Poe had never been to the Theatre by the Lake. It was a contemporary building, and although it looked a bit like a local authority office, by using Lake District stone, the theatre had managed to retain a certain amount of charm. The setting made up for the uninspiring building. It was on the edge of Keswick, near the shores of Derwentwater, and sat under the Western Fells. Poe had always thought the fells around Keswick, Grasmere and Ambleside were just a bit too perfect, almost as if someone had photoshopped them into the background. He preferred the wilder fells further west and further south. The tourists he saw on the fells around Shap were either seriously lost or seriously keen.

It was a very pretty setting, though.

The good and the great of Cumbria – or at least those who thought they were – had descended on the theatre in droves. Half of the men were in black tie and the other half were in a dazzling display of modern suits. Blues, greens, even purple. One man was wearing a fez.

The arty-farty set, Poe thought, always trying to be different, always looking the same.

Despite the crowd’s eclectic dress sense, he and Bradshaw stood out like they were backlit. Poe knew he was underdressed. His suit looked cheap because it was cheap. Even the man checking people’s invites was wearing something more elegant.

Bollocks to them. He was hunting a serial killer, not trying to make friends.

Bradshaw was faring a bit better. Her comic-book dress had the advantage of making her look a bit quirky. And because she’d made an effort with her hair – it was now lying gently on her shoulders rather than being pulled back into a severe ponytail – and had discarded her ever-present Harry Potter glasses in favour of contact lenses, she was drawing admiring glances from some of the men. She was oblivious to it.

Poe’s eyes focused on a figure in the distance. ‘Heads up,’ he said to Bradshaw, ‘the bishop’s here.’

When Nicholas Oldwater had said it was Poe’s lucky week, he’d been referring to a gala dinner to raise money for disadvantaged children in the old county of Westmorland. The evening was being hosted by the children of Quentin Carmichael.

It was how he’d answered Poe’s question about what they’d done with the money: they had created the Carmichael Foundation.

‘In 2007 the children each took one hundred thousand pounds and the rest was put into the not-for-profit foundation,’ he’d said.

‘Generous of them,’ Poe had acknowledged.

‘Not really. In 2007 anything over three hundred thousand pounds was subject to forty per cent inheritance tax. By taking a hundred thousand each and putting the rest into their foundation, they avoided paying any tax at all.’

‘And I’m assuming they’re all on the board. Directors as well probably.’

‘With nice yearly salaries to boot,’ Oldwater finished. ‘You can’t blame them, I suppose. Their father had dealt them a pretty rotten hand. They were only protecting what was theirs as best they could. And the foundation does do some good.’

The Right Reverend Bishop of Carlisle was having a night off, as he wasn’t in Church attire. He was wearing an old-style suit but still looked twenty times smarter than Poe.

Oldwater winked when he saw them, and if he were disappointed by what they were wearing, he didn’t show it. He approached them and said, ‘Typical ex-Black Watch, always punctual.’

Interesting. He’d been checking up on him. And he’d still turned up. Poe wondered if he had an ally.

Removing a gilt-edged invitation card from his inside pocket, Oldwater said, ‘Shall we?’

The event was a celebration of the first ten years of the foundation. Poe didn’t know how the disadvantaged children of Westmorland would have felt if they could have seen the spread of canapés and champagne laid on for everyone, but it certainly made him feel uncomfortable.

‘Obscene, isn’t it?’ Oldwater said.

Poe nodded.

‘It’s not as bad as it seems. These people,’ he waved his arms, ‘won’t part with their money if they haven’t been pampered. It’s an old charity trick. Make them think the organisation has so much money, only large donations will be noticed. The more they spend on vol-au-vents and caviar, the bigger their return.’

If that was how it worked, then that was how it worked. Charity had never been a big part of Poe’s life. He had a standing order to the Royal British Legion and always gave away his clothes to the local Oxfam shop, but he’d never attended anything like this.

Oldwater said, ‘I have a few hands to shake and then I’m giving a speech. Why don’t we meet at the bar and have a whisky afterwards? I can introduce you to anyone you want to meet then. In the meantime, I suggest you take advantage of the Carmichaels’ hospitality for an hour or so.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Poe’s experience at the buffet was dismal. The Carmichaels had laid on food that he neither understood nor liked; as far as he was concerned, eating oysters was one step away from eating salty phlegm, and lobsters were nothing more than massive prawns. With the vegetarian options being equally pretentious, he and Bradshaw decided to take advantage of the free bar instead. Poe had a pint of Cumberland Ale and Bradshaw had a glass of sparkling water.

Drinks in hand, they wandered through the theatre. Most areas appeared to be open. There was a podium set up on the stage in the auditorium. To the left and right, along the walls, were linen-covered tables. People taking donations staffed the tables on the left, and they were doing a steady trade. The tables on the right had display cabinets extolling the virtues of Quentin Carmichael and of the foundation established in his honour.

Poe walked over to the left and picked up a donation envelope. There was a section for him to write his postcode; they would get tax relief on anything inside if he did. Something called the Gift Aid programme. He didn’t write anything. He didn’t have a postcode and he didn’t want one. He slipped a twenty-pound note inside and sealed it. He left the name blank. A man in a tuxedo saw his donation and looked him up and down.

‘Problem?’ Poe said. He stared at him until the man reddened and backed down.

Tags: M.W. Craven Thriller
Source: readsnovelonline.net