Dead Giveaway

Chapter Eleven

Sylvian De Beaune’s flat was at the top of an old converted warehouse in what used to be London’s Dockland. It was up four flights of stairs and there was no Entryphone, so a long gap ensued between their ring on the bell and his appearance at the front door.

He looked surprised to see them, recognizing Sydnee, but apparently never having seen Charles before in his life. He had put in further work on his appearance. The black Mohican strip on his head now had orange tufts at the front, and clusters of orange feathers depended from his ears. His face was covered with white make-up, relieved only by a dab of orange on lips and eyelids. He was out of the leather gear now, and dressed in a kind of pyjamas of off-white sackcloth, joined at the seams by beige leather thongs. The effect was, to Charles, reminiscent of a line-drawing of medieval underwear from a school textbook with a title like Social Life in the Middle Ages. He was coming to the conclusion that, amongst other things, Sylvian de Beaune designed his own clothes.

It was clear, when they got upstairs, that he was his own interior designer as well. The flat was really one long room, whose exposed rafters under a pitched roof should have given it the appearance of a Saxon mead-hall. And would have given it the appearance of a Saxon mead-hall if every surface had not been painted silver. The floor had been painted the same colour, and what must have been lovely views over the Thames were excluded by silver paint over the panes of the high windows. The area was lit by theatrical spotlights, the harshness of whose glare was subdued by gels of red and blue. Their beams were trained on to matt-black rectangular boxes, which, by a process of elimination, Charles deduced to be furniture (though which was a table and which a chair he would not like to have had to specify).

Sydnee showed no surprise at the surroundings, which must mean either that she had been there before, or that all her colleagues lived in similar environments. (If the second were the case, it was not surprising that the three researchers had found the Hereford Road bedsitter a little unusual.)

On one of the matt-black shapes a sheet of paper was pinned, and the selection of pens, templates and rulers nearby suggested that Sylvian had been working on his latest design when interrupted by the doorbell. Charles did not dare to contemplate what it might be.

As they entered, music, which could either have been South American flutes or a team of asthmatics competitively blowing blockages out of hose-pipes, sounded loudly. Sylvian de Beaune went across to a matt-black box with an array of matt-black buttons on the front, and moderated the volume. He gestured to them to sit. Charles had almost fully descended when he heard the words, ‘No. That’s a table’, and moved accordingly to a smaller matt-black box.

Sylvian remained standing. ‘What is it, Sydnee?’

‘If The Cap Fits.’

‘Don’t tell me — John Mantle wants more bloody changes?’

‘No. It’s harking back to the first pilot.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Barrett Doran’s death.’

Had there been any natural colour in Sylvian de Beaune’s face, that would have bleached it out. He gaped, stupefied.

‘Chippy didn’t kill him,’ Sydnee continued. Because he still seemed incapable of speech, she persisted, ‘Charles here drank from Barrett’s glass at about six-thirty. At that point it definitely contained gin.’

‘Oh, my God.’ The words were hardly audible.

Charles picked up the initiative. ‘So the cyanide was put in the glass after that time. You were seen m the studio just after six-thirty by Bob Garston.’

The orange lips moved, but this time no sound came out.

‘It was your first major set, isn’t that right, Sylvian? You were very proud of it, very worried about it. We know what Barrett Doran said when he saw it for the first time. Not very appreciative of your efforts, was he?’

Still no words came, but the designer shook his head, as if in disbelief. Slowly, he subsided on to one of the matt-black rectangular boxes. It was the one he had said was a table, but Charles didn’t think it was the moment to say anything. He and Sydnee maintained the silence.

Finally, Sylvian de Beaune spoke. His voice was dull, as if he were repeating something learned by rote. ‘I hoped it hadn’t happened. I went into a terrible state of panic when he died and I heard it was cyanide. But then when Chippy was arrested, and I heard about how she had a motive to kill him and the opportunity to get the poison, I thought it was all right. I thought he’d got the right glass.’

‘The right glass? Did you put the cyanide in it?’

The black and orange tufted head shook. ‘No. Why on earth should I do that? No, that’s not what I did.’

‘Then what did you do?’

The voice retained its monotone as he told them. ‘As you say, it was my first major set. As you say, I was worried about it. I kept looking at it from different angles, kept trying to see things that didn’t work. That’s why I went back into the studio during the meal-break. I was worried that something had looked wrong, so I went in to check.’

‘What were you worried about — the wheel?’ asked Charles, remembering what Tim Dyer had done to that part of the set.

‘No. There was just something in the colours that had looked wrong. Something wrong with the balance between the lectern and the celebrities’ desk. I’d looked and looked at it, and eventually the only thing I could think of was the glasses — the four on the desk and the one on the lectern.’

‘But they were all the same — surely?’

‘They were all nearly the same, yes. But they had been specially made to match the set. Hand-painted. I thought maybe they were slightly different, maybe there was more red on one, more blue on another. It was only likely to be a tiny difference — something definitely looked wrong. I couldn’t think of anything else.’

‘So what did you do?’ asked Charles, with a sick feeling he knew the answer.

His worst fears were confirmed. ‘I started changing them round.’

‘Oh, my God.’

‘Just to see if it made the colour balance better.’

‘So which one did you change with Barrett’s?’ asked Charles, resigned.

‘I can’t remember.’

‘Oh, come on. You must remember,’ Charles snapped. ‘You realise how important this is, don’t you?’

‘Yes. I do. Now. But, honestly, I can’t remember. I tried them every way. I moved first one and then the other. I really couldn’t say at the end which one was where. That’s why I felt so awful when I heard about the cyanide. Then, when Chippy was arrested, I thought, thank God, at least he got the right one back.’

‘Except that his right one contained gin at six-thirty.’

‘Yes.’ The tufted head drooped.

‘But surely,’ said Sydnee excitedly, ‘the police would have checked the glasses afterwards. If we go to them and say what happened, and find out who had the one containing gin — ’

Charles shook his head. ‘The desk got knocked over. The glasses were scattered all over the place.’

Sylvian raised his head. ‘Yes, I don’t understand that. I designed it to be very stable. I mean, the centre of gravity was — ’

But Sydnee didn’t think it was the moment for a discussion of the intricacies of furniture design. ‘Surely, Charles, the celeb who had gin in his or her glass would have noticed?’

‘Must’ve done, yes. But nobody’s said anything, have they? Otherwise Chippy wouldn’t have been arrested. Which must mean the intended victim knew the poison was meant for him — ’

‘Or for her.’

‘Yes. . and is deliberately keeping quiet about it.’

‘And all the while letting Chippy suffer,’ said Sydnee, boiling with resentment.

‘You realise something else. .’

Sydnee looked at him curiously.

‘If the cyanide wasn’t put into Barrett’s glass but into someone else’s, it could have been done at any time during the meal-break.’

‘Oh no. And all our checking of people’s movements has been quite worthless.’

Charles nodded, then let out a long sigh. ‘I think we’re going to have to get our little research team together again, Sydnee.’