The Strangling on the Stage

SEVENTEEN

‘Is that Jude Nichol?’

She was surprised. So few people ever referred to her by anything other than her first name. It was only on official documentation that she used the surname she had gained from her second marriage.

‘Yes,’ she replied cautiously.

‘It’s Detective Inspector Tull,’ said the voice from the other end of the phone. ‘You remember you gave a statement to me and one of my colleagues after the death of Mr Ritchie Good.’

‘Yes, of course I remember.’

‘And I said then that I might be in touch with you again in connection with our enquiries.’

‘Yes.’

‘So here I am, being in touch,’ he said with some levity in his voice.

‘Right, Inspector. What can I do for you?’

‘I just wanted to check a couple of details that you put in your statement.’

‘Fine. Fire away.’ But Jude felt a small pang of panic. She had withheld from the police what Hester Winstone had said to her in the Green Room that Sunday night. Maybe, when interviewed, Hester herself had mentioned it and Inspector Tull was about to expose Jude’s lie.

‘We’ve now spoken to all of the people who attended the rehearsal that afternoon,’ the Inspector began smoothly, ‘and they all seem to tell more or less the same story.’

‘That’s not surprising, is it?’

‘Not necessarily, no. And the sequence of events that everyone agrees on is that before the demonstration of his gallows, Gordon Blaine was holding a real noose as opposed to the fake one. Would you go along with that, Mrs Nichol?’

‘Please just call me Jude.’

‘Very well, Jude.’

‘Yes, I would go along with that.’

‘Thank you. And then when the stage curtains were drawn back to reveal Mr Good, he had the fake noose around his neck …?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he was standing on the wooden cart, which Gordon Blaine moved away so that it no longer supported him …?’

‘Exactly. And Ritchie then grabbed the noose so that the Velcro didn’t give way immediately, and he did a bit of play-acting, as if he was actually being hanged.’

‘“Play-acting”?’

‘Yes, playing to the gallery, showing off.’

‘And to do that would have been in character for Mr Good?’

‘Completely.’

‘So, after the demonstration, everyone went off to the Cricketers pub opposite St Mary’s Hall …?’

‘Yes, I’m honestly not certain whether everyone went, but most people certainly.’

‘And within half an hour you went back to the hall and found Mr Good dead, hanging from the gallows with the real noose round his neck …?’

‘As I said in my statement, yes.’

‘Yes. So within that half-hour – or however long it was exactly – someone substituted the real noose for the fake one …?’

‘They must have done.’

‘Mm.’ The Inspector was silent for a moment. ‘When you went to the Cricketers pub that evening, did you notice any members of the group missing? Or did you see anyone leaving the pub to go back to the hall?’

‘I wasn’t aware of anyone missing or anyone leaving, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. You know, I was just having a drink with a bunch of people. I wasn’t expecting ever to be cross-examined on the precise events of the evening.’

‘No, of course you weren’t.’ Another silence. ‘Well, Jude, you’ll be pleased to know that your account tallies more or less exactly with what all the other witnesses have said.’

‘Good.’

‘Did you know Mr Good well?’

‘No, I’d only met him since I became involved in the production.’ No need to muddy the waters by mentioning drinks à deux in the Crown and Anchor.

‘So you probably didn’t know him well enough to have a view on whether or not he might have suicidal tendencies?’

‘No. But from what I had seen of him, I would have thought it very unlikely.’

‘A lot of suicides are very unlikely.’

Jude agreed. She’d seen plenty of evidence of that in her work as a healer. ‘I know. It’s often impossible to know what’s going on inside another person’s mind.’

‘Hm.’

‘Does that mean, Inspector, that you are thinking Ritchie changed the nooses round himself?’

‘It’s something we’re considering … along with a lot of other possibilities.’ She might have known she would just get the standard evasive answer to a question like that. ‘One of the people in your group seemed to think it was the most likely explanation.’

‘Oh, who was that?’

‘Come on, Jude. You know I won’t tell you that.’

‘Was it Hester Winstone?’

‘Or that.’

‘And I suppose you won’t tell me if you’re about to make an arrest either?’

‘How very perceptive of you. Anyway, an arrest implies that a crime has been committed. There seems to be a consensus among the people in your group that Mr Good’s death was just an unfortunate accident.’

‘Really? No one’s mentioned the word “murder”?’

‘You’re the first.’ Once again there was a note of humour in his voice.

‘I’m amazed. I would have thought that self-dramatizing lot would have all—’

‘You’re the first.’

‘Well …’ She was flabbergasted.

‘Anyway, Jude, thank you very much for your time. I think it very unlikely that we will have to trouble you again.’

‘Does that mean you’ve closed the investigation?’

‘It means I think it’s very unlikely that we will have to trouble you again.’

That was it. Inspector Tull’s call did not serve to make Jude feel any more settled. She still felt convinced that Ritchie Good had been murdered, and it was frustrating to have just been talking to someone who undoubtedly knew a great deal about the case. Who had, quite properly, resisted sharing any of that knowledge. Her own investigation seemed to have hit a brick wall.

And she did wish she could contact Hester Winstone. She’d love to know what the former prompter had said when she was questioned by the police.

Jude had another unexpected call that Monday. It was round five o’clock and she was just tidying up after a healing session with a woman suffering from sciatica. Her efforts had proved efficacious and she felt the usual mix of satisfaction and sheer exhaustion.

‘Hello?’ she said.

‘Is that Jude?’ A woman’s voice, cultured, precise.

‘Yes.’

‘My name is Gwenda Good. I’m the widow of Ritchie Good.’

‘Oh.’ Jude hastened to come out with appropriate expressions of regret and condolence, but the woman cut through them.

‘I believe you were the first person to find my late husband’s body.’

‘One of the first, certainly.’ Jude didn’t want Hester Winstone’s name to come into their conversation unless Gwenda Good introduced it.

‘I would very much like to talk to you about what happened to Ritchie.’

‘I’d be happy to talk about it. Do you think there was something suspicious about his death?’

‘I don’t like the word “suspicious”. I would prefer to say “unexplained”.’

‘Very well.’

Jude felt a spark of excitement. She was a great believer in synchronicity. Earlier that day, after her phone call from Inspector Tull, her investigation seemed to have hit a brick wall. Now, out of the blue, she was being offered the chance to speak to the dead man’s widow.

‘I’m afraid I don’t go out much,’ said Gwenda Good. ‘I wonder if it would be possible for you to visit me at my home?’

‘Certainly … that is, assuming you don’t live in the Outer Hebrides.’

If the woman at the other end of the line was amused by this suggestion, she didn’t show it. ‘I live in Fedborough,’ she said.

‘Oh, that’s fine. I’m only down in Fethering.’

‘I knew you couldn’t be too far away. We have the same dialling code.’

‘Yes. Well, when would be convenient for me to come and see you?’

‘Would Wednesday morning be possible? Eleven o’clock.’

So that was agreed. When she put the phone down, Jude was struck by how businesslike and unemotional Gwenda Good had been. She didn’t sound like a woman who had just lost a much-loved husband.