A Voss and Pike Casefile
Section 3: Box Four
Red velvet. Gilt. A view of the stage like the view from a throne. Sir Edwin Fairweather had been carried out already, but the box still held the shape of him: a chair pushed back, a crystal carafe on its side, a glass with a lipstick-pale smear of nothing on the rim.
Jonah photographed the carafe with his phone, then stopped. "Everything in here is expensive. Even the water jug."
"What does a water jug do?"
"Holds water."
"That's its manifest function. What else does crystal say?" you asked.
He thought. "That you can afford crystal."
"Latent function. Remember it. Rich men don't buy things, Jonah. They buy messages."
A programme lay under the chair, the corner trodden on. Inside, the evening's running order: the overture, the interval, and at 9.30, in bold type, AN ADDRESS BY SIR EDWIN FAIRWEATHER: "THE REAL ME". Someone had underlined the title twice with a fountain pen. In the margin, in a hand that pressed hard enough to dent the page, three words: Tell them, Eddie.
Eddie. Nobody had called Sir Edwin Fairweather "Eddie" in forty years, you'd have bet your licence on it.
The gala programme lists a 9.30 address by Sir Edwin, "The Real Me". In the margin, in his own hand: "Tell them, Eddie." He was about to say something true, and someone knew.