Free Dead Giveaway by Simon Brett

morning the death was reported on radio and in Charles’s
Times
, but it was not until the afternoon’s edition of the
Standard
that it was suggested the incident might have been caused by anything other than natural causes. Two days later the press announced that a woman was helping the police with their enquiries into Barrett Doran’s death, and the following day a 24-year-old employee of West End Television, Caroline Postgate, was charged with his murder. Then, as always with British crimes, all information on the case would cease until the trial.
    The girl’s name meant nothing to Charles, but, having been virtually on the spot when the murder happened, he felt intrigued by it and wanted to find out more. His first move was to contact his agent. Maurice Skellern, though completely deaf to vibrations of new productions coming up which might lead to jobs for his clients, had a very good ear for theatrical gossip, and was likely to know as much as anyone about a juicy theatrical murder.
    Still, first things first. Charles asked the mandatory question about whether there was any work coming up.
    Maurice Skellern laughed wheezily down the phone, as if this was the best joke he had heard for a long time. He did not answer the question; nor did Charles really expect him to. He knew that, on the rare occasions when something did come up, his agent would ring him.
    Maurice was quickly on to the real subject of the conversation. ‘Had a bit of excitement the other night at W.E.T., I gather.’
    ‘You could say that.’
    ‘You got any dirt on it to tell me?’
    ‘’Fraid not. I was ringing you in search of the same.’
    ‘But come on, Charles. You were actually
there
.’
    ‘Up in the bar.’
    ‘So what else is new? So how much do you know?’
    ‘Just that he died on the set at the end of the recording, and now some girl I’ve never heard of has been charged with his murder.’
    ‘Well, what can I tell you? For a start, he was poisoned. Did you know that?’
    ‘No. With what?’
    ‘Cyanide.’
    ‘Ah.’ One or two things began to fall into place. ‘Cyanide which was being used for the programme in the studio next door?’
    ‘You have it in one. Something that boring little poseur Melvyn Gasc was doing, apparently. Seems the cyanide got nicked from there and put into poor old Barrett’s glass instead of water.’
    ‘Gin.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Instead of gin. Barrett’s water-glass on the set was filled with gin.’
    ‘Was it? How do you know that?’
    Discretion dictated a slight editing of the next reply. ‘One of the researchers was talking about it. So presumably this girl who’s been arrested was the one who substituted the cyanide?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Caroline Somebody-or-other. Know anything about her?’
    ‘She was an Assistant Stage Manager on Melvyn Gasc’s programme. She had been left in charge of all the props and that, so it was easy for her to lift the cyanide.’
    ‘Ah.’ Light began to dawn. ‘Was this girl nicknamed Chippy?’
    ‘That’s right. Why, you know her?’
    ‘I met her that night.’
    The girl’s beautiful, fragile face came into his mind. So, when he saw her, she had been contemplating murder. Perhaps that explained the tragedy in her deep, dark eyes.
    ‘Needless to say, there was a background,’ Maurice went on. ‘She and Barrett had been having an affair. He had just broken it off. Classic situation. “Hell hath no fury . . .”, all that.’
    ‘Yes,’ Charles agreed pensively.
    ‘Not a lot more I can tell you,’ his agent concluded. ‘Though I gather, talking to people in the business, nobody’s that sorry. Barrett Doran doesn’t seem to have made many friends on his way to the top.’
    ‘Having seen him in action, I’m not too surprised.’
    ‘No. Presumably means they’ll have to remake the pilot. Wonder if you’ll get booked again . . .’
    ‘Not if anyone’s got any sense. It was a daft idea having an actor as one of the people in that