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“He didn’t?” questioned Gardener, curious.
“Not in so many words, no. He were given a trial run in the West End, more or less as the show were starting. He were Michael Crawford’s understudy, and he only got that ’cause of his father, Wallace. Anyway, he was promising, knew almost everybody’s lines. Apparently he’s got a good memory, remembers facts and figures like there’s no tomorrow. He turned up to every performance, and in rehearsals he was brilliant. Problems started when he were faced with an audience.”
“In what way?” Gardener asked.
“He panics. He were given his chance in the main role one Saturday matinee. Crawford’s car had broken down and he wasn’t gonna make it until the evening performance, so they gave Corndell the green light. Apparently he were useless, fluffed his lines and wrecked half the scenery. The worst bit was when he was doing the scene in the graveyard on top of the big cross. He fell off and broke his leg.”
Fettle slurped his tea and bit into a fig roll. “Anyway, it finished his career. But even if he hadn’t fallen off and broken his leg, he’d never have got another chance.”
“And that was his one and only time playing the main part?”
“As far as I know. After that, no one else in the West End touched him.”
“Any idea what he did after that?”
“No.”
“Okay, well that’s something. He’s reliable, this friend of yours?”
“Oh aye, he worked there for over thirty years.”
Gardener took another sip of his tea. “Have you still got those film books?”
“Aye.” Fettle left the table and reached into the cupboard. “What do you want to know?”
Gardener produced Reilly’s notebook with the titles of the films in Corndell’s library. “Do you remember any of these?” He passed the list to Fettle.
“I know those two. The Dark Eyes of London, that’s pretty old. It was written by Edgar Wallace. It’s about a bloke who runs a home for the blind, and he uses a giant to drown the insured victims.”
“Another Lon Chaney film?”
“No, that was Bela Lugosi. And so was that one, The Invisible Ghost. That’s about a bloke who murdered his wife and she comes back to haunt him, he keeps seeing her all over the place, before he goes mad.”
“The Black Castle?” asked Gardener.
“Not sure about that.” Fettle flicked through his copies of the Film Review before finally consulting the Halliwell’s Film Guide. “Here it is, an eighteenth-century knight avenges the death of two friends who have attended a hunting party at the castle of a sadistic Viennese count. I certainly haven’t seen that one.”
“Are any of these real collector’s pieces?”
“Doubt it. The Dark Eyes of London, maybe. Can’t say I’ve ever seen a copy of that.”
Gardener sighed and sat back. None of the films that Fettle had talked about bore any similarity to the murders that had been committed, so it seemed unlikely that the killer was copying an obscure film in particular. “Who was in The Black Castle?”
“Boris Karloff and Lon Chaney Junior.”
“Karloff played Frankenstein, yes?”
“Aye, in 1931.”
“Apparently Corndell has a US copy of the film made in 1910 starring a bloke called Ogle.”
“Fucking hell,” whistled Fettle. “That’d be worth a fortune.”
“What about that one, Imperfection?”
“Never heard of it.” After consulting all the books, Fettle drew a blank. “I can’t find any reference to a film of that name. Do you know owt about it?”
“No, other than the fact that it’s in Corndell’s library.”
