A Comedian Dies by Simon Brett Page A

Charles had seen her distantly at the inquest, but never without a coat and so had not appreciated her splendid contours. He recalled Walter Proud saying she had been a dancer and child-bearing had not slackened the athleticism of her figure. Nor did the black glazed cotton dress, worn presumably as a token of mourning, do anything to disguise her shape. Indeed, it offered fascinating grounds for conjecture as to whether she was wearing one of those negligible bras made of flimsy stuff like they wrap supermarket chickens in, or none at all.
    Her blonde hair had been recently (and expensively) cut and she looked fit and lively. If she was suffering from the pains of widowhood, she disguised it well.
    Having sat Charles down and provided him with a cup of coffee (instant, but one of the more expensive blends), she asked him to give his grounds for suspicion and he ran through the business of Norman del Rosa’s revelation again.
    â€˜That doesn’t prove murder,’ she said with what sounded like relief. Presumably someone who has just reconciled herself to her husband’s death is not anxious to have to change her whole pattern of thinking on the subject.
    â€˜Doesn’t prove it, but it does make the death seem rather odd. The particular electrical set-up which caused it would have been bound to show up on the ringmain tester.’
    â€˜So you think someone fiddled with the wires after Bill tested it?’
    â€˜That would seem a logical conclusion.’
    â€˜Hmm.’ She seemed to be waiting for him in some way, waiting for him to come to the point. Maybe she still feared that he was building up to an accusation. ‘But why? Why should anyone do that?’
    â€˜One of my reasons for wanting to see you was the hope that you might be able to answer that question. The old “Did your husband have any enemies?” routine.’
    â€˜I see. Let me think.’ It didn’t take her long. ‘No. I don’t think so.’
    â€˜You mean everyone liked him?’
    â€˜Yes.’ She looked at Charles, as if daring him to challenge her assertion.
    He had no intention of challenging it, but it seemed odd. This certainly did not tally with what everyone else had said about Peaky. Still, Carla was his widow. Maybe in her eyes he could do no wrong. And, of course, she had not been in the company with him to hear his slights against fellow-performers.
    â€˜But, Mrs. Pratt, someone who has as much success as your husband, and so quickly, is likely to cause jealousy among other people in the business. Didn’t you ever hear of that sort of thing?’
    â€˜Not in Bill’s case, no.’ She said it with great determination. Difficult to tell whether or not she was protesting too much. Feeling that maybe she had not made her point, she added, ‘He was a wonderful man’.
    Charles lowered his eyes and regretted that he had never had the pleasure of meeting the young comedian. ‘So you can’t imagine anyone wanting to get him out of the way?’
    â€˜No. No one except a maniac or someone like that. Why should anyone in their right mind want to destroy our lives, leave the two boys without their Dad, leave me a widow? It’s madness.’ She didn’t look particularly ruffled as she delivered this speech, but it could have come from genuine feeling. Emotion is revealed in many ways. Charles felt an indefinable suspicion as to her sincerity but decided that he was being hypersensitive.
    â€˜I agree, it is madness, Mrs. Pratt, but if it were murder, would you mind my investigating it?’
    â€˜How’d you mean?’
    â€˜I mean, do you want me to find out all I can about the circumstances or would you rather I forgot all about it?’
    â€˜No. If there is some possibility that he was murdered, I’d have to know. I mean, if I said forget it, it’d sound like I didn’t care.’
    â€˜Only to me. No one else would