Cast For Death
First published in 1976
© Margaret Yorke; House of Stratus 1976-2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of Margaret Yorke to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
| EAN | ISBN | Edition | ||||
| 0755130111 | 9780755130115 | |||||
| 0755134672 | 9780755134670 | Kindle | ||||
| 0755134788 | 9780755134786 | Epub |
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
www.houseofstratus.com
Born in Surrey, England, to John and Alison Larminie in 1924, Margaret Yorke (Margaret Beda Nicholson) grew up in Dublin before moving back to England in 1937, where the family settled in Hampshire, although she now lives in a small village in Buckinghamshire.
During World War II she saw service in the Women’s Royal Naval Service as a driver. In 1945, she married, but it was only to last some ten years, although there were two children; a son and daughter. Her childhood interest in literature was re-enforced by five years living close to Stratford-upon-Avon and she also worked variously as a bookseller and as a librarian in two Oxford Colleges, being the first woman ever to work in that of Christ Church.
She is widely travelled and has a particular interest in both Greece and Russia.
Margaret Yorke’s first novel was published in 1957, but it was not until 1970 that she turned her hand to crime writing. There followed a series of five novels featuring Dr. Patrick Grant, an Oxford don and amateur sleuth, who shares her own love of Shakespeare. More crime and mystery was to follow, and she has written some forty three books in all, but the Grant novels were limited to five as, in her own words, ‘authors using a series detective are trapped by their series. It stops some of them from expanding as writers’.
She is proud of the fact that many of her novels are essentially about ordinary people who find themselves in extraordinary situations which may threatening, or simply horrific. It is this facet of her writing that ensures a loyal following amongst readers who inevitably identify with some of the characters and recognise conflicts that may occur in everyday life. Indeed, she states that characters are far more important to her than intricate plots and that when writing ‘I don’t manipulate the characters, they manipulate me’.
Critics have noted that she has a ‘marvellous use of language’ and she has frequently been cited as an equal to P.D. James and Ruth Rendell. She is a past chairman of the Crime Writers’ Association and in 1999 was awarded the Cartier Diamond Dagger, having already been honoured with the Martin Beck Award from the Swedish Academy of Detection.
Margaret Yorke began her writing career with what she later described as ‘family problem’ novels. After writing several in that genre she realised that she was constantly forcing herself to resist the temptation to stir up their quiet plots with some violent action. In 1970 she gave way and turned at last to crime fiction, beginning with a whodunnit because the pattern for them had been established by other successful women writers such as Dorothy L. Sayers and Agatha Christie. Margaret Yorke’s detective, Patrick Grant, was an Oxford don, and following a tradition set by Lord Peter Wimsey and Ngaio Marsh’s Rory Alleyn, he was handsome, a little absent minded, and had a habit of quoting Shakespeare.
Patrick Grant’s first appearance was in Dead in the Morning and his fifth, and last, came in Cast For Death which was published in 1976.
It is a book with a tightly dovetailed, complicated plot and a cast of interesting people. Although this is not a back-stage novel about the theatre, performances of Shakespeare’s plays in London and Stratford-upon-Avon are an important strand in the story. For Margaret Yorke herself admits ‘I’m nutty about Shakespeare and mad about Macbeth.’
The action includes a performance of Othello, with whose theme the novel’s reader is bound to draw parallels. ‘Slowly the lights dimmed. Liz and Patrick forgot about . . . everything as Roderigo and Iago entered, and before them began the build-up of circumstantial evidence that would end, some three hours later, in tragedy.’
Cast for Death was not intended to be a tragedy but, like other classical detective stories, was written to provide its readers with an intellectual entertainment. As such, it is absorbing and highly enjoyable. But much as she revelled in devising puzzles for Patrick Grant to solve, Margaret Yorke has always been more interested in people than plots. Once established as a crime writer she found herself turning to novels of psychological suspense. The first of them was about a retired army officer who got involved in the death of a girl from his village quite by chance. His life was ruined by the neighbours’ gossip and eventually he blew his brains out. Margaret Yorke explained how the idea for No Medals for The Major came to her. It was ‘when I was thinking about how different we often feel inside from the face we present to the world, and how an action, slight in itself, can have profound effects on other people whom we may never meet.’
Twenty years on from the publication of Cast for Death, Margaret Yorke has become widely popular and well known as the author of subtle novels about people who are the victims of events. Many of them include young people who have drifted into delinquency and crime. She does not restrict herself to writing about any particular class, but portrays a cross section of the population, always demonstrating the psychological insight which was already such a strong feature in Cast For Death. Nearly all her books are set in an English village or small town, in whose existence we entirely believe because the author is writing about a world she knows intimately herself. Living in a cottage in a village street, Margaret Yorke is well aware it is not the artificial and idealised environment of pre-war crime novels. And she is careful to write about what she knows or to do research when she needs to; she even makes a point of regular updates on police procedure from her neighbourhood police officers.
Patrick Grant’s life as a don was familiar to his creator too, for she has worked as a librarian at an Oxford college; the places where his adventures were set, such as Greece, she knew from foreign holidays.
There is, in fact, an authority in crime novels by Margaret Yorke which allows their readers to believe in the ordinary people who have been impelled into action because their ordinary lives have accidentally caught them up in extraordinary events. The underlying theme of all Margaret Yorke’s work is expressed in a quotation of a saying by the eighteenth century statesman Edmund Burke at the end of Cast For Death. ‘All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.’
JESSICA MANN
I should like to thank the Marquis of Tavistock for his help and advice, and for consenting to appear in these pages. Every other character, and all the events, are imaginary. My thanks are due, also, to Bill Allan for taking me behind the scenes at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, and to James Fehr for arranging a concert for me and answering questions about facilities at the Queen Elizabeth Hall.
M.Y.
The body lay just beneath the surface of the river, the hair streaming in the tide, legs splayed with the movement of the water, arms spread, the face downwards. Above, unaware of what floated so obscenely close to them, people surged along the terraces outside the concert halls, and theatregoers crossed to the parking lots beside the Festival Hall, their voices and the sound of car engines noisy in the air.
Against the clear night sky, London’s great buildings stood out, etched in brilliant detail. Dr Patrick Grant, Fellow of St Mark’s College, Oxford, leaned against the parapet overlooking the Thames and approved of what he saw. The river flowed darkly past, a jet mirror studded with the silver reflections of the lights on each bank; he stared across the water, and turned over in his mind the problem of where to eat. The evening had not gone as planned; he had intended to spend it with Liz Morris, whom he had known since his own undergraduate days, but when he reached the Fantasy Theatre where they were to have seen Macbeth together, he found not Liz, but a message to say she could not come. No reason was given. It was too late to find another companion, so he had turned in the second ticket; it had been sold to a large man in a corduroy jacket who had flowed across the seat-arm between them and had eaten toffees throughout the performance.
And Sam Irwin had been out of the play. It was to see him, as well as the much-lauded Macbeth of Joss Ruxton, that Patrick had come up to London. He had enjoyed the play, whenever his restless neighbour stopped fidgeting, for the verse was well spoken and the director had allowed the words and the action to exert their own power over the audience without extravagant distractions of his own. But a programme note said that Sam Irwin was indisposed, and Macduff was played by someone unknown. The play was at the end of its run in a season which was to conclude with Henry VIII, so there would be no other chance to see Sam in the part.
Patrick had planned to invite the actor, whom he and Liz had first met in Austria four years before, to eat with them afterwards; now, it seemed pointless to go alone to an expensive restaurant, though he must have some sort of meal before returning to Oxford.
At this point in his reflections he saw it: something white in the river not far away. Patrick’s attention concentrated on the spot where the object had broken the surface of the water a short distance upstream. There it was again, and now he identified it: it was a hand, white and ghostly, the fingers gently curled as the water parted over it and left it exposed. He stared in horror: this was no mystic, legendary arm offering a sword: this was grim death.
Someone else saw it in the same instant: a woman, who gave a shriek. There were more shouts and cries. Footsteps pounded on the pavement, and people came to lean over the parapet beside Patrick, staring at the sight. In a very few minutes the police arrived and were soon down on the bank under the wall, hauling the body ashore. It was a man dressed in dark clothes against which his hands and his face showed white as he lay sprawled in the light from above. His hair, sodden and therefore darkened, looked like mahogany in the lamplight.
Shocked murmurs broke out among the gathering crowd. Their fascinated absorption in the tragedy filled Patrick with disgust; nothing could be done for the drowned man himself and officialdom had taken charge, so he slipped away.
He had seen enough of sudden death and there was nothing to hold him here.
His appetite had gone, though, and he drove straight back to Oxford without dinner.
Liz telephoned at half-past nine the next morning. She had waited until then, to see if Patrick would call her first. Surely he must wonder what had prevented her from meeting him at the theatre?
‘Ah, Liz,’ he said, answering promptly.
At least he recognised her voice, she thought wryly.
‘What happened?’ he went on, sounding unconcerned.
‘I was abducted by two hi-jackers,’ she said.
‘No, Liz, really. What held you up?’
‘Mrs Pearce in the flat below fell and broke her hip. I had to see her into hospital,’ she said. Why bother to tell him about all that had to be done – the daughter in Dorset informed, the suitcase packed, the milk stopped. He wouldn’t be interested. It had taken hours, for the daughter was out and had to be tracked down by way of neighbours. ‘It happened too late for me to get in touch with you before you left Oxford,’ she added. ‘You got my message?’
‘Yes, thanks. I’m sorry you couldn’t make it.’
‘So am I,’ she said. ‘Did you enjoy it? How was Sam?’
‘The man who had your seat unwrapped toffees throughout,’ said Patrick. ‘And Sam wasn’t playing. It was some stand-in.’
‘Oh, why? Is he ill?’
‘Indisposed, it said in the programme. That could mean anything from appendicitis to a hangover, I suppose.’
‘Poor Sam. And how disappointing not to see him,’ said Liz. ‘He does seem to be unlucky.’
Sam Irwin’s hoped-for come-back in the theatre had not amounted to a great deal, though he had worked steadily since Patrick and Liz had met him. There had been a season at Stratford-upon-Avon in small roles, and he had appeared on television at intervals, but he had not found fame.
‘Yes,’ Patrick agreed. ‘Well, anyway, I’m glad you’re all right.’
‘Did you really think I might not be?’
‘No. You’d have said you were ill, in your message, if you were.’
‘You might not have been given that part of it,’ Liz said tartly.
‘You sound annoyed,’ said Patrick, surprised.
‘Oh no, I’m not,’ said Liz. ‘Why should I be?’
Why indeed? Their relationship had never gone beyond the affectionate friendliness of their undergraduate days. Patrick regarded her as someone he could pick up and cast aside at his own whim; he always enjoyed her company but sought it rarely. She accepted this and was not really surprised when fresh confirmation of his limitations, as now, appeared. In a sense it was a restful situation; Patrick was a safe, undemanding figure from the past and an amiable companion for the present: no more.
‘I thought you sounded a bit off,’ he said. ‘I was going to ring you,’ he added, ‘to see what had happened. But I thought it couldn’t be much.’
Not much: she recalled the night before; poor shocked Mrs Pearce in pain; the trek to the hospital; the telephoning. It had seemed quite a lot at the time.
‘We’ll try again,’ said Patrick. ‘Something else, since Macbeth’s finished.’
‘Yes. All right. That would be nice.’
Would he suggest a definite date? She waited, but he didn’t. Perhaps he was going away for the vacation. She asked him.
‘Oh, here and there for a few days, perhaps,’ he said. ‘Not abroad.’
‘I thought you might be off to Athens for Easter, since you’ve got so bitten with Greece,’ said Liz. Patrick had visited Greece several times in recent years and had become so enamoured of the country that he now found it difficult to plan visits elsewhere.
‘No. But Dimitris Manolakis is coming over here,’ said Patrick. ‘That policeman, you remember, who was so efficient in Crete.’
‘Those vases. Yes.’
‘And those deaths,’ said Patrick.
‘You had a hand in sorting it out, too, didn’t you?’ Liz said mildly.
‘A minor one.’ And literally, for his hand still bore a small scar.
‘Is he coming on holiday?’
‘Yes. He’s got some relations over here whom he wants to see, and Colin’s going to show him round at Scotland Yard. Then I’ll take him about a bit.’
‘Is his sister coming too?’ Liz had heard about her, after Patrick had stayed with Manolakis in Crete.
‘She’s married now,’ said Patrick.
‘Oh, good.’
Patrick thought it a pity.
They ended their conversation with no plans for meeting.
Oxford in the vacation was a pleasant place. There were far fewer cycles about, and even fewer undergraduates. The tourist season was only beginning; small groups appeared in college quadrangles, but the hordes of summer had not yet arrived. The trees were in bud, leaves swelling with the promise of spring, and the forsythia hung great yellow sheets in the gardens of North Oxford. On Headington Hill the blossom was out. Patrick spent the weekend after his trip to London reading a book of literary analysis by a colleague, and writing a waspish review of it. On Tuesday he set off to meet Manolakis at Heathrow. He was glad of this diversion. Most of his colleagues had dispersed to various places – the married ones to their homes, the unmarried to friends or abroad – and St Mark’s was quiet. He was usually glad of some weeks clear to devote to research, but a book he had been working on was complete ahead of schedule, and he had time to spare. Manolakis’s letter announcing his visit had been a surprise; he was coming, he had written in his flowing foreign hand, mainly for pleasure; he hoped there would be time to meet. Patrick read more into this than was apparent; once before Manolakis had combined business with pleasure and had solved a crime; this time he could be on the trail of another. He replied at once with an invitation to stay at St Mark’s and said he would meet Manolakis when he arrived.
With the new stretch of motorway open, the journey to London by road was now easier than ever. Patrick sped along in his dark red MGB. He still enjoyed its novelty. After his Rover was stolen and then found smashed beyond repair, he had spent weeks wondering what to replace it with, and had tried out numerous rather sedate saloons before choosing a sports car. There was no need, since he was unmarried, to consider the problem of space. So far, only his sister Jane had had the temerity to tease him about his revised image.
Manolakis’s plane was due at eleven-forty. Patrick planned to take him in to London straight away, for a general look round before making plans for the rest of his stay. He knew that the Greek had been in direct contact with Detective Inspector Colin Smithers; Patrick hoped to be present when Colin showed his Greek colleague some of the secrets of the Yard, and altogether he looked forward to his friend’s visit. Manolakis doubtless had in mind specific places he wished to see, and Patrick would happily conduct him to others which should not be missed.
The miles slid by, the car purring along through the spectacular cut above Aston Rowant. Patrick took the turn- off for Marlow to join the M4, and drove down the linking escarpment which by-passed the riverside town behind a blue Mercedes. He followed it round the roundabout outside Marlow and up the road which climbed through the woods to the junction with the Henley road, where he turned left to pick up the motorway. There was a lot of traffic here, going in both directions, and he was forced to crawl behind a van which the Mercedes had managed to pass. As they went in procession past a church and the turning to Maidenhead a black flash, a dog or a cat, suddenly sprang from the side of the road between Patrick’s car and the van in front. There was nothing he could do to avoid it, for if he braked the car behind, already much too close, would crash into him, and he could not swerve away because of the oncoming traffic. He stamped for an instant on the brake but had to release it at once. There was a considerable thud, and Patrick slowed down, pulling in to the side of the road as he did so. The cars behind reformed and sorted themselves out as he got out and walked back along the road to see what he had hit.
The dog, for that was what it was, had been flung on to the verge by the force of the collision and now lay motionless on the grass. It was a black poodle, and it was dead. The law obliged you to report the death of a dog to the police, and your own morality to tell the owner, but this one wore no collar. Well, the owner could not be far away, having doubtless been exercising his pet on the nearby common. Or her pet. Men, Patrick thought, did not own poodles.
He laid the dog closer to the hedge, out of range of other motorists, drove on to the roundabout and circled it to turn, then took the road across the common. But there was no sign of anyone whistling or calling; no one seemed to be searching for the poodle. By the time Patrick had found a police station, described what had happened and left his own name and address, half an hour had passed.
He hurried on towards Heathrow, the bright day dimmed a little by the incident, time short now if he were not to be late for Manolakis.
The plane had already landed but the passengers were not yet through customs. Manolakis, in a light brown suit and bright blue tie, was among the first through the doorway. He beamed as he greeted Patrick with many warm remarks and much hand-shaking. The flight had been perfect: no bumps; he had seen both Venice and Mont Blanc. He had never been out of Greece before.
‘Haven’t you a coat?’ Patrick asked, as they went to the car. A sharp wind blew round the airport buildings.
‘I have one for the rain in my baggages,’ said Manolakis.
‘You’ll need to wear it for the warmth,’ said Patrick.
‘Your city is very fine from the sky,’ said Manolakis. ‘I have seen Windsor Castle and the Thames river.’
‘We’re so near, I thought you might like to see a bit more of London now, before we go to Oxford,’ said Patrick.
‘That would please me very much,’ said Manolakis. ‘I would like to see the Tower of London, please.’
‘The Tower!’ Patrick had anticipated a sentimental trip to the Elgin marbles in the British Museum, but had not foreseen this. ‘I’ve never been there myself,’ he confessed. ‘Right. The Tower it shall be. You’ll see quite a bit of London on the way.’ Then he had an idea. ‘We’ll go by boat,’ he said. That would make a fine introduction to the splendours of the capital.
The Greek was clearly impressed as they drove through Hyde Park, past Buckingham Palace and down Whitehall; Patrick explained everything as they went along.
They left the MGB in a car park, and Patrick urged Manolakis to put his raincoat on, for it would be breezy on the river. Before embarking, they found a pub which looked suitably atmospheric, and over their beer and ham sandwiches Patrick enquired about Manolakis’s wife and three children; all had sent him affectionate messages, and so had his sister. Then they went down to Waterloo Bridge to catch the boat.
The voyage was a good idea. Sunlight filtering through the wispy clouds emphasised the varying hues of all the buildings as they passed. Patrick pointed out the most notable, and when they approached the Tower he launched fluently into a description of the young Elizabeth in the rain, a tale equal to any Greek legend. Patrick himself was quite moved as they passed within the huge walls wherein so much tragedy had dwelt. There were groups of schoolchildren on holiday walking around, and a number of tourists, but so early in the year it was not crowded and they could move about freely. Manolakis was impressed by the vast suits of armour for horse and man; it was all rather different from the Archaeological Museum in Heraklion.
‘We go back by river?’ he asked eagerly.
So they did. Patrick pointed out a police river patrol boat as it went by.
‘Last time I was in London I saw a dead man taken out of the river,’ he said.
Manolakis made clicking sounds with his tongue.
‘Who was it?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. Some suicide. He had red hair,’ said Patrick. Until this moment he had almost forgotten the incident.
‘You did not ask the name?’
‘No. There was nothing I could do. It was no concern of mine,’ said Patrick.
‘It is not like you. Not wanting to know why,’ said Manolakis.
‘Plenty of people jump into the river,’ said Patrick. ‘You can’t wonder about them all.’
‘We do not have many suicides in Greece,’ said Manolakis.
While they talked he was gazing about him.
‘So big,’ he said. ‘So very big. And beautiful.’
Patrick felt proud. Manolakis was right: London was, indeed, a beautiful city.
‘We’ll go to the Houses of Parliament another day,’ he said. ‘And Westminster Abbey.’ He felt a sudden lightening of spirit; the slight depression brought on that morning by the accident with the dog had gone.
‘”Latest swindle case,”’ read Manolakis as they passed a newspaper seller. ‘What is swindle?’ His English was so good that Patrick was surprised by the question. He explained. ‘Ah yes. I write him down when we get to the car,’ said the Greek.
‘Do you still carry that notebook around with you?’
‘Oh yes. He is very useful,’ said Manolakis. He had a habit of noting down new colloquialisms whenever he met them and then producing them, used perfectly in context, soon afterwards.
‘I will buy the paper. I will read him later. It will be good for my English,’ said Manolakis. ‘It is so strange to hear it all about us.’
In fact they had not heard it all about them, in Patrick’s opinion, for so many people in London spoke in other tongues.
‘I’ll buy it,’ he said.
‘No, please!’ Manolakis put up a hand. ‘You know me, Patrick. You understand my speaking. I must practise with other people.’
He was right. And there was the unfamiliar money too.
‘I got me some small money on the plane,’ said Manolakis, and he stepped forward to carry out his little transaction.
On the way back to Oxford, they stopped in Marlow for dinner. The visitor was swift in admiration of the river scene. Swans obligingly swam past, and the weir lent drama. It was very un-Greek. By the time they got to St Mark’s and Manolakis had been installed in his room, fatigue after his journey and the subsequent tourism hit him, and he went to bed forgetting his newspaper. Patrick sat down for a few minutes alone, gathering himself after the day. He was tired too; he had overlooked the fact that being a good host is often exhausting, no matter how welcome the guest. Idly, he turned the pages of the Evening Standard. With Parliament in recess there was a dearth of political news and plenty of space for domestic items. Several valuable old paintings had been stolen from a house near Leamington Spa while the owner, a Birmingham businessman, was out at the theatre. A party of Americans, including a senator, had arrived in England for a varied programme of talks about matters concerning pollution of the atmosphere; there were pictures of Senator Dawson, of Princess Anne preparing for the Badminton Horse Trials and another of Ivan Tamaroff, the Russian pianist who had defected to the west eight years before and whose son, Sasha, a celebrated violinist, was soon to make his first visit to London where the two would perform together. At the foot of a column on an inside page a small paragraph caught his eye. ‘Actor’s death,’ he read, and below the heading: ‘The inquest on Sam Irwin, 44, the actor whose body was found in the Thames last Friday night, has been adjourned. Mr Irwin was currently appearing in the part of Macduff in the production of Macbeth at the Fantasy Theatre.’
Shock made Patrick’s mind a blank at first. Then, as he unfroze, horror succeeded. Sam had been dead, not ill, that night: dead, and in the river.
But it couldn’t have been Sam whose body he had seen. That man had red hair, and Sam was dark.
Next morning, at breakfast, Patrick showed Manolakis the piece in the paper.
‘He was your friend? Oh, what sadness,’ said Manolakis, about to tackle the bacon and eggs which Robert, Patrick’s scout, had produced.
‘But why? How?’ Patrick demanded, brandishing the paper in the air above his coffee cup.
‘Suicide. You say there are many in your river.’
‘It must have been.’ But why had the inquest been adjourned?
‘You will be finding out, I think,’ said Manolakis.
‘Yes.’ It was dreadful news; he must learn what had happened, and when the funeral would be held. The coroner had probably given permission for this at the preliminary hearing; as far as Patrick knew, Sam had no close relatives; he had always seemed very much a loner. Liz must be told, too.
While Patrick telephoned her, Manolakis gazed from the window at the Fellows’ garden. It was so green outside, and the daffodils under an ancient cedar were like pictures of England in springtime which Manolakis had seen. An elderly man in a shapeless jacket was walking over the velvety lawn, smoking a pipe. A gardener, Manolakis supposed, not realising that he was looking upon the Master of St Mark’s.
Liz, just arrived at her office, was very surprised at the identity of her caller, and shocked by what he told her.
‘Oh, how terrible! Do you mean it was Sam that you saw that night?’
‘No, it couldn’t have been. That man had red hair – bright red, it must have been, as it looked distinctly auburn even when wet.’
‘He could have dyed it, for Macduff,’ said Liz. ‘You might not have recognised him, from a distance.’
It was true that Patrick had not looked closely at the body; he had not wanted to become involved. Now, the thought that the dead man might, after all, have been someone he knew and from whom he had walked away, filled him with remorse. He would have to find out.
‘You could be right,’ he said.
‘Please tell me, Patrick, when you know,’ said Liz.
He did not have to explain to her the compulsion he would now be under; she knew.
‘All right. I’ll be in touch.’
He would, as this involved someone else and was not just a matter of friendly communication; though shocked by his news, Liz was detached enough to see the irony in the situation.