Текст книги "An Expert in Murder"

Автор книги: Nicola Upson

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What was that all about? Perhaps she had told him she was giving up the stage? If so, this could be the moment she’d been waiting for. Her heart lifted briefly, until she saw one of the Motley women

– the overweight one – dragging a young couple through the crowd to where Tey and Aubrey were still in solemn conversation.

The designer, overdressed as usual and apparently oblivious to their mood, pointed to the engagement ring on the girl’s finger and 120

Tey smiled her congratulations, while Aubrey turned and went back upstairs. McCracken watched as the author signed the programme which was tentatively held out to her. All that cringing self-effacement made her sick – it was so affected – and she knew then that whatever had darkened Aubrey’s mood, it wasn’t the prospect of having to replace a successful author: this one loved her glory far too much to relinquish it. Trust the smug bitch to spoil even this ritual for her. Already late for the half, McCracken turned round and headed bitterly for the dark anonymity of backstage, pushing the last few stragglers roughly aside as she went.

Josephine was about to take her seat in the royal circle when she felt a tap on the shoulder. She turned round, the practised smile already in place, but took an involuntary step back when she found Frank Simmons looking intently back at her. He was soaked to the skin and, as he removed his hat, the water fell in a steady drip from its brim, creating a patch of deeper crimson in the foyer’s carpet.

‘Mr Simmons – Frank – what are you doing here?’ she asked, torn between sympathy for his grief and unease at seeing him so unexpectedly. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, miss, I’m fine but I had to get out for a bit. The flat felt so empty with Betty gone up north, and all I could think about was my Elspeth lying alone somewhere, so I came here. I know it sounds strange, but this is where I feel closest to her.’

He looked at the floor, tears threatening to join forces with the rain. Josephine struggled to find something to say which would bring this excruciating scene to an end without sounding too callous or too encouraging, but nothing came to her and she remained locked in an uncomfortable silence with him, conscious that everyone left in the foyer was beginning to stare. When Archie appeared at her side, seemingly out of nowhere, she had never been more pleased to see him.

‘It’s a terrible night, Sir, can we give you a lift anywhere?’ he asked, his natural courtesy tinged with a firmness that was not lost on Simmons, who released Josephine’s hand and appeared to get a 121

grip on himself. ‘That’s very kind of you, Inspector, but a walk does me good and I can’t get much wetter than I am already. I just wanted to see Miss Tey again and to thank her for this afternoon,’

he said, turning to her, although his voice was so low and uncertain that she could barely make out the words. ‘I’ll let you go in now – you don’t want to miss the start.’

‘Oh I think I know how it goes by now,’ said Josephine with a nervous laugh, and bid him goodnight. Gratefully, she allowed Archie to lead her away and Simmons watched them go, continuing to stare long after they had disappeared into the auditorium.

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Nine

Penrose had not intended to use his ticket for the performance but, with his cousins seated in another part of the theatre and Josephine visibly shaken by her encounter in the foyer, he was reluctant to leave her on her own immediately. Their seats at the side of the royal circle afforded a splendid view of the stage, but neither of them seemed particularly inclined to look in that direction. More often than not, Josephine’s gaze was fixed on the relief figures of Music and Peace which hovered optimistically above the proscenium arch, and he doubted that the world in which she was absorbed belonged to the fourteenth century. His own attention, meanwhile, was focused on the auditorium. His eyes followed the line of the three balconies, sinuously curved and decorated with painted panels, lamps and sconces, but nowhere could he see the two empty seats which he had expected to stand out as a poignant reminder of yesterday’s events. He would have to check in the rear stalls and balcony, which were currently hidden from his view, but every row seemed full; certainly the coveted top-price seats – of which Hedley White was supposed to have had two – were all taken. So what had happened to those tickets? Had he got rid of them, or asked someone else to do it for him? Is that why Frank Simmons had appeared so unexpectedly downstairs? Or had White never actually bought the tickets, knowing that Elspeth would be dead by the time the performance began?

Impatiently, Penrose glanced at his watch and was frustrated to see that the interval was still half an hour away. Almost as restless as he was, Josephine touched his arm and nodded to the exit, urg-ing him to leave her and get on with what he needed to do, but he 123

shook his head – he hoped reassuringly – and tried to settle back in his seat. It was irrational, this feeling he had that she was in danger, but it carried the force of conviction and he was not prepared to take a chance for the sake of thirty minutes, not when someone had already been killed just yards away from a crowd. Trying not to fidget, he was relieved to note that no one else was likely to be disturbed by his irreverent disregard for the play. Every other head was turned towards the stage and held there as if by force, and the silence in the auditorium was of a quality rarely found in London outside of its sacred spaces. In the last year John Terry had acquired the authority and presence of a truly great actor but tonight there was a nervous brilliance about his performance which surpassed everything he had achieved up to now. The audience, many of whom were regulars and had several performances to compare it to, realised they were watching something special.

Terry was only slight in build but he dominated the stage, determined, it seemed, to prove that it was his. In scene after scene he extracted every ounce of opportunity from Josephine’s lightly drawn portrait, seeming to relish the King’s strengths and weaknesses in equal measure and moving effortlessly from the airy carelessness of Richard’s early scenes to the disillusionment of someone in whom the poison of suspicion has begun to work.

Eventually, even Penrose was drawn in and he marvelled at the way in which the actor’s movements took on a morbid, feline elegance as he responded to the treachery against him. ‘To become an expert in murder’, he whispered bitterly to his queen as the first act drew to a close, ‘cannot be so difficult,’ and the intensity in his voice held the audience – Penrose included – spellbound.

He thought back to the first time he had seen Terry, playing the very same role but in Shakespeare’s version at the Old Vic. It was five years ago now, but he remembered it vividly because the production’s brief run had coincided with one of Josephine’s then rare visits to London. They had gone together and, if he recalled the evening more for the pleasure of her company than the power of Terry’s acting, it was no less poignant to him now. It had been one of those hot summer evenings which occasionally graced the city 124

with a leisurely decadence. As they walked back down the Waterloo Road, still laughing at one of the more eccentric patrons, whose cracked but resounding rendition of ‘God Save the King’

rang out from the front of the gallery at the end of the performance, he had seen in Josephine a willingness to engage with the future which had been absent since Jack’s death. Since then, she had often referred to that night as the inspiration for Richard of Bordeaux,but it had been less fondly of late and, if he really wanted to torment himself, he could curse the impulse that had made him buy those tickets. Fortunately, before he could dwell too long in the past, the dusty-pink brocade and velvet curtains fell, drawing a jarring air of opulence over the simple lines of the Motleys’ stage designs.

Leaving Josephine safely in the bar with Lettice and Ronnie, Penrose walked round to stage door to look for Bernard Aubrey.

The rain which had fallen so fiercely in the early part of the evening had finally relented, but it was impossible to avoid the puddles, and the light from the Salisbury’s solid Victorian coach lamps blurred and splintered as his feet disturbed its perfect reflection. He had met Aubrey a few times, mostly at opening nights but more recently during that vicious court case, when Elliott Vintner had accused Josephine of plagiarism in the writing of Richard of Bordeaux, claiming that it echoed the events of his own novel, The White Heart, published twelve years earlier. Aubrey, as the play’s producer, had given evidence on Josephine’s behalf and Penrose had been impressed with his intelligence and sense of justice. His opinion of White’s character would, no doubt, be worth listening to and he might even be able to help the police find the boy. There were men posted wherever White was likely to appear and a description would be out by now in the evening paper, but Elspeth’s young man had so far proved elusive and any other suggestions would be gratefully received.

He announced who he was and the stage doorkeeper – a burly, red-faced man in his late fifties – wasted no time in telephoning up to Bernard Aubrey’s office and handing over the receiver. Penrose came to the point quickly and discreetly, aware that the doorman 125

was giving a display of nonchalance which would never get him a job on the other side of the footlights.

‘Bernard? It’s Archie Penrose. I’m sorry to interrupt you on a Saturday night but I need to talk to you, and the sooner the better.

Is now convenient? It shouldn’t take too long.’

There was a second’s pause while Aubrey blew a lungful of smoke into the air, then Penrose heard his voice, thick and guttural from a lifetime’s devotion to cigarettes. ‘Actually, Archie, it might take longer than you think. I’m glad you’re here because there’s something I need to talk to you about, as well. I was going to come and see you on Monday, but after this terrible business it can’t wait until then. As it is, I’ve got to live with the fact that I’ve left it this long.’ He exhaled again, then continued. ‘I’ve got to be on stage in the second half and I can’t get out of that – there’s no one else here to do it – but I’ll meet you downstairs as soon as we finish. I’m supposed to be taking everyone for a drink, but we can talk privately first. What I have to say might help you. In any case, it will help me.’

‘Then perhaps we could at least make a start now?’ Penrose said, but the line was dead even before he had finished the sentence. Frustrated, but daring to hope that he might at last be getting somewhere, he resigned himself to another agonising wait and walked back down St Martin’s Court.

The Grand Circle Bar was always packed on a sold-out Saturday night. Ronnie, who never allowed even the densest of crowds to stand between her and a large gin, returned triumphant from the bar and passed two tall glasses to Lettice and Josephine before falling heavily into the third herself. ‘Fuck, it’s Fitch,’ she said, as she came up for air. ‘Don’t look round.’

But it was too late. ‘A hundred thousand in a year at the box office!’ cried the critic from the Evening Standard, forcing his way over. ‘Aubrey can afford to go dark for a month and I dare say Inverness has seen a few corks popped of late?’

‘Oh, it’s been nothing but fizz and fun since last February,’ said Josephine, brushing the comment skilfully aside and trying to hide 126

her dislike. ‘I can’t thank you enough for all the reviews, and I do so appreciate it when you include a list of criticisms.’

Over Lettice’s head, Josephine saw Marta appear at the door and make her way through the crowd, drawing some appreciative glances as she did so. ‘I’ve been sent to offer you the chance of some peace and quiet backstage if you don’t want to go back in after the interval,’ she said. ‘Come down to the dressing room.

Once Lydia’s died, we can all have a drink.’

Gratefully, Josephine took the lifeline she was offered. ‘I’ll see you at stage door afterwards,’ she called back over her shoulder, and felt a brief stab of guilt as she saw Fitch take a deep breath, ready to continue.

‘You came just at the right moment,’ she said as they went downstairs. ‘Grovelling really doesn’t suit me, and it’s so hard to fake it well.’

‘Tell me about it. The only row I’ve had with Lydia was when I told her to stop fawning round producers and have faith in her own talent. She looked at me as though I were two days out of a lunatic asylum, then asked me how far that approach had got me in publishing.’ She smiled, and her eyes were filled with a warmth which transformed the dark beauty of her face into something more approachable. ‘That friend of yours has a wickedtongue. It’s one of the things I love most about her.’

Wryly, Josephine raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sure she’d say much the same about you. She’s right, of course – about the fawning, I mean; I can’t speak for the tongue. Actresses live on goodwill.’

By the time they reached the dressing room, Lydia had returned to the wings ready for her brief appearance in the second act but Josephine felt none of the awkwardness that often comes when mutual friends are thrown together in the absence of the common link. In contrast to their first brief meeting, Marta made conversation easily, avoiding the small change to which strangers often limit themselves and talking animatedly about the last couple of months, but her concerns about Lydia’s future were never far away and Josephine realised that she was genuinely troubled.

‘Is her work a problem for you?’ she asked almost brutally, real-127

ising that Lydia would be back with them in a few moments’ time and the opportunity for confidences would be lost.

‘No, it’s not that. It’s been her life and I’d never ask her to give that up – just the opposite, in fact. What worries me is how she’ll cope if – when – it all dries up. She’s had a couple of knock-backs lately and the harder she pretends to take it all in her stride, the more I know it’s hurting her.’

‘She’s bound to feel unsettled when something like this comes to an end. Long runs are a luxury, but they lull you into a false sense of security and get you out of the habit of moving on. It’ll pass as soon as she gets out on tour and into rehearsals for something new.’

‘Perhaps.’ Marta looked at her as if assessing how direct she could be. ‘Tell me – would you have written a play about Mary Queen of Scots if Lydia hadn’t asked you to?’

‘No, I don’t think I would. I can see why the idea of playing her on stage is attractive, but I’ve never had any real sympathy for the woman.’

Marta nodded. ‘You know, I almost wish you hadn’t done it. We all need something to work towards, and the idea that someone could bring that creature to life has been a dream of hers for years.

Now it’s become a reality and she’ll have done it before the year’s out, and I’m not sure that leaves her anywhere to go. As it is, I keep catching her looking over her shoulder, thinking that the best is behind her.’

Josephine said nothing, wondering if she should warn Marta that another blow was coming Lydia’s way if Aubrey’s film ever got off the ground. She decided against it. There was enough unrest for everyone at the moment and it might never happen but, if it did, the more time they had to cement their relationship against outside anxieties the better. ‘Of course, Lydia’s never had anything meaningful outside the theatre until now,’ she said instead. ‘Having a life with you must count as something to look forward to, surely?’

‘Oh come off it,’ Marta said scornfully. ‘Women need both –

love and work – and these days they can have it. Lydia’s got a right to expectboth. Would you seriously put your pen down if you fell 128

in love?’ Josephine was silent, taken aback by the question. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude and I shouldn’t be speaking like this to someone I don’t know,’ Marta continued, ‘but I can see so much sorrow ahead for Lydia and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. You won’t tell her I’m worried, will you? I’ve spent all this time being so bloody reassuring.’

‘No, I won’t say anything. But in answer to your question: yes, I think there are times when I would give all this up for a different life. Or, at least, there are times when having someone in particular would make this life a little less lonely, so don’t underestimate what you mean to her.’

Marta was silent, seeming to consider how much of what Josephine said was sincere and how much was designed to make her feel better. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ she said eventually. ‘Thank you.’

‘And perhaps you’reright about Queen of Scots. I think what you meant but were too polite to say is that my indifference to the woman has made for rather an average play?’ Marta blushed a little and Josephine continued. ‘It’s all right – you can be honest, and it’s nothing I don’t already know. My affection for Lydia made me say yes when I should have said no. You can’t write to order – at least I can’t. I neither love nor loathe Mary Stuart, so she’s a character rather than a person. The best we can hope for, I suppose, is that she’ll be popular.’

‘It’s funny how our ideas of people change. I was telling Lydia earlier today – the people I valued when I was younger and the stories I wrote about them bear no resemblance to what I feel now.’

‘Have you always written, then?’

‘On and off. Actually, more off than on until a year or so ago. I started during the war when my husband was away. My mother-in-law was a friend of May Gaskell – have you heard of her?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Well, she started a war library for soldiers abroad. Her son-in-law was wounded in the South African War and she sent him books and magazines in hospital to distract him from the misery of it all. Apparently, it’s what got him through, so May decided on 129

the first day of war that British soldiers in France would never be without stories to take their minds off the suffering. She was in her sixties by then, but she was a remarkable woman and well connected enough to make it happen. She persuaded somebody to lend her a house in Marble Arch and turned it into a book ware-house. People sent things in from all over the country. One day we’d get dirty packets of rubbish from Finchley; the next, thirty thousand volumes from a country estate would turn up.’

‘How extraordinary! And you worked there?’

‘Yes, for a couple of years before the Red Cross took it over. The response was better than May could have hoped for, so she needed volunteers. People were donating entire libraries. On a good day, the vans bringing in the books blocked the traffic all around Marble Arch. We sent them to hospitals all over the world, not just France, but whenever I knew there was a consignment going to my husband’s regiment, I’d send stories of my own to make it more personal. You couldn’t always rely on their getting to the right person, but it was a way of keeping some sort of connection alive.’

‘And your husband?’

‘He died.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It wasn’t the happiest of marriages and it seems a lifetime away now.’ The sound of applause drifted down from the stage and Marta stood up to look for a corkscrew. ‘Talking of dying, it sounds like she’s gone again. That’s our cue for a drink.’

By now, Josephine had revised her earlier opinion of Lydia’s lover, not dropping the ‘nice’ which had so disappointed Ronnie but adding some more interesting qualities, passionate and engag-ing being top of the list. Instead of trying to avoid the subject of Marta’s own book, she found herself rather intrigued at the prospect of reading it.

‘Lydia says you’ve finished the first draft of your novel, and she asked me to look at it,’ she said, accepting the glass that Marta held out to her. ‘There’s nothing worse than someone chipping in with helpful advice you don’t need, but I’d be happy to read it if you want an outside opinion.’

130

‘That’s very sweet of you both but you really don’t have to, you know. You must get hundreds of people asking for your time and it’s hideous to have to be tactful to someone you know.’

‘I wouldn’t be. If I didn’t like it I’d say so, but even then it would just be the comments of a friend. It’s your novel.’

‘Yes, it is. For better or worse, it’s certainly that.’

There was a rustle of satin from the corridor. ‘You know, one night I think I might shock them all and simply refuse to die,’ said Lydia as she came into the room and collapsed onto the sofa in a heap of pale pink. ‘Can you imagine the look on Johnny’s face if I suddenly rallied and stole his best scene? It’s almost worth it.’ She took an appreciative sip of her wine. ‘How is everyone?’

‘Fine,’ said Marta, laughing as she removed Lydia’s flowered head-dress and ran her fingers affectionately through her hair.

‘Yes, your plan for us to get to know each other better has worked beautifully,’ said Josephine drily. ‘In fact, I was just trying to get my hands on this manuscript that I’ve heard so much and so little about.’

Lydia raised an eyebrow questioningly at Marta, who held up her hands in defeat. ‘All right, all right,’ she said. ‘I’ll hand it over.

But be gentle – that’s all I ask.’

As the final scene got underway, Esme McCracken placed four chairs around a small table which stood in the wings, just to the right of prompt corner. Through the flats, she had a fractured view of the playing area and the first two rows but she did not need to look at the audience to know that it would be gazing, as one, at John Terry as he sat alone downstage, a tray of food untouched beside him. She sighed heavily. God knows why, but this scene, with all its cheap sentiment, did it for them every time. In a minute there would be a stifled sob from the auditorium as Richard’s fate in the Tower became too much for someone: she could predict it almost as accurately as she could the knock from the rear of the set which served as a cue for Aubrey’s cameo appearance. When it came, he pushed past her, dressed in a guard’s suit of string mail, and she caught the scent of alcohol already on his breath, as tan-131

gible as the felt from his costume which brushed against her skin.

Grumbling to herself, she carefully polished three wine glasses and a whisky tumbler and placed them on the table in readiness for the ridiculous private ritual about to take place. They were like schoolboys, the lot of them: as if she didn’t have enough to do without preparing little tableaux to which only the chosen few would be privy. Sneering at the bottle of claret – such expense when she was paid so little – she put it next to the corkscrew.

Finally, she lifted the crystal decanter down from the shelf and added it to the tray, where the light from the stage sparkled on the glass and gave a rich, amber colour to the liquid inside. There wasn’t much left but, judging by his breath, Aubrey had had quite enough already, although that was no excuse for how beastly he’d been to her earlier. Looking round to make sure that no one was watching, she removed the glass stopper and spat into the decanter.

She moved away from the table just in time. Fleming strode purposefully into the wings from the stage, his character having made his last exit. He tossed a role of parchment – the prop for Richard’s abdication – to McCracken, then set about easing the cork sound-lessly from its bottle, the first duty in the Ricardian ceremony.

Aubrey, as his soldier, followed him offstage, his minor role in the play’s climax soon over. As he walked past Fleming, the actor grabbed his arm.

‘Not joining us?’ he whispered sarcastically. ‘But we’re such a happy company. It would be a shame not to toast our success, don’t you think?’

Aubrey shook him off and seemed about to retaliate, but suddenly stopped himself. McCracken turned round to see what the distraction was and found Lydia just behind her, waiting at the side of the stage to take her share of the applause when the curtain fell. The actress smiled at Aubrey, who appeared to calm down and satisfied himself with a glare at Fleming as he took the lid off his decanter. Meanwhile, the next actor off poured the wine into three glasses, not oblivious to the tension among his colleagues but at a loss to know what had caused it.

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Then Terry’s distinctive voice cut through the atmosphere.

‘How Robert would have laughed,’ he said, delivering his famous closing line with a hollow amusement which was all the more powerful for its restraint, and the curtain dropped. As the applause broke out – louder than ever, if that were possible – he left the stage, a glint of triumph in his eyes, and raised his glass for a new toast.

‘To memorable exits,’ he said, his eyes fixed on Aubrey, and drank the wine in one go. His defiance shocked even McCracken, whose acts of rebellion were always less overt, but Fleming simply laughed and replaced his glass untouched on the tray. As the cast assembled round them, ready for the first of many curtain-calls, McCracken watched Aubrey pour the last of the Scotch into his glass, down it with a grimace and head for the stairs to his office.

Penrose waited impatiently at stage door for Aubrey to keep their appointment, and tried not to show how irritated he was by the doorman’s constant chatter. ‘I haven’t seen fans like this for twenty-five years or more,’ he said, looking in wonder at the crowds that had gathered in the passageway outside as though it were his first night on the job. ‘Of course, it was different back then – all hansom cabs and evening clothes, bunches of flowers and black canes with silver tops. Now they come dressed as they like and ask for signed photographs. Still, it’s almost like the old days. A bit of the old magic’s come back, that’s for sure.’

While privately wondering what sort of man was happy to do a job that involved sitting in the same chair for years on end, Penrose smiled and nodded. There was no denying the truth of what he said, though: his drone only just carried over the noise outside, where an undisciplined but good-natured crowd of enthusiasts waited for their respective favourites to appear. Terry was the first to brave the adoration, plunging into the noise and notice-ably drawing the schoolgirl contingent away from the rest of the bunch. Fleming soon followed, and Penrose was amused to note that his rougher good looks appealed almost uniformly to the housewife market. He must remember to compliment Aubrey on 133

his shrewdness in casting someone for all possible tastes: it must have helped ticket sales tremendously.

‘The number of times I’ve been offered a small fortune just to run downstairs with a note,’ the doorman continued, oblivious to any lack of interest on Penrose’s part. ‘Take Miss Lydia, for example: she’s always been popular. When she was here a few years ago, there was one gent who’d come every night and insist on reciting a poem to her. Terrible, they were – even I could tell that – but she smiled through the lot of them. A real lady, she is.’

Not entirely comfortable in a world where an immunity to bad verse was a sign of moral rectitude, Penrose was relieved to be distracted by the sight of his sergeant. Fallowfield pushed his way steadily through the crowds, which were building again as Sheppeydrew to a close at Wyndham’s, the proximity of the two theatres doubling the bustle and confusion in St Martin’s Court.

‘Give me a nice film any day, Sir,’ he said as he moved a couple of gentlemen out of the way to reach the comparative calm inside the building. ‘None of this nonsense – just home for a cup of tea.’

He greeted the stage doorman politely, then – recognising the type

– moved to one side to talk more discreetly to Penrose. ‘No sign of White at his digs, Sir. Maybrick called in to say that Simmons got back home about half an hour ago, but he was alone and there’s no one else at the house. Any luck here?’

‘No, but I’m hoping that might be about to change.’ He brought Fallowfield quickly up to date and shared his hopes for the imminent interview with Aubrey. ‘It might be nothing to do with this, but he’s not the type to make something sound more important than it is. Whatever he’s got to say, he seems to have taken White under his wing so it’s the most promising thing we’ve got to go on at the moment.’

A renewed murmuring at the door signalled the end of the wait for the male stragglers in the crowd. Lydia signed all the autographs that were requested of her, graciously accepted more flowers, then collected the handful of letters and cards that had been left with the doorman, while Josephine introduced Marta to Archie and Fallowfield. ‘I don’t suppose you know if Bernard Aubrey is on his 134

way, do you?’ Penrose asked. ‘I gather he’s meeting you for a drink, but I need to talk to him first.’

‘I’ll go and hurry him up,’ said Lydia, overhearing. ‘God knows what he’s doing at this time of night, but he always has to be forcibly dragged away from his desk. The man’s obsessed with work.’ While Marta and Josephine exchanged a look that silently spoke the words pot, kettle and black, the Motleys came in from the passage.

‘Sorry we’re late but we got stopped in the foyer by that lovelyyoung couple who got their tickets outside at the last minute,’

Lettice said, unwrapping her last toffee and handing the empty box to the doorman with an apologetic smile. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody so excited.’ She turned to Josephine. ‘They asked me to tell you . . .’ but she was unceremoniously interrupted by her cousin before she could deliver the message.

‘What did you say?’ asked Penrose.

Lettice looked at him, surprised. ‘Nice to see you, too, Archie. I was just saying that this couple were over the moon to have seen the play at last. They’ve just got engaged, you see, and . . .’