and think it over, then tackle me again. And if I didn’t head her off first, she’d find a way to use my embarrassment to her advantage.
Because as stupid as she may have been, Hester was nobody’s fool.
2.
It was clear I’d made a dreadful slip up with Hester, but chasing after her would only make her more suspicious. Best to keep my distance. We both needed time to process, so I decided to wait. Try to speak to her that evening, save it for the showcase.
Our showcase evenings had long been the highlight of the week at the Nettleworth Home for Retired Performers. I was sorry that by killing Agnes I’d played a part in last week’s postponement, but Gladys Abbott had insisted it would be unseemly for us to have a sing-song 48 hours after a drowning.
Not everyone agreed with her. There’d been one or two grumbles about lack of professionalism, but since it was the Widow Abbott who’d made the decision we had all fallen in line. Gladys had an ulterior motive of course. In recent weeks the showcase had started to become something of a free for all - much to her annoyance – and this brief hiatus would allow her to inject some discipline back into proceedings. Rebrand the evening as a tribute to Agnes, take charge of the programme and decide who sung what.
Perhaps I should point out something with regard to my earlier claim about niceness. Niceness was my alibi in the killing of Agnes because I am nice. I do suffer fools gladly. It’s not simply a convenience, it’s who I’ve always been. All my colleagues remarked on it when I was working in the theatre, and it was the same here. I got along with everyone and I didn’t cause a fuss.
Take the tribute to Agnes. Whereas others balked at the song choice they had foisted on them by Gladys, when she gave me mine (‘Empty Chairs at Empty Tables’) I showed willing. I was far from being a sycophant in the Dulcie Bristow mode, but I accepted the commission with my typical good grace and that’s why people liked me.
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ I called out.
It was just after seven, with curtain up due at 8.30, and I’d wandered into the Henry Irving Room to help set up, but it appeared that most of the work was already done.
The Nettleworth building was a large converted house built in the 1870s, and the Henry Irving was one of its largest rooms. Originally set up for formal dining, with large floor-to-ceiling windows, the management had repurposed it into our entertainments area. We ate in the William Terriss Room and relaxed in the Ellen Terry Lounge, but we came to the Irving to perform.
We were all performers at the Nettleworth. It was a requirement for admission: a home for retired professionals from the entertainment industry. The management referred to us all as ‘Heritage Players’ which was, I suppose, a politer term than ‘has-beens.’
But no matter how old they are, give them a chance and showbiz folk will go on performing till the end. The Nettleworth management knew this just as well as we did, so they made sure that the Irving suited most of our needs – with a small three-foot high stage, piano and rudimentary lighting equipment. Not up to our usual standards, but at least it was something.
I’d expected a hive of activity inside the Irving, the sound of Olga going through her scales, the general bustle of nervous performers getting under each other’s feet. But my first sight was the lone figure of Cleo Mulholland languishing by the piano with a music score open on her lap.
‘You’re about ten minutes too late to the party,’ she said. ‘The orders have been issued. I’m to keep out of the way and go over my song. Madam’s got her crack team for the heavy lifting.’
She indicated across the room to where Gladys, wearing her baker boy cap and blue-rimmed glasses, was overseeing the seating arrangements. Kelvin Judd, our NVQ Nursing Assistant, was Gladys’s current dogsbody, carrying piles of chairs to and fro and then having to pick them up again whenever she changed her mind. His weary expression was a picture of strained patience.
‘Poor boy,’ said Cleo. ‘Four GCSEs and a certificate in hoisting, and this is what it’s come to.’
Cleo still spoke with the smoky husk of the Cabaret circuit where she’d made her name. Even in her twilight years Cleo fancied herself as a sultry femme fatale, and with the help of dark cherry lipstick and some old nightclub cast-offs, she almost looked the part. She certainly made a change from the rest of us slouching round in our cardigans.
‘Only two mentions of the sainted Derek so far,’ she said. ‘I’ve been counting.’
This was a reference to Derek Abbott, Gladys’s late lamented husband, a famous theatre director, in whose name Gladys justified her more contentious demands: ‘Well that’s the way Derek would’ve done it.’ A phrase so familiar around the Nettleworth that it had given rise to an unofficial bingo game, with residents surreptitiously marking off score cards every time she mentioned him.
‘What have you been told to sing?’ I asked.
‘The Purple People Eater.’ Cleo raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m opening the show.’
‘I’m sure you’ll bend it to your will.’
‘Count on it. I’ve got a feather boa and a soft-shoe shuffle for the chorus.’
‘And who is that for?’ I pointed to a chair on the front row with a ‘Reserved’ sign on the seat. ‘Are we expecting a guest?’
‘That, my dear, is for the departed. A morbid remembrance for Madam’s big final number.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Apparently that is the exact seat Agnes sat in when she attended her last showcase, and our dear director wants it kept free until her closing song.’
‘As a tribute?’
‘Worse than that. Some guff involving a rose and a spotlight. It sounds awful, but apparently it’s what Derek would have done.’ Cleo rolled her eyes.
‘I think it sounds nice,’ I said, affecting innocence.
Cleo snorted. ‘Oh, come on. Don’t kid a kidder, Irene. It sounds appalling. I was a year and a half with Derek at the Lowry, he’d never have ended on a gimmick as cheap as that. And she’s singing “Being Alive?” Ye Gods! He’d be turning in his grave if she hadn’t had him cremated.’
I gave her a light tap on the wrist. ‘Cleo Mulholland, you really are wicked –’
‘So they tell me.’
Cleo had a tendency to play up the shock value of what she said, especially to those of a more conservative nature, but I didn’t mind.
I leaned in closer and lowered my voice. I was aware of the risk, but my agitation from earlier had got the better of me.
‘Listen Cleo, you haven’t seen Hester, have you? I ran into her in the kitchen and she seemed a bit out of sorts. She hasn’t said anything to you, has she?’
‘How do you mean out of sorts?’
‘A little bit jumpy. Something to do with Agnes. She hasn’t talked to you?’
‘Uh-uh,’ Cleo shook her head. ‘Hasn’t said anything. Bumped into her about half an hour ago and she seemed fine to me.’
‘That’s a relief,’ I smiled. ‘I’d hate for her to be upset.’
Cleo glanced behind me and gave me a nod. ‘Don’t look now, but the sidekick’s coming over. Keep smiling. Loose lips and all that.’
Dulcie Bristow appeared at my side, a prim 65-year-old with a starched blouse and excessively shiny shoes. Dulcie was a recent retiree, for many years the star of the sci-fi fantasy series ‘Whispering Sisters,’ where she played a robot assassin named Quintessa. Like me she was one of the younger residents, and having grown tired of the sci-fi circuit and its obsessive fans, she’d retreated to the Nettleworth. Being one of life’s clingers-on, as soon as she arrived she planted herself by Gladys’s side and she’d been there ever since.
‘Hello, hello,’ she cooed, in her dithery, sing-song voice. ‘Sorry, I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’
‘No,’ Cleo smirked. ‘Just filling Irene in on the joys of the Purple People Eater.’
‘Hello Irene, lovely to see you,’ Dulcie checked her watch, ‘but you’re a bit early. Didn’t you hear? The performer’s call isn’t until eight.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I wondered if you needed any help setting up.’
‘What a lovely thought, but everything’s in hand, thank you.’ Dulcie glanced over her shoulder. ‘Kelvin’s been a godsend.’
‘Hasn’t he, though?’ said Cleo. ‘But were his arms that long this morning?’
Dulcie ignored her. ‘Now Irene,’ she said, ‘since you’re here, Gladys just wants to check that you’re all rehearsed and ready? Olga will be along in a few minutes if you want to have a practice with the piano? I’m sure she’d be happy to accompany you.’
